A Hole in the Ground

by Andrew Garve

  “It’ll be a piece of monstrous treachery!”

  “Nonsense, Traill. How can I betray something I don’t believe in? These labels mean nothing. If some anti-Soviet Russians succeeded in blowing up a big atom plant in Russia, would your side call him a traitor? Of course you wouldn’t. You’d say he was a freedom-loving democrat, a hero, a martyr.”

  “He’d be fighting a tyranny. You’re helping one.”

  “Naturally I don’t accept that. Believe me, my conscience isn’t troubled. In the end, humanity will thank me.”

  “What about the poor devils working up there when your firework goes off? Will they thank you?”

  “Did you Americans think of that when you atom-bombed Hiroshima? In war, you don’t stop to count suffering. This is my personal act of war.”

  “You’re starting it—we didn’t.”

  “It’ll come, some time. It’s inevitable.”

  “It may not be inevitable. You may be wrong. If you are wrong, this thing you’re planning is just a wicked, pointless atrocity. Have you no feelings at all for the misery you’re going to cause? Think of Julie, man—this’ll just about break her. Does she mean nothing to you?”

  “Nothing. Less than nothing, now. I’ve got beyond that. What does any one person matter? It may sound grandiloquent to you, but I’ve got a date with Destiny. I’m helping to shape the whole future of the world.”

  An exclamation of disbelief broke from Ben. “you presumptuous fool! Haven’t you ever heard of evolution? Don’t you know that the only thing that shapes the world is Time? Great God, you lie among rocks that were laid down here a hundred million years ago, and you talk of a date with Destiny because you’re going to blow up one little man-made factory!”

  Quilter smirked. “For a scientist, you’re quite articulate.” He picked up the ends of the wire and started to connect them to the plunger.

  Ben strained forward in a desperate attempt to reach it, but the pipe held him and there was nothing he could do.

  “I should conserve your strength,” said Quilter. “You’ll need it for getting out.” He seemed absorbed in his technical problem; it was only too evident that for him no moral problem existed.

  “Listen, Quilter—just listen to me. Even as an act of war it’s not worth it. What’s this plant making—atom bomb stuff? Okay, suppose it is, and you blow it up. It won’t make a dime’s worth of difference. We’ve got stacks of the things.”

  Quilter went on fiddling. “I hardly think your Government would agree with you! In any case, you might as well save your breath, Traill. You don’t suppose I haven’t thought this out? God knows I’ve had long enough. In the past few weeks I’ve thought of everything—everything. I’ve faced up to all the possible consequences. By coming down here you’ve altered things a little—but not much. I’ve made up my mind.”

  “You’ll never get away with this.”

  “That’s what I mean when I say you’ve altered things a little. I did plan to leave the country afterwards. I assumed that it would be some while before the explosion would be traced to me, and that I should have plenty of time to get away. I’d have found important work to do in Russia—even a few old friends! Now I can’t hope for that. I know I can’t escape. Even if I could deal with you, there’s still Julie. So—I shall give myself up.”

  “They’ll hang you.”

  “I expect so. Ever since you appeared, I’ve been trying to get used to the idea. I think I can face it. At least I shall have left some mark upon the world. I may provide a paragraph even in your history books. I’ve had a futile sort of life, always waiting and never achieving—it will be quite pleasant to end it in a blaze of execration.”

  “Suppose they decide you’re mad, and shut you up with lunatics for the rest of your days?”

  “They won’t do that—they won’t have enough restraint. Anyway, I’m not mad. Don’t be misled by my appearance—that would happen to anyone who’d been through what I’ve been through. I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m completely responsible. I’m only doing what thousands of perfectly sane men have been applauded for in the past—striking at the enemy. You wouldn’t think me insane if this were Nazi Germany and I were an American agent, would you?” He turned his wrist over in the sand and looked at his watch. “Well, the time has come—if I leave it any longer the morning shift will have started work, and I don’t want to kill people unnecessarily.”

  He locked his hands together and rested them on the plunger. For a second or two he waited, but not from any doubt or regret. This was the end of doubt—it was the climax of his devoted labours, the moment of fruition. A glorious picture filled his mind—a picture of earth-splitting upheaval, crumbling walls, toppling chimneys and destroying fire. Beyond that, he saw himself proudly facing his accusers, indifferent to their hate, tranquil in his triumph. And beyond that still he could see himself walking out into a prison yard in the chill of an autumn morning, and knew he would not be afraid. He had faced and overcome his fears. He was at peace.

  He strained on the plunger and the rod went down. “You crazy fool!” Ben shouted, and pressed his body down into the sand, covering his head with his arms.

  Seconds passed like years. Then from Quilter there came a moaning sigh. When Ben looked at him again his face was trembling, as though he were about to cry.

  “It looks like Destiny hasn’t kept that date,” said Ben. A trickle of sweat dripped from his elbows.

