Silent Multitude by D. G.Compton

Author:D. G.Compton [G.Compton, D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci Fi & Fantasy
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 1966-09-01T00:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

Something was making Tug restless. Perhaps on some level he was aware of the tiny activity going on all around, the minute fingers prising, insinuating themselves into the stones and the mortar. The spores had arrived the previous evening, an invisible cloud that settled on the rooftops and drifted as silently as it had come down into the spaces between. It gathered like snow on ledges, toppling on the slightest breeze and finding its way lovingly down the polished faces of the buildings. At each crack and mortar seam a few of its number lingered, put out roots, swelled in their fingertips. Biotite drew them in millions, and the lime in each great sweep of concrete. They sucked and mumbled and worked on it. And the people remaining below had sensed their presence against the undimmed stars, had hurried in noisy groups toward the transports waiting in the underpasses.

By Christmas morning the highest, longest established colonies were hot with microscopic busyness, were already mature and coming relentlessly to seed. The unstressed chimney flashings and parapets held their shapes against the burrowing, or caved in slowly as the granite outcrops of Wales had done. But the threads were gone, dead, multiplied and scattered on the wind. And the lower communities prospered.

The tiny unheard voices gathered in Tug’s ears, so that he shook his head till it rattled. The voices grew and the buildings themselves were cracking. He slunk leopard-low, pausing to. look over his shoulder at the bare streets and bright lines of houses. Other cats were out. The morning was sharp with peering eyes and shoulder blades. As yet not a single building had fallen.

Tug covered the miles to home at a rocking-horse canter. He met Paper Smith halfway across the last concourse. They were both hurrying. He acknowledged Paper by matching his pace and lightly flicking the extreme end of his tail. Paper Smith unlocked the door to the coke store and they both went in. Tug scouted around, sniffing the different people who had been in since he was last there. The place was cold, but the half-dark and the reassuring smell of old newsprint calmed the cat so that he was able to settle his electric skin and climb onto a pile of paper for stroking. The old man stroked him with unusual concentration.

The morning routine demanded food. The lack of food smells didn’t put Tug off, for he had learned that food often lurked down-wind in tins. He mewed. Paper Smith went to his stove and rearranged the assorted packets of cocoa and dried onions, the bottles of coffee and vinegar, the tins of milk and foot powder and golden syrup and curry essence. In the end he brought a plate piled with dried milk which Tug lapped, sneezing as usual. Then he slept, his stomach still more or less comfortable with roast beef.

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