The Borribles - Larrabeiti Michael. Страница 32

At that moment only three Rumbles of any importance were visible to Vulge, two females and one male, and they had not been in the kitchens long for they were rubbing their eyes and yawning. The two female Rumbles began bellowing orders, and skivvies and scullions, about a dozen of them, rushed to their duties. Huge saucepans were sent clanging and spinning onto the stoves, the hot-plates glowed red and herbs and plants were washed and shredded and the morning gruel soon simmered in the pots.

With a start that nearly gave him away Vulge recognised the male Rumble; it was the chief, the main one, his very own target. Vulge withdrew his head quickly and scrambled over the opening into the end section of the shaft, allowing Chalotte to move up a little. He shone his torch behind her and saw Sydney. He popped his head down through the hole again and watched. The High Rumbles stood in the middle of the kitchen urging their minions on, smelling the soups and supervising the baking of the Rumble bread. Vulge pulled out his catapult and was easing a stone from his bandolier when the Chief Rumble, Vulgarian himself, spoke to the women. He sounded irritable and short-tempered.

"I wish you'd huwwy, you two. When I say an early bweakfast, I mean an early bweakfast. I've got a nasty feeling something's afoot. Last night, one of our Wumbles didn't weturn, and I'm wowwied. Come on, huwwy it up."

"It's no good," snapped Chalotte Rumble, "it can't be weady for another half-hour at least," and she jerked her snout up an inch to indicate the end of the discussion.

"Hmm," said Vulgarian, "then I'll go and have a bath. Send me my bweakfast on a tway as soon as it's weady," and he pulled his dressing-gown tight about him and stalked off without another word.

"What a bully," said the Chief of the Commissariat to her companion. "Who does he think he is? We wun this department."

"Don't take any notice," said Sydney Rumble, "he's due for a nasty shock one day."

"Yeah and today's the day," said Vulge to himself grimly. "I missed a chance there, dammit." He pulled his head back into the darkness of the tunnel where Chalotte waited.

"Mine's gone to have a bath," said Vulge, "but yours is right below you, and Sydney's. All you got to do is thump 'em."

Chalotte twisted and spoke to Sydney, then she crouched over the hole and looked down. Below her was a good ten foot drop, enormous for a Borrible, to the top of a wide kitchen table, white with scrubbing. She took her catapult from her back pocket, wrapped the elastic carefully round the butt and clenched the weapon between her teeth, then with a nod at Vulge, she let herself fall from his sight. Immediately Chalotte had gone Sydney wriggled forward, her catapult already prepared, and sprang, eager as a cat, through the opening. Napoleon was still some distance away but inching nearer. Vulge did not wait for him. He sat on the edge of the hatch, lowered himself by his arms till his body was at full extent, and then let go.

His feet hit the wooden surface and, following the precepts of Dodger's paratroop training, he allowed his legs to crumble and he rolled over curving his shoulder to take the force of the fall. He came off the edge of the table and fell easily into a crouching position on the kitchen floor. From there he witnessed a fight that made his eyes twinkle.

Chalotte and Sydney had arrived in the kitchen perhaps ten seconds before Vulge, but they had wasted no time. The two Rumbles of the High Command had been caught flat-footed by Chalotte's inexplicable appearance but they had soon rallied. They each seized a Rumble-stick from a rack which stood against the wall and shouted to the kitchen-hands to arm themselves and give the alarm. But Chalotte was a magician with the catapult. She had loaded and fired her weapon twice before the two Rumbles could cast their spears and they retreated down the kitchen towards the hot stoves and steaming ranges. The sound of Chalotte's stones as they sliced through the air unnerved the Rumbles, and their lances, when they were thrown, skeetered harmlessly along the tiled floor.

Now Sydney's catapult was ready and, ignoring the shouts of the scullions and the possible threat of a flying Rumble-stick, she stood and drew the heavy-duty elastic right back to her ear and a well-aimed stone flew to strike her foe in the centre of the forehead. Sydney Rumble fell lifeless to the floor, bringing down a pile of soup bowls with her.

Chalotte's enemy was to meet a more grisly fate. At the noise of the crashing crockery the High Rumble took fright, for she was now outnumbered three to one, and pushing and kicking the terrified menials from her path she ran quickly to the far end of the kitchen where huge cauldrons boiled quietly on deep square stoves, warming the day's broth. Against the largest of the containers leant a step-ladder, placed there so that ingredients could be added without difficulty and so that the soup could be inspected from time to time by the chief cooks. But now Chalotte Rumble wanted only to get away. If she were to climb that ladder and take one step across the cauldron she could squeeze through a large vent that led into a different part of the Bunker, escaping to raise the alarm and fight another day. But Chalotte the Borrible, her blood pounding with the heat of battle, was a fast and nimble runner and she pursued her namesake closely. As the Rumble reached the top of the step-ladder, Chalotte reached the bottom, seized the whole contraption and lifted it up with all her energy. There was the briefest of silences as the poor Rumble spun in space, weightless for a second, then a scream split the steamy air and the scream wailed on long and loud until, with a splash, it was submerged deep in the hot and lumpy soup, but even then the scream went on, freighted up to the surface of the stew in rippling bubbles, like a fart in bath-water.

