Right here, right now, they could do nothing but wait. Wait for the right moment, the right opportunity to act.
They had examined the cell from top to bottom. There was no air vent through which they could escape. The only light came from the garde l’eau in the floor that projected out over the wall of the edifice. Even if they could enlarge the hole, there was a hundred-foot drop to the ground.
The living plant door was cultivated for the purpose by the chatts. Barbed thorns covered its surface, its roots bedded deep in the walls round the chamber’s circular opening. They knew from experience in Khungarr that it could fire its barbs in defence. There was no hiding place within the round bare chamber from them.
To pass the time, the Padre telled away at his Rosary in a Morse code of Hail Marys and Our Fathers, like a spiritual Iddy Umpty man seeking Divine orders from HQ.
Hepton, sensing the hostility from the rank and file, had removed himself and sat across from the men, from where he shot them the morose glances of a beaten cur.
Riley kept up a cheery disposition, keeping young Tonkins’ mind occupied with a series of trench anecdotes.
Gutsy picked his teeth with the point of a sharpened lucifer he had saved for just this purpose. There seemed to be nothing else to do in the gaol chamber.
“Pity we haven’t got that pet chatt of yours, Only,” he said as he winkled out a nub of chewed fungus and flicked it toward Hepton, who glared at him. “He could have talked to them for us.”
“He was never my pet,” said Atkins with more bitterness than he meant. “And I don’t think it works that way. These Khungarrii and Zohtakarrii, they’re like rival colonies or something. Like Britain and Germany.”
“And we’re in Germany?” said Porgy, trying to get his head round the analogy.
“Ain’t that just our bloody luck?” chipped in Porgy. “And a bloody Jerry in charge, too.”
“Bugger me if that’s wasn’t a turn-up for the books. Makes you wonder who else is wandering about out there.”
The door puckered and shrivelled as it opened. The Fusiliers stood, tensed, fists clenching, glancing from each other to their NCO and officer for the order.
Two scentirrii armed with electric lances stepped through the door, with four more outside, scotching that idea. Everson shook his head and indicated with a hand down by his hip that they should stand down. They were ready for a fight, but with the release of an alarm scent, the whole population of the edifice would come down on them. Now wasn’t the time.
Werner walked through the door.
“What do you want, Fritz?” rumbled Gutsy, slapping a meaty fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Private.” Everson’s rebuke stilled the stocky butcher, but his eyes still burned with contempt.
Werner waved the insult away with a magnanimity he could well afford.
Everson greeted him curtly, the same question on his own mind. “Well, Oberleutnant?”
“Nothing from you I’m afraid, Lieutenant. I wish to speak to your kinematographer.”
“Me?” said Hepton warily, adjusting his glasses on his nose and risking a shufti at the Fusiliers.
“Yes, it appeared you were worried about your equipment.”
Hepton glanced cautiously at Everson, who just scowled.
Hepton stepped forward hesitantly, expecting a trick.
“Yes. Is it all right?”
“As far as I know. There is, however, something you can do to secure its continued safety.”
That caught Hepton’s interest. “Yes?”
“You see, I need your expertise, Herr…?”
“Hepton. Oliver Hepton.”
“Herr Hepton, I need you to help to develop some photographic plates.”
“Plates?” Hepton looked from Werner to Everson.
Everson watched the exchange impassively. Hepton was an odd cove. On the one hand, the man was a coward and a cad. On the other, he was prepared to take the most outrageous risks to get his precious moving pictures. The canisters of undeveloped kine film he carried around, of the Pennines on this world, were his fortune. If they got back to Earth, they would make him tremendously rich. He needed them. He also needed Everson and his men to keep him alive until then. But Hepton was a survivor. He hedged his bets and covered his arse. His only loyalty was to self-preservation, and now was no exception.
Hepton turned to Everson and tapped his nose. “Don’t worry; I’ll keep my eyes peeled. See what I can find out,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for those Fusiliers nearby to hear.
He didn’t fool Everson. Still, the chances were that Hepton would procure some information as security against his own survival. That might prove useful.
Hepton didn’t wait for Everson’s permission but stepped forward to join Werner, who nodded curtly at Everson before turning and leaving the chamber. Hepton followed, looking back as he stepped through the door to give a shrug and sheepish grin, as if to say, ‘What else can I do?’
“Be seeing you – Kamerad,” growled Gutsy.
Hepton looked away with a guilty start as he followed Werner from the gaol chamber.
The Scentirrii retreated and the plant door shut again.
“The jammy bastard,” was all Pot Shot could say.
TULLIVER WAS DISMAYED to see Werner return with Hepton. The kinematographer sauntered into the chamber with the air of one whose fortune had turned at the expense of others and who didn’t care.
“Lieutenant!” Hepton said brightly when they met again. “It seems I have a commission.” He clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. “Shall we get started?” He turned to Werner. “Where is my equipment? You said it was safe.”
“It is being held by their apothecaries,” said Werner.
An escort of scentirrii took them up an inclined passage to the higher reaches of the edifice. A faint thrumming sounded through the passages as the ventilation system sucked fresh air deep into the core of the colony.
Despite his revulsion at the situation, Tulliver felt a rising sense of expectation. He was, he hated to admit, intrigued by Werner’s mystery. Perhaps, he reasoned, there were bigger things at stake here than political enmity.
The scentirrii brought them to a small, unassuming chamber. They ushered them inside, going no further themselves. Werner strode past them with all the confidence of one who has rights and access.
Beyond was a succession of further chambers, occupied, Tulliver found, by a different class of chatts. These had plainer, pallid carapaces, as though they had never left the dark recesses of the edifice. They wore plain white silken tabards that almost touched the floor. Each wore a small pouch at its hip, slung across its thorax by silken rope. They were clearly akin to the dhuyumirrii caste of the Khungarrii.
There was a groan of despair from Hepton, as he spotted his precious equipment in the corner of one chamber. He dashed over and fell upon it, with all the fear and relief of someone inspecting a child for injuries after an accident, checking the camera box, his tripod, his haversack of film canisters, wincing at each scuff and scratch.
He pulled out a wooden box from a haversack and swore under his breath. The brown glass bottles that had contained the remains of his photography fluids had cracked and one had shattered completely. The chemicals had drained away, staining the wood. There was precious little remaining. Certainly not enough to develop anything. Hepton sat back on his heels, crestfallen, sure his fate would now be to join the rest of the Fusiliers below.
“It’s cracked. There’s nothing left,” he rasped. “Not a drop.”