A sense of the unreality of the whole affair possessed her, drying up tears and crushing out sentiment. Her world was reeling and racing about her—the landmarks were hopelessly lost—but she felt herself poised above the chaos, remote and stable. The sword in her hand wielded her. She was going on with the job. The fight was going to be battled out to the last second, with the last ounce of vital energy in her body; for the time, she seemed to be beyond human limitations. When it was all over and settled one way or the other the tension would snap and she would hurtle down into black abysses of terror and despair; but while the war was still to be waged she knew that hers was a strength greater than herself—knew that she could stand on the brink of the chasm in the blinding light and fight tirelessly on to the death.
She said, in that new, cold dispassionate voice:
“We shall want help—the odds are too great against two of us. I’ll get Mr. Lomas-Coper. He’s the only man here I could trust.”
“’Im?” spat the disgusted Orace. “That thunderin’ jelly-bag?”
“I know he’s not such an ass as he pretends to be,” said Patricia. “He’ll weigh in all right.”
They were nearing Bloem’s house at that moment, and a lean dark figure loomed startlingly out of the shadow of the hedge. A pencil of luminance leapt from Orace’s torch and picked up the pleasantly vacuous face of Algy himself.
“Is that you, Pat?” he said. “I thought I recognised your voice.”
He was surprised at the firmness with which she grasped the limp paw he extended.
“I was just looking for you,” she said crisply. “Come over to the Pill Box. We’re going to have some dinner and hold a council of war.”
“W-w-what?” stammered Algy.