Guy N. Smith - The Pluto Pact

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PROLOGUE

Dusk was beginning to creep down from the mountains when the Witchfinder rode

into Craiglowrie. His hunched position in the saddle of the black mare

disguised his true height, yet all the same he was tall and terrible, the

features beneath the dark broad-brimmed hat seemed like those of a

sun-bleached skull from a distance. The grimace that revealed black and broken

teeth; the eyes that glowed with the fire of a personal hatred, and seemed to

search out each and every one of the peasants who trembled and watched behind

the windows of their tumbledown bothies.

They remembered the last time he had come to this remote Scottish valley, a

company of soldiers in his wake. Six villagers had been dragged from their

homes and burned, the Witchfinder's long bony forefinger singling them out -

judge and executioner - not speaking, just smiling evilly. And when he left,

the stench of burned human flesh hung in the atmosphere for days afterwards as

though he had commanded the elements not to disperse it - a grim reminder to

those who still lived. That had been in 1580. And now, fifteen years later, he

was back, a devil incarnate on a mission of death, hidden beneath the folds of

his travel-worn cloak was a royal commission which none dared question.

The fact that he was alone now was in a way more terrifying to the watchers

than if he had ridden in with an armed escort, for such was his aura of power

that he seemed like a god of old come to torture and kill, to wreak mayhem

wherever he travelled.

His eyes narrowed to slits, taking in the village in one sweeping glance,

reviving old memories which brought a grim smile to the bloodless lips. There

stood the kirk, a symbol of defiance against evil, in spite of its weatherworn

structure. Almost contempt in the Witchfinder's expression now, perhaps

wishing that he could burn the ageing, red-faced clergyman who peered from

behind the partly open doors; another monarch, another Act, and perhaps one

day that would come about. Eyes everywhere were watching him, like frightened

fireflies ready to withdraw into the darkness.

Tall and erect now, straining his gaze to make out the half-demolished cottage

some way up the mountain slope. He watched intently, as though looking for

some movement from within but there was none. Just a faint wisp of peaty smoke

rising straight up into the windless sky. That meant Balzur was at home. But

there was no hurry; he would not be going anywhere.

The stranger nudged his horse forward, tired hooves scraping on the stony

track. He rode slowly between the uneven line of dwellings until he reached a

larger building at the far end beyond the kirk, its windows lighted and a door

ajar - the hospitality of the inn, denied to none.

The Witchfinder dismounted in one easy movement, throwing the loose reins over

a hitching-post. The animal stood there meekly as its master mounted the

narrow steps and threw the door wide open.

The single room which served as a hostelry for the inhabitants of Craiglowrie

was primitive - trestle tables of planks placed across sawn tree butts,

earthenware jugs and mugs, an acrid reek of ale and crudely-distilled spirit

which caused the newcomer's nostrils to flare. A man straightened up from the

fireplace, hunched by some deformity from birth, blistered lips moving beneath

his red beard.

'Sire.' He gave a half-bow, sweeping downwards with the stump of a malformed

hand. 'My humble inn, food and drink, are yours.'

There was a gleam in the Witchfinder's eyes as he scraped mud from the soles

of his riding boots on to the rough floor. 'Aye, landlord, all that I want

I'll take in the name of the King and his Kirk. Ale for now, and tell me of

this man Balzur.'

Amber liquid was slopped into a vessel on the bar and when the innkeeper spoke

his festered lips quivered. 'Sire,' he began, 'Balzur has ruled Craiglowrie

and the people of these mountains ever since the royal soldiers left after

quelling the uprising. His word is law ... until now!' Relief overcame fear.

'Thank God our message found you, Witchfinder.'

'My coming has nothing to do with your message' - a pause as the speaker took

a long swallow of ale. 'I have travelled many miles because there is said to

be one here whose magic offends the King and his Kirk. But tell me more of

this Balzur and his black powers.'

'He communes with the devil' - a sudden rush of words. 'Young maidens and

children have been snatched from their homes in the dead of night, and never

seen again. The people live in terror, and bestow gifts upon Balzur in the

hope that he might pass over their families. Only last week a wee lassie . . .

