"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions." ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Contents

Poetry
Consequences : Pete Munford
The Sound of the City : Ross Parker
Merry Christmas : Shaun Allan
But Count Also The Moon : Megan Wright
Haiku : Malcolm Hulme
The Lyrics Anyway : Ben Ohmart
Seekers : Richard Fein

Fiction and Prose
00:00 : Leslie Alberts
The Parade : Stanley Worthington
The Highwayman : Karen Mossman
When Her Favourite Band Splits : Jan Goudie

Serial
Watery Grave - Part 2 : Stuart Levin

Consequences

Why should I
Be tried
In the case
Of the stranger
Who wore my face?

I have my view
As he had his
But the memory
Of what he did
Still binds me.

He spawned me
And made an enemy.
I should fight,
I know his secrets,
I saw his plight

And know too that
From the outside,
He was me.
Despite the crimes,
He is free.

Pete Munford ~

The Sound of the City

The city's sounds never lapse,
All day the noise, a constant hum,
Drunks singing, (too much rum),
All night the trob,
The blanket of sound,
Pumping, pulsing all around,
Not to be mistaken with a din,
Even if the drunks (too much gin),
Add to the buzz,
In the air
Stop and think,
You can't but care,
If the noise would ever stop,
The city would shrivel, droop, drop,
It's the sound of this human beehive,
That keeps the city's spirit alive.

Ross Parker ~

Merry Christmas

In the distance
a vague whisper of bells
drifts by.
The boy lays beside his mother.
He weeps.
She sleeps
and he can't wake her.
He picks up the needle
by her side,
and he sleeps.
The driver only had a couple,
the little girl didn't have any.
And the boy
in the box
by the river
looks up as the bells
drift by.
He smiles
sadly.
"Merry Christmas"
he says.

Shaun Allan ~

But Count Also The Moon

You said stay,
and I stayed.
I stayed and laid down
myself
for You.

But you were alone.

You reached into my
deepest void
emerged with my carnality
and placed it before my lips.

But You did not see My eyes.

You took the night
and pronounced each star,
even in their glory,
as mine.

But You did not count the moon.

I passed my life
my soul
my mind
to You.

I am returning it all.

I do not feel weary, I will not stay.
I am not fervent, I do not need flesh.
I cannot fly, the stars are of no use.

Give me instead
Your heart
Your self
Your trust.
But count also the moon.

Megan C. Wright ~

Haiku

I dreamed a haiku;
scratched the words with night-sharp thoughts.
Morning wiped the slate.

Malcolm Hulme ~

The Lyrics Anyway

our favorite song was The Way You Touch Your Hair
we were married for 4.3 years
on that subject again
and I said the words said one thing
you said they said something they didn't
led to an argument
The argument
separation
then we talked about divorce
and now I sit here alone
with a can of baked beans
dog with a nose crushed into its face
listening to my favorite song

Ben Ohmart ~

Seekers

Here behind the dune, the cries of distant gulls soothe,
and one lone pinkie of the ocean,
curls round this dune to create a mudflat;
here near this sheltered brackish pool
growing ever more salty as the tide recedes under the July sun,
where countless courting crabs call with their claws,
I find a photo torn not just in half
but utterly in fragments---
shattered as if dipped in liquid nitrogen---
yet enough remains to piece together a face,
a human face, so many pieces, such vehemence,
remnants of a brittle affair turned too cold.
Was it here that they shared a moment?
Only a jilted lover would have returned
to shred a memory.
Out of the shards, I've assembled a sand-portrait on a windy beach.
The gulls and courting crabs have witnessed everything,
but offer no testimony,
for both are seekers---
the crabs for mates,
the gulls for carrion.

Richard Fein ~

00:00

I walk on the wind, caught between the idea and the absence of breath. Beneath and about me the terrible deluge continues, unabated. It is in my power to put a halt to the proceedings, but I do not.

I wonder why.

I gain no pleasure from the foray, I am sure. In fact, I can see it's effects on those who are unknowing, and my pity is with them.

