Stickup

Seated at a round window-table in Hugo’s bar, Tull was addressed by a complete stranger; later he was to insist on this point and that he hadn’t even heard the man approach either, facts which were confirmed by the others - four friends bent forward in conversation over the table, the bar-owner, and a man drying glasses with an orange towel - who all nodded their heads furiously in agreement.

After stretching out an arm and clapping Tull on the shoulder, the man addressed him: ‘See. This is how we’ll do the job. We get in the car right now see, then go down the road - it’s only a short distance - and when we come to the insurance offices we stop; there’ll be only a few people walking on the pavement, and no cars park there now. Then out you spring, carefully remembering to pretend you’ve got a pistol in your pocket - like this: watch me - you get the money, return to me who’s the driver in this little firm, and we get away.’

And he continued after summoning the bar-owner and seizing some water-jugs that were in the way: ‘No need to worry; it’s all on this plan I’ve drawn (here he smoothed a hotel bill onto the table with his little finger) so you can memorise it while we’re in the car. No need for hoods - we’ll be done so quickly they’ll not have time to notice us; don’t even bother to put on your coat and hat, for we’ll be back in a trice.’

Tull looked at his friends: in their smiles he could read neither disapproval nor encouragement. For their benefit - they must see after all, that it was all in fun - he called on his way out: ‘To get us in the mood for crime, first we must dispatch an old boy or two, hey?’

The car pivoted away from the kerb, paused, then rolled slowly forward. The street seemed to have tilted to one side; buildings with before them lamp-posts and trees, had tilted; yet pedestrians though moving at an angle, seemed to walk in a normal fashion, and bins that might have slid, didn’t slide, and cobbles that could have been expected to roll out of their sockets stayed put. Then a man, coming towards Tull, whom Tull half-recognised, turned and raised his hat.

On the other side of the car, Tull’s driver was being hailed by many acquaintances, some leaning their backs against walls, others starting forward from lamp-posts to shake hands with him through the window as he passed. 

The man turned to Tull and looked over his shoulder. They had arrived. Tull needed no pushing out. Indeed he bounded into the offices. But a short way inside he had to halt suddenly, holding his hand over his eyes for the office was extremely dark and now the sun was behind him. Thinking how quiet it was, he joined the queue.

The teller was a woman whose hands were palm-downwards on a small counter; she sat behind a pane of glass shaped in an arch. She had a need to turn her head sideways a little to hear what people said, which she now did before Tull who was looking at the door at the end of the corridor, looking at his accomplice gunning the car, his chin lowered onto the top of the steering-wheel.

‘Look’ he complained ‘I’m supposed to be taking the money, but I don’t want to. You were to hand it over to me; of course this isn’t a real revolver in my pocket. I’m just making out that there’s one. The trouble is there’s a man out there - can you see him in that car; I swear I didn’t know who he was until five minutes ago? - he expects me to walk out any minute now with my pockets stuffed with loot  . . .’

The woman interrupted him: ‘There’s no money, you realise that don’t you?’ She waited. ‘We don’t take much money here in any case, and you’re doubly unlucky in that most of what we had has just been banked; of course I’ve got some small denomination notes under this counter you see - for change you understand - but they’ll be of no use to you  . . .’

After a pause, Tull addressed her again: ‘Don’t get nervous I beg you. Robbery is not to be considered for one moment here; so let’s not talk of bad luck. Then what am I to say to the fellow outside? I can’t sit holding my breath and with closed eyes, while he, uncomprehending, vents his fury on the steering-wheel which he seems so keen on cradling,’

Excited, she pointed out that it was easy: that all Tull had to do was to tell him that the money had been banked; that in this way he wasn’t even telling an untruth, and hence it would sound all the more convincing, besides leaving him with a clear conscience.

Tull had another idea. ‘Quickly, will you change this note into the smallest ones you have?’ he asked. ‘I’ll try to trick him, for a while at least.’

His accomplice opened the car-door for him. Stiff-backed they drove off. Once round the first corner, the man, in a fever of excitement, swivelled and asked: had he got it?

‘They didn’t have much - some - take a look.’ replied Tull and opened his wallet to show the edge of a wad of notes which, being careful not to expose, he drew out a little way and flicked with his thumb. The man broke into a large grin, and nodded. ‘I’ll put your half in your pocket as you’re driving,’ Tull explained. 

‘Hey! You’ve given me it all,’ cried the man. ‘Take your cut; I’m a fair man, me. It’s only right.’

A policeman was walking on the pavement alongside the car; on his beat he was greeted by several people who came to shop-doors. He was walking quite slowly, but then speeded up when he saw Tull’s imploring face through the car window. Tull flung open the door; ran downhill looking back all the while at the still receding car, then turned and fell into the arms of the policeman.

In an instant, a crowd who had seen the flight gathered. How had it happened? Astonishing; and was it true what somebody said: that he’d used his own money? With a key which he drew from his top pocket, the constable opened a telephone box attached to a nearby post; he smiled at Tull, now peering up the road - fortunately there was no sign of the car now - who was being congratulated by people stretching over one another to pat him on the back.

Seeing an Old Schoolfriend in the Street

The two had been drawing attention from passers-by outside; hence M. had insisted that Tooley follow him into here. Scarcely stopping himself from throwing the man on the floor (despite the risk of intervention from the other café customers) M. rounded on him fiercely.

"Now just you stand there and listen, you; for once in your life. It's the very first time, I'll warrant. Yes. For once in your life you stand there and take your criticism. Why, you can't go on getting away with this sort of thing all your life - of course no doubt you don't see it that way at all, do you . . ."

Tooley's mouth began to tighten into a snarl of affront; but M. saw it, firmed up his grip on Tooley's shoulder, shook him two or three times calling out "you would, would you; just you try - see what a bouncing I'm capable of giving you, my lad" (this despite the two of them being the same age) and instantly the man's resistance evaporated to nothing.

M. continued. "Collaring me like that in the street, as if you were the aggrieved one. No, that's really too much! You press yourself against me, with your fawning insinuating manner, befouling me with your slobber, all in order to see what you can get from me - yes, I'm on to you all right; you can stand there agape like that, it won't wash, I assure you. Next, behind my back, you whisper to your cronies (like I saw you do) giggling like mannerless children; then, to add to my loss of face, you ignore me until no doubt you next want me to treat you and these cronies to another drink at the bar, when you will (I'm sure of it) reach right in my pocket and help yourself, probably without even looking up at the side of my face . . ."