  The taunt stung Quilter to frantic action. He began to fiddle with the wires, checking the connections. Then he worked the plunger up and down in a desperate attempt to get some contact. He knew he’d never really understood the thing. It had worked before, when he’d blown up the choke, but something must have happened to it. Now it was quite dead. Presently he gave up and lay exhausted, his face a wet greyness. This was the final, the unbearable humiliation. He had failed! After all his planning, all his efforts—yes, and all his talk!—he had failed. Now there would be derision not glory; confinement, not martyrdom.

  He started to inch his way back. He couldn’t fail now. He had paper and wood—he could light a fire under the gelignite—surely that would set the thing off? He straggled to adjust his mind—to face the thought of being blown to fragments, of private, lonely death, without abuse or acclaim. It wasn’t how he had planned it—it was the lesser evil now, that was all that could be said for it. There was no acceptable alternative—no other way. At least … Suddenly he stopped again and lay still, thinking.

  Ben’s voice broke in harshly. “Give it up, Quilter. Accept the verdict.”

  Quilter raised his head. “Why should I? I can start a blaze back there and go up with it.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man. Give it up. Come on, let’s get out.”

  Quilter didn’t move. “That’s not much of a proposition, Traill. What happens to me if I do? Arrest, and a life sentence.”

  Ben thought of the heaped explosive and the size of the stake. “I guess you could still leave the country,” he said. “If you come out now, I’ll keep my mouth shut until you’re clear.”

  “You swear that?”

  “So help me God!”

  There was a long, nerve-racking moment of indecision. Then Quilter stirred. “Very well. On that condition, I accept.”

  “Right—let’s get moving.” Ben started at once to back out of the pipe, his only thought to get Quilter away from the dump as quickly as possible. It was a slow, laborious journey, punctuated by moments of horrible suspense when Quilter seemed to lag. The man could still change his mind! Only when they had both emerged and were standing upright by the exit did Ben breathe freely again.

  “You’d better go ahead,” he said curtly. “You know the way better than I do.”

  Without a word, Quilter set off along the straight passage.

  He had the advantage of a headlamp as well as a strong torch and he walked with such speed that Ben had difficulty in keeping up with him. In ten minutes they were entering the
Cascade Chamber and Quilter was leaping and striding from clay to rock and rock to stalagmite with the confidence of long practice. He might look like a pallid ghost, but it was clear that his physical strength was far from exhausted.

  “Easy, there.” Ben called sharply.

  Quilter slowed without turning, and Ben came up with him. A few more steps, and they were at the foot of the ladder. Far above, Ben could just make out a moving point of light and waved his torch in greeting. “Who goes first?” asked Quilter. “You do, bud. I’ll be on your heels.”

  “You’ll have to wait till I’m up. Those pitons won’t stand the weight of both of us together.”

  For a moment, Ben hesitated. The man might be sane after his fashion or he might not, but sending him up to spend five or ten minutes alone with Julie on a narrow ledge wasn’t a very attractive way of putting the matter to the test. Yet to go ahead himself and leave Quilter free to go back to the dump if he suddenly felt like it was unthinkable.

  “Okay,” said Ben, “I’ll wait. But if you try any funny business, Quilter, I’ll personally tear you apart. Up you go—and signal when you’re off the ladder.” He stood watching until Quilter had disappeared into the blackness of the cavern.

  Up on the shelf of rock, Julie waited. She had had a long and exhausting vigil and she felt inexpressibly thankful that it was over and that none of her fears had been realised. Ben was safe, and Laurence had been found, and now everything would be sorted out. Not even the sight of her husband’s gaunt and dreadful countenance coming up to the ledge could lessen her sense of relief. She had no fear of him—however ill he was, he couldn’t wish her harm. Compassion filled her. She leaned forward to grasp his arm and help him off the ladder. He turned to wave his torch over the chasm and then, without a word, threw himself down on the floor to rest. Julie stared at his canvas overall and strange headgear—just, one more of the many things she didn’t understand. “Are you all right, Laurence?”

  “Yes,” he said tonelessly.

  What have you been doing?”

  “You ask too many questions, Julie—you always did.” He flashed his torch round the ledge, and focused on her basket.

  “Is there anything to drink?”

  “There’s a little brandy.” She passed him the flask and he took a mouthful and gave it back to her. Then he sat with his chin on his knees, paying no further attention to her.

  Reluctantly, she decided to let him have his way, and leaned over the edge to see if there were any sign of Ben. His torch was off, but the movement of the ladder told her he was coming up fast. Soon he was within hailing distance, and she heard his shout—” You okay; Julie?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  “Keep it that way—I’ll be right up.”

  A few seconds later he scrambled up on to the ledge.

  “Well, we made it, honey. Sorry we were so long.” He glanced across at Quilter’s silent, sphinx-like figure; then looked at Julie and gave a significant headshake.

  She gripped his arm. “What happened, Ben?”

  “Tell you later! Come on, Quilter, let’s get moving. Okay, Julie?”

  He took her by the elbow and steered her away from the precipice and into the darkness of the roped passage. “You’d better lead up the slope—keep tight hold of the rope and you’ll be okay. Now what the devil is that guy …?”

