As it happened, Phyllis and I were meeting Bocker for lunch that same day. Inevitably he wanted to hear reactions to his broadcast. I gave the first reports gently. He nodded:
'Most of the papers take that line,' he said. 'Why was I condemned to live in a democracy where every fool's vote is equal to a sensible man's? If all the energy that is put into diddling mugs for their votes could be turned on to useful work, what a nation we could be! As it is, at least three national papers are agitating for a cut in "the millions squandered on research" so that the taxpayer can buy himself another packet of cigarettes a week, which means more cargo-space wasted on tobacco, which means more revenue from tax, which the government then spends on something other than research and the ships go on rusting in the harbours. There's no sense in it.'
'But those things down there have taken a beating,' Phyllis pointed out.
'We ourselves have a tradition of taking beatings, and then winning wars,' said Bocker.
'Exactly,' said Phyllis. 'We have taken a beating at sea, but in the end we shall get back.'
Bocker groaned, and rolled his eyes. 'Logic ' he began, but I put in:
'You spoke as if you thought they might actually be more intelligent than we are. Do you?'
He frowned. 'I don't see how one could answer that. My impression is that they think in a quite different way along other lines from ours. If they do, no comparison would be possible, and any attempt at it misleading.'
'You were quite serious about their trying again? I mean, it wasn't just propaganda to stop interest in the protection of shipping from falling off?' Phyllis asked.
'Did it sound like that?'
'No, but '
'I meant it, all right,' he said. 'Consider their alternatives. Either they sit down there waiting for us to find a means to destroy them, or they come after us. Oh, yes, unless we find it very soon, they'll be here again somehow '
Phase Three
Something checked us. Not with a jolt, but with a gentle yielding, and a slight rubbing sound. From where I sat in the stern of the dinghy, keeping a little way on, and steering with a muffled oar, I could see practically nothing in the darkness, but it did not feel as if we had hit the bank.
'What is it?' I whispered.
The little boat rocked as Phyllis clambered forward. There was a faint thud from some part of our gear dislodged. Presently her whisper came back:
'It's a net. A big one.'
'Can you lift it?'
She shifted. The dinghy rocked again, and then remained tilted for a moment. It relaxed back to an even keel.
'No. Too heavy,' she said.
I hadn't expected that kind of hold-up. A few hours before in daylight I had prospected the route with binoculars, from a church tower. I had observed that to the north-west there was a narrow gap between two hills, and beyond it the water widened out into a lake stretching further than I could see. It looked as if, once past that neck, one ought to be able to travel a considerable distance without coming too close to the shore. I traced the way to the gap and memorized it with care before I came down. The tide turned and began to rise before it was quite dark. We waited another half-hour, and then set off, rowing up on the flood. It had not been too difficult to find the gap, for the silhouette of the two hills showed faintly against the sky. I had moved to the stern to steer and let the tide carry us silently through. And now there was the net
I turned the craft so that the flow held us broadside against the barrier. I shipped the oar cautiously, felt for the net, and found it. It was made of half-inch rope with about a six-inch mesh, I judged. I felt for my knife.
'Hold on,' I whispered. 'I'll cut a hole.'
While I was in the act of opening the blade there came a crack, followed by a whoosh. A flare broke out above. The whole scene about us was suddenly visible, and there we sat in midstream, bathed in a hard, white light.
The lower hill, on the left, was covered with turf and a few bushes among wandering paths. To the right was a row of houses a few feet above the water-level. In front of them, and closer, was another row, built on a slant across the hillside. The house at the right-hand end was high enough for its whole roof to show above water. Its neighbours marched gradually deeper until they only showed chimney-pots, and finally nothing at all.
A rifle cracked somewhere in one of the houses in the upper row. I missed the flash, but the bullet phewed by, not far from our heads. I dropped my knife into the bottom of the dinghy, and put up my hands. A voice carried clearly from one of the dark windows:
'Get back where you came from, chum,' it advised.
I lowered my hands, looked at Phyllis, and shrugged.
'We only want to go through, to get home. We don't want to stay, or ask for anything,' she called back to the unseen man.
'That's what they all say. Where's home?' he asked.
'Cornwall,' she told him.
He laughed 'Cornwall I You've got a hope.'
'It's true,' she said.
'True it may be, but it's bloody impossible, too. And I've got my orders. It's get back or get hurt. So start moving.'
'But we've got enough food to ' Phyllis began.
I shook my head at her. From what I'd been told, the only chance had been to get through without being seen and having food with one was not a thing to advertise.
'Okay,' I called wearily. 'We'll get back.'
There was no need for silence any more, so I tilted the outboard into the water, and wound the cord on it
'You got sense and better not try again,' advised the voice.
'I'm kind of old-fashioned don't like shooting people that'll act reasonable. But there's others not so particular. So just keep going, chum.'
I pulled the cord, and she started. We pushed clear of the net, and then chugged off downstream, against the tide. The flare sank gradually behind us, and burnt out. Darkness, darker than before, closed in.
Phyllis clambered over the gear, and came to sit beside me. Her gloved hand found my knee, and pressed it
'Sorry, darling,' I said.
'Can't be helped, Mike. We'll try again somewhere. Third time lucky, perhaps.'
'This time lucky,' I said. 'He shot to miss. He needn't have done that.'
'A net and a guard must mean that a lot of people have been trying this way. Where are we now?'
'I'm not sure. It's difficult to identify anything from the map. Must be somewhere in the Staines-Weybridge area, though. Seems a pity to go back now.'
'More of a pity to get shot,' said Phyllis.
We puttered along, keeping a look-out for obstacles by occasional flashes of a torch.
'If you don't know where we are, how do you know where we're heading?' Phyllis inquired.
'I don't,' I admitted. 'I'm just keeping going, like the gentleman said. It seems wise to get clear of his territory.'
Presently the moon rose and began to shine intermittently through gaps in the clouds. Phyllis pulled her coat more closely round her, and shivered a little.
'June,' she said. 'June moon spoon soon. They used to sing about June nights on the river. Remember? Uh-huh. Sic transit '
'From what I do remember they were a trifle optimistic, even then,' I replied. 'A wise man took rugs.'
'Oh?' said Phyllis. 'Who with?'
'Never you mind. Autres temps, autres mondes.'
'Autre monde,' indeed,' she said, looking round over the waste of water. 'We can't go on aimlessly like this, Mike. Let's find somewhere to get warm, and sleep.'
'All right,' I agreed, and put the tiller over a bit.
A mile or so away stood a mound, dotted with houses. One could not tell whether it was an island or not, but between it and us more houses, submerged to different degrees, protruded from the water. We selected a solid-looking white one, late-Georgian, judging from the visible upper storeys, and steered towards it.