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the violence of forgotten storms, and Butch hobbled and grunted and winced and sweated. His heels were blistered because his shoes were tight. They had been shining new shoes, size ten, specially for the picnic. What a picnic! There would have been ice-creams and lemon drinks and big, juicy pies.
    â€˜Here you are, Christopher, a nice pool and a nice rock for shade. Now you soak your feet and get them right again and then come along after us. Do you know where the caves are?’
    â€˜Yes, miss.’
    â€˜Very well. When you get to the path at the bottom call loudly for us and we’ll let you know exactly where we are.’
    â€˜Yes, miss.’
    â€˜Don’t drop your new shoes in the water, will you?’
    â€˜No, miss.’
    â€˜Come along, children.’
    Again they trailed after her, looking back at Butch, pulling faces at him, and little Harvey mocked him by limping like a man with a wooden leg.
    They disappeared amongst the rocks and Butch eased off his new shoes that weren’t shiny any more, and were scuffed on the toes, and so terribly tight at the heels. The blisters had burst and it hurt him to peel his socks off, but then he shivered in delight when he lowered his feet into the cool, kind water. In a minute or two he felt much better, much cooler all over, and he unbuckled his schoolbag and ate a large piece of apple pie.
    When he tried to put his shoes on again he couldn’t. His feet started hurting almost as much as before, so there was only one thing he could do. He curled up in the shade of the overhanging rock and went to sleep.
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    At the foot of the bluff Miss Godwin gathered her children round her. She was guilty of deceiving them. They thought she only wanted to talk but really she wanted to rest. She felt like a jelly inside, quivery and without any strength. She knew now that this climb up the bluff was every bit as bad as she had feared. This was why she hadn’t climbed it when she had come before; it had been simply common sense, not cowardice.
    She drew her book from her haversack and it fell open at a photograph of the rock paintings at Lightning Totem Centre in North Australia.
    â€˜â€¦Now take a good look at these, Adrian, and tell me if you find any similarities to what you saw.’
    Adrian had been through this before. ‘No,’ he said.
    â€˜You’re sure?’
    â€˜Certain, miss.’
    â€˜I’m going to ask you once more, Adrian, to go through the book from cover to cover and make your selection. There must be similarities somewhere.’
    â€˜I told you about the red hands, miss.’
    â€˜That doesn’t help much, Adrian. There are thousands of red hands throughout the continent. It is their association with these other things that is mystifying.’
    Paul sighed inwardly. Of course the association was mystifying. It wasn’t even true. But Miss Godwin had spoken about this, over and over again. She was excited by it. She had kept harping on it, perhaps trying to break Adrian’s story down, but Adrian’s story had never broken. He hadn’t changed a detail. He had described things which, Miss Godwin said, had never been found before. They must have been made a very long time ago, perhaps thousands of years ago, by artists out of touch with all other men.
    So she waited while Adrian thumbed over the book again, from photograph to photograph, endeavouring to steady her nerves and marshal her strength. How she wished these children hadn’t come! Their very presence forced her to make the climb. She couldn’t get out of it with dignity. If she failed to make the climb what would these children think of a teacher who taught them to explore but was afraid to explore herself? What would they think of a teacher who enthused about the art of the stone-age men but was too frightened to make a personal effort to see it?
    â€˜Really, miss,’ said Adrian, closing the book and passing it back to her,