'I'll warrant his power is not as strong as mine,' the Witchfinder gave a low

laugh. 'But, nevertheless, I shall need the help of the people of Craiglowrie.

All the brushwood they can find to make a fire so great that it will light up

the English towns on the other side of Solway. Tonight the sky will radiate my

power for all to see, driving the evil ones back into the darkness.'

'The people await your bidding, sire.' 'Then bid them hasten, for the time is

nigh.' As the Witchfinder watched the dwarf-like figure step out through a

rear doorway, he heard the mutter of low voices. Laughing, he refilled his

mug. This coming night would be yet another to savour.

It was fully dark when the Witchfinder left the inn, a myriad of sparkling

stars in the sky promising frost before morning - a night to huddle around a

blazing fire. And tonight, the people of Craiglowrie would be able to do just

that! The tall man glanced towards the mingled crowd further down the street.

He set off at a walk, his pace deceptive so that some of the older villagers

had to break into a shambling run just to keep his silhouette in view. He

permitted himself another smile as he noticed the dead branches piled high

around the base of a lone oak which had once been struck by lightning. These

peasants had wasted no time in their eagerness to be rid of Balzur.

The going was steeper now though he did not slow his step. His heart was

pounding at the thought of what lay ahead. The remains of a hillside cottage

were lit up - an ethereal glow that cast weird shadows across heather and

gorse. So long as Balzur was at home, nothing else mattered.

As the Witchfinder paused, staring at the jagged stone entrance with its

ill-fitting door, he heard the low mutterings of those who followed at a

distance. They were afraid - Balzur's sorcery was feared from the Craiglowrie

mountains to the Firth, and beyond. Even now they doubted the powers of the

Witchfinder against the magic of Balzur.

There was a faint stench, barely noticeable - but once you recognised it you

heaved and vomited. Burning human flesh! Yet to the Witchfinder it was the

sweet fragrance of success, familiar to one such as himself. He moved forward,

no longer hesitating. The time for savouring was over. His booted foot struck

the door, and flung it back with a splintering of wood.

Balzur was there, at the far end of the littered room. The fire in the wide

grate belched out poisonous-smelling smoke as though the soot-caked chimney

above was rebelling against it. In some respects the wizard resembled the one

who had encroached upon his domain. Beneath the grime on his scaly flesh the

features were finely cut, as though nobility had existed in his ancestry. Old,

so old it seemed incredible that he still lived and moved . . . until you

looked into his eyes and then you understood! Two sunken, malevolent orbs that

radiated the ultimate in evil - an invisible force that had men cowering back

and babbling their fear of his magic. Except the Witchfinder; he met his

adversary's gaze unflinchingly, then allowed his eyes to travel round the

room.

He'd seen most of it before in similar abodes; verminous creatures scurrying

and squeaking in their cages, dried and whitened bones, the jar of preserved

foreskins. Only here the stench of death was predominant - a dismembered

child's body smouldering and hissing amidst the peat and kindling wood. There

were markings on floor, walls and ceiling; a few familiar but most beyond his

ken. Balzur, truly, was a black magician supreme, a disciple of the Left Hand

Path.

The Witchfinder's mouth was suddenly dry, and a momentary spasm of fear

twanged his heartbeat out of rhythm. Then he had himself under control again -

staring at the wizard's tall, skeletal figure, arrogant and defiant.

'I need no further proof of your vile sorcery,' the Witch-finder cried, with

relief that his voice did not quaver. 'I see it all before me here. And for

what I see you are condemned to die by fire, so that your evil may be consumed

with you.'

'My power is greater than yours, Witchfinder. Molest me at your peril!'

'Seize him!' the other shouted, half-turned towards the villagers crowding

into the room. 'Drag him to the stake.'

