The Thing.

It was lying in a puddle, although that wouldn't affect it. Nothing touched the Thing. It wouldn't even burn.

And then he heard the sound of slow footsteps on the gravel.

'There's no time,' he whispered. 'There really is no time.' 'We can't go without it,' said Grimma. 'Of course we can. It's just a, a thing. We won't need the wretched object where we're going.' He felt guilty as soon as he'd said it, amazed at his own lips for uttering such words. Grimma looked horrified. Granny Morkie drew herself up to her full, quivering height.

'May you be forgiven!' she barked. 'What a terrible thing to say! You tell him, Torrit.' She nudged Torrit in the ribs.

'If we ain't taking the Thing, I ain't going,' said Torrit sulkily. 'It's not-' 'That's your leader talkin' to you,' interrupted Granny Morkie. 'So you do what you're told. Leave it behind, indeed! It wouldn't be decent. It wouldn't be right. So you go and get it, this minute.' Masklin stared wordlessly down at the soaking mud and then, with a desperate motion, threw the line over the edge and slid down it.

It was raining harder now, with a touch of sleet. The wind whipped at him as he dropped past the great arc of the wheel and landed heavily in the puddle. He reached out and scooped up the Thing- And the lorry started to move.

First there was a roar, so loud that it went beyond sound and became a solid wall of noise. Then there was a blast of stinking air and a vibration that shook the ground.