"Here, we've got our names," said Sydney. "Fancy that."
Torreycanyon made his way down the main tunnel. It felt strange to be alone after so long in the company of the others, but there was no stopping now. Somewhere ahead of him would be the main hallway with the corridors running out from it like a spider's web. The Bunker was deserted, for the Rumbles were still sleeping, but in a very short while they would be coming from their bedrooms and making for the refectory to enjoy a copious breakfast.
Occasionally Torreycanyon saw a signpost which, he supposed, was to direct the younger Rumbles until they had learnt their way around. There weren't enough indications for his taste and he realised what a task the Borrible team had taken on. He understood suddenly that he was going to need a lot of luck to find his target, and a lot more to get out of this labyrinth alive. He gripped his catapult tightly, a stone ready for firing, and he stepped bravely forward. Best to press on and meet the dangers as they came, no point in worrying about them prematurely. Good old Stonks was behind, guarding the Great Door, and it would take an avalanche of Rumbles to move him.
Torreycanyon crept past several doors leading from the corridor. On each was a notice saying, "Dormitory"; he listened but heard no noises from within. So far so good. He went on, halting and listening at every branch corridor, peeping around every corner before going on and then peering back to make sure he was not being followed.
"Cripes," he said, often. "I wish I could find my target and then get out of here, it's creepy being on your own."
At last luck was with him. He nearly passed a narrow passage leading off to his left but his foot slipped and looking down he saw a patch of oil on the floor. He moved into the passage and shone his torch on the wall, for it was darker there. At eye level words had been daubed in blue paint, and although faded and difficult to decipher, they were still legible. "Garage and Workshops. Keep Out. signed TORREYCANYON RUMBLE."
"Oh boy, oh boy," said Torreycanyon, "I've done it right. I'll get in the garage and wait for him." He knew from his reading of the Rumble histories that the workshops were a vital nerve centre of this underground complex and it was part of the Borrible plan, once they had eliminated their targets, to cause as much confusion as possible. Torreycanyon hoped that possession of the workshops would enable him to wreak great damage throughout the Bunker, merely by pulling a few switches. If he could break in before the Rumbles awoke, he would be in a strong position.
The dark corridor sloped downwards beneath the Rumbledom hillsides. It was slippery and oily underfoot because so much machinery had passed that way but Torreycanyon moved forward only when he had verified with his torch that it was safe to do so. At last he came up against a heavy wooden door, sagging on its hinges. It was scarred and battered where sharp metal edges had been bashed against it. To Torreycanyon's amazement the door was open and a light shone inside.
He pushed his torch back into his pocket and flexed the rubber on his catapult. He was ready. However many Rumbles were in the workshops he would take them on and then destroy their equipment before they destroyed him. But he must be sure to get his target; not one of the Rumble High Command must be left to organise pursuit or retaliation. Torreycanyon took a deep breath, thought briefly of the others and wondered where they were, then he shoved the door with a vigorous thrust of his foot and jumped into the room in the style of the adventure stories he had read or of the spy films he had seen when bunking-in at the Imperial Cinema, Clapham Junction. The door swung back and banged into the wall. Torreycanyon burst through the doorway and landed in the crouched position. His eyes raced over the workshops, his head turned, searching, but there was not one enemy to fire at. Torreycanyon relaxed.
He was in a large rectangular room. It was lined with shelves on which was stowed every tool that might be needed in the underground stronghold and, in addition, there was row upon row of spare parts for the machinery that kept the Bunker ticking over. There were work-benches and power-points, electric drills and lathes, winches and a conveyor belt. It was an extremely well-equipped and functional place and Torreycanyon liked it.
"Blimey," he said, looking round in wonder and respect, "what couldn't we do with this little lot," but then he remembered why he was there and he shook the feeling of awe from his mind. He bolted the door and made a tour of inspection, making sure that no unseen Rumble lurked behind the shelves, or between the work-benches. The more he saw of the place the more impressed he became. He had a practical turn of mind himself, and when he saw all those shining tools, laid out in perfect order, and those handy work-benches, the wood, the carpentry, the work in progress and the projects nearly finished, he felt that it was a great pity to destory such order. Why, oh why, did he not have such a workshop back in Hoxton? He knew he could have done it justice.
