“Clever that, eh?” said Soap. “An invention of my greatgrandfather’s, don’t ask me how it works because I don’t know.”
“Must save some money on the electric bill,” said Jim.
“Electric bill?” Soap gave another of his hideous laughs which boomed along the corridors and down into the pit, returning in ghostly echoes back to them. “I’m tapped directly into the grid. I’ve never paid for gas or electric as long as I’ve lived.”
Jim shook his head in dismay. “This is unreal,” said he, “how can all this exist and nobody know about it? And what did you and your forefathers do with all the earth from these diggings?”
“Aha,” said Soap having another tap at his nose, “aha!”
At length they reached a vaulted chamber. Pooley later reckoned that it must have been about fifty yards in diameter but it was impossible to tell for certain as the lighting was only evident at whichever spot they stood.
“Now, about this wine,” Soap said. “The temperature here is ideal for hocks, border roses, Rhine wines, sweet sherry and growing mushrooms.”
From an enormous wine rack Soap withdrew a dusty-looking bottle and having no corkscrew readily at hand punched in the cork with his thumb. “Bottoms up,” he said taking an enormous swig. He passed the bottle to Omally. “Try it, it’s a fifty-year-old vintage.”
Omally took a small indecisive sip, smacked his lips a few times, took a great swig and then one very very large swig. “It is indeed good stuff,” said he, wiping his sleeve across his mouth and passing the bottle to Jim Pooley.
Jim, who had watched the Irishman’s performance with interest, needed no telling twice. He put the bottle to his lips and drew off a long and satisfying draught.
“Very shortly now,” said Soap, accepting the bottle from Pooley and finishing it off, “very shortly now contact will be made, I may be only inches away.”
Omally nodded, his eyes wandering over the wine rack. Soap pulled out another bottle and punched in the cork. “Feel free,” he said.
Omally felt free.
“I have all the ancient maps you see, my forebears knew the locations and they knew it was the work of several generations, but now I am there, the moment is close at hand, mankind stands poised upon the brink of the greatest of all discoveries, the new Golden Age, the dawn of the new tomorrow…”
Soap’s voice was rising in pitch. John Omally took another hasty pull upon the bottle and passed it hurriedly to Jim. “We had best get out of here old pal, I have a feeling I know what’s coming,” he whispered.
Soap was stalking about the cavern, arms raised, ranting at the top of his voice. Jim and John watched in stunned silence as the haunting light followed him from place to place, eerily illuminating his frantic motions. As he drew further from them his voice faded as if absorbed into the rock; his staccato movements and dramatic gestures lent to him the appearance of some bizarre mime artiste acting out an inexplicable saga beneath a travelling spotlight.
Soap lurched over to the wine rack and popped the cork from another bottle of wine. “Here,” he said, “here I’ll show you, the legacy of the Distants, I’ll show you.”
“We’ll take your word for it,” said Omally.
“We really must be making a move now,” Jim added in a convincing tone which concealed the fact that he was having great difficulty in controlling his bladder.
“No, no! You are here, the only ones, you must be present when the Portals are unlocked, you cannot be allowed to leave!”
“That is what I thought was coming,” muttered Omally.
“This way, this way!” With the wine bottle bobbing in his hand and the eerie light shining about him Soap made his way rapidly down a side corridor leaving Pooley and Omally in the darkness.
“I cannot remember by which entrance we came into this place,” said John.
“I have no idea as to that myself,” Jim replied, “and I am beginning to feel very poorly, vintage wine and Neville’s Large making a poor cocktail.”
“I fear we must follow him or stand alone in the darkness,” said John, “for the trick of light apparently works only to his account.” Jim wondered if magnetism might play some part in the situation. But now seemed a bad time for idle speculation, so he shrugged his shoulders in the darkness and the two set off to follow the glowworm figure of Soap Distant as it moved away in front of them.
“I estimate, although it is impossible to be certain, that we must be somewhere beneath the London Road,” said John.
“I had the same feeling myself,” Jim replied. “But I hope you realize and will record upon some tablet or graven plaque even though it be in my own memoriam that this whole thing is utterly fantastic and totally impossible.”
“Certainly these caverns appear to be the work of no earthly spade. I think that somewhere back along the bloodline of the Distants someone must have discovered this place by chance, although as to its original purpose and its manner of excavation, that is unimaginable.”
“Come quickly now!” screamed Soap, shining up ahead. “We are nearly there!”
Of a sudden they came to a halt, the tunnel terminating unexpectedly in what appeared to be a pair of massive iron doors.
“You see!” screamed Soap. Omally noted that beads of perspiration were rolling down his forehead and that evil lines of white foam extended from the corners of his mouth and vanished beneath his chin. “You see, you see, the holy Portal!”
Omally approached the gigantic doors. They were obviously of great age and looked capable of holding back the force of several armies. In the ghost light he could make out the heads of enormous rivets running in columns from top to bottom, and what appeared to be a large yet intricately constructed mechanism leading from two wheels that looked like the stopcocks on some titanic plumbing system. Central to each door was a brass plaque bearing upon it a heraldic device of uncertain origin.
It was the wheels that drew Omally’s attention. There was something hauntingly familiar about them, and he tried to recall where he had seen them before. As he stepped forward Soap Distant barred his way. “No, no!” he screamed. “You may not touch, it is for me, I the last in the line, I who must fulfil the prophecies, I who must open the Portal.”
“Soap,” said John seriously, “Soap, I do not feel that you should open these doors, something tells me that it would be a grave mistake.”
Pooley nodded wildly. “Best leave them eh, Soap? Can’t just go unlocking every door you come to.”
Soap turned and ran his hands over the pitted surface of the iron doors. “I think,” said John who was fast realizing the gravity of this particular situation, “I think Soap, that if you are adamant about this door opening business, then it would be better for you to be alone at the moment of opening. It would be wrong of us to stand around looking on. If the prophecies say that you are to open the Portal then open it you should. Alone!” Soap looked somewhat dubious but Omally continued unabashed, “The honour must be yours, we have no right to share it, show us back to the foot of the staircase where we will await your glorious return.”
“Glorious return, yes.” Soap’s voice was suddenly pensive. Pooley’s head nodded enthusiastically while at the same time his legs crossed and recrossed themselves.
“So be it then!” Soap strode between the two men and as the light moved with him Omally took one last look at the gigantic doors, chewed upon his bottom lip a moment, then followed the receding Soap back along the death-black corridor.
Soap’s will-o-the-wisp figure danced along ahead of them like a marsh phantom, weaving through the labyrinth of tunnels and finally into the huge central chamber. Peering up Omally could make out the lights of 15 Sprite Street, a reassuring glow high above. Soap stood breathing heavily through his nose, his fists clenched and his face a wax mask of sweat. Pooley was clutching desperately at his groin. Omally shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
“You wait then!” said Soap suddenly. “Tonight is the night towards which the entire course of
