Tunnels 03, Freefall

had those bloody great claws out."
    "I'm sure he wouldn't have gone that far," Will said.
    "Could've fooled me," Chester grumbled as he picked himself up and retrieved the halberd. He stared angrily at Bartleby, who had begun to purr, as Will continued to rub his temples. "Know what?" Chester added.
    "What?" Will asked.
    "I've just realized how much you two look like Shaggy and Scooby Doo."
    Will was just framing a suitably rude response when Martha called to them from the front door.
    "You'd better come."
    The boys trooped up to the shack and followed Martha inside. She hovered by the edge of the table, her anxiety evident.
    "Martha?" Chester asked. "What's the matter?
    "I'm afraid it might have begun," she said in a flat voice. "I checked first thing and wasn't sure, but I think it has."
    Will dropped his cutlass onto the table with a clatter, and took a step towards Martha. "You're talking about Elliott, aren't you? What's happened?"
    "Remember I told you about Nathaniel and the germule that did for him?" Martha said.
    "Elliott's got the fever?" Chester gabbed quickly. "Oh no, Will, she's caught it too."
    "Now, hold your horses," Martha said, raising her dirty palms to them. "It's not definite, not yet -- it might not be the same thing, but she has taken a turn for the worse, and it doesn't look good."
    In silence, they all made their way into Elliott's room.
    "Oh Jesus," Chester whispered.
    They saw right away that a change had come over the unconscious girl. Her face looked very shiny and flushed, and the long shirt she was wearing was soaked with her perspiration, as were the bedclothes all around her. Martha went over to Elliott and gently lifted the flannel from her forehead. She dipped it into a basin of water beside the bed and wrung it out before replacing it on the girl's head.
    "You said her arm was doing well," Will said, trying to look for something positive to say.
    "Yes, it's the oddest thing but her bones mended very quickly. It's as though..." Martha began, then tailed off.
    Both Will and Chester gave her inquiring looks.
    "They would say in the Colony that she's been blessed by the preacher's touch," Martha said.
    "The preacher? But I thought they were all Styx, aren't they?" Will asked, his expression one of puzzlement as he remembered the religious ceremonies he'd been obliged to attend during his months in the Colony. "That can't be good."
    "Oh, yes it is -- you see, the Styx are not like other people," Martha replied. "They heal in half the time that you and I do. The girl's bones have knitted together so fast I've even been able to take the splints off."
    The boys had been so preoccupied with the disturbing news about the fever that they had failed to notice Elliott's injured arm was now only bound by a lightly-wrapped bandage.
    "But the fever," Chester said, turning to Martha. "I feel so guilty -- we've left you to do everything while we've been horsing around... while Elliott has got like this. Tell us how we can help."
    "For starters, we have to keep her temperature down -- the poultice on her forehead should be moistened every ten minutes or so," Martha said.
    "Fine -- you go and get some rest, Martha," Will said. "We'll take it in turns to look after her."

    * * * * *

    In a chair by the bed, Will was on his second three-hour shift, having recently relieved Chester, who'd stumbled wearily away to his chaise longue. After a while, Will caught himself beginning to doze off as he slumped lower and lower in his seat.
    "Come on," he growled, then slapped his cheeks several times to wake himself up. In a bid to keep himself occupied, he began to look over the diagrams he'd drawn of how he thought the Pore and the other similarly huge openings might once have been open at the surface, but then had become sealed up. To do this he'd tried to remember everything he could about plate tectonics and what happens when there is movement between two plates. "Destructive, Constructive and Conservative Margins," he murmured to himself.
    And, in a small picture at the very bottom of the page, his imagination had run away with him and he'd drawn a galleon tipping over the edge of a huge, swirling whirlpool in the ocean. He closed one eye as he contemplated it, and found that he was whistling through his teeth. He stopped immediately.
    "Jesus, I'm turning into my dad," he muttered as he flipped over to a clean page. He tried to jot down his observations from the last week. The trouble was that he didn't have