Minstrel Boy could not accept that. He knew for a fact that such axioms had no validity in a universe where logic had been replaced by kinetic paradox. It was one of a long list of things he did his best not to think about.
The outside of the volcano might have been the subject of debate, but the inside was absolute in its extravagant reality. There was no question that it was unique in its baroque magnificence. Every surface in the miles of tunnels, stairways, caverns, and bridges was shaped, polished, and carved into an infinity of patterns that ranged from sweeping abstracts to lunging, prancing reliefs of huge mythical beasts. Massive stalagmites were fashioned into three-dimensional depictions of the gargantuan congress of giant pornographic demons. Flying bridges arched like the wings of eagles across apparently bottomless caverns, while the smooth curves of lava flows became the stomachs and thighs of nude basalt sirens. The overwhelming impact of the endless carvings was enhanced, if indeed that was possible, by shifting beams of lights that zigzagged from polished surface to polished surface. Eruptions of natural steam were reminders of a wild volcanic past, and a system of constantly running water that punctuated the relentless stone with fountains, waterfalls, deep cisterns, and mirror-smooth pools provided a constant liquid counterpoint to the man-made music of the place.
The Minstrel Boy started up the wide expanse of the Curved Stairs. His private chamber, where he kept the few possessions he had brought with him when he had fled the outside and where he went when he wanted to think or sleep alone, was high in the upper levels of the Caverns. He took the climb slowly. The steps of the Curved Stairs were not particularly steep, but there were a great many of them. He passed a young man, emaciated body covered with a patina of grime, sitting motionless with his back against the outer wall. He was staring vacantly at a point somewhere about three feet in front of him. He was either discorporate or completely mindless — to the observer there was very little difference — and it was quite possible that he had beenin the same position for days. It was also possible that he would remain as he was until he simply faded into death. In recent days, the Minstrel Boy had seen a number of similar motionless figures.
A young couple was walking down the stairs toward him, arm in arm; they were both exceptionally fair. Their straight blond hair hung almost to their waists, and they were naked except for the dense garlands of roses that were woven around their necks. He could see flecks of blood where the thorns had pierced their chalk-white skin. They were another typical indication of the changing season. Even sensuality was becoming a matter of solemnity and pain.
The Minstrel Boy's chamber was off a corridor, the entrance to which was the gaping maw of a multieyed dragon that seemed to be screaming either in rage or in some unimaginable agony. At the far end there were flights of Escher stairs that appeared to defy both reason and gravity. It was an out-of-the-way part of the Caverns, and he rarely saw anyone on the impossible stairs. On this day, however, he spotted four other figures, their shoulders hunched into long back cloaks that gave them a decidedly sinister look. On each cloak, over the heart, was an insignia of a golden sword. The Minstrel Boy immediately recognized the emblem; it was a very bad sign. The Society of Hunters should not have been active quite so soon in the Caverns' emotional autumn.
There were no doors in the Caverns. Only transients like the Minstrel Boy had individual possessions. Those who had made the black volcano their permanent home shared everything with an uncaring and uncomplicated innocence. If a person did not want anyone entering his private chamber while he was out, he simply placed a thin copper baton in the floor of the entrance. The symbol was always respected.
With a sigh the Minstrel Boy sat down on the chamber's narrow bed. He was disgusted with himself. He had been seduced so completely, sinking like a drowning lemming into mat loose lotus world where past and future, will or manifest destiny, meant nothing. Tactile gratification was all. For far too long he had been absolutely content to drift in a dreaming present on the slow tide of wine and roses.
He could not say that he particularly missed past, future, will, or manifest destiny, but if he was truthful, he had to admit thatfor a while he had been feeling the kind of immobilizing lethargy that was the first watchtower warning of boredom. It had been easy to ignore the distress signals when the present had been an unending opium chaos of warm, indolent bodies, but now that he could feel the future's cold breath, he had to read the writing. Reluctantly he stood up, crossed the chamber, and peered into the small mirror that was mounted on the far wall. 'You look a mess, boy. You really look a mess.' The kohl around his eyes had run, emphasizing the dark circles of dissolute exhaustion. Even his hair looked dead, and the dyed streaks in the dark curls simply looked ridiculous. He pointed an accusing finger at his own reflection.
