by Simon Clark
'But what was it that he wanted? From what you say the base back there is only one of dozens you people have.'
'Come on, David, don't be so naпve.'
'Pardon?'
'Take a good look at this.' Crushing out the cigarette, he pulled something from his jacket pocket. 'I took this from one of Torrence's men… no, he didn't mind, he was just embarking on a new career as a deceased person. Here, what do you make of that… no, wait… you can't see it in the dark. Let me get some light on that for you.' I heard the click of his lighter. 'From what I could see, all of Torrence's men had these stuffed into their pockets or taped to their helmets. That, David, is what Torrence wanted so badly.'
In the wavering flame I saw a photograph. I sighed as I understood. 'Me,' I told him.
'Got it in one. While you were back in New York Torrence's spies were watching you.' He pushed the photograph back into his pocket. 'They were taking snaps, too.'
'But why risk the lives of his best men to go after me?'
'Torrence wanted you back. Dead or alive would have been fine by him. Remember, Torrence holds your father responsible for him losing his eye, as well as causing a lot of hurt to his ego. Torrence would cheerfully have sent your head pickled in a jar to your family if you'd been killed. Or if he'd gotten you back to New York alive he'd have used you as a hostage. Either way, he'd exploit you to make your father suffer for what he'd done.'
'You know how this makes me feel now? Dozens of your people were killed this morning.'
'Any way you look at it, there's only one man to blame. That's Torrence. He's responsible. He's the one with blood on his hands.'
'What now?'
'We'll camp out here for a few days. When that mob have gone we'll go back, clear the base of triffids, repair fences, rebuild. Bury what's left of the dead. It'll be a long job but we'll do it.'
'But you have military aircraft. You could hunt down Torrence's ships and bomb them to pieces.'
'We could,' Sam allowed. 'But you see, a lot of our people will have been taken prisoner today. They'll be on those ships. One day, we hope they'll be free again.'
'But until then they'll be used as slave labour?'
'Yes, they will.' He nodded, thoughtfully running a finger along the bridge of his nose. 'And the women who were captured will become part of Torrence's grand scheme. They'll be forcibly impregnated. They'll have babies.' He sounded tired. 'I'm going to turn in now.' He patted me on the shoulder. 'You try and get some sleep too. We're going to have some busy days ahead of us.'
He ambled away to sit with his back against one of the vehicles. I doubted very much if Sam Dymes slept at all that night. Even if he did, I had the feeling that nightmares would torture that good-hearted man until daybreak.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
SIGHT & SOUND
THE next morning I'd barely pulled on my boots when Gabriel Deeds tapped me on the shoulder. 'David. Come take a look at this and tell me what you think.' He looked like a man who'd just uncovered a treasure chest.
I followed him to the edge of our camp, marked by the line of Jumbos. They looked even greyer in the misty dawn.
'I didn't think it would be long before we had the neighbours round,' I commented. For already triffids had been shuffling towards the camp. So far their way was blocked. Even so, we'd have to be careful of their stings.
'Stand up on that tree trunk, so they have a clear view of you.'
'Gabriel.' I looked at him quizzically. 'Gabriel, I've seen those things before, you know?'
'Of course. But stand up on the trunk. Trust me on this, I'm going to show you something.'
'But they're-'
'No, listen to this,' he said quickly. 'There's something different about them.'
'What do you mean?'
'Unless I'm very much mistaken I think they've just gone and learned a brand new trick.'
I stood on the tree trunk, which gave me a platform about four feet from the ground. The nearest triffids were hidden, with the exception of their uppermost stems and sting cones, by the bulk of the Jumbos. However, a hundred yards or so away a slight bump in the ground meant that a few triffids were elevated enough for me to see them root to stinger. From those triffids came a tapping as they rapped their sticks against their hairy boles.
I gave Gabriel a questioning look.
'What do you hear?' he asked.
'Nothing, apart from the triffids tapping their finger sticks.'
'You mean you missed it when you climbed onto the tree trunk?'
'Missed what?'
'Now. Stand very still for five seconds.'
'Gabriel-'
'Trust me, OK?' He looked serious, but charged-up somehow. As if he was onto something important.
'OK, now what do you want me to do?'
'All right. When I say "Now" stand as still as possible for five seconds. Then quickly put your arms straight up above your head. Only, as you do so, listen carefully to those triffids across there on the mound.'
I did as instructed.
When I stood still I heard a slow rattling sound, almost like a man drumming his fingers meditatively on a table top. When I moved my arms there came a sudden manic burst of tapping, which slowed back to its previous rate when I stopped moving.
'Did you hear that?' he said expectantly.
'Yes, but what does it mean?'
'The triffids nearest to us, the ones that are hidden behind the Jumbos, didn't increase the rate at which they rattled their sticks. Yet the ones that were in full view of us suddenly went crazy; the tapping became so rapid it was like listening to a… a woodpecker or a machine gun… not a dit-dat-de-dat sound but a rapid brrrrrr.'
'You're saying that they responded to my movement? But we've always known that.'
'Yes, but something's changed here. They're responding from a greater distance. And can you see that the ones on the hill all have their cones pointing at you - targeting you - like radar dishes?'