Here Tooley began to protest, but M. flung his arm at him, sending him scuttling to the further side of the room. "That's why, after spending just a little time thinking things over, I marched right back to sort you out my boy. No, it's really too much, I repeat. Why, what sort of a way to greet a former schoolfriend is that, I want to know? Perhaps we never actually spoke to one another in those former days, but we certainly recognised one another and thus we have a history together. Are there no politenesses due a fellow pupil, after all this time? Even a few - no matter how insincere - would have helped . . ."

Even before M. had finished his complaint, Tooley began to flatter him - M. was more sensitive than the people he's used to, and that is a good thing (no doubt about it) but he must make allowances for Tooley's familiarity; and Ok perhaps it is true to a little extent that Tooley has got into bad habits, who can tell? 

M. shrugged him away again. "All right, enough of that animal cunning of yours. You certainly know how to sweeten a man up, don't you! Still, you have managed to draw out the sting a little, and that's to your credit, I admit. Now look, I don't want us to part enemies; I could get to tolerate you I think (at this point Tooley smiled) though obviously you are not of my kind. You haven't even asked me why I'm back in this old school town of ours - and the fact is I'm in a bit of trouble . . ." Tooley came in closer. He thought as much. Why, it was written all over M.'s face . . .  .

Ten minutes later, both of them wary of the other, left the premises one after the other and ducking off in different directions.

The Death of a Friend

Freunder heard the polite footsteps approaching his apartment and he opened the door. A stranger stood there and Freunder looked at him from head to toe. The stranger removed his hat and said: "The clock-repairer is dead." Freunder could think of no questions to ask, though he could think of some exclamations which would be appropriate, but judging these to be of no use to the stranger he kept them to himself - and the result of this reprehensible blockage was a silence which began to stretch uncomfortably. He began to close the door, gently, thinking perhaps that by this means the stranger would somehow not notice his disappearance. Then the stranger spoke again, smiling in between times so eager was he to show that he had not been offended: the clock-repairer had been run over by a train; they didn't know whether it was a suicide or an accident; happily the evidence pointed towards an accident - he was crossing at his usual place, the hood on his coat was up over his ears (there was a gale blowing) and of course he had been drinking. The stranger emphasised the matter of the crossing-point being the usual one: he seemed to think this of great importance, perhaps the conclusive evidence in favour of it being an accident and not a suicide. Had not the clock-repairer an acquaintance from the trade, a horologist who lived right by that railway-crossing? And did he not quite often visit the horologist, no doubt to talk of clocks, visit more often than might be expected of an acquaintance in many people's eyes perhaps - for was not the clock-repairer somewhat of a lonely man who fixed his attention on little save his clocks?

Freunder waved his arm expansively to indicate that though he knew nothing of this horologist, he could confirm that everything else the stranger said was true and that he was unlikely to be mistaken in any of his assumptions. Sensing intimacy, the stranger then lowered his neck to the level of Freunder's chest and turned his face which had a large grin on it, upwards - a manoeuvre which caused Freunder to step back in disgust, noticing for the first time as he did so how round the man's face was, just like an orange and how little hair it had on top. 

This stranger explained that no he had not been acquainted with the clock-repairer - had the gentleman been assuming such a thing? - that he had never seen the man in his life, and that he was the brother of a policeman assigned to the case who like all policemen, as the gentleman must surely know, was so unbearably overworked that he had to send out members of his own family on police work which was of an unimportant kind. Freunder, seeing that the man had run out of things to say, began to wonder how he could end this conversation. The newly-identified policeman's brother looked at him suddenly and as if he'd thought of it for the first time asked: "A bereavement! Do you need comfort? Should someone come? I would not be put out if you told me to run and fetch someone; I'm quite willing in fact. I am good at running, you just try me. Would you like a nurse?" He looked at Freunder and laughed quite loudly. His own suggestion struck him as ridiculous and seemed to amuse him greatly. "A relative, perhaps, whom I could summon on my way back?" Then he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. "Ah no,"  he resumed "I can see that you're not the kind to need a messenger; I've known it all along I suppose . . ." 

With that, the stranger quickly put on his hat again and was gone, not bothering to look back as he turned on to the pavement. Freunder watched him until he reached the end of the street, leaned, and disappeared around the corner. Then he closed the door. 

He would hurry to the crossing first and fix that as the place of his friend's death, after which he must get to the clock-repairer's home. 

The crossing lay behind a wicker gate set in the railings alongside the line, and pulling his collar up against the cold he crossed the road to approach it. A tram which had been travelling before him, seeming to diminish in size quite visibly the further it moved from him, slowed and in two sharp jolts, one inwards and the second to straighten up, drew near to the kerb. Three people alighted from the back platform before the tram had stopped, ran alongside the vehicle leaning back and swinging their arms stiffly, then split up, two men in long coats turning and walking towards him and one woman continuing in the opposite direction. When the tram had gone, the street was left silent and empty of people except for a couple (a young woman and an old man) who were talking to each other while standing at a tram-stop on the opposite side of the street, and next to them a fattish man on a bench who, as he watched about, transferred something (probably a sweet) in a secretive manner from his pocket to his mouth.

Freunder walked a little way past the gate-crossing and looked across the railings, craning his neck and forcing his hands deep in his pockets for he began to feel this cold quite badly. He must be sure that this was indeed the crossing he wanted. Someone would be bound to know. News of such accidents travelled fast locally didn't it. He thought of the three people behind him, then glanced at them quickly while pretending to look up at the windows on the opposite side of the street. Hadn't he seen the fattish man come out of one of the doors overlooking the line, when he was approaching? Surely he had. He decided that a word with the fattish man would probably confirm his thoughts. Looking back at the railway, he noticed on the further side of the line, a small building, a signal-box probably, where very high up, a yellow light glowed at a window. He walked opposite and stood on his toes, bobbing the top half of his body from side to side, trying to see into the window which was far too distant to allow him a view inside. He considered cupping his hand to his mouth and calling out the signal-man as loud as he could (he would surely know all about this accident) - then abandoned the idea and turned his attention back to the fattish fellow.

The couple who had been at the tram-stop were walking away now, silent, and so he studied the fattish man who was looking up the street after the couple, but who surely had him in the corner of his eye. He began to cross towards the fellow. As he opened his mouth to speak, the fattish man suddenly leaped up from the bench, startling Freunder and making him step back, ran a little way down the street, and stopped to look at him malevolently. For a moment he was confused by the fellow's behaviour. The man's gaze seemed to leave his and rest longingly on the bench. Stupid creature, he said to himself. The man thinks I want to take his seat and push him onto his feet! He began to explain: "Hey! You're mistaken, you know," and took a few steps towards the man which only caused him to turn, run a little further down the street, and stop again with an even more aggrieved expression on his face. Freunder laughed which caused the man to flee, and he set off in fast pursuit suddenly desperate lest he be misunderstood.