Then came a rush of angry, sweat-stinking bodies, and calloused hands grabbing

for the old man whose upraised arm failed to hold off those who had so long

yielded to his demands - touching him at first with the revulsion of an

inquisitive child finding a dead reptile, then dragging him boldly out into

the open. A chorus of abuse drowned his feeble protests as he was raised aloft

and carried down the uneven slope. Burning torches illuminated the scene,

reflecting on Balzur's features. The Witchfinder, bringing up the rear, gasped

in amazement. Their power destroyed, his victims usually screamed and pleaded

for mercy. But not Balzur! His face was an impassive mask, without so much as

a glimmer of apprehension in the deep-sunken eyes - tight-lipped, angry, but

unafraid!

Several stumbled on the long trek down to Craiglowrie village, and once the

wizard was almost dropped. But their anger had now escalated to a frenzy. Burn

the fiend. Let Pluto, ruler of the underworld, take his own back into his

fiery halls. They recalled the Bible readings in the kirk as the timid

clergyman had relied upon its teachings to combat the evil hanging over them

for so long. 'Thou shall not suffer a witch to live. He that sacrificeth unto

any god save the Lord only, he shall be utterly destroyed.' It was time for

those words to be put into action!

Balzur was lifted up and tied with stout ropes to the tree-trunk. Blazing

torches were held at the ready as all heads turned towards the Witchfinder.

The tall man emerged from the shadows, and approached the condemned man.

'This is the fate that awaits all who confer with demons, Balzur,' came his

deep booming voice that seemed to echo through the village and along the

valley. 'My power is greater than yours, my fire hotter than hell itself.'

'Wait!' It was no desperate plea from the bound man on top of the pyre, rather

an insistence that his last words be heard. 'You know not what you do.'

'Blasphemy - words stolen from the Holy Book.'

'No. My words in truth, my warning. Burn me and all of you shall burn. You

too, Witchfinder. The anger of Pluto will come upon those who destroy his

disciple and he will send fire to consume you; you and your descendants after

you. A heat that will consume you within and without, a fire that will live in

this place for all time. This I promise. The curse of Pluto will be upon you

and your offspring. Stop now, before it is too late!'

'Empty words, the hollow threats of a cowardly murderer.' The Witchfinder

shouted, noticing that a few of those with torches had stepped back. 'This

blasphemer cannot harm you. Do not listen to him. Fire him!'

A torch was thrust forward, with a loud crackling as the hungry flames found

the dry tinder and began to spread. Other torches were thrown on to the fire,

instantly igniting and sending up orange tongues and flying sparks. There was

a loud roar as the flames amalgamated, the thickening smoke spiralled and

mushroomed out into the blackness of night.

'Hear me. Listen to the curse of Balzur. Hear me, Pluto, mighty ruler of the

world below!' Balzur's features seemed less wizened now, the wrinkles

smoothing out into the tenderness of youth, no hint of the searing pain of the

fire as it began to blacken the flesh beneath his blazing garments.

The crowd had fallen back in a frightened huddle, unable to take their eyes

off Balzur.

'Don't look at him! Don't listen!' the Witchfinder shrieked through the

crackle of burning branches and there was no mistaking the fear in his voice.

'He can't hurt you now,'

No, but his evil demons can. Pluto will take revenge for this. Far better to

have fled Craiglowrie and left our village for Balzur to rule over.

The King's Witchfinder had now fallen back, wanting to turn and run, to mount

his horse and leave this devilish place far behind. But he found his gaze

irresistibly drawn back up to the face of his burning victim.

'You heard me, Witchfinder,' his blackened lips made themselves heard above

the noise. 'You and these people, and all their families, shall die by the

fire of Pluto. A living death. My agony is short-lived, before I go to join my

master. But yours will continue endlessly in everlasting hell fire.' A sudden

collapse of burning debris, and the blazing body was momentarily screened by

the eddying smoke. When this cleared, he still managed one last soul-chilling

cry. 'Hear me, Pluto, whom I have served so long, and take my soul in return

for a curse upon Craiglowrie. Burn these people and their children, and their

children's children, with a fire that cannot be quenched!'

