Bats were everywhere. Above the trees, below them, clinging to the sides of the quarry, and still more were emerging from holes and smaller caves. They flitted around him, as insistent as the flies which had troubled him earlier. They brushed against him, struck his clothing. He threw up a hand to protect his face, wielding the shotgun in an attempt to ward them off.

Then the ground beneath his feet gave way, crumbling. He stepped back, but there was nothing beneath his feet. He was falling, floating, somersaulting...

Jim Dunkley plummeted headlong to the bottom of the quarry, impaling his head on a sharp unturned rock. His skull split open, showering grey matter and crimson fluid over the dead bats which lay all around. His body twitched once or twice, but he was already dead. The shotgun fell, landing softly, barrels resting against his chest, hammers at full cock.

The bats continued to fly haphazardly for five or ten minutes, seemingly oblivious to the man who lay dead in their very own graveyard, and then, tiring of their unaccustomed daytime activities, they returned to their sleeping places.

Silence returned to the Devil's Dressing Room. There was not a bat in sight, the only evidence of their existence being the smell of death which rose up out of the quarry, and the buzzing of the flies as they fed, uninterrupted.

By late September, terror had returned to the rural areas in full force. No longer were the bats concentrated in any particular place. With the coming of dusk people barricaded themselves in their homes, listening fearfully as tiny bodies thudded against window panes or fluttered down chimneys, squeaking inside blocked fireplaces as though with anger at being thwarted of their prey. In spite of many official statements that the bats were not deliberately intent upon attacking humans, and that their seemingly aggressive attitude was brought about by damaged radar, the public were still convinced that they were the main targets of the flying death swarms. And outside the protective cordon the rest of Britain waited fearfully. It was only a matter of time before the bats extended their territory.

'As there seems to be no chance of finding an antidote,' Haynes said, 'then there is only one alternative.' He and Rickers were in Newman's laboratory where tests were still being carried out on a number of bats, mice and rats.

'And what's that?' Professor Newman looked up.

'We must poison the bats. If necessary, to the point of extinction.'

Newman laughed. 'It's fine in theory. But there's no chance. With rats and mice you can put poison down for 'em; feed 'em specially prepared food, but bats live on insect life.'

'Of which there is an abundance this year.'

'Granted, but...'

'Then we must spray the insects and thus poison the bats.'

Newman looked thoughtful. 'And who thought this one up?' he asked.

'I did,' Rickers admitted.

Newman glanced at Susan Wylie. She knew what he was thinking. Insecticides were dangerous to wildlife in general. They upset the balance of Nature. In the past, poisonous sprays had been responsible for a decline in the numbers of birds of prey, buzzards, kestrels, sparrow-hawks, the golden eagle. Partridges, too, at one stage had almost been wiped out. It was too risky. And yet, with hundreds dying daily from the mutated virus...

'I guess it's worth a try,' Newman said.

'It's already under way,' Haynes told him somewhat smugly. 'Every crop-spraying helicopter unit in the country has been commandeered. The Ministry of Agriculture are advising us on which insecticides to use so that almost every insect will be affected. No matter which varieties the bats feed on, they'll absorb the poison.'

'Sure.' Newman shook his head slowly. 'And insect life will be almost totally wiped out in the Midlands, not to mention species of bird life and rodents.'

'But it's the price we have to pay,' Haynes snapped. 'The rate this virus is spreading now, it's either that or us. And human life must be preserved at all costs.'

'Yes,' Brian Newman said. 'You're right. And I began this whole thing. I've destroyed countless lives, both human and animal. And now the insects have got to pay the penalty, too.'

It was nine o'clock when Brian Newman left the Biological Research Centre and drove the five miles to his new home at Chasetown. Susan had left about two hours before him, and in spite of the present worries he was determined to try and relax for a few hours.

There was a checkpoint at Sankey's Comer. Two BVF soldiers had taken over from the policemen who had been on duty earlier in the day. They recognised the professor's car and waved him through.

The High Street was deserted. Many of the houses and flats did not even show lights, their windows boarded up as though a wartime blackout was in force. Newman saw some bats flying low across the top end of Pavoirs Road. Nowhere was safe after dark now.

He drew into the small gravelled drive and switched off his headlights, glancing about him as he opened the car door. He would have to make a quick dash to the house. It was dangerous to linger.

'Professor Newman!' A voice called from the darkness as he got out of the car.

He turned. A man was standing just inside his front garden, the shadow from the tall privet hedge obscuring his features. He was a big man, his overcoat collar turned up, trilby hat pulled well down.

'Can I help you?' Newman was puzzled. 'Perhaps you'd like to step inside. It isn't safe outside after dark, and ... '

'What I've got to say won't take a moment, Professor.' There was a note of menace in the man's voice as he stepped into the circle of'yellow light cast by the nearby street-lamp. Something shiny, metallic, glinted in his hand. A revolver.

'What's this?' Newman stiffened.

'A gun,' the other laughed harshly. 'Army issue .45. 1916. My late father kept it as a relic, with some ammunition. I'm glad he did. Otherwise, Professor, my task of killing you might be more difficult... but I'd do it just the same. You bastard!'

'You're mad!' Newman breathed,

'If I am,' the other said. 'It's because of you. Thanks to your meddling with viruses I've lost a wife and a daughter . .. and it took 'em a long time to die. I watched 'em.' His voice rose to a crescendo, 'Couldn't even get 'em to a hospital. Nobody wanted to know. Yes, Professor, I sat there and watched 'em both die. They were paralysed before they started to go mad. They frothed at the mouth and cursed me with their eyes. Yes, Professor, they went out cursing me ... but they should've been cursing you, because you murdered 'em... just as I'm going to murder you now!'

Brian Newman stiffened. The man was five yards from him, and he could see the finger curled around the trigger of the revolver. It was too far to try and rush him, and there was no chance of diving for cover. Death was only seconds away.

Then he heard the front door opening behind him, and Susan's voice. 'Are you all right, Brian? Oh my God, what's happening?'

'Go back inside and close the door!' he called out over his shoulder. 'I won't be a minute.'

'You're damned right you won't.' the man snarled. 'Your time's up, Professor Newman.'

'Let's talk this over.'

'The time for talking is done.' The gunman shuffled a step or two nearer. 'After you, it's me, Professor. I've got nothing left to live for.'

Newman closed his eyes. If only Susan had obeyed him and gone back inside. But he knew .she wouldn't. In all probability this maniac would kill her, too. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

He closed his eyes. Go on, get it over with. I don't blame you, whoever you are. There's millions more feel like you do about me. That's the fault of the Press.

A deafening shot crashed out. Newman swayed on his feet, but strangely he felt no pain. He remembered reading somewhere that you never heard the shot that got you. Maybe ... Oh God, maybe he'd shot Susan first!