But I hold back.

I wonder why.

With a gesture, a glance, the barest whisper of a thought, it would be ended, the cries would cease, the battle would be over. Perhaps I am curious. Perhaps I wish to see if it has a natural course, as most things do. I find that, in most cases I need not intercede - that, cruel though she may sometimes be, my companion, Fate, grasps the Event by the throat, and drags it along her chosen path - the natural course.

Sometimes, though, she does not, and, as now, without a path our enemy, Chaos, is given the chance to interfere, and to scatter reason as so much dust.

That is not our way. Chaos is unwelcome and, if Fate wishes not to take a hand in this Event, then I see that I must.

I wonder again why I held back when I knew at the fore that it must be thus. No answer is forthcoming, so I give the thought no more substance than my self.

There is a lull in the Event, as if it recognises my intentions, indeed recognises me. This is new. I am without form or feature - indeed I am, ultimately, Without. I could ponder this, but I see Chaos preparing once more, so I act, and I give thought essence.

Let there be Light.

And, lo, there is Light.

Leslie Alberts ~

The Parade

On this fragile blue December morning, it twinkles like sugar-speckled liquorice in the crisp, cold air- the Square. Prompted by a discipline the silicone-chip can never replace, we loiter in green knotted tangles awaiting the puppeteer.

From the wings an apprentice appears and unravels this maze of khaki, his bellowing clouding the mind with doubt as to your parents marital state. Like the bristles on some well-worn brush, the puppets emerge in regimental clusters. A pen appears like a flea from a drowning dog, and the inventory begins. The discordant cries of "Sir" reverberate, a sonata on an out-of-tune piano.

The puppeteer stands motionless, bathed in the yellow spotlight, the ultimate Military android. With a sharp movement of his body the performance begins. Few words are spoken as he skilfully manipulates the black-backed caterpillar, weaving them to their assigned places, black feet dancing in perfect rhythm, a complete yet separate entity. The Grand Master observes.

Two cutting words, one sharp Crack! The Grand Master takes control; skilled in many arts, he will praise or reject his puppets with the ruthless efficiency of Genghis Khan. A word of praise and an ego inflates, a rejection and another dream lies broken. The rigid lines are dissected and inspected: only then will the Grand Master allow his puppets to depart.

The withdrawal is quick and decisive. All leave the stage in sharp and incisive movements. Their ghostly marching dies in the distance. The stage shivers and is still.

Stanley Worthington ~

The Highwayman

Rising from the bed, Saffron glanced at the sleeping man, he was beautiful, strong and handsome and he belonged to her. Pulling on her stockings she hummed softly thinking how she had never been happier as she was at this moment. Donning her shift she stepped lightly into her gown.

He had awakened and was watching her dress. She smiled, loving the sparkle of adoration in his eyes. "'Tis time for me to leave, Luke."

Opening the chamber door she called for her maid. Luke stepped out of bed naked. Saffron gasped, "Do you want to give Aila a shock ?"

He laughed mischievously as he pulled on his breeches. "Will you be all right? I hate you going alone."

"Of course I will, silly, it is broad daylight." Her eyes twinkled and he smiled unable to resist the feel of her cheek beneath his fingers.

"Ma'am ?" said Aila, meekly from the door.

Outside the house, Luke lifted her onto her horse. She kissed the tips of her fingers before putting them against his lips. "I love you, Luke" she whispered.

His face softened with amour for this dark haired beauty, "And you my sweet, are all I care about." With that, they bid each other farewell.

Aila followed silently, her horse clipping lazily. She was a little afraid of the mistress, such a fiery temper, she and her father alike.

They had been travelling almost the hour when Saffron saw a familiar figure ahead of her. Drawing level the man bowed his head, "Why Saffron, my dear, how was your trip?"

"It was fine thank you, Kyle" she said, falling into step with his horse.

"This is not a safe road to travel on, not as long as the Tall Highwayman is still at large," he said and she saw Aila flinch at the mention of her lover's name.