The Witchfinder found himself staggering away with the others, in a panic

stricken flight through the blinding smoke, clasping his hands over his ears

in a futile attempt to shut out the words. And then through streaming eyes he

spied his black mount pulling frantically at its tether, eyes rolling as it

bucked and plunged . . . as if it, too, had heard and understood.

Grabbing the reins he somehow brought the animal to a standstill, gulping for

breath as he hauled himself up into the saddle, trying to get the horse under

control.

You, too, Witchfinder!

He spurred its flanks, knowing he could not stop the horse even if he wanted

to, and crouching low over its neck, he thundered past the scattered hovels of

Craiglowrie, the place now cursed by Balzur as he traded his soul for revenge

upon his executioners.

Galloping through the night, the mare found its own path, slewing violently in

places and almost throwing its rider. On, on - far beyond the glow of the

dying fire now reflecting on the mountain slopes above the village.

Then suddenly the night sky was lit up with dazzling brilliance - a shooting

ball of fire that seared the eyeballs, a brightness impossible to shut out.

The Witchfinder felt his steed rear, knew that he was airborne, somersaulting,

flying. Falling. A sickening crunch that seemed to break every bone in his

body, then he was lying there blinded by fiery explosions that threatened to

shatter his skull. Screaming for mercy until his voice was no more than a

hoarse whisper.

Then came the pain with all its excruciating force, a burning that he had him

gasping for water. Somewhere he could smell smoke - but that was impossible

because he had covered many miles and Balzur's funeral pyre was far behind.

You, too, Witchfinder!

Oh God, the pain! His lungs racked him with every wheezing breath. He couldn't

move, every limb was contorted with agony. And he could not get that face out

of his mind, the cursing lips, the searching eyes. None would be spared.

And the Witchfinder knew that he was going to die. His body burned and yet

there was no fire. Scorching heat and dancing flames. And Balzur still

cursing, pursuing him into the black void of unconsciousness.

It was three days before the villagers emerged from their homes and crept

towards the burned patch where Balzur's dwelling had stood. Past the ashes of

the fire in which the ogre of Craiglowrie had perished, the blackened skeleton

scarcely distinguishable from the charred branches of the old oak.

Shivering on a damp misty morning, but not because of the cold, they stood

some fifty yards away from the blackened ruin, saw the heap of fallen stones

that had once been walls, the timbers reduced to powdered ash.

And something else ... an object roughly the size of a large tombstone

embedded in the ground where once the door had stood. Uneven yet smooth and

shining, glinting with a coppery colour as the first rays of the morning sun

penetrated the swirling mist. Once they glanced at it they had to keep on

looking, as though it was an eye that held them with a hypnotic stare.

As the sun rose, the mist vanished, but still they continued to stand there.

So warm, like the glow of embers when the fire has died down. Getting warmer,

the longer they stood there, until they began to sweat.

They assured each other that the strange heat came from the ashes - that

beneath them the fire still burned and would continue to do so for weeks like

the moorland fires in dry summers. But it was evening before they finally

returned to their bothies and told their families what they had seen. And each

of them vowed never to return to that awful place again, remembering Balzur's

curse and his pact with Pluto.

Winter came with its howling blizzards, and deep snows that buried

Craiglowrie, the villagers remaining in their cottages from November until the

following March. And, as always, the winter brought its own deaths; the sick

and infirm unable to survive the cold in spite of their incessant peat fires.

By February there were fifteen corpses awaiting burial; strong men who had

died in indescribable agony in the claustrophobic blackness of their tomb-like

homes, pleading for water as their bodies burned with festering rashes,

wasting away in frenzied delirium.

Finally the snows began to melt and in the first week of April a tragic,

fearful column of Craiglowrie's survivors wound its way up towards the foot of

the mountain. The ascent up to where Balzur's cottage had once stood was

treacherous yet they had to see, curiosity overcoming their terror in the

bright sunlight.

They stood there aghast, huddled together for safety, the sweat on their

bodies turning icy.

'May God have mercy on us ... and on all the people of Craiglowrie!' The

ageing clergyman closed his eyes and prayed that the sinister blackened square

which harboured not a flake of snow amidst the mountain drifts would disappear

by the time he looked again. But it did not.

