If I thought about this any more, I reckoned, my nerve might fail me. There was nothing for it but to slip on my helmet and gloves. Then take a little walk.

After carefully fastening my helmet (the visor locked into the 'down' position) and making sure that my gloves made an airtight seal with the rubber cuffs of the flying suit, I cracked open the cockpit.

I found myself holding my breath as I swung myself out of my seat and climbed out of the plane. I moved as if I was trying to steady my nerves for a leap into icy water.

In a flash, the stingers whipped at me. Even though the poison couldn't penetrate my heavy-duty pressure suit the force of the blows against my body was enough to make my skin smart, while strikes to the helmet set the crash-strained muscles of my neck throbbing unpleasantly.

In a moment I was on the ground and pushing through the fleshy leaves like an explorer forging through virgin jungle. My visor was smeared in seconds with splashed venom as stingers struck, reducing the world beyond to a blurred red tableau of moving shadows.

I glimpsed the boots of the dead man, the legs already shrunken. Modern triffids made short work of their prey.

Then, thank Heaven, I was through the crush of plants. Even so, I felt the stingers crack against my back like whips as I fled.

I wiped poison from the visor with the back of my glove. With a slightly better view I could move faster, so I lost no time escaping the cluster of triffids around the plane.

The landscape in front of me was flat - very flat - and surprisingly springy underfoot. It was as if I was walking across a giant mattress.

The reason for this was depressingly simple - or so I thought. I knew that much of the low-lying land of southern England had been marshland long ago, only being drained in the Middle Ages or even later. With the disappearance of electric drainage pumps and with ditches becoming blocked by silt, the water table was creeping back to its original levels, slowly but surely returning farmland to bog.

I paused for a moment to check my revolver, as well as the emergency rations that I carried over one shoulder in a canvas satchel. After that, I turned my attention to the pocket compass. When I had due south, I sighted it on the murky red horizon and began to walk.

There was precious little to see close by as I walked. Only scrubby vegetation - no proper trees, no houses, no roads. With the horizon obscured by a rust-coloured mist and my smeared visor not helping visibility one jot I saw nothing in the distance, either.

I'd been walking for barely five minutes when I saw where land ended and sea began.

Just as I was telling myself that this must be the Solent that separated mainland England from the Isle of Wight it struck me that I couldn't be further from the truth.

Here was something I'd never seen before.

The land didn't end at a cliff and there was no beach. Oddly, the land just frayed away at the edges, looking as if it had decayed into fibres - fibres that were being washed this way and that by the surf.

As I walked, slowly now, towards its edge, the ground became even more springy beneath my feet. Now and again my boot broke through the turf into liquid beneath.

Once more I wiped at the visor. Although this made it only a bit cleaner I saw now that this ragged shore extended to my left and right perhaps a hundred yards or so before running back behind me. I might have described this as a headland, but now I realized that the word 'land' was, at best, an approximation.

This 'land' was counterfeit. It was a freak of nature.

Cautiously, I moved on towards the sea. Its waters glinted with dull oranges and reds, reflecting that sombre sky; even the foam whipped by a fresh breeze was the colour of rust. Crabs the size of dinner plates, with dull green shells, side-scuttled across the weed.

In heaven's name, what kind of world had I been thrown into?

I asked myself this again and again as I carefully worked my way towards the shoreline, hoping that soon I'd see a stretch of sand or rocks.

But no.

I watched as a larger wave hit the shore. It didn't break so much as pass beneath the 'land' I stood on. I felt the huge, slow ripple as it moved under the soles of my flying boots and on inland.

It happened again. Then again. Good grief. This wasn't solid land at all. It was an undulating mass of vegetation. A huge one, floating on the sea, rising and falling in harmony with the waves.

I returned 'inland' to where the vegetation might be thicker and hence more likely to support my weight. For this was nothing more than a colossal raft formed from driftwood and held together by a thin layer of turf. Beneath it lay only cold saltwater depths.

Still, I cherished a hope that this vast floating mat of vegetation might still be attached to solid land. But investigation, carried out during an hour's walk around its outer edges, soon gave a pretty clear picture of the truth. My 'island' drifted freely in the sea.

Now. I could see how a mainland Britain largely untenanted by human life would become overgrown; silted rivers would alter their courses; cities might sink into waterlogged foundations. However, the idea that perhaps a huge logjam might build up in a river, become overgrown with turf, then simply break away to become a free-floating raft fifty or sixty acres in area seemed just that bit remarkable.

A hundred yards away I saw a copse of triffids, their leaves swaying in the breeze. They were otherwise unmoving, content perhaps to stand with their roots dug in and to wait. Was this great flexible raft their invention? Maybe they had brains in their woody boles, after all. Perhaps they had evolved at such a rate that in the past twenty or thirty years they had developed intellect; that individual plants had already acquired specialist skills. Triffid warlords? Triffid technicians? Triffid engineers? Engineers whose role it was to plan, to build and even to navigate a craft like this that would carry their race to hitherto unconquered lands.