"I know, I met him once." He looked at her, fair eyebrows rising with surprise. "I was taking the coach to Oakhampton when we were stopped," she explained.

"You never mentioned this"

"No" she said looking away, "I couldn't."

"Why?"

"He took our mothers ring, Kyle, You can imagine what excuse that would give father."

"But surely he noticed?"

"Did you?" she asked, as he glanced at her naked finger.

"Did you get a good look at the highwayman or his companions?" Kyle asked.

"He was masked and I didn't get out."

He nodded and they fell silent. She guessed he was outraged at her being robbed. She would never forget her first meeting with the Tall Highwayman. Her travelling companions, a grey haired women and an obese man perhaps realised what was happening before she did. The man pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at his sweating jowls. The lady began to fret as the highwaymen demanded that they disembark immediately. Saffron had shivered even though the night air was warm. Her legs refused to follow the others out.

"Madam!" The Tall Highwayman's head came through the open window. He wore a mask and underneath his tricorn it was impossible to tell what he looked like. Only his eyes were visible, and oh what eyes! "If you do not leave the carriage," he warned, waving his pistol, "I may be forced to shoot you."

Saffron had gasped, her hand delicately against her breast, "Oh sir, please, I, I cannot, " she whispered as she slowly moved her toe so that it pointed inwards.

"I am in no mood for games, madam" he said, harshly, even though his eyes bore no trace of anger.

She reached for the fat man's cane saying, "I could get out if you really insist, but it will cause me great discomfort." He then noticed the odd angle of her foot.

"No," he said abruptly, "it will not be necessary." She smiled behind her hand and he added, "but I will take the ring!" She started to protest and he said swiftly, "You have delayed me long enough, if you don't give me the ring, I am liable to deform your other foot too!"

Shuddering at the thought, she threw it at him, "I hope it brings about your downfall, sir!" He went away laughing.

It was some weeks later while attending a ball that she was introduced to the Duke of Rufford. As she looked into those rich dark eyes, she had no doubt in her mind. He masked his surprise cleverly, but one glance at her foot confirmed her suspicion.

"Saffron," said her brother bringing her back to the present, "Where exactly have you been?"

"Why Margaret Ashford's of course."

Slowly Kyle shook his head, "When I called to see her, she asked how you were."

Feeling her best form of defense was attack, she demanded, "Checking up on me now are you?"

"No, I just happened to be passing that way."

"Bit off the beaten path for you isn't it ?"

"As it happens, yes. I was visiting a friend but unfortunately he was entertaining. It is father that you should be afraid of, not me."

"Him! Ah! I wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

Kyle raised his eyebrows, "Really?"

"Oh, I don't know" she admitted. "Yes, I have met someone and he does want to marry me. But why should I give father the satisfaction of getting rid of me and shaming me with a dowry that is not worth the paper it is written on."

"Oh Saffron, my dear. Forget shame, there is no shame if the man really loves you. Why do you let father make your life a misery?"

They had turned into the long sweeping driveway of their once proud house. "It looks like we have visitors" she commented.

"Soldiers horses" guessed Kyle.

Their presence made Saffron a little nervous and she noticed that Kyle twitched a little too. Their father, the squire met them at the door, and Saffron was instantly chilled by the look of triumph on his face. He took hold of her upper arm painfully, "You have visitors, my dear."

The soldiers stood as she entered, Kyle came up briskly behind them, "What is going on here?"

"I am Major Baxter and this is Captains Daniels. We have been appointed by the King to hunt down the man known as the Tall Highwayman. Saffron suddenly felt faint.

"What has this to do with my sister?"

The captain turned to reveal a small chest standing on a table, the lid open, a wealth of riches spilling out. "We believe your sister is working with the Tall Highwayman."

Saffron let out a cry of anguish and felt her legs weaken.

"What!" Kyle gasped. Sitting down, she mutely shook her head.

"This is your ring, is it not ?" asked the Major.

"Of course it is," rasped the Squire.

"Where did you find that?" said Kyle.