'It's . . . gone!' a shaking hand pointed to the place where a heap of rubble

had once marked the site of the black magician's hovel. In its place was a

gaping hole that seemed to drop on down into the bowels of the earth. None

dared step forward to ascertain its depth. A yawning black pit had swallowed

up both the stonework and the thunderbolt that had come in answer to Balzur's

curse. Pluto had sent his messenger of destruction and, once its work was

done, it had sunk back down to the underworld!

The villagers returned to their homes in terror, never daring to venture back

up that hillside again - for when the lush summer growth began it was only too

plain to see that not a single shoot of heather nor blade of grass grew on

that

spot they now called 'Pluto's Patch'.

And from that time onwards, according to legend, the people of Craiglowrie

died terrible deaths, with a disease that spread over their bodies in burning

rashes. But always a few survived - enough to transmit the curse through the

following centuries. Then finally none remained, just a ghost village where

strange lights in the sky and burning heath fires were reported by wandering

shepherds in search of missing sheep.

Towards the end of the nineteenth century, a town was built on the site of

Craiglowrie's dereliction. New people moved in, and if perchance they heard

stories of Balzur and the Witchfinder, they scoffed and dismissed these tales

as folklore which had no part in a modern world. And in a growing population a

few deaths went virtually unnoticed . . .

Chapter One

Muir-burning time; mid-February when the heather is brittle after a dry spell,

the old growth igniting easily and the fire spreading, leaving in its wake a

charred and ugly landscape. But only a temporary disfiguration of Nature's

kingdom, for within weeks the new growth will sprout lush and green, tender

shoots for the hungry grouse to devour, cover in which to hatch their young,

hidden from the sharp eye of the gliding buzzard or eagle, safety from the

prowling fox.

Moorland fires had their own special fascination for Jock Leggett. The dancing

orange tongues, the way they ate up everything in their path, a leaping tide

of destruction, crackling and hissing like an army of angry dragons, thwarted

when they reached the fire-break which Jock had carefully scythed around the

patch to be burned. Then he began all over again, working zestfully so that

from his croft that night he could gaze out upon the big squares of

smouldering ashes and know that it was all his own work. It crossed his mind

once what he would have done had he lived within the bounds of a city,

Edinburgh or Glasgow, instead of on the outskirts of Craiglowrie. It was a

frightening thought because he knew he would have had to set fire to

something. He couldn't live without fire, as though he had been spawned in

hell.

The Balzur legend didn't frighten Jock - not one little bit. Balzur had been a

man of fire, and he'd died as he'd lived, not uttering a single scream even

when the blaze was at its fiercest, turning his flesh to dripping fat, like

the burning of a candle.

All the same Jock wasn't happy. With the sweet smell of heather smoke in his

nostrils he gazed down with smarting eyes upon the activity in the valley

below him. Bulldozers levelled the rugged terrain, a gang of men were already

erecting a high barbed-wire fence around the perimeter of what the Craiglowrie

Herald announced would be the most up-to-date nuclear waste reprocessing plant

in the world. Coyle, the editor, had nicknamed it 'Holocaust', and if anything

went wrong that was what it would be, a blazing hell on earth. Jock conjured

up a mental picture, sky-high flames that would light up the sky for miles

around, the smell of burning flesh heavy in the atmosphere. It wasn't that

which worried him most, though, because he didn't really understand anything

about nuclear recycling. It was what these bastards were doing to the valley

that upset him. This was just the start; they'd need more and more land and

they'd take it as they wanted it, regardless of sheep or grouse or the hill

folk who eked out a living the simple way. One day there would be nothing here

but barbed-wire compounds and squat featureless buildings - like being taken

over by the Russians.

