“Good enough reason by me. Wait a minute.” Gene studied the control panel.
“What do you want?”
“Want the doors to stay open. The spell might wear off, and …”
“A grounded lift might tip them off.”
Gene scratched his stubbly chin. “You’re right, of course. Wasn’t thinking. But we’ll be stuck down here if I can’t get my mojo working.”
“Your —”
“Talisman. No, we’ll send it up.”
“It’s automatic.”
“Right.”
The closing of the doors left them in the faint greenish glow of the luminous strips on her pressure suit. There was enough light, however, by which to navigate the capacious, smooth-floored tunnel.
Sativa said, “Again, I’m puzzled by the extent of this operation. How many sublevels?”
“Seven marked on the panel, at least, but there were unmarked buttons.”
“That’s going fairly deep.”
“And there could be some deeper.”
“When do you think your magic spell will wear off?”
“Well, hard to say. We have maybe an hour.”
“They we’d best get lost somewhere down here. Find a spot to hide, and stay there.”
“There’s a problem of food and water.”
“Of course. We’ll have to hold out as long as we can, then come back up when they give up looking.”
“Are they likely to give up?”
She shook her head. “No. They know we’re … Excuse me, they know
“Then let’s hope someone stashed some emergency rations in this hole. Mines are supposed to have that sort of stuff. Bottled water at least.”
“There is that chance.”
“Then that means we have a chance. Come on.”
They walked into the semidarkness. Huge bracing trusses loomed overhead, looking secure enough to hold up the roof of a cathedral.
“You’re right,” he said, “it doesn’t look like a quickie strip mine.”
“It doesn’t seem like a mine at all.”
“What else could it be?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s this stuff?”
The stuff was piled crates lining the tunnel on both sides. The crates were made of some shiny white composite material.
Sativa knelt to inspect one of them. “They’ve got locks. Think you can handle it?”
“What, that thing?” He gave the crate a kick and the lid popped open.
Inside were futuristic firearms — rifles, or the equivalent. Sativa got one out and tore it free of its cloth wrapping. It was a formidable thing with a wire stock and a scope. She tossed it to him.
“Guns. Who —?”
“The Irregular Forces,” she said. “This is one of their weapons caches.”
“Gotcha. These could come in handy.”
“Right,” she said as she took out another weapon. “But this explains how we got in.”
“It does?”
“Yes. No insult to your magical abilities, but we were obviously let in. A trap. That’s why the outer door slammed shut.”
“I see. But not necessarily true. My magic works, believe me. And it was working. I can tell.”
“Let’s hope you’re right, my handsome wizard.”
She got up and bussed him on the cheek.
“But let’s look for ammunition, just in case.”
“Check, princess.”
Thirteen
River
“ … And so the hooker said to the chicken, “Sure, honey. Throw in a jar of mayonnaise and you got yourself a deal.””
Full-throated laughter came from the stern of the ferryboat, faint echoes returning from far across the water.
“That was amusing. Tell another.”
The shore took form out of the darkness ahead. Bare but for a few quaint buildings hugging the edge of the water. Taken as a whole, the assemblage looked not unlike a fishing village. This was impossible.
“I have about exhausted my trove of conceits and epigrams,” he told the boatman.
“Then spin me another tale of adventure.”
“The shore nears.”
The ferryman looked. “So it does. But you have given good measure. For the briefest moment I have been diverted from the tedium of my routine. And for that, mortal, I thank you.”
“You are quite welcome, boatman. What is this place?”
“The Port of Dreams.”
“Why is it so called?”
“I know not. Unlike the rest, you ask many questions. You will have your answer in due time.”
He regarded the approach of the village, peering past the houses.
“This is an island?”
The ferryman nodded. “Aye.”
“One more question, please. What is the name of this river?”
“This is the River of Dreams.”
“Ah.”
“And just downstream, at its mouth, begins the Sea of Oblivion, into which the river empties.”
“I see. These names elicit in me a strange foreboding.”
“Such feelings are often justified.”
Ahead, a wooden dock. Along the shore the masts of many sailing ships reached up to the darkness overhead. He wondered how he could see anything in this gloom. But see he did.
The village seemed quite the going concern. Workers plied the docks, toting bundles. People in robes gathered along the shore in little groups, talking. Doing business, perhaps.
He again grew aware of his nakedness.
“Have you anything I might wear?” he asked the ferryman.
“Not I. But such may be purchased ashore.”
Again, this purchasing. With what?
The ferryboat drew up to the dock and kissed its side. The boatman cast a mooring line. A barefooted dockhand caught it and tied it off.
He stepped from the boat to the dock and turned.
“My thanks.”
“It is nothing. You tell good stories, mortal. Before I go, one more? A witticism, anything.”
“A riddle?”
“A riddle then.”