"On the armourie in the Duke of Rufford's bedroom." Kyle looked shocked, "The Duke of Rufford?" he repeated.

The major smiled, seemingly enjoying himself, "We now know him to be the Tall Highwayman."

Finding her voice, Saffron whispered, "You've caught him?"

The major pulled at the edges of his moustache and cleared his throat, "Unfortunately no, but we feel that you can help us. Do you deny that you and he are lovers?"

"I, I," she looked imploringly at her brother but he was unable to meet her eyes.

What followed was a nightmare as they escorted her away. The Squire had been hardly able to contain himself and her brother seemed edgy and unsure.

"You will see the magistrate in the morning," said the Major, handing her over to the jailor, a perculiar little man with crossed eyes. "Meanwhile, I suggest you think about what I've said." He tipped his hat and left.

The jailor grinned toothlessly and took her arm, "Got a nice room fer yer, misses" he said, pulling her along.

The cell was very dim with an unclean musty smell. In one corner a straw palette served as a bed, and in the other a rickety table and chair. Shuddering, Saffron stared bleakly at the green mossed walls. Luke would come, she knew he would.

Kyle gave the jailor a look of disgust, his hair was mattered and his skin ingrained with dirt. These type of people could always be bought. "I want you to personally makes sure she has the best of attention, and that nobody, touches her, you understand?"

"Yessir, yessir, I do, an' I'll do me very best, that I will."

"Good, in that case you can have three more of these if your word proves to be good."

He took the coins greedily, "Yessir, it is," his voice was slimy as his looks.

Suddenly grabbing the front of his shirt Kyle snarled, "That goes for you as well! Understand?"

"Yessir, yessir," he said again.

Saffron fell weeping into Kyle's arms and when she had gained control of herself, he said, "I wish you had told me about the Duke."

"I couldn't, he told me not to tell a soul."

"I knew that he was seeing somebody, and no wonder he went to such lengths to hide you from me."

Saffron gazed at him, "You know the Duke is, is...."

"...... the Tall Highwayman" he finished for her.

"Then the chest ?"

"It was mine"

"Oh no," she gasped, her hands clasping her throat, "Oh Kyle!"

"Shush" He cocked his head to one side and listened. Everywhere was silent.

"Where is he ?" she pleaded.

"He's gone."

"But he loves me."

Kyle gently shook his head, "Oh my dear sister, "I do wish you could have told me, I could have prevented this."

"He loves me" she said again, firmly.

"Saffron, he loves a lot of women, you're not the first."

"No!" she began to weep again.

Taking her in his arms he rocked her gently, "You'll not have to stay here long. I'm trying to get your release fixed up this moment."

When he had gone Saffron stared stubbornly at the wall, Luke did love her. She pushed away those niggling doubts.

The following day the poor rebelled again causing a riot in the town and the magistrate did not get round to seeing her

The jailor whistled happily, his keys rattling at his waist. There was a man waiting for him as he reached his seedy office.

"Oh it's you" he said, closing the door behind him. The man's face was partly hidden by a hood. But the strange rasping voice was familiar enough.

"What do you have for me?" he hissed. The jailer smiled, "I have something very special, but it will cost you."

"I pay my usual fee, you know that."

"Come, let me show you what I have."

Saffron shrunk back toward the wall as the two men entered. The stranger beckoned her forward and she felt naked under his gaze. Shuddering, she had no choice but to obey and felt like a cow at an auction. She flinched slightly as he tilted back her chin with his finger. Nodding, the he ran his hand over her back, pausing slightly over her buttocks. There was something menacing about him. "Good, good" he rasped, "I think we can do business." With that he strode out of the cell.

"I have been paid well to keep her safe" said jailer.

"Her death will not be hard to forge, this is no place for the fair hearted." The little man nodded in agreement as he reckoned up his price. The stranger always paid well. Good strong men caught all sorts of illnesses in here. Their sentences sold to the highest bidder they became slaves who were paid a pittance to work off their indenture.