Too fabulous a concept?

I didn't know. But ask a farmer how quickly a common thistle can colonize a wheatfield. Or invite a gardener to testify how even the lowly daisy can invade, conquer and dominate a garden lawn. Then ask yourself whether a plant that can walk, can communicate - and can kill - could invent such a craft to seek pastures new. I, for one, now realized how the triffids had effected their landing on the Isle of Wight at Bytewater just a few hours ago. I didn't doubt for a moment that our people would find a mat of vegetation such as this washed up on the beach. One that would have carried the advance shock troops of a triffid invasion.

The question that occurred to me now was: where would the currents take this triffid vessel?

Time would tell, I told myself grimly. In the meantime, I noticed a group of low mounds rising from the northernmost end of the raft. Rather than skulk in the hidey-hole of the jet's cockpit I decided to investigate what further secrets this singular vessel might yet conceal.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A HAUNTED ISLE...

WHAT I found among those humps and bumps confirmed my earlier suspicions. Beneath a shroud of bindweed, ivy and moss I saw remnants of a jetty; perhaps one that had lain in the upper reaches of Southampton Water or on the River Avon.

Still wearing my helmet, its visor down against any triffid attack, I picked my way across the debris. Here and there I saw timbers of a pier lodged in the mat of vegetation. Nailed to one hefty post a sign stated MOORINGS - FOR PERMIT HOLDERS ONLY, the barely legible lettering long since faded to stencilled outlines around mere speckles of black paint.

Elsewhere I saw the remains of a thirty-year-old shoe entangled in weed, and what I recognized as the shell of a television set, sans glass screen and tube, inside which squatted a handsome crab with the biggest pincers I'd ever seen. When I approached he snapped a claw in the air; he wasn't going to quit his bakelite home without a fight.

Above me, the red sun still shone bleakly in a rust-coloured sky. Seagulls cried, the sound so hauntingly sad that it served only to emphasize the mournful atmosphere. What a world - what an exquisitely mournful world. Light the colour of rust; the flotsam and jetsam of a nation now extinct; a near-supernatural sense of loneliness.

Moss, moss, moss - the last king of Angkor Wat is dead...

Moments later I walked between weed-covered mounds that were larger than houses. To my surprise, I saw that these were the hulks of small cargo freighters, tugboats and fishing smacks. All had been fused into this vast mat of vegetable matter and then, at some point, the mat had been torn free to drift away downstream to the open sea.

Almost hypnotized by this fabulously desolate scene - a scene that appeared to me like a graveyard of all that Man had once held dear - I picked my way over boats that were tilted this way and that, half submerged by malignant greenery. Here, a corroded funnel poked through. There, I glimpsed an open porthole behind jungle-like creepers. And inside the craft were shapes that looked like crews' bunks. I moved on, pulling aside swathes of weed, perhaps to reveal a name painted on a bow or another porthole that was overgrown with a skin of moss.

Repelled and fascinated equally by this fusing of man-made artefacts and nature I was still not prepared for what I saw next.

Sweeping aside some hanging ivy from the flank of a cabin cruiser, I suddenly froze. My blood pounded in my ears. There at the porthole was a face. One with a pair of eyes that blazed at me, brighter than anything I'd seen since falling into this weed-scape. For only a split second we had eye contact. The intensity of the encounter made me catch my breath.

Then the face was gone.

Recovering from my surprise, I stepped back from the boat, caught my heel on a branch and sat down heavily on my rear end.

When I looked up I saw a figure appear on the deck of the boat. I didn't immediately identify it as human. Rather, I had the surreal impression of a lithe, abhuman being, a creature with masses of dark hair. Amazingly, it was clad in what appeared to be bandages that fluttered in the breeze. If anything, it resembled an Egyptian mummy, yet one that moved nimbly, very much alive, over the wrecked boat.

'Wait!' I shouted. 'Please wait!'

The figure paused and looked back. I saw now that it was a girl. She was perhaps sixteen. Her eyes were bright with shock, staring at me as if it was I who'd just burst forth from a tomb.

Then I realized that her reaction was perfectly natural. Because there I was, clad in something that to her must have looked totally outlandish, with the helmet and perspex visor concealing my face.

In a second I had pulled off my helmet.

'Don't be alarmed,' I told her. 'I won't hurt you.'

At the sight of someone apparently removing their head the girl gave an audible gasp and raised two trembling hands in front of her face.

I spoke as soothingly as I could. 'Don't worry. Don't worry, please. I'm not going to hurt you...'

I could now see her a little more clearly. She wasn't clad in bandages after all, only in clothes that had been worn to shreds. Although her face was clean, even looking well scrubbed, her mass of hair was a shock. I'd seen no human like this before. Moreover, there was a feral quality about her. Like a wild cat.

'I'd like to speak with you, if I may... please... I won't harm you. My name's David... I'm here by accident. Like you.'

That seemed the obvious assumption. That somehow she'd become marooned here. But heaven knew how she'd avoided the deadly attentions of the triffids for so long.

