gns.throwback-第15部分

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imals　in　the　past；　not　too　far　from　here。　The　body　was　covered　by　sparse　hair；　sandy　coloured　but　greying　with　age。　No　more　than　five　feet　in　height；　arms　and　legs　ridiculously　short　in　proportion　to　the　rest　of　its　body。　The　face　was　squat；　lips　pouted　then　drawing　back　to　show　a　toothless　mouth；　close…set　eyes　narrowed　into　an　expression　of　curiosity；　turning　to　animosity。　A　balding　head。
　　
　　Recognition　came　slowly　to　Jon　Quinn　because　even　when　he　realised　he　still　refused　to　believe。　The　blue　eyes；　the　toothless　mouth；　the　stance　stamped　with　arrogance。　In　the　end　he　was　faced　with　the　possibility　that　the　thing　standing　before　him　might　be　none　other　than　Bill　Gwyther！　A　possibility　that　merged　into　a　probability。　Then　a　certainty。
　　
　　Oh　Merciful　God！　Then　this　is　what　has　happened　to　the　human　race；　reduced　to　this！
　　
　　Gwyther；　and　it　surely　was　him；　was　giving　a　series　of　low　grunts；　unintelligible　animal　noises　that　were　obviously　not　intended　to　be　friendly。　Their　interpretation　was　anybody's　guess。　'What're　you　doin'　here；　boy？'　Advancing　another　step；　stopping　again；　the　pitchfork　lifted　so　that　it　rested　at　hip…level；　its　wicked　points　trained　on　Jon　Quinn's　stomach。
　　
　　'Mr　Gwyther？'　Jon　felt　incredibly　stupid；　but　somehow　he　had　to　say　something。　'Mister'　because　he　always　called　the　old　man　'Mister'。　Everybody　round　here　did；　even　the　older　generation　of　farmers。　Just　as　Gwyther　called　them　all　'boy'。　A　mark　of　respect　in　a　way；　underlining　the　generation　gap　because　Gwyther　had　always　been　'Old　Gwyther'　even　in　their　fathers'　days。
　　
　　They　stood　looking　at　each　other　and　in　those　few　seconds　a　picture　flashed　across　Jon's　mind；　one　that　he　had　seen　only　paratively　recently。　His　brain　had　absorbed　the　image；　thrown　it　out　now　like　a　puter　processing　relevant　data。　An　artist's　impression　framed　on　a　local　museum　wall；　captioned　'A　Stone　Age　Man'。　And　with　a　feeling　of　uneasiness　Jon　Quinn　reflected　that　that　unknown　artist　had　done　his　homework　pretty　thoroughly；　the　shape　of　the　head　in　relation　to　the　squat　body　and　short　arms　and　legs；　tiny　eyes；　pouted　mouth。　Like　one　of　those　police　identikit　pictures。
　　
　　And　it　had　e　up　with　Bill　Gwyther！　Jon　Quinn　took　a　deep　breath；　drew　himself　up　to　his　full　height；　tensed　every　muscle　in　his　body。　There　was　no　way　they　could　municate；　no　promise。　Modern　Man　faced　primitive　Man；　enemies　because　it　could　not　be　any　other　way。
　　
　　Jon　knew　exactly　what　the　other　had　in　mind；　what　he　was　going　to　do。　No　warning。　Foe　had　met　up　with　foe　and　one　of　them　had　to　die。　They　both　accepted　the　fact。　Slowly　he　eased　the　gun　up　into　the　crook　of　his　arm；　pushed　the　safety　catch　forward　with　a　faint　click。　He　was　not　even　trembling　now　that　he　had　made　his　decision。　There　could　be　only　one　oute　and　he　must　be　the　one　who　finally　walked　away；　the　victor。
　　
　　Again　that　inexplicable　sixth　sense　precipitated　the　action。　He　saw　the　wicked　double　prongs　start　to　move；　ing　towards　him　spear…like；　balanced　for　the　final　thrust。　And　in　that　instant　he　pushed　the　gun　forward；　found　the　triggers　and　fired　a　double　blast　from　the　hip。
