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with scattered grain； gave the birds a perfectly painless death。 Once the Ministry of Agriculture had tested it on woodpigeons； but too many other species of bird life had died as well。 The method had been declared illegal。 Sod that！ It would have saved the town some thousands of pounds in labour each year； and 。 。 。
Then he saw a second dead pigeon…lying on its back in the centre of the road； wings spread； feet upwards。 A third lay less than a yard away； squashed almost beyond recognition； except for the mass of blue…grey feathers which the wind was whipping up。 Funny how the feathers came away so easily exposing 。。。 he had always believed pigeon meat was dark； unwholesome looking。 With revulsion he now paused to study the flesh； red raw and weeping a yellowish pus。 Horrible。
McLellan felt the bile rising inside him； and quickened his step。 Three less； anyway； and he had far more important matters to attend to。 He rounded the corner into the Square； the only truly historical part of the town which still remained。 A cobbled rectangle in the centre； a statue of Robert Burns copied from that in Dumfries。 One day； perhaps； his own monument would stand alongside it。 Burns and McLellan 。 。 。 He stopped and stared； dreams of future fame evaporating like the early morning mist as the sun began to creep over the peaks of the mountains which formed this valley。
The whole Square was littered with dead pigeons。 Dozens of them； most lying on their backs。 A few had clustered together as though seeking pany in their last moments。 Some were lodged on parapets； and most of the gutterings were blocked。
McLellan stood amazed； but felt no pity。 Relief and excitement； yes。 But why had they all suddenly died overnight？ Even during recent severe winters only a few had perished。 Of course； he laughed aloud as it dawned upon him。 Someone had acted on the idea he had put forward two years ago。 Alpha…chloralose。 Some well…meaning citizen had distributed the doped grain during the nocturnal hours so that the birds would find it at dawn。 It was mass extermination…and long overdue。
McLellan walked carefully across the cobbled square； stepping over the dead birds； noting with continued revulsion how clusters of feathers still fell away from the lifeless bodies。 His small eyes darted everywhere； looking for scraps of the poisoned food； but there was not a grain of corn or a crust of bread to be seen。 Only dead birds； their feathers still blowing in the wind； exposing more patches of bright red； festering flesh。 He retched； and was grateful that he never breakfasted； otherwise he would have vomited。
A lorry trundled through the town centre； the driver apparently oblivious of the dead birds in his path。 A veritable blizzard of feathers followed in the vehicle's wake…leaving crushed birds； blood and bones in a trail of wholesale destruction。
Otherwise there was no sign of human life…too early still。 A dim fear gripped McLellan。 He would have weled the presence of the old road…sweeper with his heavy barrow and broom。 But McLellan remembered that the fellow had been made redundant only last week。 The refuse…cart had taken over his duties now； much more efficiently。 And it did not start out until 8。a。m。 McLellan glanced up at the clock on the town…hall： 7。45。
A sudden movement startled him in this place of death。 Squinting without his spectacles across at an alley opposite； he tried to discern the shape which was still half…hidden in the gloom。
Then recognition。 A dog…an Alsatian。 It was watching him； too。 Involuntarily McLellan stepped back a pace。 Never a dog…lover； he certainly did not Uke the look of this one。 Its coat was covered with mange； its pointed ears erect。 Lean and hungry…looking； it reminded him of a wolf。
He stood watching it； grateful that the entrance to the town…hall was only yards away。
But it appeared to lose interest in him； and moved forward to pick up one of the dead pigeons。 In the still morning air McLellan could hear the large teeth crunching on frail bones。
With an exclamation of disgust he hurried into the town…hall； and hurried up the stairs which led to his private office。 Those two letters had to be typed at any cost。
At 8。45 a。m。 he managed to contact the refuse department and spoke to a junior clerk； giving orders for the dead pigeons to be removed as soon as possible。 After that he stood in the window of his office over the Square； observing the reactions of people passing on their way to work。 Horror； disgust； bewilderment。 An overall fear that went deeper than the scene of feathered death all around them； Many of them were still nervous because of that silly article Coyle had written in the Herald。 Damn him。
By 10。30 he was growing angry。 There was still no sign of the refuse cart。 That bloody Coyle would be printing yet another piece in the Herald about local government inefficiency。 McLellan was on the point of picking up the telephone； to give the refuse department a bollocking； when he saw two large yellow vans enter the Square； and halt in the midst of the carnage。 But they were not council vehicles！ McLellan's curiosity was aroused。 What was going on？
Four men climbed down from the rear of each vehicle…all clad in white protective clothing made from some stiff material； their faces hidden behind visors in the square…shaped headpieces。 Knee…length boots of the same substance caused them to move jerkily and unnaturally； as if in an early silent film。 Elbow…length gloves also hampered their movements； and soon they were operating huge pairs of tongs to pick up the dead pigeons and deposit them in rows of polythene sacks。
Throughout the whole operation； inquisitive bystanders were brusquely ordered away； but a small crowd gathered at the far end of the Square。 The men worked diligently； ignoring them。
'Like bloody astronauts；' McLellan muttered to himself； but he was too intrigued by the bizarre proceedings to make enquiries at this stage。 Perhaps the refuse department had invested in new equipment。 If so； he had not been informed。 He would oppose the matter at the next meeting。 Such luxuries could not be tolerated during these times of drastic cuts in public expenditure。
The full sacks were stowed in the vans； and a series of aluminium collapsible ladders were produced。 The ascent to the parapets and gutterings looked exceedingly dangerous。 McLellan was forced to look away； he had always suffered from vertigo。 The remaining pigeons； lodged on the buildings； were also collected and stowed away in the vans。
Next came the brooms： long handles； wide heads； pliable steel bristles。 All six men swept the feathers； working downwind； driving them into a corner where two walls met。 They seemed determined to gather every single one。
By midday the job was nearing pletion； and the groups of bystanders had drifted away。 Road…sweeping was hardly the most exciting of spectator sports。 Except； seemingly； for McLellan。
For nearly two hours he had remained in that window； watching as though hypnotised。 Now the vans wer