  He broke off as sounds of sudden activity came from behind them. In an instant he was back on the ledge, flashing his torch around. “My God, he’s gone!” he shouted. He rushed to the edge, flinging himself down flat. There was no light, nothing. For a moment he thought that Quilter must have thrown himself into the abyss, and braced himself for the crash. Then he saw that the ladder was moving. He shone his torch down and caught a grey figure in the beam, twenty feet below and descending rapidly with an odd, lop-sided motion. Quilter had his left arm hooked through something. Surely—yes, it was the handle of the radio.

  The radio! At once Ben understood everything. He turned on his belly and gripped the ladder. Julie was crying “What is it? What’s happening?” but he barely heard her. He was remembering what Quilter had said about the pitons—that they wouldn’t support two. He looked down into the pit and knew there was no point in risking it. Quilter was already out of sight. With his skill and knowledge he would be back in the pipe long before anyone could catch him. There was only one other way to stop him.

  With a hard, set face Ben scrambled back on to the ledge and began heaving at the ladder where it was held by the pitons.

  Julie grabbed his arm. “Ben!” she shrieked. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  He strained at the ladder, shouting back, “He’s taken the battery—the high-tension battery. It’ll detonate the charge. Christ, where’s that sledgehammer?” He groped around in the dim light. “Got it! Stand back, Julie—it’s the only way.”

  She flung herself at him. “You’re mad. You’ll kill him. Oh, God, what’s happened to you?”

  He thrust her away from him and struck at one of the pitons. “He’s going to blow up the atom plant!”

  It seemed that she didn’t hear. As he lifted the hammer again she clawed at him, pummelling his back. “No, Ben, no, NO!” She was beside herself, fighting like a tigress, hampering his movements so that he couldn’t lift the hammer. He swayed away from the piton, trying to shake her off. She fell and rolled and he caught her on the very edge of the pit with a gasp of anguish. He picked her up bodily and carried her to the rock wall, pinning her to the floor. She was sobbing and struggling. “No, Ben, no!”

  He shook her. “Listen!—listen to me! He’s going to blow up the atom plant, do you hear, blow it up! He’s been carrying explosives down for weeks. He’ll kill hundreds of people. I’ve got to stop him.”

  Something of what he was saying seemed to register at last. She went limp, with an awful moan. He let her go and seized the sledgehammer again and cracked at one of the pitons with all his strength. He saw it move a little and aimed another blow at it and then he hit the second one, and suddenly both of them shot out of their rock crevices and the end of the ladder went sliding over the precipice, carrying debris with it that echoed and ricocheted as it fell.

  He dropped to his knees and peered down. All was silence now, except for the murmur of the cascade. No sound, no sign of movement.

  “You’ve killed him!” said Julie, her voice a whisper.

  Then, far below, a fight flicked on, and a second light, and the two of them began moving like will-o’-the-wisps across the cavern floor.

  You’re wrong,” said Ben in a solemn tone. “There he goes—back to his dump! He must have been almost at the bottom when the ladder went over.” He groped for a cigarette and lit it with fingers that trembled a little. “Well, I guess there’s nothing more we can do.”

  Helplessly he stared into the chasm. Almost at once, it seemed, the lights disappeared—Quilter was wasting no time. By now he would be hurrying through the long tunnel. Say seven or eight minutes to reach the pipe—a few minutes to crawl through it to the wires …

  He waited, tense and silent. Presently Julie came creeping out of the shadows and knelt beside him. He could feel her body shaking and her hand on his was icy cold. “Ben, I’m so frightened. Hold me—hold me tight!” He put an arm round her, trying to comfort her. There was nothing he could say. Slowly the minutes passed.

  After a while he felt the cigarette burning his fingers and stubbed it out. Any time now, he thought. Unless … He wondered if it was possible that Quilter would make a hash of it again. You had to know how to fix detonators to gelignite—maybe, that had been the trouble before. If things didn’t work out this time, maybe he’d go on hanging about for a while, trying to make up his mind to blow himself up …

  Suddenly Ben jumped to his feet. “There may be time after all. If I can get to the top and ring the plant from the cottage …”

  His words were cut short by the explosion. It reached them first as a violent thud,
a concussion that made them doubt the solidity of the ledge on which they stood. Then there came a rumbling sound like the muttering of a distant storm. The air began to stir around them and the sound swelled until the whole cavern was singing and vibrating with noise. Then, little by little, the echoes died.

  “So he’s done it,” said Ben in a flat voice. “Let’s go.”

  Julie moved away up the slope without a word. Her senses were numbed by the shock, and a deadly fatigue made all her movements automatic. Her brain seemed to have stopped working altogether. Once, in the steep roped passage she slipped and let go of the rope and came slithering down on Ben, who himself had barely the strength to hold her. He started her off again with words of encouragement, supporting her from behind his spirits sank with every flagging step. She had been tried too much. He knew he would never be able to get her up the second ladder. Even if he roped her he couldn’t pull her up single-handed. In his present state he doubted if he could even hold her. He had already resolved to leave her and go for help when, just as they reached the foot of the ladder, she gave a long sigh and slumped back into his arms.