It Could Be Anything

: It Could Be Anything

Keith Laumer, well-known for his tales of adventure

and action, shows us a different side of his talent

in this original, exciting and thought-provoking

exploration of the meaning of meaning.

"She'll be pulling out in a minute, Brett," Mr. Phillips said. He tucked

his railroader's watch back in his vest pocket. "You better get

aboard--if you're still set on going."

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"It was reading all them books done it," Aunt Haicey said. "Thick books,

and no pictures in them. I knew it'd make trouble." She plucked at the

faded hand-embroidered shawl over her thin shoulders, a tiny bird-like

woman with bright anxious eyes.

"Don't worry about me," Brett said. "I'll be back."

"The place'll be yours when I'm gone," Aunt Haicey said. "Lord knows it

won't be long."

"Why don't you change your mind and stay on, boy?" Mr. Phillips said,

blinking up at the young man. "If I talk to Mr. J.D., I think he can

find a job for you at the plant."

"So many young people leave Casperton," Aunt Haicey said. "They never

come back."

Mr. Phillips clicked his teeth. "They write, at first," he said. "Then

they gradually lose touch."

"All your people are here, Brett," Aunt Haicey said. "Haven't you been

happy here?"

"Why can't you young folks be content with Casperton?" Mr. Phillips

said. "There's everything you need here."

"It's that Pretty-Lee done it," Aunt Haicey said. "If it wasn't for that

girl--"

A clatter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed Aunt Haicey's dry

cheek, shook Mr. Phillips' hand, and swung aboard. His suitcase was on

one of the seats. He put it up above in the rack, and sat down, turned

to wave back at the two old people.

It was a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country slide

by. It was nice country, Brett thought; mostly in corn, some cattle, and

away in the distance the hazy blue hills. Now he would see what was on

the other side of them: the cities, the mountains, and the ocean. Up

until now all he knew about anything outside of Casperton was what he'd

read or seen pictures of. As far as he was concerned, chopping wood and

milking cows back in Casperton, they might as well not have existed.

They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But he didn't want

to just read about them. He wanted to see for himself.

* * *

Pretty-Lee hadn't come to see him off. She was probably still mad about

yesterday. She had been sitting at the counter at the Club Rexall,

drinking a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big picture of an

impossibly pretty face on the cover--the kind you never see just walking

down the street. He had taken the next stool and ordered a coke.

"Why don't you read something good, instead of that pap?" he asked her.

"Something good? You mean something dry, I guess. And don't call it ...

that word. It doesn't sound polite."

"What does it say? That somebody named Doll Starr is fed up with glamor

and longs for a simple home in the country and lots of kids? Then why

doesn't she move to Casperton?"

"You wouldn't understand," said Pretty-Lee.

He took the magazine, leafed through it. "Look at this: all about

people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars, and fly all over

the world having affairs with each other and committing suicide and

getting divorced. It's like reading about Martians."

"I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied. You want to do your

hair up crazy like the pictures in the magazines and wear weird-looking

clothes--"

Pretty-Lee bent her straw double. She stood up and took her shopping

bag. "I'm very glad to know you think my clothes are weird--"

"You're taking everything I say personally. Look." He showed her a

full-color advertisement on the back cover of the magazine. "Look at

this. Here's a man supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of

back-yard grill. He looks like a movie star; he's dressed up like he was

going to get married; there's not a wrinkle anywhere. There's not a spot

on that apron. There isn't even a grease spot on the frying pan. The

lawn is as smooth as a billiard table. There's his son; he looks just

like his pop, except that he's not grey at the temples. Did you ever

really see a man that handsome, or hair that was just silver over the

ears and the rest glossy black? The daughter looks like a movie starlet,

and her mom is exactly the same, except that she has that grey streak in

front to match her husband. You can see the car in the drive; the treads

of the tires must have just been scrubbed; they're not even dusty.

There's not a pebble out of place; all the flowers are in full bloom; no

dead ones. No leaves on the lawn; no dry twigs showing on the trees.

