Guy Smith - The Slime Beast

'What!' He looked up at her, amazement and concern evident on his face. 'Are you crazy, girl?' Then more gently, 'you've been through a helluva lot this last few days. Maybe I should take you back to London after all!' She smiled, confident, taunting him. 'You're the one who's backing down now,' she said. 'It's just that I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and I've come up with a theory. If you'd just shut up for a minute and listen...'

'Go on,' he sighed, 'let's hear it. We've had that many theories today that one more won't make any difference.'

'Well,' a smile touched the corners of her pert mouth. 'You remember when the Slime Beast tried to get in here and you repelled it with burning newspapers?' He nodded.

'It's obviously a creature that thrives on cold and damp,' she continued. 'Fire will frighten most wild beasts, but I think we could go a stage further with this one, and subject it to the exact opposites to the requirements of its body. Dryness and heat are the reverse of damp and cold. Its body structure could not stand up to it I'm sure. Look how the slime which it leaves evaporates after a while. Anyway, those scales, from what I've seen of them, are tougher than armour-plating, so a bullet or even a heavy missile would just bounce off them.'

'What are you getting at?' Gavin was intrigued.

'Just this,' she said. 'I believe that the Slime Beast could be destroyed by fire. I don't mean just a bundle of blazing papers, I mean fire projected at it with force. A flame-gun for instance. One of the paraffin models you can buy for a few quid. Lots of people use them for clearing weeds in their garden.'

He was silent for a few moments. Then he looked up and the sarcasm had disappeared from his expression.

'Maybe you've got something there Liz. You may just have hit on the very thing that will rid the world of this monstrosity. At least if the flames don't kill it they'll certainly keep it at arm's length. Probably drive it off. So there won't be too much danger in giving it a try.'

She smiled but said nothing. He looked at his watch.

'I'll go in to Spalding tomorrow morning and buy one. 'If I remember correctly today is half-closing so all the shops will be shut. We'll stop in here tonight and hope that the Slime Beast gives us a miss. There's nothing we can do for the moment.'

It was half-past four before Professor Lowson arrived back. They noted the expression on his face and said nothing. He was not in a good humour and was best left alone, but they saw that he was carrying something under his arm. Whatever it was it was concealed in hessian sacking and was very bulky.

'Now what's he been up to?' Gavin whispered to Liz as the Professor ignored them and shut himself in his own room.

'He needs watching,' she murmured. 'He's always been a queer cuss but lately he seems to have really gone round the bend. Whatever the reason you can bet that it's something to do with the Slime Beast!'

It wasn't until he was safely in his own compartment of the blockhouse that Professor Lowson tipped out the contents of the large sack. His eyes gleamed brightly as yards of specially reinforced netting tumbled loosely on to the floor. He gave the sack another shake and four iron grappling hooks clanged on to the concrete.

He carefully filled and lit his pipe before commencing work. Gnarled but nimble fingers unrolled the netting and then began tying the hooks securely on to all four comers. He pulled hard on each one testing its strength. There must be no slip-ups! A faulty knot could ruin the whole plan as well as jeopardising his own life. He tried each square of mesh. The fisherman who had sold it to him had assured him that it was capable of holding a fully grown shark. It needed to be far stronger than that though if it was going to ensnare the Slime Beast!

He rolled it up again, carefully, ensuring that the four corners were folded on top of the bundle temporarily held together by the four hooks. He lifted it up and poised it above his head. It was more manoeuvrable now; ready to be thrown, and to open out as it became airborne. All that was required now was a true aim... and the Slime Beast!

Throughout the day the wild geese had fed in the large field. There were gleanings in plenty here. Careless potato-pickers had left ample tubers lying amid the scattered tops. There was no need to hunt for food. It was there for the taking.

The afternoon wore on. Once they saw a man in the adjoining field and had slowly walked away in the opposite direction, gaggling in mild alarm. Yet he had not troubled them and soon they were feeding peacefully again.

The sun began to dip behind the far horizon. The massive grey gander who had brought them here day after day for the past week suddenly stretched his long neck skywards and honked loudly. Sixty pink feet stopped feeding. They gaggled, flapped their powerful wings and knew it was time to go. A rush of wingbeats, a wild musical chorus, and then they were airborne, gaining height rapidly.

Soon they had formed themselves into a perfect 'V formation, the old gander in the lead, taking a direct course towards the distant mud-flats shimmering in the late afternoon sun.

As they passed over the dark green saltings they struggled to reach an even greater height. The reports of the guns far below were only too familiar to them. Only in a gale or fog would they be forced to fly lower and run the gauntlet of the waiting wildfowlers. Then, some of them would not make it, and would plummet downwards struck by a charge of shot, to thud lifelessly on to the spartina grass.

That was life though. They accepted it, and maybe even regarded it as a challenge. Tonight the shot did not reach them. Still the fowlers kept on firing, hoping that a lucky pellet might bring a hapless goose down, but it did not, and the skein flew on unscathed.

Another few minutes and the old gander saw the mudflats directly below. They were safe now. They could rest their wings and glide, losing height rapidly until they came to the banks of the Welland Channel where they could roost in safety. The tide was flowing but it was of little importance, for they could sleep afloat as comfortably as on the mud.

Suddenly a movement on the banks of the channel caught the gander's sharp eye. A wailing gunner? His wing beats were increasing and he was fighting for height even before he could discern it clearly. The remainder of the skein followed suit, honking in alarm. They tensed themselves for the shots for they were well within range.

None came. The shape materialised, rising from its bed of mud like Behemoth awakened from centuries of slumber.

The formation was forgotten as the geese scattered to right and left, passing within fifteen yards of the scaly man-shaped monstrosity. A ghoulish face was upturned, soulless eyes noting their presence, yet the webbed claws did not grope vainly in the hope of securing a fat goose.

The Slime Beast had little interest in animal or bird-life. Human flesh and entrails were more tempting to its vile appetite.

The geese honked on into the gathering gloom, their favourite roosting-ground forgotten. They flew for fully two miles before planing down again towards the mud, and they decided to settle only after they had circled several times in order to ascertain that no horror lay in wait for them.

As deep darkness closed in they huddled together, feeling more secure in numbers. Yet few slept peacefully. Like Gavin and Liz in the blockhouse four miles away, they feared that the monster from the mud should slink silently upon them, materialising evilly out of the darkness.

The old gander had come to a decision in his own instinctive way. Tomorrow he would take his skein further a field. It was quite apparent that this was no longer the domain of the pink foot goose.