Out of the Silence (Sci-Fi Classic). Erle Cox
to Billy's requirements, and then sought means to pass the time until the arrival of his material from Glen Cairn.
Unconsciously his feet carried him back to the excavation, and he smiled grimly at its appearance. Its original symmetrical shape had vanished. Its apparently objectless outlines and the patent fact that it had been partially refilled made it look as an effort at tank sinking about as mad as some of his theories.
Although he was itching to recommence his explorations, he had to possess his soul in patience, and it was long after noon before Gaynor's team arrived bearing the material he had ordered. Alan had the cart unloaded well away from the scene of his labours. He was taking no risks, although he felt sure that the driver's one idea would be to make his delivery and get away.
It was no light task that he had set himself. To make up for his enforced idleness of the morning he worked until the fading light made it impossible for him to continue. He had to admit to himself that as architecture the framework he had erected was beneath contempt, while a carpenter's apprentice would have snorted at his workmanship; but if it lacked all else it had strength, and would serve its purpose.
Next morning saw him working with beaver-like persistence.
But, in spite of damaged and blistered hands and raw-edged temper, the work advanced. When evening came his persistence was rewarded by an almost completed enclosure ten feet high, surrounding the spot where he had been excavating. Raw it looked, and a blot on the not too beautiful landscape, but he felt that it would serve his purpose. Another day would see it roofed and completed, and then not even the most curious visitor, known or unknown, would have sufficient curiosity to investigate what was to all appearances, nothing but a shed for storing implements or fodder.
Alan felt at the day's end that Sunday's rest, if nothing else, was a justification for Christianity. When he finally put away his tools and tramped wearily to the empty house, he told himself that until Monday morning he would empty his head of every thought of work.
CHAPTER IV
Dundas woke late and care-free. It was ten o'clock before he had finished his leisurely breakfast, and captured and groomed Billy. Then he turned his attention to his toilet. To a man with a regard for the decencies of life, there was a deep sense of satisfaction in discarding his serviceable but unpleasantly rough working garb for more conventional clothing.
Truly clothes maketh the man. Few would have recognised in the the smart figure, clothed in spotless white from head to foot, the dungaree and flannel clad man of yesterday. As he stepped into his dogcart that morning, nineteen women out of twenty would have found Alan Dundas a man to look at more than once, although they might pretend they had never noticed him, as is their way.
Billy Blue Blazes made his own pace on the road to Glen Cairn, a privilege he was rarely granted, and made the most of it. Two miles out of the township Alan met Bryce in his car on his way to bring in the other visitor. The two exchanged hasty greetings as Billy clawed the air, and expressed his opinion on mechanical traction in unmistakable fashion. So, after stabling at the club, it was Doris alone who greeted Alan at the bank. And Doris, when she looked at him, said in her heart that her work would be good.
From her deck chair on the verandah she chaffed him for a hermit. "I suppose, Mistress Doris, that wretched man of yours has been telling tales of my menage. You know he had lunch with me last week."
"Of course, Alan, he told me that you were starving yourself, poor boy. I do hope that you have recovered your appetite."
"The traitor! He said he would do nothing to warn you of the impending catastrophe. Well, if he has to go without on my account, serve him right."
There came the hoot of a motor-horn from the street. "There's Hector now; he went out to bring us in another guest, Alan–guess?"
"I'm too lazy and contented for a mental effort." Then, after a pause, "MacArthur?"
Doris made a sound that approached a dainty sniff. "I'm not playing speaks with Mr. MacArthur," she said, a little stiffly.
"You might do worse, Mistress Doris. Give him a chance."
There came a sound of voices from the garden, and they both stood up. "Come on, Maid Marian. We'll find them on the verandah." Then the others turned the corner. Bryce greeted Alan heartily, and then turned to the girl beside him. "I've brought you a judge, jury, and executioner, Dundas. I hear you have been guilty of treason, desertion, and a few other trifling offences. It's currently reported that you were squared by the Ronga Club not to play yesterday."
Alan took the warm firm hand held out to him. "I've been executed already by Mistress Doris, Miss Seymour, you can't punish me twice for the same offence." The girl smiled as she took the chair he drew up for her. "Luckily we pulled through without you. What excuse have you?"
"Only Eve's legacy–work," he answered.
"Doris dear," said Marian, "is not the excuse as bad as the offence? A nasty slur on our sex by inference and a claim to the right to work when we want him to play."
Then, standing up: "Guilty on all counts, and remanded for sentence– until I can think of something sufficiently unpleasant to fit the crime."
"Then I can only throw myself on the mercy of the court. Make it a free pardon, Miss Seymour," said Dundas, laughing.
She regarded him with laughing eyes, and then turned to Doris. "I doubt if severity will have any lasting effect in this case. Perhaps if we extend the clemency of the court–" Then to Dundas: "Case dismissed. I hope you will not appear here again. Isn't that what father says on the bench?"
Bryce chuckled. "A disgraceful miscarriage of justice. That's what it amounts to. Coming in, Doris, nothing but his bleeding scalp would satisfy her. Now he is pardoned. It's too thick."
"Out of your own mouth, Bryce," said Alan, "a free pardon was the right course. The quality of mercy is not strained. Why? Because it's too thick."
Doris stood up. "Come and take off your hat, Marian. A constant diet of eggs has affected his mind. He's absolutely unworthy of notice."
Left to themselves Bryce and Alan settled down to a yarn that drifted from politics to town and district news, and thence to the absorbing topic of vines and crops. "How grows the waterhole?" asked Bryce after a while. Dundas was waiting for the question, and with elaborate carelessness answered briefly that he had struck rock and abandoned it. "I am building a fodder-house on the site as a monument to my displaced energy," he went on. "I was so busy with the building that I missed coming in to town yesterday."
Bryce shook his head. "You'll overdo it, Dun."
"Hector and Alan." It was Doris's voice. "If you want any dinner you had better come now."
It was afterwards when they were at peace with the world, the one with a pipe and the other with a cigar, that Alan put the question that he had been quietly manoeuvring for.
"Can you tell me, Hec, if at any time there has been any big building work done at 'Cootamundra', or even started?"
Bryce reflected for a few moments. "I've known 'Cootamundra' now for nearly forty years, and I'm certain that, beyond the present buildings, nothing of the kind has ever been done there. Why ask?"
"Oh, nothing much," answered Dundas, fibbing carefully. "Now and again I thought I noticed traces of foundations about the place near the house."
And so the talk drifted lazily off into other channels until they were rejoined by Doris and Marian.
It was the strange behaviour of his wife that occupied Bryce's attention for the rest of the day, to the exclusion of all else. As an onlooker he thought he should have seen most of the game, and knowing the rules, or thinking he did, it was, he found, a game that he did not understand. When Marian came on the scene he prepared cheerfully to give Dundas a clear field, but to his surprise he found that every