　　
　　The　shotgun　bucked　in　his　hands；　threw　him　back；　but　he　scarcely　noticed　the　recoil。　He　didn't　want　to　see；　wished　that　he　had　missed；　maybe　fired　a　warning　shot　over　the　other's　head　but　it　was　too　late　for　recriminations。　Concentrated　balled　shot　at　a　range　of　three　yards　disintegrated　Gwyther's　head；　put　a　gaping　bloody　hole　where　the　face　had　been；　embedded　bone　splinters　in　the　barn　door　directly　behind　him；　sprayed　ribbons　of　flesh　up　the　stonework　so　that　it　dripped　grey　matter　like　an　old　man's　phlegm；　pink　with　blood　from　a　diseased　lung。
　　
　　The　pitchfork　clattered　to　the　ground；　the　hairy　body　swayed　but　still　remained　standing；　tottering　in　defiance；　nerves　still　working。　Quinn　smelied　the　powdersmoke；　coughed。　Drop；　you　bastard；　for　Christ's　sake　drop！
　　
　　The　bloodied　morass　which　had　once　been　Bill　Gwyther's　features　still　had　an　expression　if　you　stared　at　it　long　enough。　A　jagged　hole；　twisted　into　a　snarl　of　fury。　You　haven't　finished　with　me　yet；　boy。　A　gaping　orifice　spouting　crimson　hate；　eyebrows　twitching；　arms　jerking　like　a　hen's　wings　preparatory　to　a　clumsy　attempted　flight。
　　
　　I'm　ing　to　get　you；　boy！
　　
　　Jon　flung　up　the　gun；　remembered　it　was　empty。　Two　spent　cases　still　trickling　smoke　up　the　tubes。　A　roaring　in　his　ears；　mocking　laughter。　Bare　calloused　feet　with　blackened　broken　toenail　claws　moved　one　more　pace。　A　pace　nearer。
　　
　　Backing　away；　screaming　something　because　he　couldn't　hold　it　back；　fear；　an　apology；　I　didn't　want　to　kill　you；　Mister　Gwyther。
　　
　　You　haven't　killed　me　yet；　boy。
　　
　　And　then　Gwyther　fell；　arms　outstretched　as　though　he　was　making　one　last　despairing　lunge　at　the　one　who　had　done　this　to　him；　spraying　blood　from　where　his　mouth　should　have　been；　falling　full…length　and　sending　up　a　cloud　of　dust　out　of　a　dried…up　puddle。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　just　stood　there　looking　down　at　him。　He　wanted　to　laugh；　to　cry；　both　at　the　same　time　but　he　did　neither。　Seconds　that　might　have　been　hours　then　he　was　walking　towards　the　Land　Rover；　climbing　in　and　putting　the　gun　in　the　back。
　　
　　The　engine　fired　first　time　but　he　never　thought　it　would　do　otherwise　because　it　was　still　warm。　A　U…turn　that　took　him　back　out　through　the　gateway　and　on　to　the　road；　reminding　himself　that　he　had　to　park　on　that　slope；　facing　downwards；　so　that　he　could　jump…start　the　Land　Rover　tomorrow。　Some　strange　protective　brain　mechanism　had　pushed　the　bloody　killing　to　the　back　of　his　mind。
　　
　　Otherwise　he　might　have　gone　mad。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　SEVEN
　　
　　PROFESSOR　REITZE　irritated　the　Prime　Minister；　he　irritated　the　other　senior　cabinet　ministers。　In　fact　he　irritated　everybody　in　the　top　security　shelter　in　the　Hertfordshire　countryside。　But　that　was　his　prerogative　for　without　his　awareness；　his　knowledge　of　the　perils　of　germ　warfare；　there　was　a　possibility　that　the　entire　population　of　Western　Europe　would　have　been　wiped　out。　It　was　he　who　had　alerted　them　to　the　danger；　recognised　what　was　in　the　atmosphere。