The pursuit ran through many small streets where their shoes rang on the flagstones, causing some irritation to the few passers-by, some of whom sidestepped in an alarmed fashion out of the way. There were moments when, thinking of the time he was wasting in this pursuit and spitting up painfully from the back of his throat, Freunder was spurred on by anger and drew close on the shoulder of this fattish man, almost breathing in his ear; but the man's fear obviously matched Freunder's anger, for despite his unathletic appearance he managed to put a distance between the two of them each time by frantically raising his legs and clawing the air with his fingers.

They burst into a wide street full of people and vehicles nosing around each other where the fattish man ducked and feinted before dipping into a confectioner's - however he had been watched carefully by Freunder who now eased himself forward pushing out his chin. Hardly pausing at the confectioner's door, which triggered a loud bell as he pushed his way through, Freunder strode inside and saw at the far and dimly-lit end of the shop, the man in frantic and earnest conversation with the confectioner whom he had grasped by the neck and pulled close to his face. At the sound of the bell the confectioner looked up quickly and shuddered. A small retailer, round shoulders, plays with his fingers (thought Freunder) - I can soon handle him. The confectioner broke free from the grip (at which the fattish man instantly dropped into a chair where he slumped sideways apparently resigned to whatever might follow) then fled behind his counter and from that safety-point tried to clear himself of any involvement in the matter. "Do you have some grievance to settle with this man?" asked the confectioner. "Perhaps you do. I don't know anything about that. I hardly know the man of course, that goes without saying. He is a regular customer, I admit; but then so are many people. There's nothing in that. It doesn't mean that I'm a friend of theirs does it? It doesn't mean that they have a claim on me. No."

A small group was gathering around the three, looking from one face to another. Ignoring the confectioner, Freunder decided that he could not rectify the fattish man's mistake in front of these people - he might become tongue-tied and even splutter, then where would he be? Anyway, what business was it of theirs? Therefore he hauled the fattish man out of the chair, making him squeal like a mouse, and pulled him by the jacket-front to a door at the back of the shop through which they disappeared, watched by the confectioner who leant over his counter.  

Freunder found himself in a high-sided yard illuminated by a powerful yellow lamp (it was already growing dark) standing in the lane on the other side of the wall. The fattish man grabbed one of his hands which had been hanging loosely by his side, and crammed into it, after first thrusting his fingers into his own pocket, a sticky mess of brightly-coloured sweets which immediately began to trickle down his arm. Freunder flicked his hand with annoyance, showering the sweets which stuck where they landed over the yard, and the man cried out in horror. 

Recalling the clocks and the urgency of his getting to the repairer's home, Freunder began to explain how the mistake had been made - that all he wanted was information; about the accident; the one involving the clock-repairer; was that the crossing where the tragedy occurred or not? That was all. And look how easily panicked the fattish man was, eh? Look how much time their little chase had cost them! Wasn't he ashamed of himself? The fattish man seemed thunderstruck. He walked to the end of the yard, his hands working in his pockets. He turned to Freunder his face grimaced as though he were about to cry: but he didn't, drawing instead a deep breath preparatory to saying something which he then thought better of, and so closed his mouth. 

After a while Freunder noticed the man shivering a little, the heat of their run having long since evaporated, and he commented "It's cold here" quite matter-of-factly. Then the fattish man rounded on him and complained, tilting his voice in a peevish manner: "I suppose you want me to return you to the crossing now! Well, don't you? I know your type, not knowing where you are once you've left your beaten track. If I don't show you, you'll wander the whole city trying to find your way back I'm sure." Freunder explained in a conciliatory way, for he had indeed succeeded in calming the stranger and he was (the man was quite right in this respect) quite lost - that he needed to get to the repairer's home instead, and should the fellow happen to know the way to that particular place then he could do Freunder a great favour indeed.

The man made a move towards the door through which they had come, but Freunder suddenly alarmed, held him back. "No!" he said, "Why go that way? We'll only be held up with explanations to your acquaintance, the confectioner, in there, and any others who might have been present that we didn't notice; let's get on; there's bound to be a back route." The lane on the other side of the wall was met by a narrow gap alongside the confectioner's along which they could only just squeeze by walking sideways. They soon set off down the thoroughfare.

Freunder fell to musing on his own - wouldn't it be better to go to the house unaccompanied instead?This fellow wouldn't mind if Freunder didn't want his company all the time. But what was this the man was doing? The fellow seemed friendly, almost familiar with him now. A strange creature. Once his fear is allayed, apparently we are to have him stick to us like those confections of his. I'll bet we are to fall in love with him (so to speak) - that'll be the design. It'll come out in these questions he's now asking; now, how do they go? Is Freunder a married man? No? Plenty of time for it . . . The man fell behind him and asked these questions with his chin resting on Freunder's shoulder, sometimes turning his head sideways and nibbling at the bottom of Freunder's ear - something which made him shrug the man off although he could see the innocence in the man's habits. 

While the man was talking, Freunder's hand brushed against something in his side pocket, and he thought of the bottle of cherry cordial which he carried there. The accident encouraged a thirst in him which he could not smother, and his attention wandered from what the man was saying, distracted by schemes to consume the liquid in a leisurely way, without the man noticing.  It was not that he was greedy, or selfish (he had thought this through before) the point was that he had brought just enough for his own use and no more, and anyway he had now anticipated just this one bottle's worth of pleasure, not something less. To have to do with something less would be extremely irritating, and he simply wouldn't do it. He didn't mind buying for the man at all (that was the point) he would have bought the fellow a whole bottle for himself if he'd wanted; though admittedly he didn't see why he should - but that would have to be in addition to his own fill.

A chance glance at the man which caught him eyeing the neck of the cherry cordial sticking out of his pocket now, told him that the game was probably already up. And, yes, more than likely this explained the man's sudden intimate intentions and ear-nibblings: he was going to pass his arm round Freunder's waist, probably, and tap the pocket with the back of his hand, grinning, nodding that head of his, and only when Freunder had stubbornly kept his mouth shut, would he be so forward as to ask when Freunder was likely to take out his cordial. Freunder suddenly took out the bottle. He unscrewed the cap, wiped the neck on his sleeve, then tipped the bottle up at his own tilted-up head, not taking any care to steady or slow his walking for that would be just the opportunity the man was waiting for. It turned out that the man's way of tackling the matter was sheepish, which gave Freunder no room to burst into a fit of fury - for he politely asked Freunder, being careful all the while not to snatch at the bottle or to make the least move towards it, whether he could possible share a little of the cordial (which he had noticed some time ago) for he had a thirst on what with all that running the two of them had been doing. Freunder thrust him the bottle petulantly after first wiping the rim on his sleeve again. 

