24
Hork ran his thick fingers around the seam of the door. Then, impatient, Waving to give himself leverage, he laid his hands flat against the door and shoved.
The door swung back on invisible hinges, heavy and silent; Air hissed.
Through the doorway Dura caught glimpses of another, larger chamber, walled by more of the featureless gray material.
For a moment Hork and Dura hesitated before the doorway.
“Let’s get on with it,” Hork growled. He grasped the edges of the doorframe. With a single fluid movement he hauled his bulk through; his small feet, Waving gently, disappeared into the frame.
With a sigh, Dura took hold of the frame. Like the rest of the wall material the frame edges were cool to the touch, but the walls seemed knife-thin and the edges dug into her palms. She laid her hands carefully on the outer surface of the wall, beyond the frame, and pushed herself through.
The outer chamber was another tetrahedron — and constructed of the ubiquitous gray-bland material — but perhaps ten times as large, a hundred mansheights across or more. This room would be as large as any enclosed space in Parz City. The chamber from which she had emerged floated at the heart of this new room, its vertices and edges aligned with the chamber within which it was embedded. Dura wondered vaguely what was holding the smaller chamber in place; there were no signs of struts, supports or ropes.
Perhaps they were in a nest of these tetrahedral chambers, one contained in the other, she speculated; perhaps if they went beyond these walls they would swim into a third chamber, ten times larger again, and then onward…
But there was no door in this outer chamber. The walls were featureless: unbroken even by the map device which had adorned the inner cell. There must be no way out; maybe this was the end of their journey.
Hork came Waving toward her. “Dura. I’ve found something.” Taking her by the hand he half-dragged her around the inner cell. He Waved to a stop, causing Dura to bump against him, and pointed to his find. “There. What do you think of that?”
It was a box, irregularly shaped, about half a mansheight across. Dura circled the thing warily a few microns from where it hovered in the Air. Sculpted of the familiar gray wall material, it consisted of a massive block from which a thinner rectangular plate protruded; smaller cylinders stretched forward from the sides of the rectangle…
Its function was unmistakable.
“It’s a
Hork snorted impatiently. “Obviously it’s a damn seat.” He prowled around the object, poking boldly at its surfaces. Levers — thick stumps apparently designed for human fists — protruded from the end of each of the chair’s arms. A swiveling pointer was inset into the left arm.
Dura asked, “Do you think it’s meant for us… I mean, for humans?”
Hork groaned. “Of
Dura was offended. “There’s nothing obvious about this situation, Hork. If that map was right, we’ve traveled across space — away from the Star itself. Why should we expect anything but utter strangeness? It’s a miracle we’ve found Air to breathe, let alone…
He shrugged; the fat-covered muscles flowed under his coverall. “But this is obviously meant for humans. See how the back, the seat have been molded?” And, before Dura could protest, Hork swiveled his bulk through the Air and settled into the chair. At first he wriggled, evidently uncomfortable — he even looked alarmed — but soon he relaxed and assumed a broad smile. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair; it seemed to match the shape of his massive body. “Perfect,” he said. “You know, Dura, this chair must be three hundred generations old. And yet it looks as good as new, and it fits my bulk as well as if it had been designed by the best Parz craftsmen.”
Dura frowned. “You didn’t seem so happy when you got into the seat.”
He hesitated. “It felt odd. The surfaces seemed to flow around me.” He grinned, his confidence recovering. “It was adjusting to me, I suppose. It was disconcerting, but it didn’t last long… What do you think these levers are for?” His massive fists hovered over the rods protruding from the seat-arms.
“No!” She laid her hands over his.
After a moment he relaxed and lifted his hands away from the levers, leaving them untouched. “Interesting,” he said mildly. “These look just like the control levers in the ‘Flying Pig.’ Maybe there are some basic commonalities of human design, a certain way things just have to be…”
“But,” she said firmly, “unlike with the ‘Pig’ we don’t have the faintest idea what these controls are for.”
Hork looked like a reprimanded child. “Well, as you told me earlier, we’re not going to make any progress unless we take a few chances.” He glanced down at the arrow device inset in the left arm of the seat. “What about this, for instance?”
Dura Waved closer. The arrow was a finger-thick cylinder hinged at its center; it lay at the heart of a small crater gouged out of the chair. The crater’s rim was marked by a band divided into four quarters: white, light gray, dark gray, black. The arrow was pointing at the black quadrant. It seemed obvious that the arrow was designed to be twisted by the occupant of the chair.
Hork looked up at her. “Well? This seems harmless enough.”
