Reliquary

“You little liar,” Waxie was saying, “you never told me that you couldn’t reverse the flood.”

“I did, I did,” came a high-pitched whine in response. “You even said you didn’t want it reversible. I wish I’d had a tape recorder, because—”

“Shut up. Are these the valves?”

“They’re here, at the back.”

There was a silence, then the groaning protest of metal as the men shifted position.

“Is this platform safe?” came Waxie’s voice from deep within the pit.

“How should I know?” the high-pitched voice replied. “When they computerized the system, they stopped maintaining—”

“All right, all right. Just do what you have to do, Duffy, and let’s get out of here.”

Smithback inched his nose farther into space and peered down. He could see the man named Duffy examining the nest of valves. “We have to turn all these off,” came his voice. “It closes the Main Shunt manually. That way, when the computer directs the Reservoir to drain, the shunt gates will open, but these manual valves will contain the water. Works on the siphon principal. If it works at all. Like I said, it’s never been tried.”

“Great. Maybe you’ll win the Nobel Prize. Now do it.”

Do what? Smithback wondered. It sounded as if they were trying to prevent the Reservoir from being drained. The thought of millions of cubic feet of water thundering down from above was enough to swivel his eyes toward the exit far over his head. But why? Computer glitch of some kind? Whatever it was, it didn’t sound worth leaving the biggest riot in a hundred years for. Smithback’s heart began to sink; this was definitely not where the real story was.

“Help me turn this,” Duffy said.

“You heard him,” Waxie snapped at the policemen. From his perch, Smithback could see two of the tiny figures gripping a large iron wheel. There was a faint grunting. “It ain’t moving,” one of the policemen announced.

The man named Duffy bent closer, inspecting. “Somebody’s been messing around here!” he cried, pointing. “Look at this! The shaft’s been packed with lead. And over here, these valves have been broken off. Recently, too, by the looks of it.”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit, Duffy.”

“Look for yourself. This thing is shot to hell.”

There was a silence. “Shit on a stick,” came Waxie’s fretful voice. “Can you fix it?”

“Sure we can. If we had twenty-four hours. And acetylene torches, an arc welder, new valve stems, and maybe a dozen other parts that haven’t been manufactured since the turn of the century.”

“That isn’t good enough. If we can’t stop that shunt from opening manually, we’re screwed. You got us into this fix, Duffy. You’d damn well better get us out.”

“To hell with you, Captain!” the shrill voice of Duffy echoed up. “I’ve had all I’m going to take. You’re a stupid, rude human being. Oh, yes, I forgot: fat, too.”

“That’s going in my report, Duffy.”

“Then be sure you put in the part about being fat, because—”

There was an abrupt silence.

“You smell that?” asked one of the-policemen on the ladder.

“What the hell is it?” came another voice.

Smithback sniffed the cool, moist air, but could smell nothing but damp brick and mildew. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Waxie said, grabbing the ladder and hoisting himself up the rungs.

“Just a minute!” came the voice of Duffy. “What about the valve?”

“You just told me it couldn’t be fixed,” Waxie said without looking down.

Smithback heard a faint rattling sound from the deeper darkness of the pit.

“What was that?” Duffy asked, his voice cracking.

“Are you coming?” Waxie yelled, hauling his ungainly body up the ladder, one rung at a time.

As Smithback watched, Duffy took a look over the platform edge, hesitating. Then he turned back and began to scramble up the ladder behind Waxie, followed by the uniformed policemen. Smithback realized that in five minutes, they’d reach the catwalk. By then he’d have to be gone, making that long crawl back up the gangway and out of sight. And with jack shit to show for his pains. He turned to go, hoping he hadn’t missed the rest of the riot, wondering where Mrs. Wisher was by now. Jesus, what a bad call, he thought ruefully. Can’t believe my instincts let me down. With his luck, that prick Bryce Harriman was already…

A sound echoed up from below: the protesting squeal of rusty hinges, the loud booming of an iron grating being slammed.

“What was that?” Smithback heard Waxie yelp.

Smithback turned back and looked down the ladder. He could see the figures on the ladder below him, suddenly motionless. Waxie’s last question was still echoing and rumbling, dying away in the shaft. There was silence. And into the silence came the sound of scrabbling on iron rungs, mingled with strange grunts and wheezes that raised the hairs on Smithback’s nape.

Flashlight beams played downwards from the group on the ladder, revealing nothing.