Another few minutes and the old gander saw the mudflats directly below. They were safe now. They could rest their wings and glide, losing height rapidly until they came to the banks of the Welland Channel where they could roost in safety. The tide was flowing but it was of little importance, for they could sleep afloat as comfortably as on the mud.
Suddenly a movement on the banks of the channel caught the gander's sharp eye. A wailing gunner? His wing beats were increasing and he was fighting for height even before he could discern it clearly. The remainder of the skein followed suit, honking in alarm. They tensed themselves for the shots for they were well within range.
None came. The shape materialised, rising from its bed of mud like Behemoth awakened from centuries of slumber.
The formation was forgotten as the geese scattered to right and left, passing within fifteen yards of the scaly man-shaped monstrosity. A ghoulish face was upturned, soulless eyes noting their presence, yet the webbed claws did not grope vainly in the hope of securing a fat goose.
The Slime Beast had little interest in animal or bird-life. Human flesh and entrails were more tempting to its vile appetite.
The geese honked on into the gathering gloom, their favourite roosting-ground forgotten. They flew for fully two miles before planing down again towards the mud, and they decided to settle only after they had circled several times in order to ascertain that no horror lay in wait for them.
As deep darkness closed in they huddled together, feeling more secure in numbers. Yet few slept peacefully. Like Gavin and Liz in the blockhouse four miles away, they feared that the monster from the mud should slink silently upon them, materialising evilly out of the darkness.
The old gander had come to a decision in his own instinctive way. Tomorrow he would take his skein further a field. It was quite apparent that this was no longer the domain of the pink foot goose.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE was virtually no wind again that night and a mist was forming across the salt-marshes, that would thicken as the moon rose. Gavin was grateful that they were not setting forth on any kind of expedition tonight The perils of the Wash would be increased tenfold. Not only was there the chance of walking into the Slime Beast but also the dangers of quicksands and fast-running tides.
'Not a night to be abroad,' he told Liz as he pulled the thick wooden board back over the slitted window. 'I hope there's no mist tomorrow or it could be doubly tricky.'
Shortly after nine o'clock they heard footsteps in the tiny corridor and then the door being wrenched open and closed again.
Gavin rose to his feet. 'Your uncle's going out. On a night like this. I half-suspected it though. He's not said a word to us since he came in.'
'He must be mad,' Liz snapped. 'He'll fall in a bog or something if the Slime Beast doesn't get him. We'd best follow him don't you think?'
Gavin shook his head.
'No,' he replied, 'definitely not. Tm not going out and neither are you. That's final. If he wants to end up in a watery grave that's his business. Nobody asked him to go. We're not going out and that's that. Not without that flame-gun anyhow!'
Professor Lowson was breathing heavily by the time he reached the edge of the spike-grass. The netting was heavier than he had thought, so he dropped it on to the ground behind him, to rest his tired muscles.
He consulted his compass for the umpteenth time that night. Damn this mist! It would decide to come down tonight of all nights. He peered in front of him, but visibility was restricted to five yards at the most, and he could not even see the mud-flats although he knew that he was standing on the edge of them.
Maybe the weather was to his advantage though. He might be able to get right up to the Slime Beast without it even being aware of his presence. He smiled at the thought. He had no fear of it His reasoning went beyond that. He thought of the future afer he had captured it. There was no doubt in his mind that he would take it prisoner. If not tonight, tomorrow or the next night. If only that fool Gavin Royle would aid him. Still, now he would have the power all to himself. There would be nobody to share it with.
He lit his pipe and settled down to wait It was going to be a long, cold night
The moon was high above him when he heard the first squelching splash of lumbering footsteps. The Slime Beast was coming up out of the sea! He fumbled for the net and released the four grappling hooks. There would only be one chance!
The mist seemed to thicken still more. It swirled in front of his face blotting out everything. There was only silence, nothing moved. He listened again, as the minutes ticked agonisingly by. What was it doing? Had it sensed his presence? Perhaps it could see through fog! If so, surely it would attack him.
Then he heard it again, rasping, grunting, far away behind him. He was angry, perplexed. How had it passed him without him hearing it? It was far from a silent mover.
He walked a little way to his left following the line of spartina grass where it adjoined the mud-flats. Then suddenly he stopped. Another step and he would have fallen into the muddy depths of the big creek where it ran into the sea.
Realisation dawned upon him. The Slime Beast had floated inland on this deep rivulet! Blast the fog! He would have seen it otherwise. He swung the bundle of netting on to his shoulder, consulted his compass, and trudged back into the spike-grass. It would be hopeless to try. and follow the beast. Maybe tomorrow night there would be no fog ...
Sutton village slept. The mist which had filtered up from the salt-marshes became thick fog which seemed more eerie in the bright moonlight which struggled to penetrate it.
The rows of cottages and houses were reminders of a past era, of primitiveness, and poverty. Even in this affluent age they had not moved with the tunes. That was the way these people of the Wash wanted it: static; removed from the outside world.
Far away across the Fens the church clock at Holbeach struck one. The sound was muffled by the thickening vapour yet almost every inhabitant of Sutton heard it. Almost all were in bed yet none slept Few had slept easily in Sutton these past few nights.
Some remembered the legend of the guardian of King John's treasure. Tom Southgate had seen ,to it that those who had not heard of it were duly informed. The story spread faster than the fire which had once ravaged Harrison's Mill, fanned into further destruction by the sea-breeze.
'It's them lot in the old blockhouse .who've stirred it all up,' the landlord had boomed countless times from behind his bar. 'There'll be no peace in Sutton until they've gone!'
Angry murmurings had run through the crowded bar. Yet there had been a reluctance to go out and 'do 'em' in contrast with the other night. There was something unnatural about the whole business. Why should a man like Glover decide to help the party? Without his interference the archaeologists would have been deep in the quicksands, by now.
Silence, except for the clattering of a dustbin lid behind Growson's shop. Everybody heard it. They knew what it was and breathed easily. Rex, Growson's massive black Alsatian was always loose at night, prowling like the wolf it resembled. It harmed none. It just scavenged.
People tossed restlessly in their beds. Some dozed. Few slept deeply. The Holbeach church clock chimed the quarters. Two am. More dustbin lids clanged.
Rex reached the wharf and sniffed the river. Usually he liked a foul stench. It reminded him of the food he ate. It was worse than usual tonight though. His hackles rose slightly and a low growl rumbled hi his throat. There was something that he did not understand in the night air; something evil—powerful. It frightened him a little. He decided to head back home.