When the bottle had been returned to the pocket, and after they had walked on in silence for a few minutes, the man spoke again. "The best thing to do is to stop every ten minutes and take a short drink, as it is a long way yet." Freunder could not ignore the man's face tilting before his own, and grunted an answer. The bold importunity of the fellow had frightened him a little.

The clock-repairer's rooms stood at the head of a long straight stairway. Freunder tried the switch and nothing came on. His disappointment over this was quickly quelled by the sound of several hundred clocks ticking in various rhythms, and he uttered a short cry despite his natural reserve. Blinking repeatedly he accustomed himself to the dark and saw that the rooms seemed to lead, one into the next, in a straight line. A faint source of light, unmistakably the night-sky from outside, the only source of light in the dwelling it seemed to him, was coming from a huge sky-light in one of the central rooms. He tried to cross the first room, stepping carefully lest he upset anything, but after a few steps he was forced to stamp his heels on the floor which set up a gentle rattling of glass and metal, and he was able to find the way round obstacles more by sound than anything else. 

He knew what was happening - the clocks themselves were running down, each at a different rate, and one by one they were falling silent. At some point the very last clock in the very last cabinet would tick out its last sound and the repairer's apartment would finally be both silent and without movement. He would sit here, in this place, even if it took more than a week, and wait for the quiet. The quiet of his dear friend.

And who, after all, was this fattish man who was intruding on something intimate to him. A fellow for whom he felt - what? A mere acquaintance obviously and not even one whom he would consider inviting into his circle. An oaf (surely) likable enough to his own kind no doubt: but not of Freunder's kind. 

The fattish man must go. Now. He turned to the oaf and told him so. This place was nothing to do with him. They barely knew one another and had been thrown together by chance not choice. Why, Freunder was going to be preoccupied now, and anyway hadn't even the inclination to watch over the fellow, checking his pocket, empty of confectionery now no doubt and perhaps filling up with someone else's property instead. No, no, listen! He was sure the fellow was honest and true - but how could he know that? And it was just this 'knowing' which it was his responsibility to settle. And anyway, what of those men and women who indeed have no intention of taking something they shouldn't - until you suspect them of it! Then they go right ahead and do it to get their own back for your lack of blind faith - and (incredibly) it becomes your fault.

He had been talking quite loudly and a banging (from a neighbouring apartment) was by now coming from one of the walls. He moved over to the wall and stood sideways-on, looking downwards, and began to apologise in a voice not trembling with the slightest bit of nervousness, nor raised in the least indignation over the rudeness of the request. His apologizing set up a banging from the adjacent wall, and a further tapping noise from the floor, and soon the remaining walls began to sound in frantic attempts to drown one another out. 

Waiting for the complaints to silence, he picked up a medium-sized carriage-clock, held it aloft and turned it around to study its beauty. Shortly after the apartment once again became calm, the device without any warning fell quite silent in his arms. 

The fattish man who had almost left the rooms, returned from the door and asked Freunder: "You're going to sit here for how long, did you say? Are you sure everything is all right?" The girl who dogged his thoughts every day at some point, chose to come to mind at this moment. One of the few loves of his life. She'd thrown him over for another years ago (though when she'd left she'd implied that she'd had no-one in mind, like they do) and he'd known right at that moment that he'd never in his life be able to see or hear of her again. It had been like a death ever since. 

The tears began to flow without pity. Was everything all right? No, everything is not all right. People go.

A Fine

The hands of the two friends were dirty with soaked mud; now they slapped them together and cleaned them up a bit while congratulating one another on the dam they'd just built in the stream. They turned to go. A man (They'd noticed him when they'd slid down the slope to the stream) now stood over their motorcycles which they'd left lying flat by the trees. He was about their age. "Who said you could do that?" he asked. In reply, M. piped up "No-one: what's it to you!" Then he giggled. "Don't be cheeky!" ordered the man. "You don't know how much trouble you're in. You'd better run and fetch me a sixpence. For silence. You better had. Else the park attendant will see this - I'll fetch him. Don't think I won't 'cos I will. You know that. No, you leave your motorcycles here, you (addressing M.) I'll need them as security."

The two friends ran off, hurriedly explaining over their shoulders that it would take them more than half-an-hour to get home and back, and that he should not think they had abandoned their machines to him. On the way home M. worried over what he'd tell his wife; then decided that he'd say nothing, and in fact he'd sneak in and try to get the money without her even noticing. His friend (who lived next door) agreed that it was a good idea. 

On the way back, despite running, M. couldn't stop himself from fingering a butter-knife he'd picked up from the kitchen and stuffed into his pocket. He paid the man first. It was while his friend was handing over his sixpence that M. produced his knife and, away from the man, began to slash at a bush. Straight away the man roared and sent M.'s hand back into his pocket, the weapon dropping on a muddy patch, quite plain for everyone to see. An elderly passer-by stopped on the top of the slope and looked at them. M. began to explain hurriedly and in his own fashion that the man was quite right to fine them for their misdemeanor; that now the two of them, vandals obviously, were aware of their wrongdoing; they could have been treated far more harshly by another. Indeed, M. said, that they were grateful for their fine, in fact they welcomed it.

Down a Forgotten Road

Two road engineers stumbled on it quite by chance. The hedge had completely grown across its opening; the markings had gone and a small verge was there where dust and earth had been thrown up by fast passing traffic; yet there it was - a lost road. Yes; they could see it clearly now by pushing apart a gap in the hedge growth. Much overgrown with scrub and saplings it was true, but a tarmac road nevertheless. They did not believe it for a time; peered into the distance to see where it went; then scratched with their boots for the evidence of worn markings. "Wait!" one of them called, and crossed to the other side of the thoroughfare to disappear into the hedge on that side. His colleague heard him gasp and reappear. "A signpost; the stump of one anyway. And I can see the sign itself lying flat - washed blank more's the pity. Vehicle damage too; come on  .  .  . "

The two ran back to their van to consult the map. After inching the van through the hedge (shallow roots lifted from the tarmac surprisingly easily) and pushing it aside with outstretched arms, they picked a slow uneven way along the overgrown road. They eased over the hill. Before them in a valley stood a small community, a hamlet. They stopped and got out. The road wound down to the small settlement, and seemed to continue beyond but in an even more faded way. Five figures, adults, stood in the road before the settlement, staring at them and fidgeting from side to side a little. They all seemed to be men but too far away to reveal their mood. One of the engineers waved his arm in greeting and thought about calling, but decided against it. "Come on  .  .  ." he said to his colleague, getting back in, "We'd better check everything."  The other got in beside him and still watching the group asked "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do we have to check everything .  .  . ?"

