gns.batsoutofhell-第13节

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　　A　small；　wiry　man；　he　wore　the　traditional　suit　of　plus…fours　in　all　weathers；　including　freak　heat…waves。　It　was　his　uniform；　his　symbol　'of　authority。　People　knew　to　whom　they　were　talking　when　he　stopped　them。　In　his　own　estimation　he　manded　the　same　respect　as　that　of　a　police　officer。　His　word　Was　law　on　the　Chase。　If　Ken　Tyler　instructed　anyone　to　quit　the　land；　they　were　expected　to　obey　without　question。
　　
　　For　the　past　fortnight　he　had　rarely　enjoyed　more　than　four　hours'　sleep　in　any　one　night。　Fires　were　breaking　out　all　over　the　Chase。　At　this　very　moment　two　brigades；　aided　by　troops　and　voluntary　helpers；　were　attempting　to　contain　thirty　acres　of　blazing　conifer　thickets。　There　was　no　chance　of　putting　the　fire　out。　They　had　to　be　content　to　widen　the　fire…breaks　and　hopefully　prevent　it　from　spreading　to　an　adjacent　five　hundred　acres　of　larch　trees。
　　
　　Ken　Tyler　knew　all　about　the　deadly　bats。　His　attitude　was　one　of　'I…told…you…so'。　Hadn't　he　forecast　something　like　this　happening　from　the　very　first　day　when　the　building　of　the　Biological　Research　Centre　had　menced　next　to　the　German　Cemetery？　Yet　he　still　had　his　routine　duties　to　attend　to。　He　had　listened　to　the　repeat　broadcast　of　the　previous　evening's　plea　to　the　public。　'Find　the　bats；'　they　said；　'before　they　give　birth　hi　July。'
　　
　　Tyler　laughed。　Some　chance。　Today　he　was　going　to　leave　the　fire…fighters　to　their　own　devices。　Beyond　the　golf…course　there　were　five　acres　of　rhododendron　bushes。　The　previous　winter　they　had　provided　roosting　for　some　tens　of　thousands　of　migratory　starlings。　As　a　result　the　shrubs　had　bee　white　with　the　birds'　droppings；　and　beneath　them　there　was　a　good　six　inches　of　foul…smelling　excreta。　Now　a　fire　up　there　would　have　been　beneficial；　cleared　the　area。　But　no；　the　silly　buggers　who　came　here　at　weekends　preferred　to　drop　their　cigarette　ends　and　broken　bottles　in　valuable　growing　timber。
　　
　　Nevertheless；　there　was　a　job　to　be　done　on　those　rhododendrons。　Some　of　the　starlings　had　remained　behind　when　their　colleagues　had　departed　for　their　native　country　in　March；　just　as　though　they　were　keeping　the　place　habitable　for　the　big　flocks　to　return　to　next　winter。　They　had　to　be　moved；　now。　Game　and　starlings　could　not　exist　in　the　same　area。　No　self…respecting　pheasant　would　put　up　with　a　constant　foul　stench　and　incessant　deafening　twittering　throughout　the　nights。
　　
　　Well；　if　the　public　weren't　prepared　to　burn　the　rhododendrons；　then　Ken　Tyler　would　see　to　it　himself。　And　the　public　could　take　the　blame！
　　
　　The　half…gallon　of　paraffin　in　the　back　of　the　Land…Rover　was　covered　by　an　old　blanket。　In　all　probability　a　crumpled　newspaper　would　have　been　quite　sufficient　to　start　a　blaze；　but　Tyler　was　not　taking　any　chances。　The　flames　had　to　spread　quickly；　and　bee　established　before　any　of　the　brigades　already　in　the　area　were　able　to　put　out　the　fire。
　　
