He shrugged. “I was told once. Years ago. Down here, somewhere. All I can remember is that it’s in the supply area. Do you remember, Notadam? It would be red, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be listed, wouldn’t it?” Lurilile demanded.
Notadamdirabong shook his head uncertainly. “I don’t know. Maybe not. To keep bad guys from finding it. In which case, it might not be red, either.”
“What in hell am I looking for then!”
Rasiel shrugged, fighting impotent tears. “I don’t know. The one in the Authority Chambers robing room is behind a painted panel. I haven’t even seen that one in twenty years.”
“Shit,” she hissed in disbelief. “I’ve got the key and no damned idea where the lock is or what the damned lock looks like.”
“You can try the phrase everywhere. Maybe it’s an ear tied into the general information banks.”
“I can stand on my head and whistle the Ahabar battle anthem, too. It would probably do just about as much good. Are you two going to go, or do I have to do that by myself, as well?”
Shamefaced, Rasiel Plum agreed to go. Lurilile keyed Phansure as the destination. “Don’t forget to tell them the Final Command before they come up here to help me, Rasiel Plum. I may not be around when they arrive.”
When he had gone, she keyed Thyker and gave Cringh a hug before pushing him through. He was a nice old man. Pleasant to be with, with no sexual pretensions. She had enjoyed his company. She was glad he wasn’t going to die, not just yet, artifact or no.
She had not mentioned it to either of them, but she found it very ominous that there were no crowds jostling their way into this area. Surely she was not the only person still on Authority who knew of the Door in Supply as a way of escape.
• Sam Stood on a low hill in darkness. Before him were the sparkles that told of arriving soldiers. Now and then the earth shook. Now and then a meteor streaked across his field of vision. These accidents became less and less frequent. Finally, they stopped altogether. Now there was only the recurrent glitter of soldiers or scouts or whatever they were, arriving on the surface, at first singly, then by the dozens.
A thing arrived at the foot of the hill and rolled clankingly around the base of it toward the southeast. It was three times Sam’s height, perhaps ten feet across and four times that in length. It had several turrets on it, arms equipped with pinchers and grabbers, grills and eyes, and structures Sam could imagine no use for whatsoever. It was obvious he could not extrapolate from known agricultural machines. The thing that clanked away beneath him was designed to do more than merely kill quickly and cleanly. It was designed to kill, yes, but to do so torturously, slowly, with maximum pain and observable horror.
“Hi,” called Sam, without planning to.
The turret at the top of the thing swiveled. Gadgets got a fix on him almost at once.
“Who is the God of Voorstod?” The machine bellowed.
It took Sam a moment to identify the familiar words, familiar and yet so out of context in this place. These were words that belonged to the mists and the stones of Voorstod, not to the wondrous vistas of Hobbs Land.
“The One, the Only, the Almighty God, in whose light all other gods are shown to be false idols created by men,” Sam called in a loud voice. They were the words Phaed had trained him to use in response to that particular question. So the machines had been programmed with the words of Scripture. With the documents of doctrine. He should have known that. Perhaps he had known that. Perhaps that was why he was here.
The machine made a weaving motion of jointed arms, a clattering of servo-mechanisms. Then, abruptly, it turned and went the way it had originally started, southeast, away, leaving Sam behind.
“Oh, I learned my lesson well, Phaed,” Sam commented to himself as he went down the hill toward the sounds he could hear faintly accumulating before him. Like the accumulating sound of a sea, when the tide turns. Like the sound of a rain storm, growing from a gentle sprinkle to a torrent.
“What is the desire of the One God?” came the challenge from the darkness confronting him.
“That all living things shall acknowledge him,” cried Sam.
“And how is this to be achieved?”
Sam shook his head and bellowed, “By teaching those who will learn, and by killing all others.”
The creature clanked past, its lenses fixed on some unimaginable epiphany. It was not programmed to teach, therefore it would kill.
The soldiers let him alone. They challenged him and let him alone when he responded. After the soldiers, would come the prophets. And their followers. He was going there, where they were. He counted sparkles of light, to his right and to his left. A rank of soldiers some hundreds long, some hundreds deep. Enough to kill every person upon Hobbs Land ten thousand times over. He walked through them, answering their challenges, not breaking stride, his legs moving of themselves.
Strange. One had legs, and a body and a face, and one did not think of that often. One had joints and skin covering the lot, and one did not think of that. Parts were obedient, doing what they were required to do. Sometimes they ached, if badly used, but they were not treacherous. Now, among these great warriors, all human parts seemed ludicrous and inadequate. What could they do but die? What good were arms against these? How fast could legs run in a race against death?
Assume there were no monsters. Assume there was only death, as there had always been death. Inevitable. The end of man as of everything. Which arms could not oppose nor legs outrun nor eyes find a place deep enough to hide oneself in.