Jock coughed as some of the smoke got down into his lungs. It was sweet, like

tobacco smoke, and made him feel heady until he couldn't breathe and had to

back away out of the eddying clouds. He wondered what would happen to these

slopes in years to come. They'd be barren - the moor above too - all

incorporated in this latest foolhardy venture by Man, the suicide course of

modern civilization. It would be nice to burn them off now, whilst there was

still heather to burn, a kind of defiant gesture to this bureaucracy which was

spreading up from south of the border. They wanted barren landscapes; then

bloody well gi' it 'em, a black stinking charred desert!

The blood coursed fiercely through Jock Leggett's veins, his wizened,

weatherbeaten features clouded with anger, gnarled hands clenched at the tiny

moving dots down below. The grouse and their predators would be driven to

another habitat, and then another, and another, until there was nowhere left

for them to go. Man, too, would become an extinct species.

Jock had already seen the best of his life. Nostalgic memories flooded back:

the moor as it used to be when the gentlemen shooters came by horse-drawn

carriages in the days when his father was gamekeeper here, wining and dining

in the lodges at night - lodges now fallen into decay because sportsmen today

jetted up for a day's shooting and had no time to savour the other, more

worthwhile aspects of their trip. A hundred brace was average for a day then;

now thirty was considered good. Leisure had been replaced by haste, an urgency

to get everything over and done with. Selfishness and greed . . .

Yes, Jock decided, today was as good a day as any for a big fire, a freshening

westerly wind to fan the flames, and drive the blaze downwards towards the

monstrosity that was destroying the valley below. Sweeping flames that would

destroy everything in their path. And nobody would be able to prove a thing;

since dozens of muir-burns got out of control every spring.

Hidden by the smoke from anybody who might be watching down below, Jock

Leggett moved away, and picked out a clump of gorse suitable for starting the

big blaze. He dropped to his knees in the heather, the matchbox rattling in

his hand. No change of mind, no regrets. This was going to be the end of an

era. In a way it was like being God.

Some dead gorse flared and crackled, sparks igniting several more fires in the

rough brown grass that lay around. Wisps of smoke thickened. Soon rivers of

flame merged into an ocean inferno - roaring as the wind caught it.

Jock Leggett remained kneeling, almost as though he had not the strength to

struggle to his feet. And everywhere it had grown much darker, as the

thickening smoke hung in the sky, shutting out the sun. The blaze was really

getting a hold now. Jock smiled feebly as he moved downhill. Soon the smoke

would block out the sunlight from the entire valley - a hellish night in the

midst of day.

Let that day be darkness. Let not God regard it from above, neither let the

light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it. Let a

cloud dwell upon it. Let the blackness of the day terrify it.

And then came the heat, scorching the old gamekeeper, smarting his eyes with a

painful dryness. Through the billowing smoke he could clearly see a ten-foot

wall of flame - coming back towards him!

He lost his balance as his foot caught up in some tangled heather, and he fell

back. His mouth opened but the cry of terror was no more than a wheeze.

Let that day be darkness.

His fear escalated. The wind had changed suddenly to an easterly direction. No

longer was the blaze being carried down towards Craiglowrie. Instead it was

moving back uphill, the flames all around him as they raced towards the moor

above.

Jock Leggett closed his eyes, but he could not shut out the living hell all

around him. Then suddenly he was aware that he was no longer alone!

A man ... He could see him clearly, seemingly impervious to the fire which

raged about him. A ragged figure materialising out of the black smoke. A face

that belonged to a corpse in the final stages of decay. Hairless and

blackened. Eyes that glowed brightly, or else reflected the inferno that

surely must consume him any moment. Blistered lips stretched into a mirthless

smile . . . uttering soundless words.

This is how it once was, and is now, and shall be again. A land of fires,

destroying. Only I can live, for Pluto himself gave me everlasting life to

carry out his bidding. You shall die- just as the people of this valley shall

die. My curse is at hand. For I, Balzur, rule this place, and I shall rise

again amidst its ashes. I have brought fire and death . . .

Leggett managed a scream, but he had not the strength to attempt a futile

flight.

The heat scorched his flesh, his clothing smouldered. He sank back, staring

wildly into the encroaching flames. But the old man was no longer visible -

just a shapeless wisp of smoke amidst the inferno.

