There was a whole wall devoted to tools, complete with hooks and spray-painted patterns. One or two of the tools were even still on the hooks. The rest, of course, were in their natural place . . . in a wide radius around a dinky little vineyard tractor. The teensy narrow tractor must have been someone’s pride and joy. It was probably the main working tool of the farm and even had a little hydraulic blade. The left front wheel was off, but otherwise the tools seemed to have been engaged in putting it back together. Quite a lot of fresh eight-gauge wire had obviously just been judiciously applied.
“There. Next to that stack of fertilizer. There’s a whole load of rope!”
Well. It was rope all right. Typical farm rope. Not exactly the right stuff for a budding mountaineer, and not particularly light or oil free. But there certainly was plenty of it. About a thousand feet, at a guess, in various untidy coils. “Well, gee, Bronstein. Now that’s really worth the blister I got cutting my way in here. Now, if I just take that crop-sprayer tank off the trailer, I can carry it all.”
There was an audible sound of clicking teeth from Bronstein. “Then it is without it you can damn well do! Useless, ungrateful human. If you don’t want my help, don’t ask me for it!”
Chip sighed. “Sorry. I was out of line. Look, I appreciate the rope. We’ll even find some we can use. And we’ll use some of the metal junk for anchors. It was just . . . well, I was working it out. We found a little food. We’ve got . . . oh, say enough for a week with the rats on rations. Did you see how many tunnel-mounds we’ve got to scale?”
The bat nodded. “To be sure. I counted them. Thirty-two.”
Chip grimaced. Felt his bristly chin. “In a week?”
“Ha.” Melene appeared from behind a pile of metal junk. “First you’re going to have to persuade Fal and the others to move. They think they’ve died and gone to heaven. Except for the food, of course.”
Chip couldn’t help smiling. “What’s wrong with the food, Mel?”
“Well, no insult, Chip. It can be eaten, yes. But it isn’t a good plate of curried pigs’ tripes.”
Chip bowed his head, humbly. “Alas. It isn’t. We’ll have to go looking for pigs. Mind you, I thought you rats were doing a fine imitation.”
Mel took him seriously. “Well, I was thinking we should at least go and scout for some ordinary provender. Use this place as a base. We’re bound to find some stuff. Stock up, equip ourselves and be in a decent shape to make a long, fast bolt.”
“To be sure, that was what I myself was going to suggest.” Bronstein was plainly impressed.
“You bats aren’t the only ones who can come up with a bit of elementary strategy,” said Melene loftily, rat-nose in the air.
“Ah. But we are the only ones who do.”
* * *
“What! Go out foraging? But we just found all this prog!” Pistol had a bottle in one hand; in the other, a three cracker Dagwood of anchovies, quail eggs, pickled onions and caviar with marmalade. Plain to see, he was not keen to move.
“I’d liefer put ratsbane in my mouth,” agreed Fal. “Pass that salad dressing, when you’ve finished hogging it, Nym. I shall try some with fish-oil soaked buckshot. It might make it edible.”
Chip had to resort to bribery. “Curried pigs’ tripes.”
The rats sighed in unison. “Now, I’d go foraging for that,” said Fal.
“Well, the shop here is closed, you gluttons.” Chip started gathering crackers, jars, cans and bottles. He realized just how big a dent in the supplies the rats had already made. “So you might as well go foraging for that.”
“Says you and who?” demanded Pistol, his one eye gleaming dangerously, as he clung to a pickle jar.
Eamon had fluttered over. “Says me. Never mind anybody else. Just me. Want to make something of it?”
Red-tipped rat teeth flashed at him, but Pistol parted with his pickle jar. “Don’t like gherkins much anyway.”