Free The Night of the Triffids by Simon Clark

are gonna flock around me, just you wait and see, mate.' As he began to loosen his tie he called across to the pretty PA who was just leaving. 'Hey, gorgeous. I've got an idea: why don't I pick you up around eight tonight?'
        'I've got a better idea.' She shot him a smile. 'Don't bother.'
        Mitch shrugged, then winked at me. 'Well, she didn't exactly say no, did she?'
        
***
        
        Mitch's efforts to wriggle into the pressure suit were wasted. When we presented ourselves at the Old Man's office it was to hear that I would be taking a passenger with me in the two-seater jet fighter.
        By then it had started to rain. The sound of raindrops drumming on the corrugated-iron roof was somehow ominous.
        Commander Reynolds, better known as the Old Man, was sixty-five if he was a day and so heavily jowled that he looked like an old bulldog just roused from a deep sleep.
        'Masen,' growled the Old Man. 'This is Mr Hinkman.'
        A bright-eyed young man standing by the desk bobbed his head and held out his hand. There was an eager air about him; he looked like a fresh-faced student who'd just been awarded his first assignment.
        'Mr Hinkman is a meteorologist,' continued the Old Man in his characteristic slow growl. 'That means weather's his forte. He'll be taking the navigation seat.'
        'Yessir,' I said, a little reluctantly. 'But can I ask if Mr Hinkman's had any experience of flying in a jet fighter?'
        'Not that-'
        Even though the eager young meteorologist had begun to speak the Old Man growled over the top of his reply. 'None, I dare say. Not that he needs it. He'll sit behind you in the cockpit, Masen. Make notes, photograph what needs photographing, that kind of thing.'
        'Yessir.'
        'Any questions?'
        'No, sir… well, that is…'
        'Yes, Masen?'
        'Do we have any idea yet what's causing the darkness, sir?'
        The rain drummed harder against the roof as the Old Man thoughtfully scratched one of his pendulous jowls. 'Personally I've never seen anything like it. Too dark for normal cloud; the closest I've come to this kind of blackout in daytime was in Suez. Damned sandstorm blew up so hard you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Mr Hinkman?'
        Mr Hinkman realized he was being invited to contribute to the discussion. Eagerly, eyes shining, he launched in. 'Commander Reynolds may have hit the nail on the head. The clouds we are familiar with in this part of the world are composed of water or ice particles that don't entirely obscure the light. However, sandstorms are composed of, ah, naturally enough, sand particles. These make a far better barrier against light, and quite literally block out the sun.'
        The Old Man looked surprised. 'Sandstorms? On the Isle of Wight? Surely you're not serious!'
        'Well, not sandstorms as such, Commander. But for daylight to be reduced by… well, ah, by one hundred per cent, then we're looking at a pretty unusual phenomenon.'
        'And your job, Messrs Masen and Hinkman, is to solve this particular mystery.'
        Hinkman had begun speaking again about airborne particles but the Old Man was peering gravely at his watch. 'Sixteen hundred hours. And if I'm not mistaken I can hear the engines of your aircraft. Godspeed, gentlemen.'
        A man of few words, he shook Hinkman's hand, then mine. 'God-awful weather, Masen. I'm sorry to send you up in muck like this, but needs must and all that.'
        Rain drummed against the roof and through the window I fancied I glimpsed a blue-white flicker of lightning.
        Although those dark skies were far from friendly, I had an appointment with them that would not wait.
        
***
        
        At a little after four-thirty we were ensconced in the cockpit as the jet plane sat on the runway waiting for take-off clearance from the control tower.
        As I sat in the pilot's