The other laughed hollowly. Later, bumping down the hill, he added: "Look what's happened to the road. We've forgotten it. Left it like this for years, I shouldn't wonder. What's happened to these people?" He paused. "Anyway look at them down there. Something's not right is it .  .  ."
"What do you mean?"

"It's not; is it. Why are they standing like that? You'd go about your business until someone drew up, wouldn't you? And they were there before we'd even come over the hill, weren't they. Waiting. Heard the sound of our engine, I guess. It's odd I say."

He eased forward yard by yard, trying not to spook these lost people any more than he had to. With the exception of one man, the group scattered until it felt safe and concealed, some in doorways some looking over walls. The nearer they got, the more faces they noticed peering at them from places of safety. The one man who remained exposed had initially started to flee, then checked himself. He'd rushed sideways across a small lawn but then stopped and deliberately fallen slowly on all fours, and now gazed at the ground like someone about to be sick. He trembled as they pulled up; but then seemed to collect himself, leapt to his feet and smiled sheepishly. They got out and walked up to him extending their hands which he shook a little weakly.  

"Who are you?" they asked.

"Mister Davis sir," he replied quickly .  .  . " The Davis family. We live here sir, all four of us in this house; I've got a son and daughter you see .  .  ."

He turned and waved somebody out of the house behind him. The engineers now noticed a boy and a girl in the window, up till now obscured by reflections on the glass. They didn't move and the man dashed towards them a little and waved more. They disappeared and half a minute later appeared at the door. 

"They're frightened," the man grinned. "It's the uniforms. They don't know what you're really like, not like I do sirs .  .  . but don't worry; I'll explain it all to them."
He glanced back at his children who had stepped behind him, quite close and half obscured by his protection.
"Here they are sirs, like you ordered - The girl's Lucy, the boy's David .  .  ."

The engineers hadn't asked him to show his children at all; but they let the matter lie. And besides, the children now preoccupied them. The girl, Lucy, was being urged by her father to walk forward and offer them a handful of the cake she was carrying. Once she'd thought she'd realised what the two men wanted, she didn't seem shy at all; quite the opposite, the engineers thought, for she was stepping up to the first of them looking deep into his eyes, almost a sexual approach, they thought. The girl wore a thin green dress, favoured and overused now, too tight at the bosom. She laid a hand on the shoulder of the leading engineer, pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered something; then releasing her hand she reached into her bag and teasingly put a piece of the cake into his mouth and removed it again, while laughing and gazing up at him. She leant forward and whispered again (he could make it out this time) - would he take her off and they could gallop the land like a knight and his maiden? At length she gently pressed the piece of cake right to the back of his mouth and let her fingers enter also. Suddenly on his guard, the engineer sensed her stiffen and he pushed her away as she tried to pinch his throat. The two of them sprang apart, and the girl's brother, a slightly freakish boy, darted in front and stood between the engineer and her, with knees bent and shoulders forward casting quick glances back, more concerned for her approval - it seemed to the engineer - than to pose any real threat to himself. The engineer wondered at the boy's hairiness. Despite his youth (the boy could surely not be more than twelve years old) already his arms and shoulders were black; and his temples were combed oddly (he thought) for straight side hair had been brushed flat and forwards obviously with care.

The girl pressed up close behind her brother now, staring at the engineer over the boy's shoulder, and continuing to make up to this engineer of hers. The engineer veered round them in disgust, stepping on the lawn in his haste to search out this householder, this Mr Davis who was no doubt concealed behind these two, pushing them forward in an attempt to defend himself, and he would upbraid the man. And sure enough there was the cowering man leaning and pushing the backs of these two children like a stupid cow nudging against a tree; and how stupid one must be, he thought, to push forward this distorted couple to represent one. He pulled the man out by the collar and began to push him back towards the house. 
"Come on you - in the house! What secrets are you hiding in there?"
He pushed the man forward making him bend and stumble - "In you go! Let's all have a good look now."
Through the house he pushed the man, snorting over debris on the floors, a sofa piled high with broken bicycles, beds left unwashed .  .  .

The man Davis would not meet his eye, seemed tired now and followed him listlessly, only looking now and again through the window at his children below whom he had told to wait. He muttered something.
"What?" snapped the engineer. "I can't hear you."
"Are you going to kill us?" Davis asked.
The engineer froze. He silently closed the cupboard he'd been looking in, and signalled the man to follow downstairs. Others had gathered at the bottom of the garden. They seemed neither curious, nor interested particularly in what was to happen to Davis. They merely seemed to be awaiting something. One of the dogs ran to and fro before them, looking up at them as he barked. The engineer put his hand on Davis' shoulder. "Sorry .  .  ." he said.
"Take us back .  .  . please?" Davis asked simply. "Take us back."
The engineer moved his arm round the man's shoulders and reassured him. "Of course. Right now. Come on, we'll go right now."

Walking next to Davis up the hill, he looked back to check on the others. The family were close behind, and the others straggled in groups all the way down to the bottom where his colleague was waving the dogs, tails wagging, into his cab. Reassured, he looked up and found they were nearly out of it.

The Belltower

The stone belltower, set apart a little from the town, housed a small room at the top where the bell hung on its beam. Havlov, on his knees, stared at the tower. He was a little out of breath yet he could still clearly focus and make out the spare decoration and weather-stains on its exterior. If he leant forward he could also see into its mouth.

Aloft, the room lay muffled in dust. A bell-rope dropped from the beam through a round hole in the floorboards. The walls were open to the sky, slats pointing sharply groundwards (to let the sound out, Havlov thought) such that even if one wished, it was quite impossible to see more than a narrow strip of green near the tower base. Would the dust tremble if the bell was rung, he wondered? And the noise? If he were to stay here he'd need some muslin to put in his ears. The room was bare except for a small wooden box nailed to the floor in one corner, which he opened. It contained one large spanner. Havlov could see the nut it was meant to turn on the beam end. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. All sounds were distant - a farmer hailing; a cart down below; a little wind in the treetops.