　　On　the　floor　beside　the　covered　can　lay　his　shotgun；　a　12…bore；　worn　and　rusted　in　places；　but　nevertheless　with　a　look　of　efficiency　about　it。　The　gamekeeper　never　went　anywhere　without　it。　It　was　as　much　a　part　of　his　character　as　the　baggy　plus…fours。
　　
　　He　drove　past　the　Park　Gate　Inn；　turned　right　at　the　junction；　then　took　the　first　left　down　a　bumpy；　uneven　track　which　followed　a　winding　course　amidst　the　pine　forest。　There　was　a　smell　of　woodsmoke　in　the　air。　It　had　been　around　for　almost　a　week　now；　drifting　across　the　Chase　from　the　numerous　fires；　hanging　in　the　still；　windless；　hot　atmosphere。
　　
　　At　last　the　track　emerged　on　to　an　open　stretch　of　heather；　its　natural　beauty　marred　by　a　number　of　well…trodden　footpaths　and　an　abundance　of　litter。　Tyler　grimaced　as　he　brought　the　Land…Rover　to　a　standstill。　People　were　selfish；　inconsiderate。　They　never　kept　to　recognised　footpaths　but　had　to　trample　down　natural　growth；　leaving　it　looking　as　though　a　herd　of　stampeding　elephants　had　crossed　it。　Then；　to　add　insult　to　injury；　they　left　their　litter　lying　all　over　the　place。
　　
　　It　was　early：　7。15　a。m。　Too　early　for　ordinary　folk　to　be　about；　and　all　the　firemen　had　their　hands　full　anyway。　There　were　rumours　that　today　the　authorities　were　sending　troops　from　Whittington　Barracks　to　help　out。　Well；　if　that　was　the　case；　then　they　were　certainly　fighting　a　losing　battle；　Tyler　decided。　Soon　the　whole　countryside　would　be　reduced　to　a　charred　waste。
　　
　　He　stopped　the　Land…Rover　within　thirty　yards　of　the　high　wall　of　rhododendrons；　and　reversed　so　it　was　facing　in　the　direction　from　which　it　had　e；　ready　for　a　quick　getaway　before　the　flames　took　hold。
　　
　　God；　it　was　hot！　He　pushed　his　cap　on　to　the　back　of　his　head　and　wiped　his　brow。　Even　at　night　the　place　never　got　a　chance　to　cool　down。　There　was　no　respite　from　the　scorching　heat。　By　day　it　blazed　down　from　the　sun；　by　night　it　came　up　out　of　the　cracked；　parched　earth。　There　was　no　escape。
　　
　　He　climbed　down　and　looked　around　him。　Not　a　soul　in　sight。　In　the　distance　he　could　see　a　column　of　black　smoke　mushrooming　in　the　sky。　That　would　be　the　Pye　Green　fire。　A　line　of　firemen　were　fighting　like　hell　in　an　attempt　to　prevent　it　from　destroying　the　STD　station。　Bloody　good　job　if　it　burnt　it　down；　Tyler　thought。　It　spoiled　the　Chase；　like　a　skyscraper。　Trouble　with　people　today；　he　told　himself；　was　they　couldn't　exist　without　every　up…to…date　gadget　and　convenience。
　　
　　He　checked　once　more　to　make　sure　that　there　was　nobody　about；　and　then　he　lifted　the　can　of　paraffin　out　of　the　back。　Just　two　gallons；　but　it　would　be　more　than　enough。
　　
　　The　shrubs　should　have　been　flowering　by　this　time　of　year；　a　mass　of　sweet　smelling　red　and　pink。　Instead　they　had　a　look　of　dereliction　about　them。　Somehow　the　greenery　had　survived　in　spite　of　the　clinging　starling　droppings。　There　had　been　no　rain　to　wash　the　excreta　away。
　　
　　Tyler　wrinkled　his　nose。　The　sour　aroma　was　stronger　than　the　smell　of　woodsmoke。　He　coughed。　Maybe　if　the　bushes　blazed　for　a　week　it　might　get　rid　of　the　stench　and　scorch　up　the　layer　of　droppings。　It　was　the　only　way。
