"Guy N. Smith - The Slime Beast" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

CHAPTER ONE



THE Wash. Miles of flat, dark green saltings, adjoining the mud-fiats which lie further out than the eye
can see. Some has been reclaimed from the sea by man. Much is just the same as it has always been.
Peaceful, friendly, and treacherous! Its moods change along with the shifting whispering quicksands.
Safety here. Death there. No warning.

It was late October when the party set up camp along by Shep White's, a mile or so east of Sutton
village. The old farmhouse on the other side of the big dyke was long gone, and just a crumbling ruin
remained. Shep White wasn't around any more either. Desolation, utter and complete. The only company
was the warbling curlews and the clamouring geese which flighted over the sea-wall night and morning.

The blockhouse was the obvious choice for a camp-site. It had weathered a quarter of a century of
winters; built for a war in which it had played no part; solid to the last square of concrete. It needed little
preparation. Sacking on the floor. Boards over the windows to keep the draught out It smelled of stale
urine and excretion.

There were just the three of them. Professor Lowson was small and wiry, and it was hard to tell his age,
for a bushy black beard flecked with grey hid the wrinkles in his face. In a month's time he would be 55,
but he felt ten years younger.

Gavin Royle was in his mid-twenties. Handsome, smiling, well-built and with long dark hair of which the
Professor was constantly disapproving. Royle's recent appointment as an assistant curator at the British
Museum put him on an equal footing with the leader of this small expedition, but the Professor could not
recognise equality.

Liz Beck, who completed the party, was the Professor's twenty-year-old niece. Ever since her parents
had been killed in a road accident almost ten years ago she had had to rely upon this crusty old
archaeologist for her needs. In his own way he was kindly enough even if he was lost in the past. She had
graduated to university, under his guidance, and had consequently developed a strong interest in
archaeology.

It was a shame she couldn't spend the vacation how she would have preferred: just lying on some beach
allowing the sun to tan her beautifully proportioned body to a rich brown. Still, Uncle did need somebody
to keep an eye on him when he set off on these expeditions. King John's treasure, indeed! Men had been
searching for it ever since it had sunk into the briny! The most up-to-date equipment in the world had
been employed and still it refused to yield its secret resting-place. And now one more search party...

Gavin carried the last carton across from the Land Rover beyond the sea-wall and set it down in the
doorway of their chosen headquarters.
'Well, that's the lot!' he breathed. Somehow he had the feeling that he was just the work-horse of the
party. The labourer. Brought along to do all the digging.

'Mind how you handle that metal-detector!' the Professor's voice whined from the interior of his own
quarters. 'You're handling valuable equipment here, my boy. Not just provisions, you know.'

'I'm the only one who handles bloody anything around here,' Gavin thought, but aloud he said, 'All right,
all right. Keep your hair on. I know what I'm doing.'