Then two things happened.
A distant sound — on its first tremor faint and creaky, but gathering volume, gathering voice — shook out with a creak-and-clang, creak-and-clang, metallic bell-notes banging across a hush of morning, clang-and-call, clang-and-call, so that Martin stood rigid with realization of what it was. The alarm-bell at Pentecost was ringing.
He did not turn round. He had not time to turn round.
A pair of human hands, just behind him, lunged out and gave him a violent shove in the middle of the back.
Martin had just that flash-hundredth of a second, with the bell-note in his ears, to understand he had been pitched forward — head foremost, but a little sideways — pitched forward over the ledge into a sea of mist After that he felt no pain; he felt nothing at all.
Chapter 13
From the right came a faint, steady ticking, just outside the circle of a shaded light The ticking grew stronger (it was a watch on a table) just as did reality. Consciousness looked out through almost-closed eyelids.
The first thoughts of Martin Drake were those which he had once or twice entertained during war-time. They were as follows:
Well, here I am again. What the hell's happened now? Pause for long reflection. Either this is damn serious or it's not serious at all, because I don't feel much. Ah, clever idea. I'm not flat on my back; I'm propped tip somehow.
Still with his eyelids open only a slit Martin sent tentative movements through his body. He felt stiff and shaken, but he wasn't bound up in anything. His right shoulder and a part of the chest pained, but his exploring left hand found no splint or bandage. He had a slight headache; yes, but only what felt like a smallish, narrow, oblong bandage.