　　
　　Usually　there　were　starlings　in　evidence；　one　or　two　flying　about；　maybe　nesting；　or　just　too　lazy　to　go　out　to　feed　on　the　surrounding　fields。　They　chirped　noisily。　This　morning；　however；　there　was　not　a　bird　to　be　seen。　Not　a　cheep。　Silence。　Sheer　desolation。
　　
　　Ken　Tyler　noticed　this　as　he　walked　towards　the　rhododendrons；　carrying　his　can　of　paraffin。　Where　had　all　the　birds　gone？　Still；　whenever　they'd　gone；　when　they　came　back　to　roost　that　evening　they'd　be　in　for　a　nasty　shock。　They'd　singe　their　wings　if　they　came　too　close。　The　starling　problem　was　as　good　as　solved。
　　
　　As　he　approached　the　bushes　the　stench　was　almost　overpowering；　a'　bination　of　excreta　and　rotting　flesh。　Many　starlings　died　from　natural　causes　out　of　the　thousands　clustering　in　the　bushes；　and　none　of　the　scavengers　of　the　countryside　were　prepared　to　clear　up　the　corpses。
　　
　　'Soon　settle　that；'　Ken　Tyler　said　as　he　unscrewed　the　cap　on　his　jerry…can　and　began　splashing　the　contents　over　the　nearest　rhododendrons。　'Cremate　the　bastards！'
　　
　　He　stood　back；　struck　a　match；　and　flung　it　at　the　paraffin…soaked　bushes。　It　fell　to　the　ground；　lay　burning　for　a　couple　of　seconds；　and　then　with　a　roar　a　small　sheet　of　flame　shot　up；　spreading　even　before　it　reached　the　topmost　branches。
　　
　　Tyler　felt　the　scorching　heat　on　his　back　as　he　ran　for　the　Land…Rover。　Those　excreta…covered　bushes　were　tinder…dry。　The　blaze　was　spreading　far　quicker　than　he　had　thought　it　would。
　　
　　As　he　opened　the　door　of　the　vehicle　he　noticed　a　movement　out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye；　and　turned　back　towards　the　fire。　Tongues　of　flame　crackled　on　dead　branches；　leaping　into　the　air　hungrily　as　black　smoke　billowed　up　in　a　huge　pillar；　burnt　leaves　floating　in　the　air　and　carrying　the　sparks。　But　that　was　not　all。
　　
　　Whirling　upwards；　at　first　indistinguishable　from　the　sparks　and　smuts　but　then　recognisable　by　their　very　numbers　and　speed；　were　hundreds　of　pairs　of　tiny　wings；　crazily　veering　in　all　directions。　In　a　panic；　soaring　and　diving；　their　one　aim　was　to　escape　the　heat　of　the　furnace。
　　
　　Tyler's　first　thought　was　that　these　living　creatures　were　starlings　now　being　forced　to　relinquish　their　stronghold。　Yet　as　he　climbed　into　the　driving　seat；　slammed　the　door　and　gunned　the　Land…Rover's　engine；　the　truth　suddenly　dawned　on　him。
　　
　　'Christ　alive！'　he　muttered；　glancing　back。　'Bats！'　The　radio　broadcast　came　back　to　him。　'Report　any　sightings　of　bats　immediately。'
　　
　　The　Land…Rover　bumped　and　jerked　at　40　m。p。h。　down　the　uneven　track；　its　driver　heedless　of　potholes　or　overhanging　branches。　His　first　thought　was　to　return　to　his　cottage　and　telephone　the　information　to　the　Research　Centre　up　on　Pye　Green。
　　
　　Then　he　realised　that　he　could　not　do　so　without　incriminating　himself。　On　no　account　must　he　admit　to　being　up　here　on　Castle　Ring　at　the　time　when　the　fire　broke　out。　No　way。　To　hell　with　the　bats。　That　was　where　they　had　e　from；　according　to　a　sensationalist　newspaper；　and　for　all　Ken　Tyle