On the terrace, and below on the beach, everyone was waiting for something to happen, heads craned forward expectantly. As the radios were turned down, so that any sounds from the distant tableau might be heard, a wave of silence passed along the beach like an immense darkening cloud shutting off the sunlight. The almost complete absence of noise and movement, after the long hours of festering motion, seemed strange and uncanny, focusing an intense atmosphere of self-awareness upon the thousands of watching figures.
The group by the water’s edge remained where they stood, even the small children staring placidly at whatever held the attention of their parents. For the first time a narrow section of the beach was visible, a clutter of radios and beach equipment half-buried in the sand like discarded metallic refuse. Gradually the new arrivals pressing down from the promenade occupied the empty places, a manoeuvre carried out without any reaction from the troupe by the tideline. To Pelham they seemed like a family of penitent pilgrims who had travelled some enormous distance and were now standing beside their sacred waters, waiting patiently for its revivifying powers to work their magic.
‘What is going on?’ Pelham asked, when after several minutes there was no indication of movement from the waterside group. He noticed that they formed a straight line, following the shore, rather than an arc. ‘They’re not watching anything at all.’
The off-shore haze was now only five hundred yards away, obscuring the contours of the huge swells. Completely opaque, the water looked like warm oil, a few wavelets now and then dissolving into greasy bubbles as they expired limply on the sand, intermingled with bits of refuse and old cigarette cartons. Nudging the shore like this, the sea resembled an enormous pelagic beast roused from its depths and blindly groping at the sand.
‘Mildred, I’m going down to the water for a moment.’ Pelham stood up. ‘There’s something curious—’ He broke off, pointing to the beach on the other side of the terrace. ‘Look! There’s another group. What on earth—?’
Again, as everyone watched, this second body of spectators formed by the water’s edge seventy-five yards from the terrace. Altogether some two hundred people were silently assembling along the shore-line, gazing out across the sea in front of them. Peiham found himself cracking his knuckles, then clasped the rail with both hands, as much to restrain himself from joining them. Only the congestion on the beach held him back.
This time the interest of the crowd passed in a few moments, and the murmur of background noise resumed.
‘Heaven knows what they’re doing.’ Mildred turned her back on the group. ‘There are more of them over there. They must be waiting for something.’
Sure enough, half a dozen similar groups were now forming by the water’s edge, at almost precise one hundred yard intervals. Pelham scanned the far ends of the bay for any signs of a motor boat. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 3:30. ‘They can’t be waiting for anything,’ he said, trying to control his nervousness. Below the table his feet twitched a restless tattoo, gripping for purchase on the sandy cement. ‘The only thing expected is the satellite, and no one will see that anyway. There must be something in the water.’ At the mention of the satellite he remembered Sherrington again. ‘Mildred, don’t you feel—’ Before he could continue the man behind him stood up with a curious lurch, as if hoping to reach the rail, and tipped the sharp edge of his seat into Pelham’s back. For a moment, as he struggled to steady the man, Pelham was enveloped in a rancid smell of sweat and stale beer. He saw the glazed focus in the other’s eyes, his rough unshaved chin and open mouth like a muzzle, pointing with a sort of impulsive appetite towards the sea.
‘The satellite!’ Freeing himself Pelham craned upwards at the sky. A pale impassive blue, it was clear of both aircraft and birds — although they had seen gulls twenty miles inland that morning, as if a storm had been anticipated. As the glare stung his eyes, points of retinal light began to arc and swerve across the sky in epileptic orbits. One of these, however, apparently emerging from the western horizon, was moving steadily across the edge of his field of vision, boring dimly towards him.
Around them, people began to stand up, and chairs scraped and dragged across the floor. Several bottles toppled from one of the tables and smashed on the concrete.
‘Mildred!’