Dura suppressed a manic giggle. “You haven’t the faintest idea what it
“Damn you, upfluxer, we didn’t come all this way to cower.” And with a convulsive movement he grabbed the arrow and twisted it.
The device clicked through a quarter of a turn.
Dura flinched, wrapping her arms around her body. Even Hork could not help but wince as the arrow came to rest, pointing to the dark gray quadrant of the scale band. Then he exhaled heavily. “See? No harm done… In fact, nothing seems to have happened at all. And…”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.” She pointed. “Look…”
Hork twisted in the seat.
The walls of the chamber had turned transparent.
Bzya was dozing, hands loosely wrapped around the Bell’s axial support pole, when the blue flashes started.
He snapped awake.
This had been a long, fruitless dive, and he had been looking forward to home, to breaking some beercake with Jool. But now something was wrong.
He scanned quickly around the cabin. Hosch, his only companion on this trip, was awake and alert; they shared a brief, interrogative glance. Bzya placed his hands gently on the polished, worn wood of the support pole. No unusual vibration. He listened to the steady hum of the great Corestuff hoops which bound about the hull of the Bell; the sound was an even thrumming, telling him that the current from the City still flowed down the cables as steadily as ever, throwing a magnetic cloak around their frail ship. He looked through the nearest of the Bell’s three small windows. The Air outside — if it could be graced with the name, this far down — was a murky yellow, but bright enough to tell him that they were somewhere near the top of the underMantle. He could even see the shadow of the Spine; they were still close to its lower tip, not much more than a meter below the City…
The Bell lurched.
Hosch wrapped his thin hands around the support pole. “Why aren’t we dead?”
It was a good question. Clouds of electron gas around a Bell usually meant current surges in the Corestuff hoops. Maybe the cable from the Harbor was fraying, or a hoop failing. But if that was so the Bell’s field would fail almost immediately. The Bell should have imploded by now.
“The current supply is still steady,” Bzya said. “Listen.”
They both held their breath, and looked into the Air; Hosch adopted the empty-eyed expression of a man trying to concentrate on hearing.
Another flash. This time the Bell actually rocked in the soupy underMantle, and Bzya, clinging tightly to the pole, was swung around like a sack. He pulled himself closer to the pole and wrapped his legs around it.
The supervisor’s breath stank of meat and old beercake. “Okay,” he said. “We know the Harbor supply is steady. What’s causing the flashes?”
“There have to be current surges in the Corestuff hoops.”
“If the City supply is steady that’s impossible.”
Bzya shook his head, thinking hard. “No, not impossible; the surges are just caused by something else.”
Hosch’s mouth pursed. “
The Bell wasn’t malfunctioning;
“What’s causing the Magfield to vary?” Bzya asked. “Another Glitch?”
Hosch shrugged. “Hardly matters, does it? We’re not going to live to find out.”
There was an upward jolt, this time without the accompanying blue flash.
Bzya grasped the pole. “Feel that? That was the Harbor. They’re pulling us up. We’re not dead yet. They’re trying to…”
And then the blue light came again, and this time stayed bright. Bzya felt the writhing Magfield haul at his stomach and the fibers of his body, even as it tore at the Bell itself.
Electron gas sparked from his own fingertips in streamers. It was really quite beautiful, he thought absently.
The Bell was hurled sideways, away from the Spine. Bzya’s hands were torn from the support pole. The Bell’s curving wall came up, like a huge cupped palm, to meet him. His face rammed into a window, hard. His body bent backward as it crammed itself into the tight inner curve of the wall. The structure of the Bell shuddered and groaned, and there was a distant, singing sound above him. That was the cables breaking, he thought through his pain. He felt oddly pleased at his own cleverness at such a deduction.
The walls wrenched, settled; the Bell rolled.
He fell into darkness.
Beyond the transparent walls, huge, ghostly buildings hovered over the humans.
The third chamber was immense, sufficient to enclose a million Parz Cities. The walls — made of the usual gray material, it seemed — were so far away as to be distant, geometric abstractions. Maybe this strange place was a series of nested tetrahedra, going on to infinity…
She Waved to Hork and reached out for him, blindly; still in the chair, he took her hands, and although his grip was strong she could feel the slick of fear on his palms. For a heartbeat she felt an echo of the passion they’d briefly found, in flight from terror during the journey.
The transparent structures hovered around them like congealed Air. They were translucent boxes hundreds of thousands of mansheights tall. And within some of the buildings more devices could be seen, embedded; the inner structures were ghosts within ghosts, gray on gray.
The tetrahedral box containing the “Pig,” the solid little chair, Hork and Dura themselves, were like specks of wood adrift in some mottled fluid. In fact, she realized, the whole of the tetrahedron
