The Face of Heaven. Brian Stableford
this time, nor insistently. No one joined in. It was the laugh of a private moment—a gesture of personal satisfaction. The laugh was low, and it bubbled over the Old Man’s tongue.
“It’s poison, Ryan,” said one of the strangers, bitterly. Three of them—all except the leader—knew then that they had been murdered. The leader would not admit it, though he must have felt it to be true, by now.
“You bastards,” said one of the men, as they all struggled to rise. Only one actually managed to make it to his feet.
As the man stood tall, Chemec raised himself to the full extent of his three feet ten inches and reached up to kill the man. He was careful to smash the spine below the atlas vertebra, so as to preserve the skull unblemished.
Chapter 7
Burstone dragged the heavy suitcase along the catwalk to the head of the ladder which descended into the depths of the pit. The steady throb of the great machine filled his ears and blotted out the soft footfalls of the man who was following him.
When he reached the ladder Burstone secured the case to a chain which dangled from a wide axle. He pushed it clear of the catwalk and began to wind the handle on the axle, paying out the chain. The lamps which were arrayed in a long line beside the ladder (for the benefit of the maintenance men who occasionally had to attend the machine) were dim and yellow, and the suitcase soon became a blur in the half-light.
Joth paused to wait for Burstone to finish lowering the case. He was perhaps forty or fifty yards away, and he held himself flat against the body of the machine. He was not quite invisible, but Burstone showed no inclination to look back—he had no reason to think that anyone might follow him down here. Hardly anyone ever came down this low. The machine never went wrong and routine checks were made only twice a year or thereabouts.
Joth was sweating quite heavily. He could feel the heat of the machine through the thin cloth of his shirt, and his own flesh seemed to be very hot, glowing with insistent excitement. He had expected it to be warm down here, but he had not expected anything of the quality of his own reaction. The pressure of his heartbeat sent thin waves of nausea through his body. He could not explain himself.
Burstone was also hot, but he had been through this operation a hundred times before. His reactions to what he was doing and how were qualitatively somewhat different from Joth’s, but it was in the integration of his psyche with the physiological symptoms that the real difference lay. Joth was experiencing a mixture of fear and excitement, and to him it was raw sensation. Burstone’s mixture of feeling was rather more complex, and he was savoring the delicate blend and balance. To him, this was good. This was the fulfilment of a real purpose.
It would have been impossible to hear the soft bump as the suitcase hit bottom, but Burstone knew almost to the inch how much of the chain to let out. He was ready for it to go slack, and he wasted no time. The economy of his motions, the fluid efficiency of the whole enterprise, provided a fair measure of the kick. He heaved himself over the edge of the catwalk, placing his feet comfortably into the metal rungs of the slender ladder, and began to descend comfortably and easily.
Joth moved to the head of the ladder. He gripped the rail of the catwalk hard on either side of the gap, squeezed, and then eased his body forward so that he could peer down into the abyss. It scared him. Height, darkness, uncertainty—all these things were relative strangers to his senses. He had every right and reason to be frightened. He waited for a full minute longer than prudence demanded, gathering his courage and determination, before he followed Burstone into the depths.
He could feel the beating of his heart, and it seemed to be racing ever faster by comparison with the deep, steady beat of the machine. He did not know the purpose of the machine. He took machines for granted. Machines were everywhere, and no one asked how they integrated themselves into the complex web of function which supplied human need in almost every way. Machines were the substance of life itself.
Burstone reached the bottom. He was alone in a tiny pool of light, surrounded by an illimitable darkness. Hiding in the darkness was the machine, and machines parasitic upon it, and machines parasitic upon them. There were pipes and wires and bolts and welds. He knew almost nothing about their outlay or their role. He had never felt the need to explore at this level. This level was dead, with nothing to offer a connoisseur’s curiosity. Electronic anatomy and mechanical physiology were not his subjects any more than they were Joth’s. What Burstone was interested in was life, and life was a long way below him yet.
With complete assurance, needing no light, Burstone moved away from the foot of the ladder, dragging the suitcase behind him.
By the time Joth reached the foot of the ladder Burstone was long gone. Joth cursed his reluctance to descend and crushed a suddenly flowering urge to retrace his path. The anxiety which had made him cling with such fierce determination to the ladder at every step now held his hands tight, and it took a real effort to make them let go and leave him standing on his own feet. He realized now that he was at the very bottom of the world, and the knowledge that space and the Underworld might be only mere inches beneath his feet made him think that he was in imminent danger, somehow, of falling through the floor. He strained his ears, but he could hear nothing. He knew he would have to use his torch.
Even by the dim light of the lampcell set in the side of the machine he could see which way Burstone had gone. There was only one blurred pathway through the thick-layered dust—one worn clean by many journeys, but only one pair of feet. And a suitcase.
Joth switched on his torch. It was a tiny device, with a crystal as small as an eyeball. The beam it shone was pencil-thin. It would have been invisible to the human eye. He set out to follow the path through the dust, hoping that Burstone would have already passed on to the next stage of his descent, but certain in any case that the other could not see the tiny glow that was following him even if he cared to look back.
Ahead of him, Joth saw a quick flicker of light which died away to a soft glow almost imperceptible to his retuned eyes.
At the end of the pathway in the dust was a circular hole in the floor. A cover which had been clamped to it had been removed to one side. Another windlass was positioned beside the hole—bigger and stronger than the one which Burstone had used to lower the suitcase from the catwalk. It was whirring softly—operating automatically. Joth guessed that the strong double chain which unwound with leisurely steadiness supported a cage or basket of some kind, in which both Burstone and the suitcase were riding. They were on their way to the Underworld—to the surface of the ancient Earth.
Joth switched off his torch. The soft pearl-white glow which limned the black rim of the hole surprised him. He had always thought of the Underworld as being pitch dark. He reached up to adjust his eyes, setting them to take the maximum benefit from the light of the Underworld’s stars.
He got down on to his hands and knees and crept close to the lip of the hole. He looked into the Underworld, from the viewpoint of one of its own stars.
He could see a long way...hills, forests of weird fleshy plants, intermingled with others of a squatter, more varied nature.
Wilderness, broken and confused, but most definitely not dead. Very much alive, even rich. But he could see no sign of human habitation. Except, perhaps, for the low and even ridge which ran alongside a stretch of water away to his right. That might...just might...be a wall.
Far below him, the cage was still descending.
Joth nodded, reassuring himself that all was well. Then he readjusted his eyes, switched on the ultraviolet torch, and looked around for somewhere convenient to hide.
Chapter 8
Burstone and Ermold haggled for an hour or more—though the time meant little or nothing to the man of the Underworld. Two warriors from Walgo, Fortex and Theogon, gave some desultory help to Ermold in his arguments, but were really only along for the ride.
The girl, on the other hand, was something different. Burstone had never seen the girl before. She was tied to Ermold—actually, physically tied. The cord was round her neck and his wrist. Occasionally, when she thought Ermold wasn’t paying any attention, she would