the moon man. That alien fungus smothered everything with its earthy stench. It even glowed in the dark, looking almost alive, hungry, feeding off the damp and the dark of the house, brittling its bones to the core.
We opened the sliding door. Cripes, I can tell you it was a relief to see the moon man. Not to mention the two hens and the radio Mr. Lush had wired up so we could hear, once in a while, the evil empires of the world speak words of comfort to us.
The moon man stood up, hugged Gramps. I went to find the eggs, feed the hens and make sure no rats had got in. Then I lit the Bunsen burner and put the kettle over it. We drank our tea and ate the bread and the Spam fritters. A feast.
The moon man tried to talk to us with drawings. They weren’t clever like Gramps’s pictures but they told us the story. I could see clearly what was happening behind the wall.
Gramps got up, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and retuned the radio. It crackled and hissed. He fiddled with the set until we heard the Voice, the only one Gramps trusted to tell the truth. That is, he said, if there is any such thing as a truth. Hard to tell when so much is a lie.
The Voice spoke.
“The monstrous Motherland may claim to have launched a rocket to the moon, but our scientists believe that such an expedition is not and will not be possible for many years to come.
“The radiation from the moon’s atmosphere will prevent man from landing there. We must not be forced into surrender by propaganda. We must carry on with the fight, regardless. I call on all Obstructors to support the advancing Allies. Sleep easy in your beds. Do not be frightened into believing that the Motherland has the capacity to fire weapons from the moon’s surface. Instead concentrate your energies for the final battle. Afterwards we will live in a free world.”
The alarm bell rang, a red-painted lightbulb flashed. Gramps looked up, and so did I. We both knew what that meant. There was an intruder in the house. We had less than a minute to cover our tracks.
Terror is an odd thing. It has made me panic, it has made me spew, but this time, I felt a calm fury.
Gramps opened the painted wall and the moon man locked it behind us. A torch beam shined into the dark of Cellar Street.
Quickly we picked up the traps. Gramps took two, I took one.
“What are you doing down there?” a man called out.
“Rats,” shouted Gramps.
I was closest to the stairs that led up to the kitchen. The torch shined in my face. The light blinded me and I put up my hand to cover my eyes and by doing that I accidentally pressed the release button on the trap and the rat leaped up the stairs, past the intruder into the kitchen. A shot rang out.
Gramps was by my side. He went up the stairs first, carrying the cages with the other two rats in them. In the kitchen, sitting at the broken table, was a man we had never seen before. He laid down his revolver and lit a cigarette. The rat was dead in the corner.
“Mr. Treadwell,” said the man. “I have come to take the visitor to safety. We haven’t much time.”
Gramps and I both knew that if this man really did belong to the Obstructors, he would never have shot the rat. The gun had no silencer on it. The noise would have been heard outside, loud and with bells on. The detectives in their car would have to be deaf, daft, or both not to have heard and come running.
The man was a joker.
You see, that intruder was too well-dressed. Much like the dead rats he was too clean, too well-fed.
“I don’t know who you are,” said Gramps, “but I don’t think you should be here. I would like you to leave. Standish, go and tell the detectives outside we have an Obstructor here.”
The man picked up his revolver. “I am here to help you.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Gramps.
“I think,” I said, “you are one of the people who broke into our house today and found nothing.”
That got the man agitated. He took out another
We opened the sliding door. Cripes, I can tell you it was a relief to see the moon man. Not to mention the two hens and the radio Mr. Lush had wired up so we could hear, once in a while, the evil empires of the world speak words of comfort to us.
The moon man stood up, hugged Gramps. I went to find the eggs, feed the hens and make sure no rats had got in. Then I lit the Bunsen burner and put the kettle over it. We drank our tea and ate the bread and the Spam fritters. A feast.
The moon man tried to talk to us with drawings. They weren’t clever like Gramps’s pictures but they told us the story. I could see clearly what was happening behind the wall.
Gramps got up, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and retuned the radio. It crackled and hissed. He fiddled with the set until we heard the Voice, the only one Gramps trusted to tell the truth. That is, he said, if there is any such thing as a truth. Hard to tell when so much is a lie.
The Voice spoke.
“The monstrous Motherland may claim to have launched a rocket to the moon, but our scientists believe that such an expedition is not and will not be possible for many years to come.
“The radiation from the moon’s atmosphere will prevent man from landing there. We must not be forced into surrender by propaganda. We must carry on with the fight, regardless. I call on all Obstructors to support the advancing Allies. Sleep easy in your beds. Do not be frightened into believing that the Motherland has the capacity to fire weapons from the moon’s surface. Instead concentrate your energies for the final battle. Afterwards we will live in a free world.”
The alarm bell rang, a red-painted lightbulb flashed. Gramps looked up, and so did I. We both knew what that meant. There was an intruder in the house. We had less than a minute to cover our tracks.
Terror is an odd thing. It has made me panic, it has made me spew, but this time, I felt a calm fury.
Gramps opened the painted wall and the moon man locked it behind us. A torch beam shined into the dark of Cellar Street.
Quickly we picked up the traps. Gramps took two, I took one.
“What are you doing down there?” a man called out.
“Rats,” shouted Gramps.
I was closest to the stairs that led up to the kitchen. The torch shined in my face. The light blinded me and I put up my hand to cover my eyes and by doing that I accidentally pressed the release button on the trap and the rat leaped up the stairs, past the intruder into the kitchen. A shot rang out.
Gramps was by my side. He went up the stairs first, carrying the cages with the other two rats in them. In the kitchen, sitting at the broken table, was a man we had never seen before. He laid down his revolver and lit a cigarette. The rat was dead in the corner.
“Mr. Treadwell,” said the man. “I have come to take the visitor to safety. We haven’t much time.”
Gramps and I both knew that if this man really did belong to the Obstructors, he would never have shot the rat. The gun had no silencer on it. The noise would have been heard outside, loud and with bells on. The detectives in their car would have to be deaf, daft, or both not to have heard and come running.
The man was a joker.
You see, that intruder was too well-dressed. Much like the dead rats he was too clean, too well-fed.
“I don’t know who you are,” said Gramps, “but I don’t think you should be here. I would like you to leave. Standish, go and tell the detectives outside we have an Obstructor here.”
The man picked up his revolver. “I am here to help you.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Gramps.
“I think,” I said, “you are one of the people who broke into our house today and found nothing.”
That got the man agitated. He took out another
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