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  "I'm afraid that isn't possible, sir," I said.

  "Switch it off, or I'll see you hang for it," the Minister replied.

  "As I said, that isn't possible, sir. You see, it's already off. We powered it down right after the demonstration yesterday."

  There was a stunned silence around the table, I finally had their full attention. The Minister sat back in his chair, visibly shaken. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, then looked up at me. There was almost a plea in his voice when he spoke again.

  "Then what is to be done? What can be done?"

  I lit a cigarette to give myself time to think, the small ritual of getting out the old silver case and lighter and lighting up did much to calm me and anchor me in a little patch of reality amid the strangeness. I marshaled my thoughts before replying.

  "I've been up all night since I heard about Lewisham," I started. "I have gone over my equations, and over them again. What you have to realize is that the shield you had me build is effectively not of this space and time, it is a barrier that sits just outside our normal perceptions of reality, perceptions which are normally bounded by what our senses have the ability to comprehend."

  "What are you saying, man?" one of the Generals said. "Just tell us in plain words what can be done."

  "That's just it," I replied. "I don't know. I fear we have unlocked a door to a place that has always existed, but has been closed to us until now. And now that door is swinging open and closed, I have not the slightest idea how to lock it again, I'm not even sure it can be locked."

  This time the reaction wasn't silence, it was uproar. Curses were shouted, and I was called names I have not heard since my service in the Navy, but finally the Minister got the room under some semblance of control.

  "Just tell me two things" he said. "What is the actual nature of this phenomenon? And can you tell where this 'door' will open next?"

  "As I said, its nature cannot be determined as it is not actually real in any sense we can understand it, but in answer to your second question, yes, I believe there is a way to at least guess where it will occur. You have seen the patterns made by magnets and iron filings?"

  Several heads nodded around the table.

  "Our shield, when it was operating, was effectively one huge magnetic field," I said. "And although it is now switched off, there is still a weak magnetic field in place over London. The openings to, wherever, are occurring in this field and along the lines where iron filings might congregate. I believe if we send out squads of men with compasses, we should be able to in effect map the peaks and troughs and come up with areas that should be evacuated."

  That last word brought another uproar around the table. Again it took the Minister to get it under control, and again he was first to speak after silence fell.

  "Evacuation has not yet been considered, indeed it might not be possible in a city this size."

  "Even so, it might be prudent. . . "

  "What is prudent, and what is politically acceptable are sometimes completely different matters," the Minister replied.

  I thought then I might be summarily dismissed and shut out of proceedings, but the man surprised me.

  "Get your team back on the job," he said. "Right away. I need options to take to the PM, and I need them yesterday."

  *

  As it turned out, events quickly overtook any thought of planning.

  It being a Sunday I had little trouble catching a cab. The difficulty was in seeing one coming, for a thick, typically London, fog had rolled up the river while I was in the meeting and it enveloped everything in a cloying, slightly cold, dampness that seeped through clothes, hair and skin into my bones. I was most grateful to get into the back of the black cab, less so when I discovered I'd picked one of those voluble cabbies who like nothing more than to hear himself talk.

  "So what do you make of all this then, Guv'nor? Personally I blame the Germans, they tried to break us when I were a nipper and that didn't work, so now they're back to try to finish the job. If I had my way I'd send them all back where they came from. Bloody foreigners, coming over here and. . . "

  I tuned him out, lit another smoke, and pondered what, if any, options I had at my disposal. In truth, I couldn't think of much beyond what I'd already told the Minister, and I didn't think teams of squaddies armed with compasses was a plan that the PM was going to like much. I was still thinking when I noticed the cabbie's tone change, it sounded something like alarm, that, and a hint of fear.

  "What's all this then? This ain't right. It ain't right at all."

  I only had to look up from my smoke to see what had disturbed him. It was still foggy outside, even thicker than before, but now the fog itself had taken on a tinge of dark green that seemed to almost glow and phosphoresce. The cabbie wound down his window, as if wanting a closer look, and I got an immediate whiff of what smelled like strong malt vinegar.

  "Where are we, cabbie?" I asked.

  "Somewhere near Tower Bridge, Guv'nor," he replied. "But don't ask me just how near, for I've fair lost me bearings in this shit, pardon my French."

  He had brought the cab to a halt. I saw dark shapes both ahead and behind us, other vehicles, also come to a standstill. For a long second it was as if the whole of London stood still, then I heard it, a crash and clamor, loud even through the deadening effect of the fog, the squeal of tortured mental and the grind of stone on stone almost immediately followed by loud splashing. Water slopped around the wheels of the cab as some of the river suddenly found its way up onto the embankment. The smell of vinegar was stronger now too, stinging, almost unbearably, in my nose and throat.

  Something moved in the fog as it waded through the river. There was nothing to see as such, just a space in the fog; whatever made the emptiness was completely invisible to the human eye. But it looked impossibly large both in height and in girth, parting the river such that huge waves slopped all along both shores. I had an impression of a wide blunt head above a misshapen body with far too many limbs before the fog rushed in again and hid it from view. There was more splashing and slopping of water as the thing, whatever it might have been, headed up river and away from our position.

