It headed directly toward the steel grilles. There was a brief sigh of relief from the clerical staff. The bars were four inches apart. Plenty of room for it to pass through. It caught one of its wings as it did so, and tumbled to the concrete floor on the other side, stunned.

'Jesus!' someone breathed.

They heard footsteps and voices echoing down the corridor. Baxterdale was coming with the key holders to release them from this vault of death.

'It's there, sir!' Don Lucas called out shrilly, pointing to the inert bat as Baxterdale reached the grille door.

'What?' Baxterdale stopped abruptly, the two men at his heels bumping into him. 'Where?'

There!'

As Baxterdale, a plump, bald-headed man, finally saw the bat, it stirred, shuffled forward, and took off again—back through the bars and into the Credit House.

Screams and confusion came from within the enclosed area. There was no logic in the creature's behaviour. It flew madly back and forth, this time seeming impervious to the obstacles which it struck, hitting the bars again but not passing between them.

'Let us out! For Christ's sake let us out!' someone yelled.

But Baxterdale and his companions were retreating back up the corridor, glancing over their shoulders as they ran.

'Bloody well unlock the doors!'

Baxterdale reached his office, and his flabby hand was trembling as he picked up the receiver and dialled the Area Inspector's number. The line was engaged. He dropped the telephone back on to its cradle.

'Hadn't.. .hadn't we ought to go back down there?' one of the keyholders asked.

'No.' the Treasury Chief shook his head. 'You know the instructions issued to the public regarding these bats as well as I do. The stairway door is closed. The bat can't get beyond the lower-basement level. As soon as we can get hold of the Area Inspector he'll report it to the police.'

'Can't . . . can't we ring the police?' the second key-holder gulped.

The Bank's rules,' Baxterdale reminded him, glowering. The police are never to be involved without consulting the Area Inspector first. You know that.'

Baxterdale tried the number again. It was still engaged. Somewhere, far away and muffled, they could hear the screams of the trapped clerks.

It was the rush hour. People were hurrying, bustling, jostling each other, standing on packed buses while traffic waited at a standstill for longer periods than it moved. The newspaper-vendors had all sold out in the city centre by five o'clock and were packing up their stands and kiosks. The evening edition of the Mail was a total sell out, just as the midday one had been. There was no fresh news of the bats, but the previous accounts, re-written with a diversity of opinions, were still commanding front page space.

The sirens of ambulances and police-cars', and their flashing blue lights, were a commonplace sight. Seldom did the worker on his way home spare either a second glance. However, this evening there seemed to be an atmosphere of extra urgency about the two white cars and the ambulance which forced their way through the lanes of jammed traffic, a motor-cycle patrol doing its best to clear the way ahead for them.

'Must be another bomb-scare,' a passenger on an outer-circle bus commented for the benefit of his fellow travellers. 'That'll make three this week.'

Within minutes crowds were gathering on the pavement by the ramp entrance which led down into the bowels of the Treasury. The grille was already raised in anticipation, two uniformed messengers and Baxterdale waiting by it in a state of acute agitation.

The ambulance was backed up, and stood in readiness with its engine running. Three constables emerged from the cars, carrying with them some kind of white plastic protective clothing.

'Looks like bleedin' riot-gear,' a youth remarked to his companion on the opposite side of the road. 'What the 'ell's goin' on down there?'

The grille gate was lowered behind the policemen.

'Your Area Inspector phoned us,' a young inspector snapped as they followed Baxterdale down a white corridor, which eventually led to the office. 'Just one bat, you say.'

'Yes.' Baxterdale straightened his tie and puffed out his chest, 'Down in our lower checking area.'

'Basement evacuated?'

'No. Everybody's still down there with it.'

'What!' the inspector's expression was one of incredulity, 'You mean there are people down there with it?'

'The instructions, are to try and lock any bats in an enclosed area ...'

'Yeah, but not people with 'em! Come on, there's no time to waste.'

They hurried on down until they came to the corridor adjacent to the Credit House. The imprisoned clerks were no longer shouting and rushing about in a state of terror. Instead they were sitting white-faced at their desks, silent, trembling.

The two key-holders unlocked the grille, and the policemen, pulling on gauze masks, elbow-length gloves and plastic coats, stepped inside.

'Now, where's this bat?' Baxterdale attempted to retrieve some of his authority.

'It's gone, sir,' the chief clerk stammered.

'Gone?'

'Yes.'

'Where? Where on earth could it have gone to?'

'I don't know, sir. One minute it was flying about like a mad thing. The next there was no sign of it. It must've ... it must've got out up the ventilation shaft.'

The policemen looked at one another. The inspector shook his head and turned to the group of huddled clerks.

'How many of you actually came into contact with the bat?1

Seven hands were raised nervously in a fearful admission.

'I see.' The policeman nodded and tried to make light of it. 'Well, I think we'd better take you down to the General for a check-up. Just a formality. We brought an ambulance with us just in case.'

The seven clerks looked at one another, abject fear and hopelessness in their expressions. They'd read the papers, the details of the virus.

Once an infected bat touched you, that was it. Finis. There was no antidote. Nothing on God's Earth could save you.

Once the ambulances and police cars had pulled away from the Treasury life reverted to normal in the streets. Workers caught their trains and buses, and the incident was forgotten.

The city enjoyed a brief lull between the departure of those returning to their homes and the arrival of those coming in to enjoy the night-life, the cinemas and theatres and night-clubs. For a couple of hours the traffic was light and the buses half empty.

There were only a few people about when Baxterdale left the Treasury, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a worried frown on his florid face. The Area Inspector's voice still rang in his ears. 'You bloody fool!' he had raged, 'If you can't make a decision in an emergency like that you don't deserve to be in charge of the place. If anybody dies I'm holding you personally responsible, and I'll see to it that you finish your banking career counting notes in the Credit House!'

It was only as he walked up Corporation Street that Baxterdale found the courage to admit to himself the real reason why he had locked the clerks in the Credit House with the bat. Had he attempted to release them, that crazed creature might have flown at him. The captain of the ship had battened down the hatches and deserted the sinking vessel with the crew locked in the hold.

He walked slowly, thoughtfully. Of course, they might not die. There was every chance that the bat had not been carrying the virus, that its erratic flight had been caused by panic. It was his only consolation.

His car was parked in Shadwell Street, a lengthy daily walk to and from the Treasury, but that was compensated by easy access to the Expressway. From there it was about forty minutes by car to his home at Shenstone.

Something caused him to glance upwards as he crossed Colmore Row and made his way across the front of the derelict Snow Hill station. At dusk hundreds of starlings could be seen in and around the buildings, chattering noisily as they went up to roost. Scavengers, but the city accepted them in the same way that it put up with the feral pigeons which fouled the buildings and cost the ratepayers a fortune annually in cleaning bills.