He sighed and came to a corner where he thought the shop ended, but he had discovered another section of the room and he could see at a glance that this was the garage. He remembered that the Rumbles had built a car and had in fact used it for their trip to Battersea, that time when Knocker had captured one of their number. And here it was, he had discovered that car. He lowered his catapult; this place seemed empty too. The car itself was long and sleek and powerful-looking, but what struck Torreycanyon as he inspected it were the changes being made to the bodywork. Someone was converting it into an armoured troop-carrier, a weapon of war. There were little slits in the side of it, so that missiles could be fired from inside while the occupants remained protected. And on the steel panelling, not yet painted, some Rumble had scrawled in chalk, "Death to the Borribles". Torreycanyon glanced back down the long workshops. So that was it; those workshops did not look beautiful now, they looked sinister, and compassion drained from his heart.
His thinking was interrupted by the clink of a spanner falling to the concrete floor and Torreycanyon heard a Rumble oath. He raised his catapult, crouched and looked towards the armoured car, all in one movement. Protruding from underneath the rear axle were two padded feet. A Rumble was doing an early morning stint on the mechanics and the car had been jacked up high at the back to enable the fitter to move comfortably about his business.
Torreycanyon thought quickly. If that Rumble was the only one present, then all well and good, but was there another entrance, and were there more Rumbles to come? He stepped towards the car.
"I say," he said politely, "any twouble?"
"Who's that? What are you doing here? Hand me that Fourteen Whitworth," said the mechanic, rapidly and without waiting for answers.
"It's Bingo," said Torreycanyon, using the first Rumble name that came into his head.
"Bingo," cried the voice attached to the two feet. "Look, if you give me a hand for a couple of hours, we can do the test wun tonight. This car will be invincible; it'll take us down to Battersea High Stweet in half an hour, give those Bowwibles a beating and bwing us back in time for bweakfast."
The Borrible tensed his muscles and was just about to drag the Rumble out from underneath the car when he had a thought. "Who is that under there, anyway?" he asked. "I can't wecognise you by your feet, they're not vewy distinctive."
"Towweycanyon, of course—who else would be here at thwee in the morning when evewy other Wumble is still in bed? We of the High Command have got a sense of wesponsibility, a devotion to duty."
Torreycanyon stood up and smiled to himself. What a stroke of luck. Unbelievably his target was right there with him, and they were all alone.
The voice below the car said, "Go wound the back and pass me the working light, it's wolled out of my weach. Time is of the essence. The sooner we can teach those Bowwibles a lesson the better. We'll give them a twouncing all wight."
"All wight," said Torreycanyon, and he began to walk round the car hoping Torreycanyon Rumble wouldn't notice that his feet were not padded as they should be. But the Rumble said nothing and he continued to talk as he struggled with spanners and nuts.
"Now, when you get wound the back, be vewy careful, the handle of the jack is sticking out, just don't touch it at all, do you hear that, Bingo? It's vewy dangewous, cars and jacks and that, specially if you're underneath them. Nice things motors, but not seen fwom this angle, like a lot of things weally, all depends on the angle and that."
Torreycanyon moved stealthily to the rear of the garage. Here was the enormous jack, here tools littered the floor, and there was the working light, up against the second entrance to the workshop—a sliding door of steel, large enough to allow the passage of the armoured car. No doubt, thought Torreycanyon, the door was concealed on the other side; camouflaged to look like a grassy bank behind gorse bushes or trees.
The voice under the car went on. "If I stwetch out my hand you can put the working light underneath, there, just by the nearside fwont wheel and then I can . . ." The voice trailed off, and then, falteringly, it started again. "Bingo . . . you've got shoes, feet, weal feet. You can't be Bingo. You're human . . . or . . ."
"A Borrible," cried Torreycanyon. He leapt for the car jack, knocked off the safety catch and triggered the mechanism that released its power. The mighty car, the massive tool of destruction, sank slowly and relentlessly to the oily floor, crushing the small life out of the Rumble who had tended it so lovingly. There was a scream, then quiet, and Torreycanyon slipped his catapult into his back pocket. He spoke out loud to himself and his voice echoed round the hard walls of the garage. "Congratulations to you, Torreycanyon," he said, "on achieving your name. Now you may construct a little mayhem out of the materials that lie about you."