'You're telling me that they've undergone some kind of evolutionary change? But why now?'
'Why not? When environmental conditions change, life must adapt too or go stand in line with the dinosaurs, dodos and Tasmanian tigers in extinctionville.' He rubbed his jaw reflectively. 'My guess is that when the sun stopped shining for a spell it triggered some quantum leap in their evolution.'
'But evolutionary change takes thousands of years.'
'Normally, yes. But we're not dealing with your normal beastie here. Those plants have torn up the laws of nature and are rewriting them to allow triffids to meet their goal. Namely, to inherit the Earth.'
I moved my arms again. This time I heard it. The triffids on the hill rattled their sticks so fast the sound became more a buzz than a rattle.
'But only the ones on the hill made the sound. The ones just behind the Jumbos didn't do anything different.'
'That's because they can't see you,' Gabriel answered, a note of triumph in his voice. 'But I use the word "see" between inverted commas.'
I smiled. 'Something tells me that if my father was here you two would have a wonderful conversation. My own knowledge of botany inclines to the scant.' I jumped down from the trunk. 'So, Gabe, how does the process work? After all, there's still no physical evidence of eyes.'
'I don't think it is optical.'
'Not optical? I don't follow. Surely-'
'No… no.' He held up his finger. 'Not all animals see using an optical system. And remember, I said I used the word "see" in inverted commas.' He took a breath. 'Take dolphins. They have eyes like we have, but they rely on sound to track fish, or to avoid rocks and boats.'
'You mean a kind of natural sonar?'
'Only it's infinitely more sophisticated than the crude electronic sonar equipment we have. A dolphin fires out clicks at a rate of around three hundred a second. The click bounces back from a fish, the echo enters through the dolphin's lower jaw where it shoots through to its middle ear, then on to the part of its brain where the sound is
processed. But the remarkable part of this is that the dolphin doesn't hear the sound, it "sees" it in a way that we don't entirely understand. But we do know it "sees" a three-dimensional image of the fish it's hunting. And because sound travels through soft tissue it not only sees the outside of the fish, like we would, it sees the fish on the inside, too - its skeleton and some of the denser internal organs.'
'Hang on there, Gabriel. So you're telling me that the triffids are "seeing" the echoes of the sounds they make with their sticks?'
'Sure. I reckon they're catching the echoes in the cones at the tops of the stems. Think about it: they'd make the perfect natural antennae.' He nodded across to the vehicles. 'But the ones screened by all that armour plate can't "see" us because of the obstruction to their clicks. But if we were to move those vehicles they could see not only our outer forms but our bones and probably what we ate for supper, too.'
'All of which is pretty depressing news. A plant that can walk and hear and kill is bad enough. Now it can see in the dark?' I shrugged. 'That tips the scales in their favour, doesn't it?'
'I agree.' Gabriel's eyes were troubled. 'But the question I ask myself now is this: what kind of surprise are they going to spring on us next?'
***
If the triffids were harbouring any unpleasant surprises they kept them well hidden. More triffids did, however, join the growing throng beyond our circle of vehicles. For most of the time they did little but sway and rattle their finger sticks, while no doubt carefully scrutinizing us inside and out (assuming that Gabriel's sonar hypothesis was correct).
We gave the plants a wide berth within our enclosure, ensuring that we stayed beyond the range of their stingers. Apart from that exercise in self-preservation there was little to do but talk among ourselves, eat our dried-food rations and, on occasion, leave the safety of the camp to gather firewood, suitably attired, of course, in protective triffid gear complete with large cylindrical helmets of plastic 'glass'.
Sam Dymes lived beneath a cloud of his own preoccupation for the first couple of days. His speech came in halting fragments as if self-doubt had completely destroyed his confidence. But by the third day he was largely back to his old self. The hesitant speech was still there, freely decorated with those uhms, ahms and long thoughtful mmmmms… but every so often, just when you thought his speech would grind completely to a halt, the words would suddenly pick up speed until they were tumbling out after each other. He was a man who lived on nervous energy. When he was animated his whole gangly frame would come to life and he'd walk up and down, gesturing enthusiastically. That was when the words would come flying from his lips like those of a man close to speaking in tongues.
Already he'd dispatched one of the Jumbos with its crew to keep a discreet watch on the camp. They would return as soon as it looked like Torrence's marauders had quit the place.
It was late on the third day after the invasion that we had more visitors - of sorts, that is. Three men came across the plain. They walked with the easy rhythm of those who travel great distances on foot. Instantly the Foresters were alert to danger, watching the approaching men with their guns at the ready. But the three made a point of giving our encampment a wide berth.
From what I could see there were two young men walking with an older man. Each one wore his long hair in a single ponytail. Clad in clothes of brightly woven cloth, they carried heavy backpacks stuffed full, I imagined, with game or skins. On their shoulders they carried bows with quivers full of arrows.
And these people, as I'd seen before, simply walked among the triffids as if those sinister plants were no more deadly than apple trees.
The Algonquin hunters paused for a moment to look at us with somewhat suspicious eyes. But once they'd decided that we weren't there to make mischief they continued on their way without a backward glance at us. Their easy stride took them effortlessly through the assembled triffid plants.