  Whatever had happened seemed to be over, for now. But I knew one thing I had not known before, this was no simple physical phenomena, we were dealing with more than just mere manifestations of the great beyond, something, some beast, had come through our shield, and it was this creature that was now terrorizing my city.

  We stayed on the embankment for some time, at a standstill until the fog, and the green tinge with it, started to clear. It was only then I saw the source of the noises we had heard, Tower Bridge still had its tall towers at either end, but the central spans, top and bottom, of the old structure were gone, torn asunder and reduced to rubble and torn metal.

  My cabbie, not surprisingly, balked at taking me any further. I was forced to make my own way to Greenwich by foot, and it was getting dark by the time I approached the old Barracks. I turned my back to the slight wind to get a cigarette lit, and saw that the West End and city center, all the way back toward me as far as St Paul's, was still shrouded in fog, thick fog that glowed, a sickly green. Far away in the gathering gloom I hard the sound of ambulance bells and sirens and I smelled smoke in the air, smoke and vinegar.

  *

  Most of my team was already at work in the huts when I arrived, footsore and weary, I discovered that the Minister had rounded them all up immediately after our meeting in Whitehall. A start had been made on what little plan I had, teams of soldiers were out in the city with compasses, reporting back with any anomalous readings. One end of what had been my office was now a huge map, already covered in red pins with more being pushed in every minute.

  I was still standing, staring at it trying to infer a pattern when young George brought me a cup of tea, I shared a cigarette with him as he brought me up to date with what I'd missed during my enforced walk.

  "Tower Bridge, London Bridge and Cannon Street
Railway station, all gone," he said. "They're still looking for survivors, but there's several hundred dead, and likely to be a lot more."

  I looked back at the map, the red pins were indeed starting to resemble a tracing of a magnetic field. Once I looked from Upton Park to Cannon Street, and back again, I saw what I had previously missed, the phenomenon, creature, whatever it might be, was traversing the troughs, and it was now following the largest of them. I went over and traced the route with my finger, it curved in toward a spot near the city center, near Trafalgar Square.

  "Our test machine, is it still on, still repelling pigeons?"

  "Last time I checked, yes," George said. He had a puzzled look on his face, but I had no time to enlighten him, I had an idea, one that might even turn into a plan, but I might already be too late to put it into action.

  The first part of the plan was also going to be the most time consuming and at first seemed an almost impossible undertaking. I had to get our box of tricks, the whole, house-sized lot of it, out of Greenwich and up to Trafalgar Square, and I had to do it fast. My team told me it wasn't going to happen, not unless we had a week.

  Luckily the British Army had other ideas. All it took was one phone call to the Ministry and I had as much manpower as I needed. Even then it took more time than I would have wished and we had to work through the night, catching what little snatches of sleep I could. Finally, just before dawn, we left Greenwich in a convoy of military trucks laden with all our equipment, generators, fuel and scientists. The red glow in the sky to the west told me that much of central London was burning, I only hoped we would be in time to save what remained.

  *

  We were further delayed by the fact that the bridges, all of the bridges, were out, all the way upstream as far as Waterloo Station. Our convoy crawled through the interminable warren of South London warehouses and markets, but the delay at least meant that I had plenty of time to appraise my team of the plan, what little there was of it.

  "I think this thing, creature, beast, whatever it is, is heading for our test box at Nelson's Column," I began. "I believe it is drawn somehow by the magnetic field, following the line of least resistance back to the only source that now exists."

  George piped up.

  "So why do we need all the gear, Prof?"

  "I'm getting to that, I intend to set up in the Square, not far from the other box. If we do this right, we can catch the bally thing between two fields, reverse the polarity of the larger field, and effectively lock the door, with our new friend back safely on the other side."

  "There's a lot of assumptions in there, boss," George said.

  "I know, that's why I'm relying on you lot to help me get it right, we might only get one chance at this, and it's a long shot, but we might not have much of a city left to save soon if we don't get it done quickly."

  We sat in the back of our open topped truck, each of us lost in thought, the smokers among us getting through a succession of cigarettes as the convoy trundled west.

  The closer we got to the city center, the more we started to see the effects of the passage of whatever had come up the river. Borough Market at London Bridge was awash with river water, the south bank having been breached, flattened, in several places. Ambulances ferried distraught victims away, and there were many more lying, unmoving, in long lines in the adjoining streets.

  And we started to hear sirens and ambulance bells, a clamor of them that reminded me all too clearly of the dark mornings after the blitz. I was further reminded of those hellish times as we passed south of St. Paul's, the old dome that had so famously survived the German bombing had been completely caved in on one side, leaving it looking lopsided, like a broken eggshell. All the king's horses and all the king's men would not be enough to put it back together again, and that one image more than anything else brought reality crashing in, our city was being taken from us, bit by bit.

  And it was my job to try and take it back.

