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nt。 Blistered lips stretched into a mirthless smile 。 。 。 uttering soundless words。
This is how it once was； and is now； and shall be again。 A land of fires； destroying。 Only I can live； for Pluto himself gave me everlasting life to carry out his bidding。 You shall die… just as the people of this valley shall die。 My curse is at hand。 For I； Balzur； rule this place； and I shall rise again amidst its ashes。 I have brought fire and death 。 。 。
Leggett managed a scream； but he had not the strength to attempt a futile flight。
The heat scorched his flesh； his clothing smouldered。 He sank back； staring wildly into the encroaching flames。 But the old man was no longer visible…just a shapeless wisp of smoke amidst the inferno。
He prayed for death but it did not e。 His body was now ablaze； with a hissing sound like wet logs make on a roaring fire。 Strange shapes came and went…a host of demons mocking him in his last hour； delighting in his pain and terror。 Shrill voices。 Laughter。
Pledge your soul and Pluto will grant everlasting life。
Jock Leggett wanted to do just that。 Somehow he forced his mouth open； but he couldn't find the words； his brain numbed。
And then the full force of the advancing fire was upon him； consuming him utterly and passing on。
Chapter 2
'You're crazy； every bloody one of you！'
The man who had spoken now looked steadily at each of the other eleven men occupying places at the same long table in the largest room of the Craiglowrie town hall。 Eyes met his； then dropped。 Fingers drummed nervously on the polished mahogany table top。 Somebody coughed 。。。 an embarrassed silence 。 。 。 a match scraped。
'Furthermore'…Bob Coyle was not one to be deterred by an overwhelming contrasting opinion…'you're greedy for power。 How much more do you think this valley can take？ Look what's happened to it。 Remember the town most of us were brought up in？ Sheep grazed the hillsides； we lived peacefully； happily； and we had security。 Look at what we've got now； something that could be a third…class suburban area of any duty industrial town in Britain…only worse。 We're living under a cloud of radioactivity。 One leak 。 。 。 And now you're going to let them take the whole of the north end of the valley…the rest of it…until there isn't a blade of grass or a clump of heather left。 What about us； our children？ It's got to be stopped now； before it's too late！'
Silence again； each pair of eyes glancing at Bob Coyle。 At thirty…seven he had the physique and appearance of a man ten years younger。 Dark wavy hair reaching down to his collar with scarcely a fleck of grey； rugged features inherited from his forefathers； the flock masters who had eked a living from the steep； windswept slopes of the valley； the deep blue eyes that now flashed angrily。 His clothes； too； indicated the individualism which he valued so highly。 Never before； in the history of town council meetings； had sweater and slacks been worn。 Tweed suits were reserved for these occasions； sometimes a kilt amongst the more traditional members。
'Well？'
Coyle was determined to force an answer one way or the other。 Some of them hated him already…if not him personally； then his newspaper the Herald； brazenly outspoken； almost to the point of libel。 Yet； there had never been a legal action against him。 Always there was a glimmering of truth there； a spark which produced the wisp of smoke。
'Just look what it means to the town；' said Blackmead the butcher； staring down at the table almost timidly。
'Yes； just look；' snapped Coyle angrily。 'A future slum。 Within a decade these cheapjack houses will be falling to bits。 We're overcrowded already； and nobody seems to care a damn that just one leak will mean them having to blast these hills into the valley for a mass grave！'
'But they've overe all that now。 All that was in the early stages 。 。 。 '
'The risks are still there。 The bigger they make this place； the more waste they'll be recycling。 And the more waste lying about for processing； the greater the chances of a leak 。 。 。 maybe worse。 We've gone far enough。 Too far。 Stop it now； in the name of humanity！'
Another uneasy silence； as the councillors glanced at each other； and looked away…anywhere except at Bob Coyle。
'Er； yes 。 。 。 well；' McLellan； the Planning Officer； shuffled the papers hi front of him。 Though he knew their contents by heart； he made a pretence of studying them again。 Only his bushy moustache disguised the fact that his upper lip was trembling。