The room welcomed no man; it wasn't made for him. One of those few rooms - H. realised - where no man had any business. It was for a thing - a bell. Elsewhere, dwellings always had the stamp of someone: the chosen wallhangings, the photographs. Even a functional room - a signal box - that also had the stamp of man: the curved wooden chair with padded armrests and the nearby stove and coffee-pot. This room saw no purpose in his being there.  

And at last he felt comfortable. The place suited him for it was something he was familiar with. Being unwelcome tracked his life. Here was the same, but he'd not to respond nor to fight his corner. It ignored him but how could he get angry with it, like he had with people (and anyway, why shouldn't they have ignored him)? Yes he'd stay. He'd stay. More - he'd never retrace his steps down the ladder. He'd already drawn it up. The trapdoor was shut now. He'd rest. Here.

The Trombone

In the café the man who had come in carrying a polished brass trombone and a crate which, overturned, doubled as a usable rostrum, singled out a young man, D, from the crowd, a confident and apparently a most suitable customer for his demonstration. The trombone player wearing a purple buttoned-up top-coat and scarlet velvet knee-breeches above yellow stockings, while pointing his short beard at the audience to left and to right, stood with one arm akimbo and the other beckoning D. to come up. The urgers-forward, most of them friendly admirers of D, slapped their thighs and called him towards them, then pointed at the rostrum with one arm and with the other waved him forward until, seeing his private battle between his eagerness and his sense, were forced to pass him over their heads to the front. They set him on his feet. D. was thinking forward. He was seeing another D. The D. in his mind was grasping the trombone, was gazing in concentration to the floor, was setting the instrument to his lips then, taken over by a secret genius which had always been there laying undiscovered yet secretly hoped for, this D. played magnificent in his anger and his pride. He stepped up to the front. 

Half a minute later, the playful protestations of the audience over, the nervous little laugh which he uttered as he leapt from the toppling crate, had within it the horror of a well overdue awareness of his own limitations.

The Numbers

Edward made the suggestion in the very earliest days of their marriage - they should put a number to the depth of their love for one another. And more - that they should wear it not on their sleeves of course, but rather as a badge and thus on the chest. He knew (better than she) that their separate loves would ebb and flow in their separate rhythms, and that only rarely would the two of them love each other equally. He knew that very often he would love his wife more deeply than she did him; he knew that; but he was confident that later, perhaps some years later even, her love was bound to surpass his love immeasurably.

He had determined that they should know one another's feelings; yes and they should know the temporary imbalances in feeling too (whenever they were there). Why not? It is a cowardly creature that lives on fictions and wilful ignorance. The 'best left unsaid' mentality was not to be his world. And so he had decided upon the numbers nought to ten, and in the early days rather amateur badges made of card were worn by husband and wife, but later he had two sets of proper badges made up out of tin. The number to be worn was to be reconsidered at the start of every week; and so a kind of stock must be taken every Sunday night, something which in itself was very important to Edward.  

On these Monday mornings she was always up earlier than he. He would clump down the wooden steps leading round a curve to the latched door into their kitchen. Of course he wouldn't at first dare to look at the number blazing on her chest. Every Monday the same drama would play itself out. Seated at the wooden table, his wife would be bending to her breakfast and as she chewed, looking with preoccupation through the window, apparently oblivious to the excited turmoil within Edward, but no doubt actually aware of it in an accepting fashion. When unable to contain himself longer, he would rush with short steps before her, part her elbows and stare at the week's chosen badge always with a gasp of relief.

Edward always agonised over the numbers he must choose for his feelings for her. Often he worried about it for days beforehand. Just how much did he feel? Could it always be a ten? How different did a nine feel? And horrors! What, if ever he were to wear an eight, what would he have to do to regain his nine feelings for his wife, and would he have to say anything about it? Sadly his wife nearly always wore a six, though Edward could clearly remember three sevens during foreign holiday years. And he always tried to earn a higher number from his wife the following week. He thought about it most of the time at work. The fact of the matter was that he saw it to be his role to be so pleasing to her that she could not wish for more out of him. It was his purpose.

Their mutual friends were always mildly amused at their number-badges, and should they see the couple about the city, the men in particular would put down their bags for a moment, walk over while chuckling greetings and tap the badges laughing good-naturedly at Edward's ten. This grading raised in Edward (and he assumed in his wife as well) the question of just what love is. Do you wish to define love as a feeling for instance? Then if you are not experiencing a feeling at any one moment (say you are absorbed in a conversation for instance) does that mean you are not in love during that conversation? No? Well what exactly do you mean by 'a feeling' then? Edward, unlike most people, tried never to be preoccupied by matters other than his love for her.

Then one day his wife told him - this was during one of her more and more frequent drunken stupors - that she was never going to wear anything over a six. That she wanted the number low. And in this way she felt he always wanted her more than she wanted a partner. A man's craving for her was permanently important.

Edward stumbled out of the family home and wandered aimlessly around the streets for an evening. But eventually he focused his mind again. So much so in fact, that he set off right away back to his drunken wife. After all he now knew something he should know of his wife's makeup. This side of her could easily, easily, have remained hidden for ever if he had never introduced his numbers.

The Hoop

Howard runs slavering into the parlour. He has heard his name called. They want him to do something; something tricky perhaps; something Howard won't want to do, and so they'll cajole him with a treat. And being a young man still, and therefore sometimes sparked into action by the prospect of a treat, he finds himself eagerly bounding up to them. 

A hoop is being held upright for him. "A hoop" mutters Howard. He wriggles back from it. "A yellow plastic hoop." In the parlour, the chairs have been collected and crowded in a pile at one end of the room. The table has been pushed back against the wall (Howard raises his eyebrows at this, for the table is cumbersome and they have gone to some trouble) and onto the table has been lifted the standard-lamp. He looks up. And above him the family have arranged themselves about this standard-lamp. There! His father is slapping his thighs, then pointing at the hoop, then jerking his chin. And there squat his two younger brothers, bending low, hands on knees, shouting "Whoosh! Whoosh!" Grandmother, behind them, tilts her old-orange head up to the ceiling, rubs her hands and laughs. The only possibly sympathetic face he can see, is his mother's, for she wears a concerned expression, averts her eyes and bites her lip. 

His friends are there. They perch on more furniture (a sideboard and something Howard doesn't recognise for it's been turned upside-down) which has been pushed to the wall opposite the table with its lamp-clutching family. His friends stand in a line, like bar-room boys, leaning on their elbows against the parlour wall, and he has no time to scrutinise them. Howard whimpers. He rolls onto his back, curls up his limbs, and squirms from one side to the other inviting play instead. Even the postman is there (he now sees) urged to come inside and witness Howard's performance; he's in his uniform, encouraging Howard with shouts and beating his postman's cap against his leg.