  *

  When we reached Waterloo I though that all our efforts were to be in vain. We had been planning to cross the river at that point, but as we approached, coming up from a detour that had forced us south, we were just in time to see the high domed roof of the Railway Station fall in on itself. Now that I knew what to look for it was obvious that this was not a collapse, it was caused by a great weight being stomped down hard from above. I squinted and peered but apart from a deeper green tinge in the sky, and the tang of vinegar, the creature that was the cause of this latest calamity remained hidden from our view.

  The station roof was still falling in on itself as we passed on Waterloo Bridge Road, and we crested the small slope to the bridge itself just in time to see the whole long span of it be pushed and crumpled down into the river, reduced to rubble in seconds. A plume of dust went up in the air and this time I saw a definite shape outlined there. It seemed to be vast, impossibly tall, a huge, what looked as if it might be segmented, tail sweeping what little remained of the bridge into the river as it turned away and headed for Westminster.

  Our only option was to follow along the south side of the river and hope to be able to cross at some point. Three truckloads of army men stayed behind, planning to help any survivors that might have been inside the railway station, but as I looked back I saw that the whole station and much of the surrounding area and track had been flattened, almost to ground level. It was Monday morning rush hour and the place would have been busy, but there was no sign of any movement in the rubble, just smoke, and the stench of death.

  *

  Big Ben struck nine as we finally crossed the river, as if welcoming us to the North bank.

  Much to my surprise, Westminster Bridge was still intact. Not only that, there was no sign of any green tinge in the sky, no more indication of ongoing destruction. If it hadn't been for the rising smoke and the distant sound of sirens and bells off to the East it might have been almost any late Autumn day in the city.

  I wasn't prepared to look a gift horse in the mouth and we made haste up toward the turn off that would lead onto Whitehall and then up the long stretch to the Square itself.

  Our luck held only as long as it took us to reach the junction, I smelled it first, the now distinctive burn of acidic fumes in nostril and throat, then I felt the road move under us and heard a rumble. I was just in time to see Big Ben topple, or rather be pushed, over into Westminster Bridge Road in a roar of crashing brick and metal. The old bell itself tumbled out of the tower and hit the ground, hard, bouncing almost twenty feet in the air then vanishing over the Embankment and in to the river to fall silent.

  The road bounced beneath us again, twice, and the truck's front axle creaked and wailed under the pressure. Whatever this beast was, it was coming up out of the river, and following us as our driver floored the accelerator and sped up Whitehall, scattering cabs and buses and pedestrians in our wake. I happened to have a rear view from my position; as we passed Horseguard's Parade the buildings of Whitehall tumbled, like a row of dominoes given a push from the riverside end. The air filled with dust and smoke, a plume that rose high into the sky, and I got another view of the destroyer, outlined in smoke.

  As I have said before it seemed impossibly tall, the flat, almost spade-like head was at least fifty yards above street level, maybe more, and in length, counting the long whipping segmented tail, it had to be nearly a hundred yards long. In look it resembled some great insect, although it appeared to have many more limbs in a most peculiar mixture of parts needed for grasping or parts needs for locomotion, but I had no time for close examination. It was coming up fast behind us as we screeched to a halt at the northern end of Trafalgar Square.

  I marshaled the men as well as I was able, setting our stall on the steps of the National Gallery and frantically piecing together the jigsaw of metal, chrome, copper and wiring of our equipment while others hooked up generators to fuel tanks.

  "I need somebody over at the equipment at the Column," I said, and young George already had hi
s hand up before I even finished the request.

  "It's risky, I can't make this an order," I added.

  The lad nodded, he looked almost sick with a combination of fear and excitement, but he had a stout heart.

  "I'm your man, boss, it'll make a good story to tell Bettie over a pint later."

  I sent him off across the square with instructions to watch for my signal to switch off the box at the column. I watched him go with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Over the top of his head I could see from the trail of destruction that the beast was still coming up Whitehall. It passed Downing Street without any consideration of history or protocol, its tail cutting a sweeping swathe through history as the home of the Empire's highest power was swept aside in a second.

  Finally, just as I was thinking we were far too late, I got the nod from the lads, we were ready to go.

  "Switch it on," I shouted.

  The air filled with a loud hum and the sky took on the green tinge I was coming to hate with a deep-seated loathing. At the same time the beast seemed to thicken and solidify, its cloak of invisibility being swept aside to give us a close look for the first time.

  It was indeed some kind of giant bug, insect or crustacean it was impossible for me to tell. The head had two, large, yellow compound eyes, a watery red biting mouth and long livid-blue feelers that rose higher still, tasting the air. The front pair of limbs, waving over the ruin of the city, were almost lobster-like, huge red pincers that clacked like the sound of gunfire. The body itself was long, and looked too thin for the head and tail, and there were definitely more than six, or even eight, limbs, many more. It was by far the most peculiar thing I have ever had cause to witness.

  Gunfire echoed around me as the soldiers alongside us tried to put up a defense, but their bullets seemed to pass straight through the creature with no effect, and it kept coming forward, heading straight for Nelson's Column. My eyes, nose and throat stung with the stench of strong acid, and I struggled to see through sudden tears.