Saffron was taken from the cold cell into an even colder night. At first she thought it was Luke come to rescue her. But when she was taken to a caged carriage with group of prisoners, she realised with horror that she was indeed being sold to the highest bidder.

The ride was uncomfortable and treacherous. Her companions were all cutthroats and thieves, their comments lewd, their stares unnerving. She had little choice but sit with her eyes averted and her ears closed. This was no place for a lady, a squires daughter, something was wrong. Everything had happened so fast; why had her brother let her take the blame, and why had her lover deserted her?

She hardly noticed that the carriage had come to a halt and voices in the darkness were raised. Her nerves were so taut that they were ready to snap. Her captor appeared and unlocked the door and began to release her.

"There!" he rasped, throwing her towards another and she steeled herself for the assault she felt sure was to come.

Instead the man swept her into the folds of his cloak and lead her to his horse.

As they galloped away through the darkness, his cloak and arms about her he shouted, "You didn't really think I would abandon you, did you?" Still stunned she snuggled against his chest to escape the whipping wind. "Your father will be informed of your death in jail and of your brothers abscondence."

She lifted her head, "Abscondence?"

"He is waiting at the port, where we have passages to the Americas."

"Oh Luke" she gasped, tears springing to her eyes, "I always knew you wouldn't let me down."

Karen Mossman ~

When Her Favourite Band Splits

Every opportunity she gets, your daughter shuts herself in her room. There she stays, listening to her favourite band, and crying her heart out.

She's at that critical stage of adolescence of which being a fan is a part, and her worst nightmare has come true, they've split up.

Like thousands of young teenage fans before her, she is mourning the end of an era. Something that's been stable in her life has gone. The grief she feels is real, and should be taken seriously.

It's a painful part of growing up, and there is nothing we can say or do, that will make it any easier for our own teenager to cope. We just have to be there for them, and hope they survive.

Some fans become so engrossed in the objects of their idolatry, that life just doesn't seem worth living when their favourite band split up.

Last year, a fourteen year old, tried to take her own life. She felt so depressed about the split of Take That. She was not the first fan to feel this desperate, and I doubt she will be the last.

Fortunately, most of us grow out of the 'fan' phase in our lives. To be left with only happy memories, and a somewhat biased record collection. However, for those girls, who are still at that crucial stage in their development when the group split, it can be traumatic.

Since the Beatles we have seen many of these bands come and go. Some without a trace. Each and every time - to most parents astonishment - they have managed to get young girls to scream uncontrollably.

When Take That (the pop phenomenon of the 1990's) decided to call it a day. Thousands of youngsters called telephone help lines, and wrote to magazines expressing how upset they felt. Some even threatened to go on hunger strike until the band got back together. Fans insisted that no one would ever to able to replace Take That in their hearts.

Some would say that this devotion is manufactured by the modern day hype and image creation. But this is not a product of the 90's. No one could have generated more hype, than Brian Epstein did for the Beatles.

As for devotion, back in 1970 a club called the Apple Scruffs was formed. To become a member, you had to be one of the avid Beatles fans, who for years had made it their soul purpose to wait on the steps of the Apple building, hoping to see one of the fab four.

Night after night these fans would wait - sometimes all night - in every kind of weather, hoping for a glimpse of their idol. These girls where there so often, that George Harrison wrote a song about them.

It has to be said, that girls of a certain age are more vulnerable to this so called hype. The pop industry hype - which encourages, young impressionable teenage girls to, buy the records, join the fan club, and buy the magazine, not to mention all the other merchandise.

Returning home from work one evening, Pamela Green, from Southend, found her 13 year old daughter -Donna - had run away from home. Travelling alone to Manchester, to stand outside Mark Owen's home in the hope she may get to see him.

Pamela explained, "I never really understood how she was feeling. I never realised just how bad it was, then she ran away. We were really worried, but luckily after speaking to Mark, she phoned home. It was an obsession, she really thought she was in love with Mark."

Donna was so traumatised by the split of Take That she had to spend time with a counsellor to get over it.

