That drug evidently didn’t kill pain once the flesh was broken.
Shaw could still feel the cruel slash which had shaken him, riven him, when the beak had driven down so suddenly, could feel the dig of the horny substance slicing in. He couldn’t tell whether or not blood had run, but he did gather that the bird didn’t like him very much. There had been an indignant look on the creature’s foul face, as though it had been cheated; and it had given a cry and flown quickly upwards, where it hovered high above him. After that, no more had come near him. They must have known, somehow, that there was still life in Shaw. An instinct perhaps, or possibly it was simply that blood had run, and so they knew. At all events they kept their distance and they didn’t even come near the genuine bodies, those heaps of bones from which, having been interrupted, they had not yet picked all the flesh.
But — they stayed there, hovering. Waiting. The long, patient watch had begun, the period of waiting for Shaw to die, for that moment when life would flow out of him finally and they could move in and tear him to shreds so that he would be no more than stripped and whitened bones tumbled together like those he’d seen when he was being brought up. A mere indistinguishable heap, the last proof gone of what had happened to him.
And then the dawn.
Away in the distance in that dawn he heard the melancholy sound of a bell, and of a rising and falling voice through the still, clear air, calling the faithful to prayer. In that early dawn it was cold, bitterly cold as it had been all through the long night under the low-slung stars, freezingly so to Shaw in his thin cotton shroud; and he was glad when the sun came up and a few warming, early rays stole through the keen crispness… glad, until the sun’s heat as the morning dragged so slowly on increased the stench which crept into his nostrils, the horrible sickly sun-drawn smell of death. And bore with red-hot fingers into his immovable body, a fierce blaze of heat from which there was no escape, no respite.
Gradually the birds were growing braver, coming lower, lower… he could see the eyes, greedy and almost calculating eyes above the horny beaks. How long—they seemed to be saying to one another—how long before the man dies, and we can feed again?
Shaw was compelled to watch them each time they circled into his drug-held vision. Shortly after noon, one of them, perhaps braver or perhaps merely hungrier than the others, swooped down and came to rest quite close to Shaw. He could hear the brute’s feet moving among the bones, could hear the rip of soggy flesh as the thing burrowed and found a shred of edible matter, could hear the slight rustle of coarse feathers as the great, filthy bird gulped the morsel down, could sense its greed. Its eyes, he felt a moment later, were on him now… waiting, waiting, waiting. They were canny, these birds, very canny — they would know when he’d gone. The vulture stalked away, flew up. Shortly after that the others came down, the whole grisly flight of them now, settling on the tower’s rim, blocking out the day with a cloud of funereal black. One or two fluttered down with a spread of wings to where he lay. Others followed, quarrelling broke out. They fought up there, close to Shaw’s inert body. Around him he could hear the dry rattle of bones, the cries of the birds. They bumped into him, fell over him, scrabbling at him with feet and wings as they lost their balance. Perhaps they thought they sensed a change in him already.
Then, hours later as the sun went down, the first one — the hungry one — he could have sworn it was the same bird— approached him directly. Shaw could see a big wing spreading over him… the balancing act again, as the thing settled on his chest once more… and then, as the head struck down sharply, there was a horrible pain in his left side and a sound of tearing flesh. Other birds closed in… Good God, was he going now? Did they think in some unholy way that he had actually gone physically while his mind lived yet — or was it simply that they couldn’t wait any more? In any case the facts were clear: he was being eaten alive now.
As another beak jabbed into his side, Shaw let out a cry of agony.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aboard the New South Wales, now just past Ras Mohammed and steaming fast for Aden in an attempt to make up the time lost in Port Said, Sigurd Andersson was standing on a chair in his cabin, reaching up to unscrew the inspection-plate in the ventilator shafting. When he had it open he thrust his arm through the aperture and pulled away several strips of adhesive tape and then brought out the square metal box which he had hidden away on leaving Tilbury.
He climbed down off the chair.
“There,” he said. “That’s it, Mr Siggings. I told you this morning, it is quite small. Now you can see for yourself. Small, but quite exceptionally powerful. The only one of its kind.” He gave a short laugh. “It should be unnecessary to produce any more.”
The youngish engineer reached up and removed a homemade cigarette which drooped from the corner of his mouth. He squinted at the box, examined the suckers which would hold it in position, rubbed at an unhealthy-looking rash on his damp, sallow face. He said, “Yuh. Don’t look much power in it, not to me.”
Andersson smiled coldly, jabbed a fat white finger towards the engineer. “Take it from me, Mr Siggings, this little box has been made by experts and it will do all that is required of it. Now — what do you think about siting it?”
The engineer pursed up lips which now held the cigarette again. He squinted through eyes half closed as smoke trailed up a long, yellow streak of nicotine on his upper lip. After a while he said briefly, “Double bottoms.”
Andersson raised an eyebrow.
Siggings repeated, “Double bottoms. They run right along the bottom of the ship, see. Space between what you might say is the last deck of all, and the actual bottom-plating. Just enough space for a man to crawl through, like.” He nodded his head confidently. “You want to know what I think, that’s the place all right.”
Andersson said softly, “You must give me your reasons.
I must make absolutely sure, you understand. It is very important that nothing should go wrong.”
“Yuh.” The engineer scratched at his scalp, and little flakes of scurf spread themselves. He said, “Well, first, see — it’s the one place I can go to alone without it looking funny. Double bottoms are my responsibility, so there’s not much risk.”
“You are being paid to take a risk, Mr Siggings.”
“Ah, that’s all very well, i’nit?” Siggings answered cockily. “Want the thing to be safe, don’t you, eh? I’m not just sayin’ the double bottoms just because I can go down there without questions bein’ asked. See?”
“Very well. Go on.”
Siggings stuck a finger in his mouth and removed a piece of tobacco. He said, “No one hardly ever goes down there. Come to that, I can always find a reason to keep ’em out, if they do decide they want to. An’ I can put this job right under the reactor, what’s more.”
“It will be close enough?”
Siggings grinned, showing bad teeth. He said, “Sure it will! Couldn’t be closer than right underneath it, could it?”
“How thick is the deck between this… double bottom and the reactor?”
“Not much thicker’n anywhere else. Not all that thick. Just some extra strengthening beams, and I can site it clear of them. It’d go in — let’s see — Number Five tank. That’s a ballast tank, and she’s empty, see.” He thought for a moment, added: “Wait a tick, though. S’pose we do flood up Five any time?”
Andersson waved a hand dismissingly. “That wouldn’t matter, providing of course that the box is fixed before the flooding — and you will give me warning of that. This box is watertight, and needs no air either.” He reflected, studying Siggings as he did so. Then he said, “Very well. The double bottom it shall be. You are the expert on that side.” He took the box, brought out the chair again and replaced the box in the ventilator shafting. Then he screwed back the plate very carefully. Dusting his hands as he climbed down, he said: