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He threw himself on to the sofa, ran his hands through his hair and sulked.
The possessed figure of Michael shook hands with Reg and said a few words of thanks. Then he walked stiffly to the door, turned and bowed to them both.
Dirk flung his head round and glared at him, his eyes flashing behind their spectacles and his hair flying wildly. The ghost looked at Dirk, and for a moment shivered inside with apprehension. A superstitious instinct suddenly made the ghost wave. He waved Michael's hand round in a circle, three times, and then said a single word.
"Goodbye," he said.
With that he turned again, gripped the sides of the doorway and stepped resolutely out into the mud, and into the foul and poisonous wind.
He paused for a moment to be sure that his footing was solid, that he had his balance, and then without another look back he walked away from them, out of the reach of the slimy things with legs, towards his ship.
"Now, what on earth did that mean?" said Dirk, irritably mimicking the odd triple wave.
Richard came thundering down the stairs, threw open the door and plunged into the room, wild-eyed.
"Ross has been murdered!" he shouted.
"Who the hell's Ross?" shouted Dirk back at him.
"Whatsisname Ross, for God's sake," exclaimed Richard, "the new editor of Fathom."
"What's Fathom?" shouted Dirk again.
"Michael's bloody magazine, Dirk! Remember? Gordon chucked Michael off the magazine and gave it to this Ross guy to fun instead. Michael hated him for that. Well, last night Michael went and bloody murdered him!"
He paused, panting. "At least," he said, "he was murdered. And Michael was the only one with any reason to."
He ran to the door, looked out at the retreating figure disappearing into the gloom, and spun round again.
"Is he coming back?" said Richard.
Dirk leapt to his feet and stood blinking for a moment.
"That's it..." he said, "That's why Michael was the perfect subject. That's what I should have been looking for. The thing the ghost made him do in order to establish his hold, the thing he had to be fundamentally willing to do, the thing that would match the ghost's own purpose. Oh my dear God. He thinks we've supplanted them and that's what he wants to reverse.
"He thinks this is their world not ours. This was where they were going to settle and build their blasted paradise. It matches every step of the way.
"You see," he said, turning on Reg, "what we have done? I would not be surprised to discover that the accident your poor tormented soul out there is trying to reverse is the very thing which started life on this planet!"
He turned his eyes suddenly from Reg, who was white and trembling, back to Richard.
"When did you hear this?" he said, puzzled.
"Er, just now," said Richard, "on... on the phone. Upstairs."
"What?"
"It was Susan, I don't know how--said she had a message on her answering machine telling her about it. She said the message... was from--she said it was from Gordon, but I think she was hysterical. Dirk, what the hell is happening? Where are we?"
"We are four billion years in the past," said Reg in a shaking voice, "please don't ask me why it is that the phone works when we are anywhere in the Universe other than where it's actually connected, that's a matter you will have to take up with British Telecom, but--"
"Damn and blast British Telecom," shouted Dirk, the words coming easily from force of habit. He ran to the door and peered again at the dim shadowy figure trudging through the mud towards the Salaxalan ship, completely beyond their reach.
"How long," said Dirk, quite calmly, "would you guess that it's going to take that fat self deluding bastard to reach his ship? Because that is how long we have.
"Come. Let us sit down. Let us think. We have two minutes in which to decide what we are going to do. After that, I very much suspect that the three of us, and everything we have ever known, including the coelacanth and the dodo, dear Professor, will cease ever to have existed."
He sat heavily on the sofa, then stood up again and removed Michael's discarded jacket from under him. As he did so, a book fell out of the pocket.
CHAPTER
35
"I think it's an appalling act of desecration," said Richard to Reg, as they sat hiding behind a hedge.
The night was full of summer smells from the cottage garden, and the occasional whiff of sea air which came in on the light breezes that were entertaining themselves on the coast of the Bristol Channel.
There was a bright moon playing over the sea off in the distance, and by its light it was also possible to see some distance over Exmoor stretching away to the south of them.
Reg sighed.
"Yes, maybe," he said, "but I'm afraid he's right, you know, it must be done. It was the only sure way. All the instructions were clearly contained in the piece once you knew what you were looking for. It has to be suppressed. The ghost will always be around. In fact two of him now. That is, assuming this works. Poor devil. Still, I suppose he brought it on himself."
Richard fretfully pulled up some blades of grass and twisted them between his fingers.
He held them up to the moonlight, turned them to different angles, and watched the way light played on them.
"Such music," he said. "I'm not religious, but if I were I would say it was like a glimpse into the mind of God. Perhaps it was and I ought to be religious. I have to keep reminding myself that they didn't create the music, they only created the instrument which could read the score. And the score was life itself. And it's all up there."
He glanced into the sky. Unconsciously he started to quote:
"Could I revive wi
thin me
Her symphony and song
To such a deep delight "twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!"
"Hmmm," said Reg to himself, "I wonder if he arrived early enough."
"What did you say?"
"Oh, nothing. Just a thought."
"Good God, he can talk, can't he?" Richard exclaimed suddenly. "He's been in there over an hour now. I wonder what's going on."
He got up and looked over the hedge at the small farm cottage basking in the moonlight behind them. About an hour earlier Dirk had walked boldly up to the front door and rapped on it.
When the door had opened, somewhat reluctantly, and a slightly dazed face had looked out, Dirk had doffed his absurd hat and said in a loud voice, "Mr Samuel Coleridge?
"I was just passing by, on my way from Porlock, you understand, and I was wondering if I might trouble you to vouchsafe me an interview? It's just for a little parish broadsheet I edit. Won't take much of your time I promise, I know you must be busy, famous poet like you, but I do so admire your work, and..."
The rest was lost, because by that time Dirk had effected his entry and closed the door behind him.
"Would you excuse me a moment?" said Reg.
"What? Oh sure," said Richard, "I'm just going to have a look and see what's happening."
While Reg wandered off behind a tree Richard pushed open the little gate and was just about to make his way up the path when he heard the sound of voices approaching the front door from within.
He hurriedly darted back, as the front door started to open.
"Well, thank you very much indeed, Mr Coleridge," said Dirk, as he emerged, fiddling with his hat and bowing, "you have been most kind and generous with your time, and I do appreciate it very much, as I'm sure will my readers. I'm sure it will work up into a very nice little article, a copy of which you may rest assured I will send you for you to peruse at your leisure. I will most certainly welcome your comments if you have any, any points of style, you know, hints, tips, things of that nature. Well, thank you again, so much, for your time, I do hope I haven't kept you from anything important--"
The door slammed violently behind him.
