"Smith, Guy N - Crabs 01 - Night of the Crabs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'And I have a strange feeling that they won't be the last,' Cliff turned on his heel. 'No doubt we shall meet again during the course of my stay here, Sergeant. Good day.'

Cliff was angry as he walked back towards the village. Of course, it could have been an accident. Even the most experienced swimmers met with accidents. Yet, he still had that strange feeling at the back of his mind,..'

The following morning, after breakfast, Cliff went on to Shell Island. He went on foot, feeling it hardly worth the trouble of taking the car from Mrs Jones's place to the South End of the island, a journey of possibly two miles. It was a bright, sunny morning, and had it not been for the sense of foreboding which clouded his mind he would have entered into the spirit of a holiday-maker. His binoculars slung over his shoulders and carrying a long stick of ash, a favourite companion on long hikes, he strode along.

Campers barely gave him a passing glance as he crossed the sand-dunes and finally reached the long, wide rolling beach. The tide was well out. Quickly he scanned the water's edge through his binoculars. A flock of oyster-catchers, gulls . . . nothing. Not a movement otherwise. To his left some children were making sandcastles, but he ignored them. It was way out there where the answers to his many questions lay and he knew that he wouldn't solve them from the edge of the dunes.

The sand beneath his feet was firm as he began walking out towards the distant tideline. Virgin sand, untouched since the last tide had ebbed. Peaceful. And yet...

A few hundred yards further on, the surface began to get softer. His walking boots squelched beneath his weight, yet there was no hint of any quicksands. The oyster-catchers rose in alarm at his approach. The gulls wheeled, screaming their insults at him.

At last the water lapped at his feet. There was a huge ridge of sandbank on his right, resembling a colossal defensive wall built by an ancient people. He glanced behind him at the distant shoreline of Shell Island.

'Surely,' he muttered, 'they would have swum no further than this.'

Suddenly a deafening screaming sound filled the sky, becoming louder all the time. He ducked instinctively, then straightened with a chuckle as the tiny aircraft passed less than fifty feet above him, heading back towards Shell Island.

'Damned unmanned aircraft,' he murmured. Then his eye caught something in the sand about twenty yards away. It was a mark of some kind, maybe three feet long and nearly as wide. It had been made since the tide had gone out, a fresh scuffing of damp sand. The birds? His eyes widened as he saw another, and then he began walking quickly towards them.

'My god!' he gasped, so excited that the words poured out aloud. 'They're all along the tide-line. Claw marks. But what in the name of heaven could have left a print that size? It's, it's like a crab, only dozens of them, and a hundred times as big!'

He dropped to his knees, eager to examine the nearest one. It had the shape and markings of a crab's claw, but. . . the very size of it was beyond comprehension!

Cliff Davenport shook his head in bewilderment. It was fantastic. Impossible! There had to be an explanation! And, for a scientist, a rational one, at that!

Then the water was lapping at his feet again. The tide had turned. He moved back a few paces and watched as the incoming sea slowly began to cover those weird marks in the sand, erasing them forever.

Cliff knew that he had no alternative other than to retreat. He had seen these bizarre, crazy marks with his own eyes and now they were being removed. The evidence was disappearing. If only he'd brought a camera. But nobody would believe him now!

Reluctantly, he retreated before the tide. Two more pilotless aircraft passed over him, dipping down towards the island. Vaguely he wondered if they could have had anything to do with the strange markings in the sand. A new type of undercarriage that made landings feasible on soft ground, marshes and beaches? It was a possibility, even if it was an improbability. There was only one way to find out. He unslung his binoculars and altered his course, heading towards that large barbed-wire compound.

For some reason the visitors to the island seemed to keep well clear of the WD compound. Perhaps they felt that it was not in keeping with the relaxation which they sought, or maybe they had an inbuilt fear of military authority. Cliff Davenport was not one of the latter. At that moment he cared neither for authority nor the scenic beauty. All he knew was that he had to take a closer look at one of those pilotless aircraft, paying particular attention to its undercarriage. The discovery of some unorthodox landing device would ease his troubled mind somewhat.

When he was within fifty yards of the nearest barbed-wire fence he saw the guard. The man was dressed in RAF uniform, and had his back to the Professor. Cliff noted with a faint tingling of his spine that he carried a rifle. He did not doubt that it was loaded and that the sentry would use it at the first threat to security.

Cliff sank down slowly until he was lying full-length in the long grass. As he parted the tufts in front of him and began focusing his binoculars, he felt more secure. The man could not see him even if he chanced to turn around. Two of the aircraft he sought were standing motionless on a runway to his left. All he had to do was to examine them through the high-powered lenses and then crawl away discreetly. He could not help thinking how easy it would be for foreign spies to adopt this same procedure.

He brought his powerful binoculars to bear on the nearest of the small aircraft. Already it was shimmering in the midday heat, and everything seemed utterly still and peaceful. He began to examine the plane. It was shaped like a jet, and yet was hardly larger than the average glider. Nevertheless it had a sinister appearance, as if it might be playing some secret role in all that had happened recently, like some silent, mechanical bird of prey.

Disappointment welled up inside him as he studied the undercarriage. It was so conventional. Just two wheels, in fact, no different from those on a mini! If it landed in soft ground it certainly wouldn't take off again. He looked at the other plane standing next to it. It was exactly the same.

His spine tingled again. If those crab-like prints out on the sands had not been made by one of these pilotless crafts then there could only be one answer. And that was almost unbelievable!

'Don't move!' The terse command close behind him made him start involuntarily and the binoculars slipped from his grasp. He turned his head slightly. A blue-uniformed man knelt up in the grass less than five yards away from him and in his hand he held something black and shiny which was trained unwaveringly on the Professor's back. There was no mistaking the snub shape of a .38 automatic pistol.

'All right.' The airman's voice was almost a hiss. 'On your feet slowly. Don't make any sudden movement. Just take it easy.'

Cliff Davenport rose to his feet and then he sensed another uniformed man only a foot or so away. He hadn't even heard him move. This guy was an expert where stealth was concerned. That was why he hadn't even suspected the initial stalking. It would be a foolish man indeed who made a sudden bolt for it