Nearly always, when a group split up, it's the band members themselves who are blamed for causing all the anguish and distress. But surely they are merely the product. We must not allow ourselves to forget, they are human beings, who have a right to decide their own fate.

There is little doubt that being in the most popular teen band, must have it's draw backs. In most cases, these young men have do their growing up in the public eye.

Can you imagine what it would be like, not to be able to walk down the street without being stopped.

The constant pressure of keeping up the image can easily take it's toll. The adulation, money, and success can go to their heads. It only takes one member of the group to upset the apple cart - start kicking back against the image, wanting something different from the others - and the end is nigh. It has happened time and time again over the years.

So should the music industry take some of the responsibility? Not only for the fan's welfare, but for the affect this type of fame can have on some of the celebrities themselves.

Perhaps a more responsible attitude towards the marketing of such bands could help.

Really, though it's up to us - the parents - to ensure our daughters enjoy their early teenage years. Allow them to follow their favourite band, but also try and help them put things into perspective. Encourage them to pursue other interests, so that they realise, there is more to life than knowing what pop star X eats for breakfast.

So when her favourite band does split, try and remember what it's like to feel the way your daughter does - it may help you understand.

It's like falling in love for the first time, and then your boyfriend tells you its over. It hurts!

Jan Goudie ~

Watery Grave ~ Part Two

It is 7:45. I am sat in the cockpit of a Trident, the largest model on the Leviathan to ride under minisub class. Samuel is nowhere to be seen.

The Trident is, by far, my favourite craft. It was originally designed for use in salvation operations - flooded mines, et cetera - but it also makes for an extremely versatile exploratory vehicle. The shape is that of a squashed sphere, with a circular cutaway at the front. The cockpit is in the middle, with the manipulation instruments, Samplers and robotic arms actually inside the cutaway, creating a workspace for the pilot to operate within.

The ballasts are simple, but reliable, with one system at either end, so the ship can be tilted to allow dips and dives as well as straight sink-and-rise manoeuvre. The propulsion system is a submersible ramjet, drawing water in through the front and expelling it forcibly through the ship's rear end. Twin lasers are mounted along the arms - not for combat, as one might suspect, but for drilling holes and other such work. There had been some degree of experimentation with laser as a weapon in the early years of fighter sub technology, but the theory soon proved unworkable. A laser would need to be held in the same position for a good few seconds to take effect on steel, which is impractical, even on slow subs, and on human flesh one would make little more than a very superficial, albeit very unpleasant burn. The laser is a crystal laser, using industrial class blue cobalt diamonds - worthless on the jewellery market, but worth more than their weight in gold to us.

I sigh and look at my watch. 7:54. I should have come later - the inside of the cockpit is starting to get stuffy. I do a quick check of my gauges- pressure, depth, oxygen, all reading fine. I take out the brief - eleven-and-a-half sheets of A4 stapled together, printed on one side - and begin to flick through it. It all seems rather simple - proceed to within sight of the seabed and scan from North Point onwards for anything unusual, taking seismos, subsidences, et cetera. I switch on my instruments to take a control. The monitor hums, and the printer churns out a relatively low seismo.

A knock on the glass of my cockpit. Samuel. He gives me the thumbs-up, and then proceeds to his ship. I watch as he climbs into the cockpit, taking controls and checking gauges with an almost automaton-like efficiency. Then, slowly and deliberately, he takes a pair of pink fluffy dice out of his top pocket and hangs them up on the roof of the cockpit. Having checked the seal around the door, he gives me the all clear. I press my intercom and address the doormen.

"Yitschak and Zuckmayer, all sealed and ready to go."

"Yessah." The voice is faint and riddled with static. I hear the hiss of a pneumatic press; the door behind me slides shut.

Water begins to pour in through several small holes at the roof of the tunnel, and my craft is lifted gently clean of the steel floor. One might assume that it would be simpler and quicker just to open the exit and let the water pour in, but at depths such as this, the torrent would crush a Trident like it would a fly. Instead, the tunnel must first be filled. The process takes just under ten minutes; finally, the second door slides open, and the two ships spill out into the gloom.