I smiled. 'Believe me, I won't harm you. I'll stay down here on the ground. I'd just like to-'

'Mm... merm-urr.'

'I'm sorry, I-'

'Merm-urr. Ah! Ah!'

Her eyes were bright. They seemed to express vitality and intelligence, but was she mute? Or... I felt a tingle of something, I'm ashamed to say, that came close to disgust. I'd heard stories of abandoned children in the triffid-haunted wastes of the mainland being raised by animals like the legendary Romulus and Remus. I'd written these off as mere fairy stories. Although certainly there were persistent accounts of survivors reverting to complete savagery. Even to the extent of losing the power of human speech entirely.

'Merm-urr. Ah! Ah!' With a flash of her eyes she made a claw of her hand and pushed it against her mouth. 'Merm-urr. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!'

'Food... you mean, do I have food?' Realization dawned. 'You're hungry?'

She tilted her head to one side, not understanding.

'Food.' I mimed eating.

'Ah! Ah!'

She understood.

I smiled and nodded. The poor wretch might have been here for weeks; certainly she must be starving. I reached for my satchel.

But she was quicker. Like lightning she sprang down from the deck of the boat, her bare feet lightly slapping against the turf. Then she advanced towards me, nodding and smiling while unwrapping something covered with what looked like a piece of sailcloth.

I paused, because I realized what she was doing. She was offering me food.

Now she nodded and smiled, her teeth a dazzling white; then she spread the cloth on the ground before me as if setting out a picnic. There in the centre of the cloth were two crabs - and a large rat.

She picked up the rat and mimed gnawing at its belly, while emitting a hearty 'Mmm, mmm.' Then she held it out to me so that I might enjoy the fruits of her labours.

The smile I put on my face was forced.

The rat was most definitely not appetizing. Blood trickled from its nostrils; its fur was matted; its prominent teeth were a sickly yellow.

I didn't want to offend my new friend by refusing her proffered delicacy. Instead, still smiling warmly, I broke a square of biscuit from my survival pack and offered it to her.

She seemed satisfied by our little ritual, for she replaced the rat in the cloth, quickly bundled it up, then tucked it under her arm. But she didn't decline my offer. As if plucking a hot chestnut from a fire her hand moved with lightning speed to pick the biscuit from my fingers.

It wasn't greed, or savagery; just her way of moving. Fast, yet graceful.

She looked at the biscuit. Clearly she'd never clapped eyes on baked confectionery before. Then she sniffed it and rubbed it experimentally with her thumb. When she was satisfied, she licked it.

'Mmm-mm!'

Her eyes locked back onto mine. They blazed with delight as she crammed the biscuit into her mouth and crunched it loudly - and with obvious pleasure. Once she'd swallowed it she sucked each finger and thumb in turn. 'Mmm... mmm!'

'You like that?'

'Mmm!'

I smiled. 'My name is... David... Da-vid.'

She gave me a quizzical look. 'Da... Day...' She tried again, framing her lips with an effort. 'Da... d... der...'

'David.'

She shot me a bright smile. Then, surprisingly, she said: 'Daddy.' Her voice became girlish. 'Daddy-daddy-daddy-daddy.'

At that moment I had a sudden mental vision of near-supernatural clarity. I saw a community on the mainland, struggling for survival. There, a family. Father, mother, little girl. Then disaster strikes. All die, with the exception of the girl. What horrors the little girl endured to survive to adulthood would fill a book of their own. Growing up wild and alone, beset by constant danger.

'Daddy, daddy, daddy.' She repeated the word delightedly. 'Daddy, Mummy, Aunt Sue, wash-face... Daddy mer-murr. Wash-face!' Beaming, she mimed washing her mouth and chin.

Then she laughed. And it was such a beautiful laugh that I found myself laughing, too. I tried to stifle it. But it was one of those laughs that couldn't be suppressed; it sprang from the depths of my stomach and roared out through my lips.

It would have made a strange picture. There's me, dressed like a spaceman from one of those precious Old World children's comics, the silvery helmet under one arm. The girl, looking like a savage, dressed in rags, fed on rat flesh. We're standing in a red-lit world of weed and wrecked ships, laughing like a couple of giddy children.

In that moment, too, I felt a kind of helpless love for the creature. She was beautiful, vital, graceful, indestructibly healthy despite her environment. And there we were: two human beings thrown together in adversity.

I knew there and then that I had somehow to find a way to rescue her from this floating mat of weed. After a while she would acclimatize herself to life on my homeland. There, trained people would care for her. She'd learn to speak English; perhaps she'd even become part of a family once more.

A shape lurched into the periphery of my vision.

In one fluid movement I drew my pistol and fired two shots. They smashed into the trunk of the triffid as it approached. My third bullet found the stem of the stinger as it curled ready to strike. The.45 calibre slug shattered plant flesh to fibre.

The girl gave a piercing shriek. Then, clamping her hands over her ears, she bolted.