Vulge ran across the room and covered the saucepan with a huge and heavy lid. "Blimey," he crowed, "she's really in the soup now, ain't she?"

Napoleon's legs appeared through the opening in the ceiling and he dropped to the table and jumped to the floor. He ran to a corner and grabbed a Rumble-stick. He felt the weight of it and looked at the group of kitchen-hands who cowered together in a corner.

"Okay, you bunch of bunnies," he snarled, "you move and I'll tear yer ears off."

Sydney pulled her target's body into a broom-cupboard, closed the door and locked it. "Cripes," she gasped, "that was over too fast, don't seem right."

"Getting in was easy," agreed Chalotte, "it's the getting out."

"What are we going to do with the skivvies?" asked Vulge.

"Lock 'em in the pantry," suggested Sydney, "they won't give us any trouble."

"You do that," said Napoleon, making for the door. "Me and Vulge better get going, we've still got work to do. Before you leave here turn the electrics up; let it all burn dry so it'll smoke and fuse and catch fire. Hungry Rumbles can't fight."

"That's it." Vulge crossed the room to leave with Napoleon. "When you've done you'd better try to make your way to the Great Door and see if you can meet up with Stonks and Torrey."

"We might see you again at the Central," said Napoleon, "and then again we might not. Don't wait for anybody. As from now we each takes our chance." With this he and Vulge slipped through the door and were gone.

Sydney and Chalotte herded the kitchen-hands into the larder, using sharp spears to encourage them. Once the Rumbles had been disposed of the two girls ran around the kitchen switching all the stoves and ovens to full on, and then, propped against their lances, they looked at each other and a slow smile crept from their eyes to their lips and became a grin.

"Here, we've got our names," said Sydney. "Fancy that."

Torreycanyon made his way down the main tunnel. It felt strange to be alone after so long in the company of the others, but there was no stopping now. Somewhere ahead of him would be the main hallway with the corridors running out from it like a spider's web. The Bunker was deserted, for the Rumbles were still sleeping, but in a very short while they would be coming from their bedrooms and making for the refectory to enjoy a copious breakfast.

Occasionally Torreycanyon saw a signpost which, he supposed, was to direct the younger Rumbles until they had learnt their way around. There weren't enough indications for his taste and he realised what a task the Borrible team had taken on. He understood suddenly that he was going to need a lot of luck to find his target, and a lot more to get out of this labyrinth alive. He gripped his catapult tightly, a stone ready for firing, and he stepped bravely forward. Best to press on and meet the dangers as they came, no point in worrying about them prematurely. Good old Stonks was behind, guarding the Great Door, and it would take an avalanche of Rumbles to move him.

Torreycanyon crept past several doors leading from the corridor. On each was a notice saying, "Dormitory"; he listened but heard no noises from within. So far so good. He went on, halting and listening at every branch corridor, peeping around every corner before going on and then peering back to make sure he was not being followed.

"Cripes," he said, often. "I wish I could find my target and then get out of here, it's creepy being on your own."

At last luck was with him. He nearly passed a narrow passage leading off to his left but his foot slipped and looking down he saw a patch of oil on the floor. He moved into the passage and shone his torch on the wall, for it was darker there. At eye level words had been daubed in blue paint, and although faded and difficult to decipher, they were still legible. "Garage and Workshops. Keep Out. signed TORREYCANYON RUMBLE."

"Oh boy, oh boy," said Torreycanyon, "I've done it right. I'll get in the garage and wait for him." He knew from his reading of the Rumble histories that the workshops were a vital nerve centre of this underground complex and it was part of the Borrible plan, once they had eliminated their targets, to cause as much confusion as possible. Torreycanyon hoped that possession of the workshops would enable him to wreak great damage throughout the Bunker, merely by pulling a few switches. If he could break in before the Rumbles awoke, he would be in a strong position.

The dark corridor sloped downwards beneath the Rumbledom hillsides. It was slippery and oily underfoot because so much machinery had passed that way but Torreycanyon moved forward only when he had verified with his torch that it was safe to do so. At last he came up against a heavy wooden door, sagging on its hinges. It was scarred and battered where sharp metal edges had been bashed against it. To Torreycanyon's amazement the door was open and a light shone inside.