There were some twenty youths gathered on the pavement outside. Others were clustered at the front door, pounding with their fists. 'Show yourself, Newman!'

'Come on out or we'll burn the bloody place down!' 'Who are they?' Susan was trembling. 'Yobs. I'll bet the oldest one amongst 'em isn't more than twenty. They're just looking for trouble, and dangerous. If the football season had started maybe they wouldn't be here.' 'What are we going to do?'

Newman peered out again. The houses around were in darkness. Only a single streetlamp lit up the bizarre scene. The residents were obviously not going to tangle with the youths. He wondered if anybody was phoning the police.

'Dial 999,' he said pushing Susan gently away. 'I'll try and keep 'em talking in the meantime.'

'If you're not out in ten seconds,' a tall, well-built youth in a black leather jacket and jeans yelled, 'we're smashin' the door down and comin' in!'

'What d'you want?' Brian Newman shouted, and dodged back as another stone came whizzing into the room.

'We want you. You started this fuckin' disease, and if we've all gotta die then you're goin' to be the first!'

'Calm yourselves.' Newman tried to speak evenly. 'The matter is under control. There is no need for panic.'

His reply was greeted with guffaws, and more of the youths began crowding into the tiny front garden. One of them bad an axe, and he heard the woodwork of the front

door begin to splinter. Susan was talking on the phone. Time was running out. Why didn't some of the locals do something? Or were they in sympathy with these louts who sought revenge on the man who was responsible for the terrible mutated virus?

A denim-clad arm was thrust in through the flapping curtains. The fingers gripped a rolled newspaper, the flames licking at the nylon material, igniting it instantly.

Newman struck downwards viciously with a heavy glass ashtray, catching the youth on the forearm. There was a howl of pain, and the improvised torch fell to the carpet. The professor stamped on it immediately. More stones and bricks showered into the room.

There was a splintering crack from out in the hall, and he knew that the front door had yielded. >Susan screamed and came running back into the room, slamming the frail door behind her. There was no way of locking it—not that it would have been any use. Newman pulled her to him, determined to shield her from the mob. Flames were now leaping from the curtains on to the pine wall coverings, and choking black smoke filled the room.

'Did you ... get through?' Newman gave way to a fit of coughing.

'Yes.' She wiped her smarting eyes. 'Gave them ... the address...'

Then let's just pray they get here in time.'

Youths crowded into the room, young faces twisted into expressions of hate and fear. Several of them had knives. The big fellow, the one who had done most of the threatening and shouting, pushed his way to the front and grabbed Newman by the front of his pullover.

'Get your hands off me!' Newman hissed.

'Shut your trap!' The other struck the professor across the face with the back of his free hand, and Newman tasted blood in his mouth as he staggered back.

Three of them had hold of Susan, and were dragging her screaming out into the hall.

'Let go of her!' Newman's voice was lost in the shouting, and he felt himself being pulled along with the crowd. The room was ablaze. It was only a matter of minutes before the entire bungalow became an inferno.

Fists were pummelling him the whole time. His eyes were smarting from the smoke, and only the coolness of the night air on his face told him that they were outside. He was flung to the pavement. Boots thudded into his body, and he groaned aloud. It felt as though a rib was broken, but his main concern was for Susan. He looked up, trying to see her through a forest of legs. Then he heard her scream, 'Let go of me! '

He tried to rise, but was kicked down again, rolling over, covering his head with his hands in an attempt to protect his skull,

'Dirty bastard! Murderer!' 'Vivisectionist pig!'

There were a dozen different reasons for their hate, all merged into one action of lawless mob rule. Susan Wylie struggled desperately, but she was totally helpless in the grip of four leering, lusting, angry youths. They wanted her naked, but they weren't going to bother undoing buttons and zip-fasteners. Garments were ripped into shreds and torn from her body. Her bra-strap snapped, and hands pawed at her soft white breasts. As her skirt came away she felt her thighs being forced apart. Fingers prised and stabbed between them, bringing cries of pain to her lips.

Brian Newman lay in a huddled heap on the pavement. Breathing was an effort. There was a searing pain in his lungs. He could feel the heat from the fire, and then liquid was jetting on to him. A spot landed on his swollen lips, warm and acid and foul. 'Piss on the bastard!'

His attackers were standing over him, a dozen or more streams of urine soaking his clothing. But his only thoughts were for Susan Wylie.

Then, just as consciousness seemed to be slipping from him, he heard the bee-bor-bee-bor-bee-bor of approaching sirens, becoming louder by the second, and tyres screeching as vehicles took the bend into the cul-de-sac.

'Cops!' somebody yelled.

'So what? There's enough of us.'

Two panda cars pulled into the kerb twenty yards from the mob. Four uniformed officers got out and regarded the scene steadily. One reached back into his vehicle and begun to talk into his radio. It was an explosive situation that required the utmost caution.

Professor Newman and Susan Wylie were afforded a brief respite as their attackers turned to weigh up the new opposition. Lights were going on in the surrounding houses now as the residents' courage returned with the arrival of the law.

More sirens. This time it was a fire-engine, headlights dazzling the youths as it drove towards them, slowing, blocking the road.

Suddenly, as one, the crowd broke into a wild retreat, pushing policemen to one side, scrambling over the roofs of the panda cars, running past the fire-engine, then scattering into the wild disarray.

Nobody followed them. Even a second approaching police patrol-car did not slow until it drew up behind the fire-engine. The firemen were already unrolling lengths of hose and connecting it to the hydrant.

The officers helped Professor Newman and Susan Wylie to their feet, covering the girl with the remnants of her torn clothing. She shivered in spite of the heat from the burning bungalow.

'What happened, sir?' a sergeant asked.

Must a frightened mob.' Professor Newman winced at the sharp pain in his lungs. They were looking for trouble. Decided to take it out on us on account of this virus.'

'Oh, you're the professor who let the bats out!' Newman detected contempt in the other's tone. 'Well, I suppose we'd better get you to hospital for a check-up. Doesn't look like there'll be much left of your bungalow.'

Newman grimaced. The police were only assisting because it was their duty. Had they realised from whom the summons for help had come they might not have arrived so quickly. Officially, they deplored this outbreak of lawlessness. Individually, they secretly sympathised with the mob. The virus carried by the bats did not discriminate. Whichever side of the law one was on, it struck with impartiality. And the cause of its existence was this young professor. Without him it would probably never have happened. And nobody believed him capable of containing or destroying it. His efforts were nothing more than an attempt to pacify the public, to appease his own conscience. It was only a matter of time before widespread death swept across Britain, and maybe even further afield.