The darkness is, once we pass out of the halo of torchlight, absolute. I hit the light switch, and a sharp beam of white light leaps out from under my seat, throwing grim, twisted shadows on the rocky abyss wall. There is no light inside my cockpit, save for the winking LEDs of my dashboard, and the night-glow hands on the dials and gauges.

A blind angler fish drifts, oblivious of the light, into the path of my torch, the wide, gaping mouth opening and closing like a terrible animal trap. There is a dull, green light suspended in front of the vast set of jaws, a glow-worm like orb hanging on the end of a thin stalk of flesh. Nature's fishing rod - hence, the angler fish.

A smaller fish swims amicably into view, and, attracted by the biological luminescence, slowly approaches the angler. The monster-fish does not move, instead letting the fish hover closer and closer to the bait. Finally, gradually, slowly, the silver fish moves forward with painstaking grace and gingerly touches the glowing ball of vein-pitted flesh.

The end is quick; the terrible jaws close, and the fish is gone. There is no snapping crunch; no violent jolt; merely a slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly final, almost lazy closing of those terrible jaws. The angler swims slowly and silently away, through the walls of my illuminated tunnel. Quickly, I kill the light, and watch the alien creature move away, invisible, save for a tiny will o' the wisp on the end of its rod.

The abyss is an alien world. I retrieve the lights and radio Samuel.

"Samuel? Let's go down. Keep it under ten knots."

"A-O-K, boss."

I train my lights on him, and we descend, neither shining our lamps directly at the other cockpit. It is my first time to the bottom of the abyss; I am not what one might call a veteran. It surprises me how much life there seems to be down here; even the rocky walls are covered with plants, the bizarre, scentless flowers of Poseidon's domain.

The sandy seabed comes into view, at approximately 8:27.

I switch the ballasts to regular height, and hover silently about ten metres above the ground. I switch my cockpit light on, and take a few seismos. They read around triple of that taken in the cylinder. I switch on the subsidence monitors and watch as the printer churns out strips of ticker-tape, which I tear off and staple to a time chart. Fiddling with the meaningless dials beneath the monitor, I pick up a shaky IR view of the seabed. The screen flickers awfully, but I can still make out plants, swaying in the undersea currents like they might in the wind, and the bizarre, unrecognisable fish of the deepest oceans. I kill the cockpit lights and watch the fish outside while the computer completes its analysis. Samuel's voice comes faintly over the com system.

"You got the readings?"

"Just finished."

"Me too. How do they read?"

"Triple."

"Yeah, sounds about right. Triple, perhaps a bit less. Shall we proceed?"

"Okay."

We move slowly and silently over the seabed, taking seismos, keeping a careful eye on the pressure gauge. The levels fluctuate, but maintain a net balance. Nothing untoward - standard levels, figures, graphs. Everything in order. I'm starting to sweat.

Samuel banks his ship and sweeps into my line of torchlight, the curved wings of the silver Trident cutting a sleek, sharply edged shadow on the sea floor. He banks again, and slows up in front of me. When the radio grates into life, I can hear music playing over the com. Sultans of Swing, his favourite song.

"Sol..." His voice is urgent, breathless. "Check your subsidence levels. Quickly."

My gaze falls on the oscillating linegraph. "They're heavy. Why?"

"How heavy? Give me a figure in millimetres per second, seabed movement."

"Bloody hell, Samuel." I frown, and look at the tiny figure. "Well, there's a zero, a decimal point, five more zeros, and then a two."

"Mine's like that too." While I speak, Mark Knopfler launches into a triumphant solo. "How does that relate to standard plate motion?"

I frown, thoughtfully. "Eight zeros after the point. Then a three - well, a two-point-eight, anyhow."

"That's a hell of a lot of extra subsidence to count for."

"Isn't that normal around a plate border?"

Thoughtful silence. Then - "No. The plate border is destructive around this way. One plate slides under the other, and both move along like conveyer belts. The plate movement is the same all the way along the line. It must be something else."

Stuart Levin ~