At first all he could make out was an area of spartina grass shimmering in the silvery moonlight. All was still save for the lonely warbling of a curlew. Then several beams of light stabbed viciously out of the semi-darkness. Searing at his eyeballs. Blinding. Something struck the concrete only niches away from his head and rebounded.

Voices—clamouring, angry, vicious.

'Come on out you bastards!'

'You've caused one death here. The next will be yours.'

'Grab 'em. Throw 'em in the quicksands!'

Gavin could make out moving forms. He counted three, but there were probably a dozen, all surrounding the blockhouse, bathing it in the beams from their torches.

'What is it?' Liz was at his side. He pushed her away from the window.

'Get down,' he hissed. 'It would appear the locals are resorting to mob-law!'

They heard a splintering sound. Someone was using an axe on the door.

Suddenly Professor Lowson appeared in the doorway, and from his appearance it was obvious that the noise had just awakened him.

'There's a crowd of people outside,' he snarled, 'shouting and throwing stones.'

Gavin turned on him. 'They're going to throw us in the quicksands Prof. You'd better do some fast thinking because right now I've run out of ideas.'

'I'll talk to them. Explain, reason with them.'

'You're crazy!' Gavin's only thought was for Liz's safety. 'They're not going to reason with anybody. They're scared to hell. Superstition is ruling their actions and they think our deaths will ensure that nobody else gets killed. It's like being back in the Middle Ages!'

Hastily Gavin began sorting out some wooden stakes from a pile in the corner. Most of them were rotten. Months ago some fisherman had probably used them for staking out his nets, left them in here for safety, and then forgotten all about them. Anyway they were better than nothing. If used properly they might crack a skull or two before snapping.

Gavin grimaced. Outnumbered as they were they would sell their lives dearly. He slipped an arm round Liz's waist and kissed her, trying to sound confident and reassuring.

'They're only a bunch of ignorant peasants.'

That was true enough; ignorant, but very dangerous.

The man with the axe had almost broken through. His companions surged to help him, ripping away the broken wood with their bare hands.

'Give us the girl before you throw her in,' a couple of the younger ones shouted. 'Don't waste her. Screw her first!'

With a crash the remains of the door fell inwards. Men clustered around it, half afraid of that which they might find inside. Gavin barred the corridor, his improvised club held firmly in his right hand.

'Come on then,' he taunted them, 'who's first for a cracked skull?'

The leader of the mob looked at the short axe which he held. It seemed to give him confidence. He stepped forward. It was the lead which the others sought and as one they surged in his wake.

Gavin braced himself. This was it, and it wouldn't last for long.

Then explosions reverberated along the corridor and into the three tiny compartments, echoing and re-echoing with increasing volume. The rush halted almost before it had begun. Someone was screaming. It was one of the youths who had already pulled down his zip and exposed himself in eager anticipation. He fell to the ground clutching at his legs. Blood was already seeping through his trousers.

'I've been shot!' he yelled. 'Somebody do something.'

But there was only silence. Nobody moved. Mouths gaped open, hi surprise, shock and horror.

Another violent, ear-splitting report came from outside. Closer this time. Something struck the roof of the blockhouse like a jet-powered hailstorm and chipped the concrete.

'All right, all right, that'll do. Hold it right there. The first one of you bastards to move gets it right hi the guts!'

The voice was vaguely familiar. Gavin recognised it A slow fenland drawl suddenly whipped into a spasm of fury that was Glover—Mallard Glover, the hermit wildfowler!

'Come on then. Back to your homes, all of you, you drunken sods. Carry that lout, he isn't hurt all that bad. One of you can dig the pellets out of his legs with a penknife when you get back.'

Slowly the men moved to obey. Two of them hoisted the wounded youth to his feet and supported him between them. Sullenly, dejectedly, they sloped off back towards the sea-wall.

Gavin stepped outside. Glover was standing about ten yards away, his long-barrelled shotgun cradled under his arm. His face was hidden in shadow. He did not speak.

Gavin made a move towards him, but stopped suddenly. The twin barrels of the gun were focused on his stomach.

'Don't jump your luck,' Glover grated. 'You can see how things stand now. Anyway they won't be back tonight, nor tomorrow if I know them, the yeller bastards.'

'Thanks.' Gavin was puzzled. 'You saved our lives. I don't know how to...'

'You needn't bother,' the fowler snapped. 'I didn't do it for you anyway. Now I'll be moving along. Just try and forget that tonight ever happened. No good can come of stirring things up.'

Professor Lowson and Liz joined Gavin outside. In silence they stood and watched as Mallard Glover set off across the saltings, heading seawards. Obviously he was still intent on a night's sport under the full moon in spite of the recent happenings.

'Well,' Gavin sighed and shook his head. 'If he hadn't turned up I don't think we'd be standing here now. He saved our lives. But why? Two nights ago he was warning us off, and got a punch on the jaw for his trouble. He doesn't want us here and that mob would have solved his problem for him. Yet he horns in and breaks the party up, risking his own life in the bargain. It just doesn't add up.'

'Maybe he's just got a kind heart underneath a rough exterior.'

'Not him, Liz. He wouldn't do anything without a reason, and I'd give the helluva lot to know what's behind all this.'

They went back inside.

'It's barely midnight!' Professor Lowson looked at his watch. 'Another seven hours till daylight and we haven't even got an excuse for a front door.'

'We'll have to take it in turns to keep watch. Those villagers won't come back but the Slime Beast might. It's between you and me, Professor. You take the first three hours, I'll take the last four, and don't doze off; you might not wake up!'

Gavin and Liz retired separately. With Professor Low-son on the prowl they would not be able to sleep together.

Dawn broke cold and dull. A sea-mist shrouded the salt-marshes. Visibility was reduced to twenty yards.

The archaeologists slept late. There was no point hi making an early start. They could have passed within yards of the Slime Beast's daytime refuge and not even be aware of it They could have become lost, wandered seawards and fallen victims to a ruthless incoming tide. Most of all though they needed sleep and only with the coming of daylight were they assured of safety.

It was noon before they set out. A breeze had sprung up and the fog had disappeared in a very short tune, so that weak sunlight flooded the saltings.

'Walk in a straight line,' Professor Lowson ordered, 'no 48

more than twenty yards apart, and keep your eyes peeled. It's a big area. Look in every creek. Move slowly.'

They set off. The going was heavy but the coolness was a relief. The hours went by, and they kept searching, but there was nothing, nothing but an expanse of grass and mud.

They arrived back at the blockhouse at 5.30 pm. They could have stayed out another hour but the door had to be repaired before nightfall.

They were silent as Liz served the evening meal.

The Professor was dejected; he had not envisaged failure.

Gavin was angry; an organised party armed with the necessary weapons should have been searching for the Slime Beast.