Bastable dug his heel into the ground to anchor himself. It occurred to him that Wimpy couldn't do that, not with his bad ankle. In fact ... all he had to do was to kick at that ankle with his other foot—
Suddenly, Wimpy relaxed against him. He didn't let go of the revolver—he still held it as firmly as ever—but he relaxed, as though the fight had gone out of all of him except that one dummy4
hand which held the weapon.
'G—'
'Sssh!' whispered Wimpy. 'Sssh!'
Bastable held himself rigid. For ar instant he coud hear only his own heart thump inside his chest. And then—
A faint crunching? Was it?
The crunching faded, and then became more distinct.
Wimpy was staring at him: their faces were so close that he could see every detail of Wimpy's features with microscopic sharpness, sweat beaded among the bristles, dirt ingrained into the lines crinkling the skin, the crater of a pock-mark on the cheek-bone—eyes huge with surprise questioning him.
'Sssh!' Wimpy's free hand pressed down on his back.
There was something wrong—something more wrong than just that Wimpy was looking at him like this, and not fighting any more. Even his hold on the revolver was weakening.
'They're...' Wimpy's mouth opened on the word so softly that it was more like a breath than a whisper ' . . . not . . . on the road . . . they're ... in ... the cutting—
In the cutting.
At the bridge—but not
Under the bridge.
Logic, thought Harry Bastable emptily.
The line ran north-south. The Germans were advancing to dummy4
the north. It was a good place to meet, under a bridge, out of sight.
Oh, shit! thought Bastable. The matter had been settled for them by the Germans.
'Take good care of the child, Willis,' he whispered.
The revolver came out of Wimpy's hand—Wimpy wasn't even holding it.
He rolled sideways silently, and then crawled the last yard or two to the fringe of grass-and-nettles at the edge of the cutting.
There were three of them: one in German uniform, and two in brown leather coats, belted at the waist, and dark snap-brim hats—civilians of some sort—German civilians. This was the German end of the tunnel under the bridge.
The soldier halted, saluted someone under the bridge, and disappeared from view.
The civilians also disappeared from view.
Logic.
Oh, shit! thought Harry Bastable, and then stopped thinking.
He got up and stepped over the edge of the cutting, steadying himself for the first second with his free hand on the brickwork as he dropped into space.
He was conscious in the same second of several physical dummy4
sensations: the surprising warmth of the bricks under his palm, and their roughness against the nettle-stings; the brightness of the sunshine in the cutting beneath him; the sound of an aeroplane engine droning somewhere up above him.
The cutting was very steep, but not altogether vertical: it was a green cliff layered in a succession of narrow terraces; and beside the bridge itself, between the terraces, a series of crude footholds had been trodden into slopes.
His body, not his mind, was in charge of movement and balance. Nevertheless, the fall of the cutting was too great, the terraces too narrow and the footholds too smooth and sloping for him to be in full command of his descent; he could only try to beat gravity by denying it the chance of betraying him—since he was unable to descend slowly he had to do so in a succession of extraordinary leaps, far beyond his normal capabilities.
The last leap almost jarred the breath out of him as his boots crashed into the granite chippings beside the railway lines.
Yet his body had been already turning in the air as it fell, and his legs straightened again, driving him into the shadow of the arch above him before the shock-wave could register.
Someone shouted—
He had expected the tunnel to be dark— it had seemed pitch-black from the angle above— but it wasn't dark at all; it wasn't a tunnel at all—it was only a high-arched bridge, with the sunshine streaming into it—
dummy4