'Er 。 。 。 yes；' he sorted through the papers again； stalling…knowing that he would have to support the other councillors and oppose Coyle。 It wasn't so much the man himself he feared； but Coyle's paper； the Herald。 A couple of recent clippings were attached to the closely…typewritten sheets he now shuffled like a pack of cards。 'Well； er 。 。 。 we can find no objection to the plans submitted by Nuclear Fuels and Oxide Reprocessing。 None； whatsoever；' he hesitated； anticipating another outburst from Coyle； but there was none； so he carried on； 'and as a result I must inform the necessary authorities that they have the approval of this council to proceed with their extensions。 We must realise； gentlemen； the significant part we are playing in reducing the country's unemployment figures。 At the moment there are over five thousand jobs at the recycling centre。 Three years from now； that figure will be doubled； perhaps even trebled。 Take the town； too。 Businesses have expanded。 Once we relied upon sheep farming and local craft。 Look at the auxiliary industries which this recycling place has brought in。 We shall be one of the wealthiest towns in the United Kingdom。 We 。 。 。 '
Coyle stood up； scraping his chair noisily。 McLellan stopped in mid…sentence； undecided whether to tell the man to sit down or to resume his own seat。 He did neither。 His top lip trembled even more violently。
'Gentlemen；' Coyle's voice was low； scarcely more than a whisper； but it carried to every corner of that large room； 'please accept my resignation from this council。 I will confirm this in writing tomorrow。 In the meantime； please understand that everything possible will be done to oppose your diabolical decision。 My presses are already churning out petition forms； and I have every confidence that the townspeople will back me。 I shall be calling upon the Secretary for the Environment to hold a full…scale public enquiry。 The Secretary of State for Energy has already informed British Nuclear Fuels that they can go ahead and sign contracts to reprocess even greater quantities of nuclear fuels from abroad。 It seems that this power game is being played at the highest level。 My newspaper will play its own part； of that I can assure you。 Good day to you； gentlemen。'
Coyle walked from the room； closing the door quietly behind him。 He descended the long flight of steps which led to the street below； and slowly made his way to where his car was parked。 It was a rusting blue Hillman Avenger which had seen better days but which was still mechanically sound。
The town was busy this morning。 People scurried past him looking neither to right nor left： housewives with loaded shopping baskets； others heading towards the new Bingo Hall which had started opening in the early afternoon。 They were faces that were unfamiliar to him。 Once he would have known almost everybody who walked these streets。 Once people would have stopped him to chat； or called out greetings from the other pavement。 But that had all gone with the ing of this new plutonium industry。 Familiar accents were replaced by dialects he scarcely recognised。 All the casualness of life had gone； to be replaced by this new rat…race。 And that was just what it was。 Dyne； the Head of Oxide Reprocessing； and his colleagues…they were the Pied Pipers。 And everybody hastened to their call like lemmings。
It took him twenty minutes to drive back to the printing works。 He could have walked it in a third of the time。 The old town could not absorb the traffic which the suburban new town had brought with it。 Next time he would walk it。 Next time 。 。 。 he laughed bitterly； giving vent to his hatred for McLellan…another great fat lemming。 There would be no next time。 Not at the town hall； anyway。
He swung into the printing works and braked to a halt。 He switched off the engine； and just sat there…needing a few precious moments of solitude； time for a few private thoughts。
Jane sprang first to his mind。 At thirty…six； after nineteen years of marriage； and two children； she hadn't lost either her looks or her figure。 Yet she had changed…that was the trouble； and he could not really determine the reason。 Perhaps it was his own fault： too much time spent at the office； this obsession with plutonium and his efforts to shoulder the responsibilities of a nation。 Maybe it was the kids。 Richard had always been rebellious； a hereditary streak perhaps。 Sarah too。 A mature woman at seventeen； and she had to get mixed up with a married man when she