adventures

nature of what we're all going through, then . . . it may be obvious. Good luck.' He put his hands
to his head, and clenched up his face, visibly concentrating, as the other man was. 'What's going
on down here . . .' he whispered. 'No! I mustn't . . .'
Benny stuffed the horse's head back on to the first man's shoulders, then ran to the other, bent
him double, and pulled the cloth horse back together.
The horse seemed to relax.
'Just what I need,' Bernice told it. 'More questions than answers.'
The horse stamped its front foot three times, which struck Bernice almost as a gesture of
appreciation.
From the stairs there came a great shout. The sisters whom Candy had identified on the dance
floor came bustling down them, looking at Bernice aghast.
'What's going on down here?' one of them shrieked, pointing at the horse.
'I knew that you were going to say that,' Benny muttered.
Stokes hugged himself against the cold, wondering how he'd ended up on sentry duty. The other
academics were all sleeping again, and the compound was filled with the sounds of snoring, and of
Hettie muttering things in her sleep. Things like: 'No, Clive, better to say, "Will you be my wife?"'
Stokes understood how they felt. A lot of them were old and, especially in the case of the two history
professors, unable to really comprehend the nature of the danger they were in. The hootings
of the Grel were still distant. According to Epstein, they'd want to examine the way stations that
Stokes's party had passed by before getting to the centre. Perhaps they'd found some other way
down into this great chamber, one which wasn't the result of falling down a hole, and had arrived
at some particularly tasty-looking feature on the edge of the floor. Stokes hoped that was the
case. The gun hung heavy in his jacket. He felt comforted by it, though he'd sworn to himself that
he would never use it again. Even if the Grel hadn't been killed, even if it had enjoyed its newfound
access to all sorts of information, there was something cruel about the process it had been
through.
He glanced at Warrinder, who was curled up in a little ball on one of the chairs, shivering every
now and then. He had produced nothing more of interest, saying only that he felt surrounded by
people, that the ghosts were everywhere.
Thankfully, Stokes, who had always been rather blind to all that psychic business, couldn't feel
a presence about this place at all. He glanced at his watch, then realized how meaningless that
gesture was here. They were even on a different timescale to the surface world. Still, whatever
time it was, he felt that it was time for supper.
He reached into his jacket pocket, and found the sandwiches that he'd prepared to sustain him
on his painting trip. He'd ignored them until now, realizing that rations would have to stretch for
many days, but now he was really hungry. Besides, they'd go off if he didn't eat them soon, and
he didn't want his jacket smelling of stale cheese.
He leant back against one of the luminous green walls, licked his lips and took a bite, luxuriating
in the rich taste of Cheddar and pickle. He was determined to make this last – he might not
eat so well for a long time. If at all.
As he chewed thoughtfully, he heard the sound for the first time. A sort of low sigh, from just
behind him.
He stopped moving, fear racing up his spine and making him take a sharp intake of breath.
Perhaps it had been one of the others, stirring in their sleep. Only this had sounded like it was
coming from right behind him.
From right behind the wall.
He took the sandwich from his mouth. He put it back in his pocket. He slid his right hand inside
his inner breast pocket, finding the stock of the gun.
Then he stopped, actually gritted his teeth, and brought his hand out again. 'Hello?' he
whispered, turning his head to look along the short distance to the gateway at the end of the wall.
There was a sound from behind the wall, a sort of high-pitched clicking. Just as Stokes was
convincing himself that it was the sound of the wall expanding or contracting or something, there
followed a low moan, which echoed eerily around the walls of the enclosure.
Stokes's heart was literally pounding as he made himself inch along the wall. He could hear the