The narrow space between the two piles of furniture is cunning - the only way forward is to jump this hoop. But Howard, undecided whether to approach the contraption, walks on his toes, wiggles his haunches, and looks up into the circle of faces. The faces begin to plead and complain. Howard treads forward hesitantly, ducking his head and trembling, raises his foot then sets it down again on the same spot. It is a hoop: and not a stick. Now a stick is easy. What is the point of jumping sticks? Around him he sees so many pointless lives jumping sticks and he's in the habit of dismissing those people as stupid. Howard will not jump a stick: up to now, that has been his party trick. He can amuse the others with his refusals. He can duck beneath it, or skirt round. But a hoop is a different level of problem; and a cold fear comes over him.

This time, Howard cannot immerse himself in this question of stupidity; a diversionary question he now realises; a blinker; this time there is only one way to move on and that is to jump the hoop - Howard had seen that at the first glance. He is stuck to the spot. Horrible! That stick, bent round (what fiendish cunning) until the ends meet, transformed into a hoop and presented to him without warning. Horrible!

The postman is getting impatient. He jumps down and grips Howard by the ears, pulls Howard's head to his chest and, walking backwards, drags him towards the hoop. Howard sees his mother smile at last, smile and look at the faces around her. He straightens his legs out in front of him and is dragged forward on his heels. Howard would have tired the postman, so he assures himself afterwards, and escaped were it not for the two pairs of hands which suddenly hold him by the rear and, with one overwhelming shove, push him forward to the line where his instinct forces him to spring upwards and ahead. He gently hops through the ring and lands with a plop.

His friends rush forward from the wall. His mother claps her hands loudly and calls "Hurrah! Hurrah!" After Howard's father has, rather solemnly Howard thinks, chucked him under the chin and laughed, the others overlooking his unease, beam down with pleasure upon him as if he had had no help at all, and was quite entitled to lap up all the credit for himself.

The Warren

While walking across a field, along a short-cut to the high-road, Jan stumbled upon some people living in a warren, and she jumped back startled. The two heads which had surfaced at her feet emitted a short scream of surprise; then after the initial shock of this encounter, they tried to cast surreptitious glances at the stick which the woman was carrying. She, having decided not to move from the spot just yet, watched the two keenly. The heads, which belonged to two men, left off worrying about the stick and began to grin broadly, the younger following the older man's lead. Jan glanced quickly across the marshy fields crossed by dyke banks, where long coarse grass lay flattened and bent in many directions. The bank into which this hole was an obvious entrance, was marked by many other holes: very likely a large nest of these people was living inside there. At least, thought Jan, these people haven't neglected their appearance; look! their faces are quite clean, their hair not matted at all. For a moment she felt a surge of admiration for them.

A disturbance from below elicited groans from the two men and caused them to crane their necks downwards until a further head, that of another man, having forced its way behind that of the first two, popped up and grinned at Jan. The older man, jostled and irritated by this new arrival, and now quite uncomfortable in the narrow hole, addressed Jan - "We are doing no harm" he said, "on the contrary we, almost all of us, harbour no ill-will towards anyone. Look at us!"  he opened his arms expansively. "Look now! Do you think we can hurt you? Oh dear what a joke. Eh? Now be reasonable, I implore you." Jan looked at the man's outstretched arms. "You don't look harmful, I'll admit," she answered. "But anyway, I'm not interested in that. I don't think that harmfulness is the point, is it." She began to circle the hole slowly, staring in amazement, taking slow measured steps unconsciously, for she was not paying the least attention to her feet.

The two younger men, willing to let their companion be the spokesman for the three, poked him repeatedly in the back with their fingers. The man bristled with fury which he diverted on to the girl. "Hey!" he shouted, twisting his torso in the hole so that he could face Jan again, "You! What do you think you're doing? Be off! It'll be the worse for you if you don't - it'll go bad for you with the authorities, don't you realise that? We are not without any influence at all, you know. Don't you think that. I say don't you think that. You!" One of the younger ones hugged the man from behind, encircling his neck (Jan wondered whether he was the man's son) and after he'd rested his chin on the man's arm, gazed up at Jan a little sheepishly. He in his turn was being hugged by the other young man who began to whisper something close in his ear. Jan stepped back a pace, crossed her chest with her arm and gripped her shoulder nervously. "I didn't mean to anger anybody," she explained. "Yes; of course, I'll go. I'll leave right now, if that's what you wish. Yes; I'll do that now." She looked up into the grey skies and viewed the horizon slowly from one side to the other. The older man began to run his hand across his head, letting the thick fingers of hair pass through it, and followed Jan's gaze towards the horizon. He wiped his mouth with his palm, then looked across the bleak fields. "Anyway" he complained, "it's rude of you to stand over us like this; as if you were something and we were not; as if you were not like us. Have we no right to privacy, us? Well? Are you not intruding, just a little my girl? Won't you grant me this one point?"

Jan nodded slowly. "Ah! I see you do" continued the man; "We have some of our dignity left, do we?" The man's indignation spent, the other two who had been watching his face closely, now looked glumly at Jan. The man also raised his eyes to hers, to make of it a tripartite defence. She stared at them, uncomfortable, and took a couple of hesitant steps backwards and forwards once more. The warren-dwellers held her gaze. She started to speak, spluttered, and cleared her throat. However, before she could utter a clear word, the three had lowered their eyes to the ground and looked away from one another. Suddenly one of the three opened his mouth wide and with his thick wide red tongue, gave one of his companions a lick stretching from his chin to his hair, a cow's lick.

Jan's eyes sprang into life. She seized upon the lick. "There! Caught you!" she cried. She jumped into the air, fists clenched. "Disgusting! Diseased people. That's it. Diseased! Oh why didn't I see it straight off? Ha! I have it now. You disgust me, yes, that's it; I wasn't sure what I had against you; but now I see it. You're depraved and you disgust me." For a moment the older man's head rose a little, but when Jan looked at him it sank again. Laughing uproariously Jan began to swing her leg, and to toe clods of earth from the ground. Long spurts of earth soared from her foot to the hole entrance, making the three heads sink suddenly out of sight. With the side of her foot, Jan shovelled stones, twigs, and earth into the hole until it filled. "There!" she cried, "I'll not stay here any longer," and she hurried down the bank humming to herself and snapping her fingers.

