The others were staring at it with dismay. Only Doggins seemed unconcerned. In his expression, Niall detected a gleam of triumph.
Niall asked: “What are you hoping to find in there?”
“Explosives.” He gave Niall an odd sideways glance. “And weapons.”
“Weapons?”
Doggins said softly: “Yes, weapons.” He turned to the others. “All right. Stick close to me, and try and stay in the shadows.”
Within fifty yards they found themselves facing the main gates of the Fortress. There were great solid doors, higher than the walls, and also surmounted by spikes that looked as sharp as needles. Beside them, set in the wall, was a smaller door, also made of the same rusting metal. Half a dozen of them tried to force it with their shoulders, but it was as unyielding as the wall itself.
Another fifty yards brought them to the south-western corner, and to the avenue that ran down to the river. A single glance told them that the west-facing wall was as impregnable as the rest. Unlike the buildings in the avenue, these walls had evidently been built to last for centuries.
Halfway along the north-facing wall, they encountered another entrance. This was a single gate of solid metal, with the usual row of unbroken spikes along its top, and was set between tall pillars, each surmounted by a single spike. Doggins halted and surveyed this with a close attention that Niall found puzzling — it looked as unpromising as any other point of entrance — then said: “Milo, the rope.”
One of the men pulled off his grey slave smock; underneath he was wearing the standard yellow tunic of the beetle-servants. From around his waist he uncoiled a length of rope; to Niall’s eye it looked dangerously thin. Then from his own pocket Doggins took a metal hook; this unfolded into three separate hooks, forming a grappling iron. He attached it to the end of the rope and tossed it upwards. It caught between the two end spikes of the gate. After pulling it with his full weight to test it, Doggins swarmed up. A moment later, he stood on top of the gate pillar, steadying himself by holding on to the spike. Now Niall could see why he had chosen this spot. Because of the width of the pillar, the gap on either side of the spike was just wide enough to allow a lightly-built man to squeeze through.
Another rope was produced; Doggins tied this to the spike and dropped it down inside the wall. A moment later, he disappeared.
Niall went next. By curving his body upward, he achieved a foothold on top of the gate, then scrambled onto the pillar. The long rooftops of the barrack buildings lay below him in the moonlight. From this point he could also look south to the river, and to the skyscrapers of the spider city beyond. The white tower shone in the moonlight with its faint green phosphorescence, and immediately beyond it he could see the black bulk of the headquarters of the Spider Lord. Suddenly, he felt very exposed; he squeezed between the spikes and slid down the rope to the ground.
As the others joined them one by one, Niall and Doggins stood looking across the deserted parade ground towards the long, low buildings of the soldiers’ quarters. There were no spider webs, and the unbroken window panes gleamed in the moonlight. Something about the place produced in Niall a curious impression of loneliness and sadness. When he spoke to Doggins, he found himself automatically lowering his voice, as if afraid to disturb the silence.
“Why do you suppose the spiders never came here?”
“Why should they? There’s nothing here for them.”
“So it’s been like this ever since men left the earth?”
Doggins gave a crooked smile. “I hope so.”
A few yards away to the left, something white gleamed at the foot of the wall. Niall went to investigate and found himself looking at a heap of bones. The skeleton had evidently been there a long time, and weather had made the skull thin and brittle.
He turned to Doggins: “Somebody tried to get in.”
Doggins stirred the bones with his foot; some of them fell apart. “I’d like to know why he died there.” He looked thoughtfully at the top of the wall.
“Perhaps a spider caught him.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded unconvinced.
A thin, high wail shocked them both; it was like the cry of some strange bird. Then Niall realised it was coming from the group at the foot of the wall. Doggins called: “What happened?”
“It’s Cyprian.” A man was writhing on the ground, his body arched in agony.
Doggins dropped on his knees beside him. “Cyprian, what happened?”
The man tried to speak, but the pain convulsed his lips; as he choked, a white foam appeared on his lips. Then, suddenly, he twisted backwards and stopped struggling. His eyes had turned upward, showing only the whites of the eyeballs. Doggins took his pulse, but it was already obvious he was dead. It had all taken less than ten seconds.
Doggins stood up; he looked very pale. “Anyone know what happened?”
They shook their heads; Niall could see they were stunned and close to hysteria.
Doggins raised the dead man’s right arm and turned it over. On the underside of the forearm, there was a scratch about an inch long.
“That’s what did it. The spikes are poisoned.”
The thought of how close they had been to death sobered them all. But Doggins was determined not to allow them time to think about it.
“We’ve got to get moving. Now listen carefully. One of these buildings is an arsenal. I want you to find out which one it is.”
Niall pointed to a building in the north-eastern corner. “I think it could be that one.”
“Why?”
“It was marked on the map.”
Doggins shook his head. “It looks like an office building to me. But let’s find out.”
Closer examination proved that he was correct. They forced the door by using their shoulders as battering rams, then lit oil lamps and spread throughout the building. Most of the rooms contained desks and filing cabinets. The air smelt stale and dead, like the air in a tomb, and dust blackened their hands whenever they touched anything. When Niall tugged on a curtain, it tore like wet paper.
Doggins was pulling out all the drawers of a desk. When one proved to be locked, he took out a knife and worked it into the crack, twisting the blade impatiently. It snapped, but Doggins gave a grunt of satisfaction as he opened the drawer. He weighed the long-barrelled gun in the palm of his hand.
“What is it?”
“A Flecknoe blaster.” He took it to the window and examined it in the moonlight.
“What does it do?”
“Releases pure energy. Watch.”
There was a blue flash that made Niall jump, and a thread of twisted light seemed to leap from the barrel; at the same time there was a smell of heated metal and ozone. Through the wall at the side of the window, Niall could now see moonlight. The blaster had made a neat circular hole about six inches in diameter.
“How did you know it would be there?”
“Just a guess — this isn’t the first barracks I’ve been in.” He patted the gun. “Now we’re ready if we meet a spider.”
“Is that what you were hoping to find?”
“One of the things.”
Milo appeared in the doorway. “There’s nothing here, sir. It’s just an office building, as you said.”
Doggins asked Niall: “Are you sure this was the location of the arsenal?”
Niall closed his eyes. He had made no special effort to memorise the layout of the barracks — it had seemed unimportant at the time — but he could still see the word “Arsenal” in the north-eastern corner of the plan.
“Yes. Quite sure.”
Doggins shook his head. “In that case, the map must have been deliberately inaccurate.”
“But why should it be?”
“Because in the twenty-first century, army installations were always being attacked by political terrorists. That’s why they made this place so impregnable.”
“But in that case, surely they would have hidden the arsenal?”
Doggins snapped his fingers. “Of course — that’s the answer. Below ground.” He turned to Milo. “Is there a cellar in this place?”
“Yes, but it’s locked.”
“Show me where it is.”
Milo led them along the corridor and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, there was a steel-covered door. When its handle refused to turn, Doggins placed the blaster against it, and fired. The door swung open, drops of molten metal cascading to the floor.
But the rooms beyond proved to be storerooms. They contained filing cabinets, boxes of papers and cassettes of microfilm. Doggins ordered everyone to examine the walls for signs of a secret door, but a long search revealed nothing.
“You’ve got to be right,” Doggins said. “With a barracks in the middle of a city, they couldn’t take the risk of making the armoury accessible. One terrorist bomb could blow them all off the planet. The only sensible thing would be to construct it underground.” He stared with sour frustration at the floor beneath his feet.