The wind was blowing fiercely, sending that limp weight at the rope’s end swaying to and fro, and Yeh Ling peered up, striving to follow its every movement. Presently came another flash and another, and yet another. The body had swung over the edge of the mould. Yeh Ling released the primitive brake, and the body dropped. From his breast pocket he took the torch that he had found on the settee and flashed a light up at the wooden mould. Yes. The Thing had disappeared.
There was a ladder against the wooden casing, and he climbed up, found another ladder inside, and descended the eight feet which intervened between the mould and the top of the hardening concrete beneath. Without loosening the rope, he dragged the body to its feet, and with quick, strong hands, lashed it to the steel core, winding the rope round and round. Presently he cut and knotted the binding, and climbed up again to the top of the wood-work, looking down in an effort to see the sagging figure. The lightning was now incessant, the thunder growing in intensity. He saw, and was satisfied. Pulling up the inside ladder, he dropped over, and in a few moments was himself back on ground level.
And now he made a search. He had to find the rope which controlled the shoot, and he discovered it at last. Pulling it gingerly, he heard the rush of the viscid concrete as it flowed down the shoot into the mould. He pulled the sluice gate wider yet, and heard the “swish, swish” of the flood as it gained in volume. After a while he released the rope, found a shovel, and climbed up the ladder again. The concrete had nearly reached the top of the mould. There was no sign of Rex Lander. Plying the tool, he levelled down the uneven surface of the cement, and descended for the last time.
The storm was local and passing, but if it had been the most cataclysmic disturbance of nature, Yeh Ling would not have noticed. He sat on the running-board of Lander’s car, wet to the skin, his hands raw and bleeding, every bone aching, and he smoked a cigarette and thought. So thinking, he heard the roar of an oncoming car, and ran to the cover of the hedge. It passed in a flash.
“I cannot afford to wait,” said Yeh Ling.
He got into the car and drove off, avoiding Storford village, and taking instead, a road which led by the river. Here he stopped and got off, keeping his engines running. With his hands he released the clutch and the car tumbled down the bank into the black water. Then Yeh Ling went back for his own rattling machine.
When day was breaking, Yeh Ling lay in a hot scented bath in his apartment overlooking Reed Street. His hands, free from the water, held a thin selection of Browning’s poems; he was reading Pippa Passes.
XXXVIII
“There are bloodstains on the stairs,” said Carver, “and on the garden path outside. There is also the mark of car wheels which have evidently been backed from the lane where Lander usually kept his car, but beyond that, all trace is lost.”
He looked at Tab and Tab looked at him.