Doggins nudged him in the ribs. “Seen enough?”
“I expect so.” But he kept his eyes on the screen until they found themselves outside in the blue daylight; there was something hypnotically fascinating about the violence. It was a strange sensation to find himself out in the empty hall, like waking from a dream.
As they walked into the sunlight, Niall had to shield his eyes. After the cool of the building, it was like stepping into a hot bath.
“How long does that go on?”
“For the rest of the afternoon. We’ve got about two hundred hours of film footage.”
“Haven’t they seen it all before?”
“Dozens of times. But they never get tired of it.”
The green lawns with their neatly symmetrical buildings seemed somehow unreal. After the unending thunder of explosions, the peace seemed to hover over them like a threat.
They had crossed the square diagonally and were approaching a house that stood on the corner. This was notably larger than those that surrounded it, and a fountain played in the centre of the lawn. About a dozen children were dangling their feet in the green water; several of them had the distinctive Doggins nose. When they saw Doggins, half a dozen children rushed across the grass and flung their arms round him, clamouring to be picked up. A pretty, dark haired girl came out of the house.
“Let daddy alone. He’s busy.”
Reluctantly, the children returned to their bathing pool. To Niall’s surprise, the girl seized both Doggins’ hands and kissed them. Doggins looked embarrassed. “This is my wife Selima,” he said.
Niall felt a twinge of envy; the girl was scarcely older than Dona. He held out his hand to clasp forearms and was startled when she dropped onto one knee, seized his hand, and kissed the palm.
Doggins cleared his throat. “Let’s have something to eat.”
“Yes, Bill.” She vanished into the house. Doggins said awkwardly: “Very affectionate girl.”
As they entered the house a voice called: “Who is it?”
“It’s me, my love.”
A large handsome woman with platinum blonde hair looked out of a doorway. She also seized Doggins’ hands and kissed them. “This is my wife Lucretia,” Doggins said.
The woman gave Niall a brilliant smile; the blue light of the hallway made her teeth look like precious stones. “His first wife,” she said.
Niall, slightly taken aback, smiled awkwardly.
Lucretia asked: “What is his name?”
Doggins said: “Er. . . Mr Rivers.”
“Is he a Bill?”
“No, no, just a mister.”
“What a pity.” She disappeared through the nearest doorway. Niall caught a glimpse of a kitchen, in which several girls were preparing food.
Niall was puzzled. “What did she mean — am I a Bill?”
Doggins chuckled. “I”ve told ’em that Bill means ‘a man of power and magnificence’. She was paying you a compliment.”
He led Niall into a large comfortably furnished room. A slim, bare-armed girl who was sitting on the couch jumped to her feet and kissed his hands. Then, as Doggins sat down, she knelt and pulled off his sandals.
“This is Gisela,” Doggins said, “– she’s number eight. This is Mr Rivers, my pet.”
The girl glanced shyly at Niall, averted her eyes, and blushed. Niall guessed she was even younger than Dona. She asked her husband:
“Shall I wash your feet now?”
“No, pet, just get us some cold beer.”
“Yes, Bill.” Niall observed that she spoke his name with a certain solemnity, as if saying “lord”.
When they were alone, Doggins gave him a roguish grin. “Now you can see why I don’t want to get mixed up in any war with the crawlies?”
Niall said sadly: “Yes.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you. But you couldn’t win anyway.” When Niall made no reply, he went on: “I mean, let’s be realistic. There’s millions of spiders. What can any of us do against that kind of odds?”
Niall shook his head stubbornly. “There must be a way. Otherwise they wouldn’t be afraid of us. Why are they afraid of us?”
Doggins shrugged. “Because we’re a bloody destructive lot, that’s why. You’ve seen the films.”
“Then why aren’t they afraid of you? You know the secrets of explosives.”
“Why should they be? I’m doing all right. In ten years’ time I could even be the General Controller.”