　　
　　Close…cropped　hair；　it　was　difficult　to　judge　what　colour　it　was；　an　inch　of　growth　would　have　been　necessary　to　be　sure。　Rimless　glasses　that　gave　the　impression　of　owlish　eyes　in　that　angular　face。　Always　the　white　smock；　you　didn't　even　know　what　he　wore　beneath　it　or　whether　he　wore　anything　at　all。　Characterless；　even　his　American　accent　was　lost　in　his　dull　monotone　voice。　The　perfect　scientist；　a　human　machine。
　　
　　He　sat　at　his　low　desk；　blinked　in　the　brightness　of　the　strip　lighting；　thumbed　through　sheafs　of　typewritten　paper　and　made　occasional　notes　in　his　sprawling　handwriting　on　a　jotter　pad。　The　glass　ashtray　by　his　elbow　was　piled　with　Camel　stubs；　the　fingers　of　his　right　hand　stained　brown；　the　one　indication　that　the　man　was　actually　human；　he　did　have　a　vice。
　　
　　The　Prime　Minister　took　a　deep　breath；　let　it　out　slowly。　Anxiety；　exasperation。　He　had　said　repeatedly　that　'we　must　remain　calm1　but　there　was　a　limit。　And　Reitze　went　beyond　that　limit。
　　
　　Caldecott　was　in　his　fourth　year　of　office。　Next　year　he　had　to　face　an　election；　he　had　considered　calling　one　earlier　before　inflation　and　unemployment　figures　began　soaring　again　but　now　all　that　was　forgotten。　There　might　well　never　be　another　government　or　even　a　next　year。　In　his　early　forties；　he　had　a　deceptive　boyish　appearance；　one　that　a　lot　of　people　had　underestimated；　including　the　Opposition。　Forceful；　disliked　in　many　quarters；　he　was　finding　it　difficult　to　curb　his　impatience　with　Reitze。　He　glanced　across　at　Rankine；　the　Defence　Minister；　read　exasperation　there；　too。　But　both　of　them　knew　the　Professor　well　enough　not　to　try　to　hassle　him。
　　
　　The　reports　are　still　ing　in。'　Reitze　leaned　back　in　his　chair；　shook　another　Camel　out　of　a　crumpled　pack；　flicked　his　lighter。　'We　are　now　beginning　to　form　an　overall　picture　of　what　has　happened　both　in　the　United　States　and　the　European　countries。'　Slow　expressionless　tones；　he　might　have　been　discussing　the　latest　trade　figures。　He　drew　on　his　cigarette；　scribbled　something　else　on　his　pad。　'The　timing　of　the　release　of　these　microorganisms　into　the　atmosphere　was　meticulously　synchronised　so　that　all　major　areas　of　population　in　America　were　struck　simultaneously　with　the　UK。　Of　course；　it　was　easier　to　conduct　an　intensive　attack　upon　Britain　than　a　vast　area　such　as　the　United　States。'
　　
　　'Which　means　that　we've　suffered　a　far　higher　casualty　rate；'　Caldecott　cut　in。
　　
　　'Proportionally。'　Reitze　did　not　alter　his　tone。　'But　it　will　be　weeks　before　any　true　figure　can　be　arrived　at。　munications　have　now　broken　down　in　most　areas。　Fortunately　we　still　have　a　direct　line　to　the　White　House；　but　they　can　only　supply　us　with　the　information　that　reaches　them。'
　　
　　'What　type　of　germ　is　it？'　Rankine　asked。　'What　are　the　long…term　effects　likely　to　be？'
　　
　　'At　the　moment　our　laboratory　is　working　the　clock　round　to　e　up　with　the　answer；'　Reitze　replied；　'We　know　that　the　micro…organisms