'Time was, you were a hard man, boy. Freebooter musician poet — a DNA Cowboy, no less. Remember all the stories? All those rough, tough tales of stomping moonshine madness? Hell, boy, people stepped aside when you came strutting by.' He sighed. 'Now look at you; you're shot to shit.'
It was the truth. Once-hard eyes were filmed over from too much Dreamsleep. His cheeks were sunken, his mouth had gone slack and soft, and even his chin seemed to have weakened and receded.
'You're turning into some raddled old funboy.'
He knew that he could not delay any longer. The time had come to make the break. He knew himself well enough to realize that even though he had not been consciously admitting it, he had come up to his chambers to wash off the makeup, pack his belongings, and dress for the outside. Mercifully, he had so few things that packing was a short and simple process. His changes of clothing and other odds and ends were swept into the battered Samtron foldaway that, when activated, would render them weightless and virtually without mass by parking them on a tether in some nearby subdimension. The Crom Magnum veetar was placed carefully in its armored case, and the antitheft system was put on-line. With a private solemnity, the Minstrel Boy pulled on his travel-stained leathers. He suddenly felt older, larger, and infinitely more tired but, in a sense, relieved. He inspected the transformation in the mirror. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. What the hell? This was what he was supposed to be. He was not cut out to be an Eloi, and anyway, the Morlocks were coming. At least he had the consolation of knowing that he was doing what he had to do.
'Let's get the hell out of here.'
There were just two items left on the bed — his gun and his stasis generator. He picked up the nickel-plated, custom-channeled Colt.45 auto with the butt-mounted laser. It felt strange to hold a gun after so long. Even the thought of its compact totality was out of place in the lotus world. It was a confirmation that he was going to places where the dangers were different. The Colt was the best piece he had ever owned. Back in Dogbreath, he had paid old Abu Christmas a small fortune for the template. He eased it into the back waistband of his old leather pants and dropped the two spare clips of C-Face explodables into the pocket of his jacket.
He picked up the portable stasis generator and carefully checked the function lights. The SG, just slightly larger than a paper book, was what made it possible to travel at all in the Damaged World. He attached it to the clips on his belt. The unit produced a limited stasis field that extended just a few inches beyond the wearer's body and enabled him or her to survive deep in the nonmatter of the nothings. Without an SG, or if one suddenly malfunctioned in the middle of the nothings, the human body, and any other solid object, for that matter, went through a process that looked like high-speed evaporation and instantly became one with the non.
The Minstrel Boy felt strange walking down the staircases of the Caverns in full outside dress, veetar case over his back and the foldaway floating at his heel. Stares followed him as he descended into the depths of the volcano, but no one spoke to him or tried to stop him. The others seemed to accept his leaving as his own business, act of a lunatic though it may have been. At least, that was how it seemed until he was walking past the Starfex Fountain and was almost to the head of the shaft that led down to the sea tunnels.
'You, Minstrel Boy!'
The authoritative female voice rang around the vaulted, marble-faced dome that housed the fountain. The Minstrel Boy stopped in his tracks. One rarely heard voices like that in the Caverns. The foldaway obediently halted beside him. He slowly turned. There were three of them, all in the black cloaks with the golden sword emblem over the heart. In the center was the woman who had spoken. She was tall and handsome, with slightly grayed hair. He had seen her quite recently, holding her own at orgies. Now she looked like the fanatic agent of some dark, fierce god. The hood of her cloak was thrown back, and her eyes flashed with a dangerous madness. Her companions were both male. Their faces were covered by their cowls, and the one to her left had a small opalsnake coiled around his wrist. The Minstrel Boy did not like it at all.
'You're talking to me?'
Her voice was formal. 'You have been chosen by the Society of Hunters. You have been designated a Victim in the Games.'
So the discontent had started. The black-cloaked Hunters advanced on him. The woman was holding out a wafer of transparent crystal. The Minstrel Boy stood his ground.