The platinum blonde came into the room followed by several girls carrying trays. She moved a low table between Niall and her husband and spread it with a white linen cloth. As she poured the beer, she asked:
“Had a good morning, dear?”
“So so. You know what Boomday’s like.”
“What did those spiders want?”
“Oh, they were looking for a runaway slave.”
“A slave? All those spiders? What had he done?”
Doggins avoided Niall’s eyes. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”
The table was now laden with many kinds of food: oysters, mussels, quails’ eggs, small roast birds and several varieties of salad and vegetable. The beer was dark brown and slightly sweet — and, as Niall realised after drinking down half a glass to quench his thirst, very strong. Before they ate, the girls held out bowls of warm water for them to wash their hands, then dried them on towels that were as soft as eiderdown. After this, the women quietly withdrew.
For the next five minutes both of them devoted their full attention to the food. Niall was experiencing a feeling of romantic melancholy that was not entirely unpleasant; the sight of so many young girls reminded him of Dona, and made him aware that he was missing her.
Doggins was obviously thoughtful. As he ate the quails’ eggs with a rich white sauce, he wore an abstracted expression. Periodically, he glanced at Niall from under lowered eyebrows. He said finally:
“Look. . . suppose we could make a deal with the spiders. . . I’m not promising anything, but just suppose we could? Wouldn’t that solve your problem?”
“What kind of a deal?”
“Well, suppose they’d agree to let you come and work for us?”
Niall asked cautiously: “What makes you think they’d agree?”
“They owe us a few favours.” He bit into a roast lark. “As I see it, they’re worried because they’re afraid you’re a troublemaker. Right? And if we could guarantee” — he laid special emphasis on the word — “that you wouldn’t make trouble, it’s just possible they might do a deal.”
“And I’d live here. . . and work for the beetles?”
“Well, you’d be working for me. I need a new assistant. Do you know anything about explosives?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’d soon learn.” Doggins became mellow and expansive. “Gunpowder’s easy — saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal — you just have to get the proportions right. Dynamite’s a bit more complicated — my last assistant blew himself up when he was making nitroglycerine. But you wouldn’t be doing that. Your first job would be to distil the coal tar products.” And, between mouthfuls of food, he began to explain the principles of fractional distillation.
Although Niall appeared to listen attentively, his mind was elsewhere. He found it hard to believe that the spiders would allow him to become a servant of the beetles. Yet Doggins seemed confident enough. The idea was certainly tempting. He could think of nothing more delightful than living with Dona in a house like this. The mere thought was enough to send him into a romantic daydream.
Doggins drained the last of his beer, pushed back his chair and stood up. He patted Niall on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, lad. Doggins the Powerful and Magnificent has a certain amount of influence. Now I’m going to get changed. Help yourself to beer.”
Niall was glad to be alone; it gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. What worried him now was what would happen if the spiders learned his whereabouts. If he was recaptured, he would be worse off than before. If they didn’t kill him, they would make sure that he never had another chance to escape. So could he risk allowing Doggins to try and negotiate for him?
And even if the spiders allowed him to go free, would he really be so much better off? The beetles were allies of the spiders. To work for them would be almost as bad as working for the spiders.
The more he thought about it, the less he was able to see any solution. He wandered restively around the room, his hands in his pockets, pausing every time he passed the window to stare at the fountain. Now the children had been called indoors, it looked oddly desolate, its spray rising into the sunlight as if trying to escape into the sky, then curving back to earth, like his own thoughts. . .
His attention was attracted by a persistent tingling in the fingers of his right hand; his fingertips had been toying with the telescopic rod. He took it out and weighed it meditatively in the palm of his hand, deriving a curious sense of comfort from its weight. Then, pressing the button that made it expand, he was struck by the intensity of the tingling sensation that communicated itself to his slightly damp skin; the vibration was stronger than he had ever known it. Holding the rod between the thumb and index finger of either hand, he concentrated all his attention on the vibration.