Although the triffids knew of the Indians' close proximity (I'd seen the plants' cones turn towards them) the plants never made even one attempt to strike at them. Gabriel Deeds watched the men dwindle into the distance across the plain. Then, turning to me, he said softly, 'Now, if we could learn a trick like that life would look a whole lot rosier.'
Little more than an hour after our 'visitors' had walked on out of sight the Jumbo came lumbering back to the camp. After a brief conversation with its crew Sam Dymes strode towards me. 'They've gone.' A grim expression made his face like stone. 'It's time we went back.' With that terse speech he waved his people to the vehicles.
We were returning to the camp. I didn't relish the prospect of what we'd find there.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
THE RETURN
THE return journey to the Foresters' camp was made in an atmosphere of grim expectation. What we found was even grimmer.
Torrence's invasion forces had gone. Even now they were probably steaming north for New York. A shambles - a macabre shambles met our gaze. The elephantine vehicles grunted their way into the camp through gaps in the fence. Naturally triffids had filled the vacuum. They were busy feasting on the fallen soldiers of both sides. Littering the river banks were the remains of the landing craft that had been destroyed by the Foresters' artillery. While a little upstream, partly submerged, our flying boats had been hacked to pieces by the invaders before they left. Clearly they had wished to make life difficult for us on our return. Similarly, food and fuel stores had either been looted or spoilt. Buildings had been reduced to sooty smudge marks on the earth.
A little while later, after a corner of the camp had been cleared of triffids, and with a line of Jumbos forming a temporary barrier against them, Sam Dymes stood upon the back of one of the vehicles to address the survivors.
He told us that a grim task lay ahead. But we wouldn't shortchange the men and women who had died defending the camp. They would be buried with full honours. A memorial would be raised to them. That was the moment when the full import of the death and the destruction hit the survivors. Many went to their knees. Concluding the address Sam said, 'Torrence gave us a bloody nose. But he has not beaten us. And this… this barbaric attack on our camp did not achieve its aims. He sent his men here to snatch back David Masen. They failed. That means Torrence's wider strategy has been stopped dead in its tracks. Without Masen he can't invade the Isle of Wight because he knows those guys over there have an air force that can bomb his warships out of the water. And if Torrence can't seize the Isle of Wight, he can't grab the machine that turns triffid oil into fuel. Without that, he doesn't have a viable air force of his own. So…' Suddenly Sam turned to face north and with a genuine burst of hatred he shook his fist at the northern horizon. 'So you can stay in your skyscraper palace, Torrence. You can rot there for all we care! Because all you've succeeded in doing with your treachery and your brutality is to build yourself one hell of a prison. And you can't do squat about making your stinking, filthy, cockamamie empire one square yard bigger.' For a moment I thought he'd draw his side arm and in the white heat of rage fire off the whole magazine in the direction of distant New York City. But suddenly the rage vanished. In low, even tones he turned back to us. 'OK. We've got work to do.'
Squads moved out across the camp in protective triffid gear, the clear fish-tank helmets gleaming in the sun. They docked the triffids of their stings, then felled them. Soon the whine of chainsaws filled the air. Post-mortem teams collected the dead, identified them, tagged them. Torrence's men were given burials as decent as those accorded the Foresters' dead.
As I donned the stout canvas protective suit prior to repairing the fences, Gabriel appeared. He showed me a bucketful of syringes before dumping them into a trash barrel. 'These came from Torrence's soldiers.'
'Morphine?'
He shook his head. 'Amphetamines. His men were pumped so full of this junk that they came ashore feeling they were running on rocket fuel.' He wiped his hands on a rag as if they'd come into contact with something unclean. 'The poor devils we
re so high they never even felt it when a bullet hit them. Torrence, huh? Don't you just admire and respect the man?'
The fence was a mess. Perspiring inside my suit I made a start with wire-cutters, clearing the tangled strands ready for the fencing gang to come and string fresh wire along the posts. A hundred yards to my right another figure - its appearance rendered androgynous by the protective suit - clicked away with wire-cutters, too. Far from comfortable, I tugged at this spaghetti supper of wire while triffids either lurched by me into the camp (where the anti-triffid squads would deal with them) or chose my head for a spot of target practice. Every so often a stinger would snap against the glass helmet with a chiming trringg. Something that never lost its power to irritate me deeply.
Nevertheless, I laboured on, cutting wire and then dragging it free of the tangle of triffids that had been crushed during our escape. I wondered if the Foresters' headquarters, based several hundred miles to the south, knew of Torrence's attack on one of their military camps. These days communities were so reluctant to surrender knowledge of their whereabouts that they were inclined to avoid radio transmissions altogether. Instead, they tended to rely on something akin to the Pony Express, namely a written communication delivered by hand. With this deep mutual suspicion bordering on paranoia it was hard to see that the disparate communities scattered across the globe would ever make contact with one another, never mind actually get together to form alliances for trade and mutual support. Maybe my father was right. Humanity would be destined to exist in scattered fragments that would eventually shrivel and die out completely.