He prayed for death but it did not come. His body was now ablaze, with a

hissing sound like wet logs make on a roaring fire. Strange shapes came and

went - a host of demons mocking him in his last hour, delighting in his pain

and terror. Shrill voices. Laughter.

Pledge your soul and Pluto will grant everlasting life.

Jock Leggett wanted to do just that. Somehow he forced his mouth open, but he

couldn't find the words, his brain numbed.

And then the full force of the advancing fire was upon him, consuming him

utterly and passing on.

Chapter 2

'You're crazy, every bloody one of you!'

The man who had spoken now looked steadily at each of the other eleven men

occupying places at the same long table in the largest room of the Craiglowrie

town hall. Eyes met his, then dropped. Fingers drummed nervously on the

polished mahogany table top. Somebody coughed ... an embarrassed silence . . .

a match scraped.

'Furthermore' - Bob Coyle was not one to be deterred by an overwhelming

contrasting opinion - 'you're greedy for power. How much more do you think

this valley can take? Look what's happened to it. Remember the town most of us

were brought up in? Sheep grazed the hillsides; we lived peacefully, happily,

and we had security. Look at what we've got now, something that could be a

third-class suburban area of any duty industrial town in Britain - only worse.

We're living under a cloud of radioactivity. One leak . . . And now you're

going to let them take the whole of the north end of the valley - the rest of

it - until there isn't a blade of grass or a clump of heather left. What about

us, our children? It's got to be stopped now, before it's too late!'

Silence again, each pair of eyes glancing at Bob Coyle. At thirty-seven he had

the physique and appearance of a man ten years younger. Dark wavy hair

reaching down to his collar with scarcely a fleck of grey, rugged features

inherited from his forefathers, the flock masters who had eked a living from

the steep, windswept slopes of the valley, the deep blue eyes that now flashed

angrily. His clothes, too, indicated the individualism which he valued so

highly. Never before, in the history of town council meetings, had sweater and

slacks been worn. Tweed suits were reserved for these occasions, sometimes a

kilt amongst the more traditional members.

'Well?'

Coyle was determined to force an answer one way or the other. Some of them

hated him already - if not him personally, then his newspaper the Herald,

brazenly outspoken, almost to the point of libel. Yet, there had never been a

legal action against him. Always there was a glimmering of truth there, a

spark which produced the wisp of smoke.

'Just look what it means to the town,' said Blackmead the butcher, staring

down at the table almost timidly.

'Yes, just look,' snapped Coyle angrily. 'A future slum. Within a decade these

cheapjack houses will be falling to bits. We're overcrowded already, and

nobody seems to care a damn that just one leak will mean them having to blast

these hills into the valley for a mass grave!'

'But they've overcome all that now. All that was in the early stages . . . '

'The risks are still there. The bigger they make this place, the more waste

they'll be recycling. And the more waste lying about for processing, the

greater the chances of a leak . . . maybe worse. We've gone far enough. Too

far. Stop it now, in the name of humanity!'

Another uneasy silence, as the councillors glanced at each other, and looked

away - anywhere except at Bob Coyle.

'Er, yes . . . well,' McLellan, the Planning Officer, shuffled the papers hi

front of him. Though he knew their contents by heart, he made a pretence of

studying them again. Only his bushy moustache disguised the fact that his

upper lip was trembling.

'Er . . . yes,' he sorted through the papers again, stalling - knowing that he

would have to support the other councillors and oppose Coyle. It wasn't so

much the man himself he feared, but Coyle's paper, the Herald. A couple of

recent clippings were attached to the closely-typewritten sheets he now

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PROLOGUEDuskwasbeginningtocreepdownfromthemountainswhentheWitchfinderrodeintoCraiglowrie.Hishunchedpositioninthesaddleoftheblackmaredisguisedhistrueheight,yetallthesamehewastallandterrible,thefeaturesbeneaththedarkbroad-brimmedhatseemedlikethoseofasun-bleachedskullfromadistance.Thegrimacethatreveale...

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Guy N. Smith - The Pluto Pact

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