Hardwick nodded inland. And, at a quarter-mile from the edge of the cliff there was a peculiar, broken, riven rampart of soil. It might have been forty feet high, once. Now it was shattered and cracked. It had the quite incredible look of having been pulled away from where Hardwick stood, and of having partly disintegrated as it was withdrawn. There were vertical breaks in its edges. There were broken-off masses left behind. At one place a clump of perhaps a quarter-acre had not followed the rest, and trees leaned drunkenly from its top, and at the edge had fallen outward. And all along the top of the stone cliff for as far as the eye could see there was this singular retreat of soil and vegetation from the cliff's edge.
Hardwick stooped and picked up a bit of the mud underfoot. He rubbed it between his fingers. It yielded like modeling clay. He dipped a finger into a gray, greasy-seeming puddle. He looked at the thick liquid on his finger and then rubbed it against his other palm. Young Barnes duplicated this last action.
"It ... feels soapy, sir!" he said blankly. "Like ... wet soap!"
"Yes," said Hardwick. "That's the first problem here."
He turned to a ground-service Survey private. He jerked his head along the coast line.
"How much have other places slipped?"
"Anywhere from this much, sir," said the private, "to two miles and upward. There's one place where it's moving at a regular rate. Four inches an hour, sir. It was three-and-a-half yesterday."
Hardwick nodded.
"Hm-m-m. We'll go back to Headquarters. Nasty business!"