Reluctantly Sylvia Atkinson reached down the thin green plastic overalls. There was a rip in the side, the rest plastered with dried mud like a suit of army camouflage clothing.

'They're too big,' she muttered sulkily. 'I can't wear these.'

'You'll have to,' he snapped. 'Roll the sleeves and legs up. You're not going on a fashion parade, after all.'

Reluctantly, petulantly, she obeyed. 'Is that to your satisfaction, sir?'

'That's OK,' he nodded, glimpsed the twelve-bore propped in the corner, wondered if he should take it along. No, it would not be necessary; you couldn't shoot micro-organisms.

He opened the door, went outside, sensed her following him but did not glance back. Suddenly Sylvia was a nuisance, a liability. Jackie would have co-operated, come up with some constructive ideas. As it was, he was lumbered with a passenger, an additional responsibility. Even being alone would have been preferable. Or would it? You wouldn't know about that until it happened, and by then it could be too late.

The yard with its row of outbuildings faced him. The goat-house, its door open, the animals probably grazing the field at the rear. The woodshed and implement shed, the hay barn. To the right was the vegetable patch, the weeds which a week ago had been brown and going to seed, now ready for hoeing, sprouting fresh greenery; that storm the other night had been heavy, an array of puddles still on the rutted track. Maybe an inch of rain. The surrounding countryside had an artificial camouflaged look about it too. Overhead the sky was gun blue, just an odd wisp or two of fluffy white cloud. The long dry spell hadn't cracked, just a freak interlude. Everywhere smelled fresh and if you had not known what had happened you would never have guessed.

'Where the devil are the hens?' Jon spoke aloud, a puzzled look on his face. Usually the poultry spent most of their time scratching in the yard and trying to devise ways of getting through the chicken-netting into the garden. But now there wasn't a single bird in sight. It was strange. Eerie. He experienced a chill in his stomach, licked his lips nervously. The hens were always around; now suddenly they were conspicuous by their absence.

He stepped forward, squelched in the mud. He'd better check on the goats, he'd been worrying about them ever since he and Sylvia had been confined below ground. The kids would be taking the milk so there was no worry about mastitis setting in, but he did not like leaving them untended. They surely would not be far away.

He saw them, the three nannies with five kids along the hedgeside nibbling at hawthorn shoots, boughs devoid of bark where they had stripped them. Relief because the animals were OK.

A horned head went up. Rosie, the oldest goat, had seen him; the ridge of hairs along her back stiffened, the hackles rising. A bleat, deep and nearly unrecognisable. Two more white Saanen heads jerked round, eyes reflecting a fear of the unknown. Kids leaped out of the undergrowth, skipped towards their mothers. Suddenly danger threatened.

'Rosie,' Jon called. 'Rosie, it's only me.'

But Rosie did not recognise her master, that much was clear. She backed away, turned, the other two following her, the youngsters staying close to their respective mothers.

Cloven hooves scampered, thudded on soft grass as the animals broke into a run heading diagonally across the small rough field away from the two humans. Fleeing in fear.

'Well, damn me!' Jon Quinn cursed. They've never done that before, ever. Usually the moment they see me they come running, hoping it's milking time and they can get a bucket of concentrates. It's as though they're . . . frightened of me, like they've never seen me in their lives before!'

'There's another one over there.' Sylvia pointed towards a spreading oak tree some fifty yards away. Another goat stood beneath it where it had been taking advantage of the shade, a much bigger animal with long curved horns and a straggling beard, head erect, watching them; a rough coat, the hair straggling down almost to its forelocks.

That's Gilbert,' Jon breathed. 'At least, I think it is. He looks kind of... different. His coat shouldn't be that long and his horns ought to be shorter too. Come to think of it, the nannies' coats looked much rougher than usual.'

'Well, he's coming this way,' Sylvia muttered. 'He certainly isn't afraid.'

Jon tensed, stepped back a pace. Something about the male of the species alarmed him. All billy goats had to be treated with a certain amount of respect, in much the same way that you never trusted a bull, no matter how docile it was reputed to be. Usually Gilbert was content to browse the hedges and graze the grass, lived in an old rusted corrugated tin shelter down in the dingle, but now he was certainly interested in the two humans. Deliberate steps, stopping, sizing them up.

Jon's pulses quickened. Gilbert had certainly changed. He looked bigger, too. Gone was his usual stare of mild interest at humans infiltrating his domain. His eyes slitted, thick neck thrust forward arrogantly.

'Move backwards,' Jon spoke softly out of the corner of his mouth, did not wish to alarm his companion unnecessarily. 'He might just be protecting his harem. Sometimes billies are a bit temperamental.' Don't take your eyes off him.

Going backwards a step at a time, Jon mentally calculating the distance to the gate. Ten yards at the most, no more. Sylvia's hand clutched his arm and he could sense her fear. For Christ's sake don't panic. I can smell my own sweat, and so can Gilbert. He knows I'm shit-scared.

The big goat advanced, tossed its head, its eyes never once leaving the two people who retreated before him, blazing sheer malevolence at them; an enemy trespassing in his domain, a threat to his supremacy, the male of the species seeking to prove his prowess in battle.

Jon anticipated the rush, saw those tremendous leg muscles tensing, a springboard to thrust the beast on its final rush. He had lost count of the number of yards to safety but the time for calculations was over. He wheeled, grabbed Sylvia in the same movement, half-leaped, half-ran. The aluminium steel gate was open no more than two or three feet; Sylvia screamed and he knew just what he had to do. Terror lent him strength, enough to hurl her forward, sent her sprawling in the thick mud on the other side; hearing a snort from the enraged goat who saw his intended prey suddenly escaping, a drumming of hooves as the death-charge began.

It was the mud which saved them, the soft mire deep enough to slow the billy's speed, gave Jon those few extra precious seconds in which to jump through the narrow gap, drag the heavy gate shut after him.

A metallic clang as Gilbert's horns struck the bars, buckled the middle one, became momentarily entangled. A roar of pain and fury, extricating himself, banging the gate again. The bars were buckled but they would not snap, made to contain the most devilish of fierce bulls. Clanging, echoing in the still air, the frustrated fury of a killer beast.

Then Gilbert sensed the futility of it all, backed off a pace, stood watching the pair who had tricked him; they should have been dead by now, gored by those sharp horns, mutilated, disembowelled. Instead, they lived.

Sylvia was trembling, leaning her full weight on Jon, crying softly. 'Oh, my God, he meant to kill us.'

'Something's happened to him.1 Jon watched the billy closely, noted the roughness of the hair again, the size, the way those eyes blazed their crazy hatred. A man-killer, a creature maddened beyond reason, its former domestication replaced by instincts age-old in its species; no longer the smallholder's animal, it was a goat gone feral. Immobile, knowing that it could not pursue them but at least it had driven them from its territory. They would not return. It had won.