Tunnels 03, Freefall

have disappeared."
    "Oh," Mrs. Burrows replied, not sure what else she could say. As she turned her attention back to the typewritten list, she saw that there were notes jotted next to some of the reports, and that it wasn't her husband's handwriting. "Is this you?" she inquired, pointing at the writing.
    "No, that's Ben Wilbrahams, the American. He's also investigating these incidents, for a film or something. In fact, you should really have a word with him -- he's always upstairs." Mr. Ashmi pointed a finger at the ceiling, indicating the town library which was on the floor above.
    "Yes, right, I will," Mrs. Burrows said, not intending to do anything of the sort.
    Clutching the photocopies of the newspaper articles Mr. Ashmi had insisted she take with her, Mrs. Burrows was glad to leave the dusty archives. She could very easily picture her husband down there, eagerly poring over the obscure newspaper reports. It brought back too many memories of the old days and her chronic unhappiness at the way things had been. All her husband had seemed to want to do was to hide away in some fuddy-duddy self-fabricated world where he could pretend to himself that he was a serious academic doing something meaningful. As she mounted the steps to the ground floor, she growled with frustration. She was frustrated because she knew her husband had been capable of so much more than his job as the curator of the local museum, but he just didn't have the get-up-and-go to find something better and -- most crucially to her -- something with a reasonable salary.
    She folded the photocopied papers and shoved them into her bag. Despite Mr. Ashmi's obvious conviction that there had been strange goings-on in Highfield, it was all too fanciful for her to take seriously. She wondered if her husband had been drawn in by Mr. Ashmi's infectious enthusiasm, and whether that had led him to make the wild statements she'd read in his journal.
    In order to leave the building she had to pass through the library, and there she thought she spotted the man that Mr. Ashmi had referred to. Although he had a neatly trimmed beard, his hair -- black and quite long -- made him look as if he'd just rolled out of bed. Sitting alone with several books open on the reading desk before him, he was deftly spinning a pen with one hand, rotating it round and round in endless circles. He glanced up and, narrowing his eyes through his wire-rimmed spectacles, gave Mrs. Burrows a broad smile. As she realized she had been caught staring at him, she immediately averted her gaze and hastened towards the main door.

9

    "Avast ye swabs!" Will challenged Chester the moment his friend emerged onto the porch. Will was advancing up the garden path towards him, one hand on his hip as he slashed a cutlass through the air.
    Chester grinned, then his face went blank. "I've got no idea what that actually means."
    "No idea what what means?"
    "Swabs. What the hell are swabs? Pieces of cotton wool?
    "No, I think it used to mean something really nasty, so you'd better defend your honor, you lily-livered cuttlefish!"
    "Will stopped brandishing the sword to admire it for a moment. "Considering it must be probably centuries old, this is in brilliant nick. You can see tiny pictures of a cross and a branch engraved on it, and some words in what looks like Latin," he said, peering at the cup-shaped piece of metal that curved from the cross guard to the pommel, and which served to protect the swordsman's hand in combat. Then he attempted to read out the inscription, stumbling over the words. ' Soli Deo Gloria .' He looked at Chester with a shrug.
    "Sorry, dear Gloria?" Chester suggested, not really paying attention as he spotted the assortment of other weapons Will had spread out on the floor of the porch. "If it's a duel you want..." he declared as he chose a long-bladed dagger and tried it out, stabbing the air in front of him. "No, that doesn't do it for me," he muttered as his eyes fell on by far the largest of the weapons, a metal pole nearly two meters in length with both a lethal-looking spike and a large axe head at the end. "This is more like it," he said. "What is it, anyway?"
    "That's a halberd," Will replied.
    "A halibut," Chester laughed as he weighed it in his hands. "Right! On guard!" he yelled as he launched himself down the front steps, landing just in front of Will. "Your time has come, White Beard!" he said.
    Will lunged with his cutlass several times, Chester blocking with the