That night she laughed a little more, standing at her window, yet felt compelled to put on a coat and run out into the dark to head across the fields again. From behind a stunted bush she spied upon the warren-dwellers, squatting with hands placed on knees. When they surfaced she gritted her teeth and watched. Two women, short-haired women who talked to one another in an unhurried and reflective manner, something which Jan instantly admired in them, walked in her direction hands on hips. They sat down at the foot of their bank, put their arms around one another's shoulders and conversed in the half-dark, one leaning forward slightly to catch the words of the other. The one who talked the most playfully squeezed the neck of the other at one point. An older woman approached, getting their attention. She sighed and shrugged, making the others smile; then she knelt at the feet of her companions, took the toes of one of them in her mouth and gently sawed off the nails with her front teeth, an attention which made both women close their eyes with pleasure for a while. Her disgust confirmed, Jan almost threw her arm up in the air in excitement. She scuttled across the fields, crouching low, keeping at hedge height and swinging her arms until she reached home.

It was several days before the drowning-party could be organized. A pump had to be ordered from a town quite distant, Jan was told; then wheels had to be made in order to pull it across fields. As the group set off on its journey to the warren, the drowning-party walked behind Jan. The party leader stayed on her shoulder the whole way, somewhat hopeful of her love in spite of her obvious preoccupation with these warren-dwellers about whom she had started talking even before she had opened the door of his office. He freely admitted to himself that it was probably his love for the girl that had made him listen to her story and order this drowning-party. In the centre of the party the pump was pulled over hills and tracks by three men, who had to endure the loud criticisms and mock bullying of the others. Every half mile the team had to be changed and the hounding renewed - the free-walkers took it in turns to shoulder the nozzles and carry the hoses which they wore around their bodies.

Jan and the man at her shoulder set a fast pace, for the journey would take several hours. After a while the men began a game of leap-frog, each chasing the others and trying to fold one of them over so that he could win a vault. They wandered off, sometimes raced off, at tangents to the direction they needed to follow, not thinking about the delays they were causing at all. Ahead, Jan and the leader of the party had to stop. The leader turned to watch them and smiled. He turned to Jan and saw that she was frowning intermittently, nervous and darting her eyes from side to side. He skipped over to his charges, clapped his hands and, happy not to conceal his amusement, reprimanded them with good humour. Stepping up to his favourite in the party, he ruffled the man's hair and tried to get Jan to notice he was doing so.  

The warren looked deserted when they got there. Some of the men bent down, ostrich fashion, placed their palms on either side of a hole and poked their heads inside to peer into these novel homes. It was too dark to see anything, they complained. Some seemed unhappy with the job and lay down their pipes for a few moments to talk with the others. A few walked a little distance away and addressed the leader of the party. None worked with enthusiasm. Slowly, hoses were pushed firmly down those holes the men could discover, and screwed to the several nozzles on the pump. A longer fatter hose was run from the pump, over a distant ridge, and into the dyke waters behind. The starting of the pump was left to the leader of the party.  

The pump throbbed dully. The men of the party stood all around the bank, hands in pockets, listening in silence to the water bubbling quietly beneath the bank. Jan rushed up to the nearest man, took him by the ears and forced his face up to hers. "Listen!" she shouted. "You must hurry. You must now pack your machinery away. It is nearly four o'clock. Quickly now. It's important." She ran in front of the circle of men, shook the shoulders of another one. "You are expected back before evening. You know that; so come along. Don't forget that you're paid only until dusk." The men began to stir from their inactivity and to gather their equipment. 

A naked leg appeared, at a high angle, from one of the holes. It began to bob stiffly. The hoses were heavier now. The men passed the hose segments down the hill from one to another. The body, at last pushed out by the pressure of water beneath, began to slide down the bank revolving slowly on its descent. Before it had been washed to the bottom, several more corpses from various holes, some of them previously unnoticed ones, had been floated to the surface and commenced their slide down the bank.

It was getting cold. The party huddled together on the return journey. The work was harder now, the equipment heavier. The men were tired and didn't say a lot. When Jan reached the outskirts of the town, she fell into step behind a pair of girls who had emerged from a noisy house. She vaguely knew them. One had her arm round the shoulders of the other, said something to her then protruded her thick red tongue, and gave her a lick which stretched from her chin all the way up to her hair, a cow's lick. Jan stopped in her tracks. So it had always been there in her people too, only she hadn't noticed it. Or perhaps she had? Despite all this new awareness, she reasoned that the warren people deserved their fate nevertheless. For they had no effective defence - it was clear to her now. That was it. Their only ploy was to try to hide themselves away (and that not very effectively). Thus she had decided that they always were going to suffer this fate of theirs, at some point or other and from some quarter or other.

Industry

When Gregory was half way down the ladder, he heard a noise below. It was not much of a noise. Clamping his mouth shut, he flicked up the ladder, turned in the entrance to his room, and flung himself down to peer over the edge at the man below. Bent over a document held in one hand, this figure was clearly preoccupied and not in the least interested in Gregory. These events were unprecedented - several hours ago the second machine had started up. Initially he had unbent his legs without thinking, but then he folded himself up again. He wasn't about to be taken advantage of - already he had his work cut out to attend to the first machine; and no doubt it was hoped he would start to attend to the second with scarcely a thought once, driven by his inquisitiveness and a desire to please, he had descended the ladder to take a look. And now, there was a man below.

Soon the hour of his shift forced him to descend. As the new man stretched up on tip-toe to tap the dials with a rubber mallet, Gregory shrank back from him; for though his way of peering through screwed-up eyes before he tapped would have won Gregory over, he saw the man had a bigger build than himself, and was besides, bald-headed. The newcomer had already taken off the small door that gave access to the machine; stretching forward one leg and at the same time bending down his head, he disappeared inside. Gregory could have told him, had he shouted over a question, that he'd find nothing understandable in there. Only crawl-ways where wheels suddenly race at your elbow, and for no apparent reason, stop again. Then, open spaces across which you must hurry, in case the beam - to which the space belongs - swings down; it is always followed by its push rod which shudders before the beam returns to the apex. And it's impossible to predict the time of the swoop of these beams, even with a watch and a table of equations, for it's determined by something irregular; some pressure perhaps - that's Gregory's guess. Of course, by the time the man came out again, Gregory was at his post. The two of them stood before their respective machines which are like towers, the newcomer swaying to and fro to make fine adjustments on the various levers; Gregory looking across at him, slack-jawed and ready to catch his eye now. Gregory soon tired and climbed up the ladder to his room to rest. During his sleep, the newcomer had erected a makeshift screen between the two of them, which straightaway Gregory leaped upon and laid down flat on the ground; for he had instantly realised that if allowed to be a screen and not some rubbish to be carted away shortly, the object would horrify him.