'Now you can't say that, Mike.' Howard did not try to disguise the irritation he felt. 'New generators are being sent to us all the time, and each seems to be an improvement on the last.'
'I know our Products Division has been spending a lot of time on it, using the best ideas from other manufacturers.'
The Research Director's face flushed angrily. We are in this business to make money you know, Mike. If we come up with a competent machine, then the government will make a substantial investment to mass-produce them.'
That's if they ever will be really effective. What do you think, Luke, poisons or ultrasonic sound machines?'
Fender was not eager to be drawn into the argument, especially on a subject to which he didn't have the answer.
'I don't know, Mike. With our poisons beginning to fail, generators might be the only way. I think there has to be more study into the rat's communication system itself, though. We know they produce ultrasonics themselves and use echo-location for orientation, so there may be a way of using a machine against them rather than just trying to disrupt their endocrine system.'
'But alpha-chloralose, coumatetralyl and chlorophacinone haven't been fully tested against them yet,' Lehmann said.
'No, but they will be,' Howard interrupted. 'At the moment, we're exploring all avenues. Look, when can I have your report, Luke?'
'I could have started work on it today, but Jean tells me you've got another little 'trip' in store for me.'
'What? Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Sorry, I would have sent one of the others, but Kempson and Aldridge are both making out their reports for me, and Macrae and Nolan are in the north. You're the only one available.'
'It's all right, I don't mind. What's the problem?'
There's a Conservation Centre on the other side of London. They've seen evidence of rats around the place and the ordinary rodenticides don't seem to have had much effect. They don't think it's anything to worry about, but as the law says it has to be reported, they've done so. I'd like you to go out there today.'
'Surely you don't need me to investigate. Couldn't the local council do it?'
'I'm afraid not. London is still a sensitive area and our contract with the Ministry states that we'll send in an expert to look into any rodent problems within thirty miles of the city.'
Why didn't they call us before they started messing around with poisons?' Lehmann said in an annoyed voice. That's how this whole Warfarin-resistance business started -amateurs not administering the right dosage, letting the rats build up a defence against it.'
They didn't consider it a big enough problem. They still don't, but they're playing safe.'
'Just where is this Conservation Centre?' Fender asked. 'I've never heard of one that close to London.'
'It's been there some time,' Howard replied. 'It's in the green belt area, the woodland that starts somewhere on the outer fringes of East London. Epping Forest.'
THREE
The Reverend Jonathan Matthews watched the two men filling in the grave and mentally said his own personal prayer for the deceased. His was an unusual parish, for most of its members were forest people. The term could be used lightly; very few actually worked in the forest itself.
The great woodland was surrounded on all sides by suburbia, the forest fringes cut dead by bricks and mortar. Less than ten miles away was the city's centre where better paid employment could be found. Some still worked the land, but they were few and far between, the work being arduous and offering little reward. Several forest keepers and their families attended his church at High Beach and he welcomed their patronage. They were a breed of their own, these forest minders, as he preferred to call them. Stern men, most of them, almost Victorian in their attitudes; but their commitment to the woodland and its animals was admirable. He felt their harshness came from the very harshness of nature itself; their open-air existence, whatever weather prevailed, and the constant struggle to maintain the correct balance in forest life despite its location, had given them a dourness which few people understood.
The Church of the Holy Innocents was ancient, its grey-stoned steeple badly in need of repair. A small building, its size adding to the historic charm, it was seldom filled to capacity. The Reverend Matthews had presided as vicar for more years than he cared to remember, and he deeply regretted the loss of a stalwart parishioner such as Mrs. Wilkinson. At seventy-eight, she had been one of his more active church members, never missing Sunday service and always attending Morning Prayer; her work for the needy of the parish even in her latter years had been a shining example of true Christianity.
The funeral ceremony an hour before had been well attended, for Mrs.
Wilkinson had been a much-loved character in the community, but now the small graveyard adjoining the church was empty apart from himself and the two grave-diggers. Their shovels dug into the soft mound of earth beside the open grave with dull thuds and the soil falling onto the coffin lid caused a shiver to run through the vicar's thin body. It had the sound of finality. It represented the end of life in this world, and no matter how much he told his flock of the glorious life to come after, he, himself, was afraid.
The doubts had come of late. His faith had once been unshakeable, his love for humanity unscathed through all the bitter times. Now, at the time when his own life was drawing towards its concluding years, be they five or fifteen, his mind was troubled. He had thought he understood, or at least accepted, the gross cruelties of the world, but his body had become fragile, and his faith with it. It was said man was reaching a new point in civilization, yet the atrocities continued and, if possible, seemed more hideous than before. His personal trials had been overcome but, rather than strengthening his spiritual self, had progressively undermined it, leaving him vulnerable, exposed. A question often asked of him by grieving parishioners was how could God allow such madness? His answer that no one understood the ways of God, but ultimately they were just, had given them little comfort; and now it gave him little comfort.
Those such as Mrs. Wilkinson and his dear departed wife, Dorothy, would surely find their spiritual reward, for they epitomized the goodness that still existed. But the heavy sound of earth on wood somehow diminished the ideal; it gave death a stark reality. What if their God wasn't as they thought? He wiped a hand across his forehead, swaying slightly. His parishioners must never know of his doubts -they needed his firm guidance. His misgivings were his secret and he would overcome them with prayer. The years had taken their toll, that was all. He would regain his old beliefs, vanquish the sinful questions, and soon. Before he died.
