That evening, Shaw and Triska rendezvous-ed in one of the main streets. Moltsk was quiet so far, in spite of — or perhaps because of — the heavy concentration of troops. Shaw got into Triska’s little car and they drove out along the northern road towards Emets, passing a convoy of heavy lorries on the way. As they drove Shaw handed Triska his transceiver for safe keeping and so that it would be handy when he got back; he struggled out of his clothes in the back of the car, pulling on a thick leather windcheater over his shoulder-holster. Then he got into rough worker’s trousers and heavy boots. He pushed a pair of rubbersoled shoes up into the windcheater. He removed his wrist-watch and handed it to Triska.
Then he was ready.
When they reached the pill-box, which he was relieved to see was open, Triska stopped the car and Shaw said, “Well — you know what to do now. Remember to brief Godov that if he’s questioned at any time, you’ve been with him all the evening — went there straight from work. Come back along this road at three A.M. Give me an hour. If I haven’t got back from my swim before then — buzz off. And in any case don’t hang around if you see any troops or transport. That’s an order. You’ve got to do exactly as I say from now on. Promise?”
“All right, Peter,” she said in a low voice. “I promise. Take care of yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll get back somehow. I’ve got to.” Impulsively he leaned across and kissed her, and then quickly he scrambled out of the car and slammed the door. He said, “Off you go, now.”
She drove off and he watched the tail-light of the little red car speeding along the road for Emets and then he went quickly across the marshy ground towards the pill-box, heaved himself up into one of its slots. His flesh creeping with the overriding fear that the mushroom-top would be wound down once again, he slithered on his stomach towards the central shaft. He stowed his torch safely in his pocket and then felt for a tin of petroleum jelly and a pair of tough leather gloves also bought for him by Triska. He opened the tin, put the gloves on, and rubbed the petroleum jelly into the palms.
Then he put the tin back in his pocket, took a deep breath, grasped the central rod firmly, and slid his legs over the edge of the concrete into the lead-lined tube. He eased his body down until he felt the lead enclose him and then he let himself go down, for the second time, into the claustrophobic blackness.
Fifteen
The distant whir of the fan came up to him, funnelled by the narrow space — the fan which could put a possible finish to what he meant to do; for if he couldn’t stop the blades, smash off one or two, and then crawl on down through the gap, he would be caught as he had been the other night, only much more so. Like a butterfly in a bottle, he wouldn’t have a hope — he had no idea how deep this shaft ran, but it must be fairly deep and he didn’t fancy his chances if he had to climb back up again.
Once he was below the screw-thread he let himself go, dropping down the central rod as it ran through the greased palms of his gloves. The upflowing air seemed stuffier and filthier than ever and the temperature rose steadily so that soon he was wet through with sweat. In the total darkness and the nauseating smell he continued that alarmingly fast descent, dropping free, on and on and on into the very bowels of the earth. He could feel the friction-heat on his hands now, even through the thick leather, and after a while he began to feel the burning pain and he realized that an unevenness, a slight roughness in the rod, was wearing through the gloves. He had to grip harder and thrust out with his boots and body to slow his fall, and after that he went on down hand over hand, feet pushed out sideways against the lead lining of the tube.
After some minutes of this he found that he was tiring badly, as much from lack of good air and the consequent body-draining heat as from actual physical effort.
His arms felt like lumps of lead and soon his legs had gone the same way. Still he slid downward, on and on into the stifling blackness, filthy and sweat-drenched, the noise of the fan louder and louder, beating into his brain. Every now and again he stopped, held himself suspended by his hands and by the pressure of rump and knee and shoulder against the tube’s walls, until his very inertness and weight, and the effort of pressing outward, began to tire him as much as the descent itself. Then on again, on and on endlessly, down into claustrophobia, fearful that his limbs would give out and he would drop like a stone.
He had never for one moment imagined that the tube could possibly go so deep as this.
His breath came in sobbing gasps and his body was just one big ache and he felt that he couldn’t go on, that he must give in and drop. And then something happened below him. The noise of the fan died away and a few seconds later he felt his whole body twist round.
They were screwing down the mushroom-top again, operating the controls below him.
The air grew thicker, fouler, unbreathable — just like the other night, only far worse at this depth. It was as if he were sealed in a closed container from which the oxygen had been drawn off. The heat was much more intense now and he could feel his body wasting away in sweat, sweat which filled his eyes as if he were under water, sweat that rolled from his brows, his hair, from every part of his body.
Then, looking downward between his knees as the rotary motion stopped, he could just make out the very faint glow of distant light through the now motionless blades of the fan.
He couldn’t have so very much farther to go — but it was useless to try to descend while men were working there, right below him. Now that they had shut the lid and switched off the fan it was reasonable to assume that they were packing up, at any rate for the time being. He stopped and waited for a little over three minutes and then he saw the light go off.
He went on then with fresh hope, painfully sliding down the rod again. A few moments later he felt his feet hit something and he braked with his body. Then his knees were forced up to meet his chin and his body stuck fast. He felt warm metal beneath him.
The fan.
It was blocking the tube completely, as he had expected it would, pivoted round that central rod.
He waited for some minutes and then, when no sound came up to him, he reached out for a blade of the big fan, testing it for strength. As he had expected, the metal was light, thin and pliable and the blade twisted upwards quite easily. Feeling in the darkness Shaw dealt with each blade in turn until the fan, if he could have seen it, must have looked like a flower with its petals closed up for the night. He reached down with a leg, gauging the clearance. It would be a tight fit; the circular fan-motor, positioned around the rod, was a bulky affair. Slowly, carefully, Shaw let his body downward, felt both legs go through the gap. For a moment he stuck fast. He almost gave way to panic, but then a kick of his legs and a big exhalation of breath allied to a final convulsive heave did the trick. The fan-motor gave a cracking sound, tilted a little on the rod, and he was through with no more damage than a ripped windcheater and a grazed chin and shoulder.
After that it was easy.
It was still pitch dark below and he simply slid down the rod with the remnants of his gloves and his boots helping him, and then suddenly his feet flew out sideways as they came clear of the shaft’s constriction and a moment after that he hit the bottom with a thump and went flying over backwards.