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spent praying for forgiveness. Repent, Professor Newman.'
Brian Newman's hand trembled as he put the paper down on the table.
'Stop blaming yourself,' Susan Wylie said as she entered the room and placed a
cup of coffee at his elbow. 'The Press always have to put somebody in the
stocks. How the hell can they compare you with this myxomatosis guy? His
intention was to cause deliberate suffering. Yours was an accident, a
biological freak.'
Newman sat up suddenly, his fists clenched.
'My God!' he muttered. 'Why didn't I think of it before?'
'Think of what?'
'Where's last week's Scientific American.' He began to rummage through a pile
of newspapers and magazines beside where he was sitting.
'What is it?'
'Here it is.' He pulled out the magazine he sought and began to flip quickly
through the pages. 'Now, let me see, I know I read it somewhere in here... ah,
yes, this is it.'
Susan Wylie peered over his shoulder. The article in question was written by
one of the leading biologists in the United States and was titled 'Myxomatosis
for Rats and Mice.'
'Recent experiments have proved,' it read, 'that a type of myxomatosis, a
mutation of the virus which destroys rabbits, is lethal to rats and mice. Once
this can be distributed widely it could save the United States billions of
dollars annually-in vermin destruction, damage to growing crops, and also help
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to check the spread of many diseases... '
'Is it possible?' Newman breathed.
'You mean... ?'
'Yes, you've got it!' the Professor's eyes shone. 'If it kills rats and mice,
there's no reason why it shouldn't kill bats. It could be the answer to our
prayers. I'll ring Rickers right away. Maybe we could get some of the stuff
flown in.'
Rickers was not enthusiastic. Neither was he pleased about being disturbed
whilst trying to catch up on some lost sleep.
'Doesn't sound very promising to me,' he grunted.
'Neither did your insecticides idea.' Newman snapped, 'and that certainly
didn't work. Now it's my turn.'
'Myxomatosis took months to spread.'
'Obviously it did, because rabbits live in warrens, often isolated, without
coming into contact with others. The fleas had to carry the virus. This one is
contagious. Quicker acting, and bats are much more sociable creatures. And
even if it doesn't work on them at least we'll cut down the spread of the
disease by destroying rats and mice.'
'I'll sleep on it.' Rickers mumbled and replaced the receiver.
'Well?' Susan Wylie asked.
'He's interested.' Newman told her laughing. 'Pooh-poohed it, of course,
because he hadn't thought of it first. Tried to find reasons why it wouldn't
work. Then said he'd sleep on it. That means he's fetching Haynes out of bed
right now. Probably Professor Talbot and Sir John Stirchley, too, and there
might even be a trans-Atlantic call to New York before morning.'
'Oh, Brian!' She flung her arms around his, crying softly.
'Now hold on,' he said. 'Let's not count our chickens. There are one helluva
lot of obstacles to overcome before we even get round to trying to spread this
thing. The government will have to agree to another virus being released, and
they aren't exactly sympathetic to everything we've done so far. Like Rickers
said, let's sleep on it.'
Chapter Fourteen
The safari Land-Rover bumped its way across the heather and gorse on Cannock
Chase.
'That'll do,' Newman said to the driver. 'We'll release the bats in those firs
over there. The rats and mice we'll take down to the Sherbrook Valley.'
The driver, a small man in overalls who spent most of his time nodding assent
to any orders he was given, brought the vehicle to a standstill. Newman
climbed down and, taking a small wicker container resembling a pigeon-basket
from the rear, he walked with it towards the nearest line of trees. From
inside the basket came frenzied squeaks and fluttering. The bats were
impatient for their freedom.
Professor Newman opened the lid, and immediately six bats hurtled up into the
air, flew round in a circle, and then disappeared amongst the branches of the
towering pines. He closed the basket and walked slowly back towards the
Land-Rover. Twenty consignments of similarly treated bats were today being
released at various strategic points around the Midlands. Most of the injected
rodents had been set free in the towns. Just one more lot, he told himself,
and that was it.
They had played their last card. He prayed that it was an ace.
Ken Tyler was abroad shortly after daylight, moving silently through the
swirling mist, gun beneath his arm. The fog did not worry him. He knew every
inch of this land.
There were unlikely to be any bats about until the mist thinned. As with most
creatures, mist confused their sense of direction, even the mad ones. Fog
meant safety for him, the chance to get some work done.
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He followed the course of the Castle Ring moat, his boots squelching in the
soft grass, eyes scanning the ground ahead. Then he stopped suddenly. Only an
experienced eye would have spotted the rectangular outline of a small,
artificially made tunnel, two 3ft lengths of wood with a roof, camouflaged by
clods of earth. Inside this he had set a humane vermin trap only days earlier,
one of a network around the Ring, the only means by which the ground vermin
could be controlled.
He laid his gun on the ground and, kneeling down, peered into the entrance.
The daylight at the opposite end was partly obscured. Something was caught in
the trap. He gripped the chain and tugged, feeling the trap and whatever it
had caught being dragged towards him.
A grunt of satisfaction escaped his lips, turning to one of revulsion almost
at once as he caught sight of his catch. A rat. He often trapped rats up here
on Castle. Ring, but not like this one. Its head was swollen almost to the
size of its body. The eyes were puffed up, hidden beneath two huge growths
which sprouted out of the sockets themselves, pink and bloated. The mouth was
open, rigor mortis having retained the expression of viciousness which the
rodent had worn in life.
Tyler used a stick to part the jaws of the trap, kicking the corpse to one
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