and half-starved, and those captured alive soon died. It was the theory of many biologists that their brain cells had been permanently damaged by the high-frequency sound waves and this had upset their normal bodily functions. It seemed a reasonable assumption.
The startling fact about this new, now vanquished, breed was that they were a mutation. It seemed a zoologist, William Bartlett Schiller, had illegally brought back a rat it may have been several, no one was sure from an island near New Guinea. An island that had been used for nuclear tests. Their lair had been discovered in the cellar of an old house near London's dock land a house that had been owned by the zoologist when he was alive. He had allowed the creature -or creatures to breed with the normal Ship rat, or Black rat, as it was commonly called, introducing a new strain. Papers written by Schiller dealing with radiation effects and mutations were found in his study as well as drawings of dissected animals. The facts of the matter had been well-documented by the media and even the government inquiry findings were published in their entirety, yet ... Yet even in his many subsequent talks with Stephen Howard, Fender had felt something was being withheld.
He left the Audi in the estate's car park and entered the red-brick building, waving to the receptionist as he passed her desk.
'How was Cheshire?' she asked.
'Chilly,' he replied with a grin. 'Is Stephen Howard in his office?'
'Yes, but he won't be for long. A party is coming down from the Ministry of Agriculture and he'll be showing them around the laboratories before taking them off to lunch.'
'Right, I'll try and catch him before they arrive.'
Fender climbed the stairs and walked down the long corridor leading towards the back of the building, Windows overlooking the grounds were on one side and office doors on the other. The clatter of a typewriter greeted him as he approached an open doorway.
'Hello, Jean, is he in?' he asked, entering the office.
Howard's secretary looked up from her typewriter and gave Fender a beaming smile.
'Hello, Luke. How was your trip?'
'Okay,' he replied, noncommittally He inclined his head towards the door of the Research Director's office and raised his eyebrows.
'Oh, no,' said Jean. 'He's gone down to the laboratories to make sure everything's shipshape. We've got a visit from...'
'I know the Min of Agro.'
She nodded.
'I'll just dump my briefcase then 111 find him. He wanted to see me, I believe.'
'Yes, he did. He's got another trip lined up for you.'
'Christ, I've only just got back. I've got to make out this last report yet.'
'It's only a quick job, I think, Luke,' the secretary said.
Fender sighed. 'I suppose I should be grateful for that. How's the boyfriend?'
'Around,' she said. 'I'm free for lunch.'
He walked to the door and grinned. 'I'll let you know,' he said, then ducked around the doorway to avoid the pencil hurled at him. He chuckled as he retraced his steps down the corridor, wincing at the one-word abuse that followed him.
He found two of his colleagues in the large office he shared with Ratkill's troubleshooter unit. Two were out in different parts of the country investigating pest complaints and the sixth had resigned the month before, sick to death of 'hairy little beasts'.
The two men, one an entomologist like himself, the other a biologist, waved their greetings and continued pounding at their typewriters.
They, too, hated the paperwork involved in their job, but realized the only way to clear it was to get on with it. Fender opened his briefcase, took out several papers bearing his scribbled notes and placed them on his desk. Then he left the office and went off in search of Stephen Howard.
He walked through the downstairs laboratories, occasionally stopping to look into cages at the captive rats and mice. Many looked drowsy, for they were slowly being dosed with various poisons to gauge their reactions. Others seemed active and bright-eyed, pushing their quivering snouts through the thin metal bars, eager to be free. Fender glanced at several ultrasonic generators grouped together on a bench at one side of the laboratory. These had been sent by manufacturers from all over the world, keen to have RatkiU's seal of approval on their product. Most of them worked on the principle of driving vermin away from buildings rather than drawing them in, and the manufacturers claimed they were invaluable for clearing factories, shops and any other buildings with a pest problem.
He joined a technician at the bench who was carefully examining the inside workings of a machine.
'Any good?' Fender enquired.
The technician looked up with a start. 'Oh, hello, Mr. Fender. Didn't see you.' He bent his head low to get a better look inside the machinery. 'No, none of them seems to do much. Their frequency's too low, really. I thought this Japanese model might be effective because it's got variable range and, at the top end, quite a high sound pressure. But the rats get used to even that after a while.'
'What area does it cover?'
'About 3,000 square feet. It has an intermittent transmitter which confuses the rats for a while. Eighteen kilohertz is the frequency the buggers hate most, but that's a bit unpleasant for the likes of me and you, too. The trouble with rats is that they adapt too fast, so even that frequency doesn't bother them too much after a time.'
'But it works for a limited period.'
