Free Quatermass by Nigel Kneale Page B

Go through!”
    There was no time to argue. Kapp drove.
    The crowd parted. Excited painted faces leapt up to peer in at them. Hands pattered on the metal sides. The huge panting exhalation closed all round.
    “Hah! . . . hah! . . . hah!”
    Kapp jabbed at the pedals. “Under the bloody wheels! They don’t see!” It would have been impossible to keep direction but for the towering stones. They were close now. They passed a wooden ticket office, boarded up and swaying under the weight of Planet People on its roof. (“No charge for the little girl, sir.” “Daddy, can I have the tickets?”)
    All in a moment they were through.
    Kapp swerved the waggon past a clifflike trilith with its lintel slab looming above them. Skidded into clear space and managed to pull up just short of another stone monster.
    “Pay cops!”
    A squad of them in full riot gear, with carbines and heavy machine guns, were crowded there in the middle, in the shadow of the great hanging sarsen. There was a black truck, too, half hidden.
    One of them came running. He had the rank flashes of a captain painted on his helmet. He flung the door of the waggon open.
    “Where is it?” he yelled. “The gas?”
    “What gas?”
    “Haven’t you got it, domkop ?” Again the clipped twang. “Who the bloody hell are you? Come on out of it—quick!”
    He was waving his gun at them. As they tumbled out Kapp found himself saying: “Captain, I—let me explain—we just wanted to see—”
    “We thought we could help,” said Quatermass.
    “Shut up, man!”
    He turned and yelled back to his squad: “They’re nothing! No gas!” Behind his visor his face was streaming with sweat. He waved his gun at the Planet People who had pushed through after the waggon. “Get back there! I warned you, verdomde opstokers !” And to his men: “Knock ’em back—they’re busting through! Quick!”
    A clumsy rush and the cops were hitting out with their gun butts. There were yells of pain.
    “Oh, stop!” It was Clare. “They’re doing no harm!” She grabbed at the captain’s arm. A side-swipe from his studded gauntlet sent her spinning into Kapp.
    “Take care, mevrou !”
    “Don’t hurt them—”
    The cop’s eyes bulged at her behind the plastic. “Listen, I got a riot here! I got a contract to stop riots! Finish and klaar !”
    “He’s making it happen—Joe!”
    She was frightened now, clinging to Kapp. Frightened too, as she had not expected, by the Planet People. These must have been the early arrivals. Their eyes were completely glazed from hours of breathy chanting. The P-marks showed bright against ghastly pallor.
    Many of them were shaking. Heavy tremors, visible yards away, shook all their flesh.
    There was a huge, rolling pressure from behind. Some of those in the front were being pushed to their knees. Over them all hung an uneasy, bubbling quiet.
    “Kickalong!”
    The word, if it was a real word, ran suddenly among them. Excitement came back.
    “Kickalong . . . Kickalong!”
    It was a name.
    Attention was shifting, rippling. A huge man came pushing his way through.
    “Look out, he’s back!” shouted the captain.
    The man was swinging a plumb-bob, but it was like no other Quatermass had seen. It was contoured, worked in brass, circling at the end of a leather thong. He wore leather garments, and his patchworked poncho was thrown back like a cloak. He was close enough to see that the letter P on his face had been elaborately tattooed there, not merely painted. His hair was wild.
    “Lah! Hahah! Lah! Hahah!”
    He roared out the chant from the bottom of his throat. All those round him picked up the rhythm, driving hoarse, cracked voices in the same barks.
    The captain lifted his visor and yelled to his men: “Get set up now!” His words were drowned. He grabbed a loudhailer and bellowed through it: “Get set with the big stuff! Hold your positions! Ready to fire!”
    A scramble round the great hanging stone. Gun barrels glinted. The captain