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tween the shoulder…blades； passing out through the chest； and then smashing the skull of one of the fleeing mob…a young girl； no more than fifteen； bowling her over and over until she came to a stop in a bloody heap of pulped flesh and bone。
The 。45 slipped from Loader's fingers as he fell。 He dropped to his knees； slumped forward。 Somehow he managed to roll over on to his back； a mammoth effort。 Numbness rather than pain。 He could not understand it。 He'd beaten them。 They were running； scattering； yelling their curses back as they fled。 And yet 。。。
Loader tried to raise his head； it was impossible。 He could not move。 He did not need to。 He could see it all from where he lay。 A rifle barrel still protruded through the slit hi the box on the upper platform； the barrel smoking。 It was where Barraclough was stationed。
You fucker！ Loader couldn't speak。 He was choking； drowning in his own blood。 And nobody came out to him。
Tyler and his colleagues laboured tirelessly inside Section Eight。 The labourers sweated beneath their heavy protective clothing； in a scene like the bizarre setting for some science…fiction film。
Tyler glanced continually from his watch to the pressure gauge。 Both seemed to stand still。 It was mental torture。 It would be several hours before they knew； one way or the other。 The solidifiers needed a full twelve hours' trial to prove or disprove their worth。 Any impatient attempt to open them up to ascertain their current efficiency might result in a total breakdown； which could not be rectified in time。
All they could do was wait。
Chapter 17
Canverdale's broadcast from Scotland…on radio only…was a bit of a non…event。 By now the British people were resigned to their fate。 The threat of a third world war； horrific in all its aspects； did not cause undue sensation。 By then the holocaust would have exploded with full force。 As for the Russian airliners； supposedly attempting to carry out a rescue operation on the morrow…most of the population would be hiding hi every conceivable place of shelter。 The airports would be deserted。
Canverdale did not mention the current attempts to solidify the escaping radioactivity。 This was no time to raise a nation's hopes； and then possibly dash them a few hours later。
The worst of the rioting had subsided。 No longer did crowds surge through city streets bent on blind destruction。 There was still some fighting； of course； but mostly amongst groups peting for places which might conceivably offer some protection。 All official nuclear shelters were already filled…the living awaiting the end in their mass graves。
London's Undergrounds were crowded。 All trains had ceased to run； and the electric currents had been switched off。 The ventilation shafts had not yet been closed； the authorities would leave that until the very last moment。 To do so now would certainly condemn many to death by suffocation。
And in the valley itself there was an uneasy calm。 Those who had attempted to demonstrate outside the nuclear station had now retreated dejectedly to their homes to await the end。 The sudden burst of gunfire had shocked them into reality again。 Fourteen dead： nine killed by the gunfire； five trampled in the stampede to get away from it all。 Many others injured。
Chief Superintendent Rollason sat at his desk； an ashtray heaped with cigarette ends in front of him； another of his favourite brand smouldering between his lips。 Occasionally he was forced to remove it during a bout of coughing。 He had had that cough for years； lately it had bee much worse。 He wondered why he had never given so much as a passing thought to cancer before； but did so now。 Perhaps because he realised that now millions would probably die from the disease。 Ironic！ He wished somebody would phone him。 Anybody。 It was the quietest night he had known for years。 He wished to God that one of his men would bring in a drunk； just to relieve the monotony。 Every officer was out in the town on some duty or other。 But there were no reports。 Nothing。 Fear had turned into boredom； and that in turn brought a new kind of terror…just waiting for the end。
Dyne's headache did not lessen any； in spite of the darkness and the tranquillity of his private quarters。 Rather it increased to alarming proportions； the pounding seemed to reverberate right down to his chest。 This frightened him； his father had died from a sudden angina attack。 Experts said that heart trouble was hereditary。 Alone here in the dark he experienced a trapped feeling； a need for the pany of the others…something he had never felt before。 Maybe he should go down to the pound below； and get some fresh air。
He had difficulty in walking； staggering from side to side to the deserted corridor。 He could barely see； his vision tunnelled； everywhere dark as though with the approach of dusk。 But that was ridiculous…the centre was always fully lit； night and day。
He finally located the elevator and experienced dizziness as it plunged downwards； ing to a gentle halt which threw him from one wall to the other。 Christ； his eyes hurt。 Nobody about； either； not even a guard on the main doors。 Probably everybody was congregated around Section Eight； the focal point of the whole world at this very moment。
The wind met him with an icy gust as he pushed his way out through the swing…doors。 He shivered； he should have brought a top coat； but he wasn't going back inside。 Jesus； no。 Out here he felt a kind of freedom； an urge to run blindly； to put as much distance between himself and Craiglowrie as possible。 But no； he had to remain…go up with the rest of them if the reactor exploded。 Maybe ten minutes out here would do the trick。 Already his headache seemed to have lessened； but there was definitely something wrong with his vision。
He glanced back and felt a mounting terror。 He couldn't even see the Reprocessing Centre； not so much as a glimmer of light to denote its presence。 It was as though Winston Dyne stood on a barren hillside； the ground beneath him bereft even of sprouting weeds； whilst all around him the moorland wind moaned its loneliness across miles of gorse and heather。
He stared hard； but could see nothing in the blackness。 He rubbed his eyes。 Oh God； had he gone blind？ Then he sensed a presence； the wind seeming to whisper words in his ears； like strange angry incantations。 He fell to his knees； and flung up his arms instinctively to protect his head。 Words again…and this time he could make them out。
The time is nigh； Balzur。 Destroy with the power I have given you。 Pluto mands you。 Now！
'Where the hell is he？' Coyle followed on Kent's heels out into the open pound； unhindered by a security guard who glanced in their direction but relaxed as he recognised them。 'He's not in his quarters。 They're searching the building for him； without result so far； so he's got to be out here。 But for Christ's sake why？'
Kent broke into a run without answering； almost as though he'd seen something； the soft springy grass beneath his feet suddenly peter