Through golden mists Boardman saw the corpse of Marshall stapled to the wall. Marshall’s eyes were wide open. Were there no bacteria of decay on Lemnos? Looking into those eyes Boardman saw his own curving reflection, all nose, no mouth. He closed his eyes.
The computer, relieved, directed him onward.
9
A sea of blood. A cup of lymph.
10
To die, not having loved—
11
This is the gateway to Zone F. I am now leaving death’s other kingdom. Where is my passport? Do I need a visa? I have nothing to declare. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
3
A chill wind blowing out of tomorrow.
7
The boys camped in F were supposed to come out and meet us and lead us through. I hope they don’t bother. We can make it without them. We just have to get past the screen, and we’re all right.
5
I’ve dreamed this route so often. And now I hate it, even though it’s beautiful. You have to admit that: it’s beautiful. And probably it looks most beautiful just before it kills you.
3
Maribeth’s thighs have small puckers in the flesh. She will be fat before she’s thirty.
10
You do all sorts of things in a career. I could have stopped long ago. I have never read Rousseau. I have not had time for Donne. I know nothing of Kant. If I live I will read them now. I make this vow, being of sound mind and body and eighty years of age, I Ned Rawlins will I Richard Muller will read I will I I I will read I Charles Boardman
13
14
On the far side of the gateway Rawlins stopped short and asked the computer if it was safe for him to squat down and rest. The brain said that it was. Gingerly, Rawlins lowered himself, rocked on his heels a moment, touched his knee to the cool pebble-textured pavement. He looked back. Behind him, colossal blocks of stone, set without mortar and fitted to a perfect truing, were piled fifty meters high, flanking a tall narrow aperture through which the solid form of Charles Boardman now was passing. Boardman looked sweaty and flustered. Rawlins found that fascinating. He had never seen the old man’s smugness pierced before. But they had never come through this maze before, either.
Rawlins himself was none too steady. Metabolic poisons boiled in the tubes and channels of his body. He was drenched with perspiration so thoroughly that his clothing was working overtime to get rid of it, distilling the moisture and volatilizing the substratum of chemical compounds. It was too early to rejoice. Brewster had died here in Zone F, thinking that his troubles were over once he got past the dangers of G. Well, they were.
“Resting?” Boardman asked. His voice came out thin and unfocussed.
“Why not? I’ve been working hard, Charles.” Rawlins grinned unconvincingly. “So have you. The computer says it’s safe to stay here a while. I’ll make room.”
Boardman came alongside and squatted. Rawlins had to steady him as he balanced before kneeling.
Rawlins said, “Muller came this way alone and made it.”
“Muller was always an extraordinary man.”
“How do you think he did it?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I mean to,” Rawlins said. “Perhaps by this time tomorrow I’ll be talking to him.”
“Perhaps. We should go on now.”
“If you say so.”
“They’ll be coming out to meet us soon. They should have fixes on us by now. We must be showing up on their mass detectors. Up, Ned. Up.”
They stood. Once again Rawlins led the way.
In Zone F things were less cluttered but also less attractive. The prevailing mood of the architecture was taut, with a fussy line that generated a tension of mismatched objects. Though he knew that traps were fewer here, Rawlins still had the sensation that the ground was likely to open beneath him at any given moment. The air was cooler here. It had the same sharp taste as the air on the open plain. At each of the street intersections rose immense concrete tubs in which jagged, feathery plants were standing.