That other house in the background looks like a palace, and the man with

the rake, looking over the fence: he looks like this one's twin brother,

and he's out raking leaves in brand new clothes--"

Pretty-Lee grabbed her magazine. "You just seem to hate everything

that's nicer than this messy town--"

"I don't think it's nicer. I like you; your hair isn't always perfectly

smooth, and you've got a mended place on your dress, and you feel human,

you smell human--"

"Oh!" Pretty-Lee turned and flounced out of the drug store.

* * *

Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat and looked around. There were a

few other people in the car. An old man was reading a newspaper; two old

ladies whispered together. There was a woman of about thirty with a

mean-looking kid; and some others. They didn't look like magazine

pictures, any of them. He tried to picture them doing the things you

read in newspapers: the old ladies putting poison in somebody's tea; the

old man giving orders to start a war. He thought about babies in houses

in cities, and airplanes flying over, and bombs falling down: huge

explosive bombs. Blam! Buildings fall in, pieces of glass and stone fly

through the air. The babies are blown up along with everything else--

But the kind of people he knew couldn't do anything like that. They

liked to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer and buy a new tractor or

refrigerator and go fishing. And if they ever got mad and hit

somebody--afterwards they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands....

The train slowed, came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he saw a

cardboardy-looking building with the words BAXTER'S JUNCTION painted

across it. There were a few faded posters on a bulletin board. An old

man was sitting on a bench, waiting. The two old ladies got off and a

boy in blue jeans got on. The train started up. Brett folded his jacket

and tucked it under his head and tried to doze off....

* * * * *

Brett awoke, yawned, sat up. The train was slowing. He remembered you

couldn't use the toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and went

to the end of the car. The door was jammed. He got it open and went

inside and closed the door behind him. The train was going slower,

clack-clack ... clack-clack ... clack; clack ... cuh-lack ...

He washed his hands, then pulled at the door. It was stuck. He pulled

harder. The handle was too small; it was hard to get hold of. The train

came to a halt. Brett braced himself and strained against the door. It

didn't budge.

He looked out the grimy window. The sun was getting lower. It was about

three-thirty, he guessed. He couldn't see anything but some dry-looking

fields.

Outside in the corridor there were footsteps. He started to call, but

then didn't. It would be too embarrassing, pounding on the door and

yelling, "Let me out! I'm stuck in the toilet ..."

He tried to rattle the door. It didn't rattle. Somebody was dragging

something heavy past the door. Mail bags, maybe. He'd better yell. But

dammit, the door couldn't be all that hard to open. He studied the

latch. All he had to do was turn it. He got a good grip and twisted.

Nothing.

He heard the mail bag bump-bump, and then another one. To heck with it;

he'd yell. He'd wait until he heard the footsteps pass the door again

and then he'd make some noise.

Brett waited. It was quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway. No answer.

Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute the train would

start up and he'd be stuck here until the next stop. He banged on the

door. "Hey! The door is stuck!"

It sounded foolish. He listened. It was very quiet. He pounded again.

The car creaked once. He put his ear to the door. He couldn't hear

anything. He turned back to the window. There was no one in sight. He

put his cheek flat against it, looked along the car. He saw only dry

fields.

He turned around and gave the door a good kick. If he damaged it, it was

too bad; the railroad shouldn't have defective locks on the doors. If

they tried to make him pay for it, he'd tell them they were lucky he

didn't sue the railroad ...

* * *

He braced himself against the opposite wall, drew his foot back, and

kicked hard at the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open.

He was looking out the open door and through the window beyond. There

was no platform, just the same dry fields he could see on the other

side. He came out and went along to his seat. The car was empty now.

He looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here? Maybe there

was some kind of trouble with the engine. It had been sitting here for

ten minutes or so now. Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped

down onto the iron step. Leaning out, he could see the train stretching

along ahead, one car, two cars--

There was no engine.

Maybe he was turned around. He looked the other way. There were three

cars. No engine there either. He must be on some kind of siding ...

Brett stepped back inside, and pushed through into the next car. It was

empty. He walked along the length of it, into the next car. It was empty

too. He went back through the two cars and his own car and on, all the

way to the end of the train. All the cars were empty. He stood on the

platform at the end of the last car, and looked back along the rails.

They ran straight, through the dry fields, right to the horizon. He

stepped down to the ground, went along the cindery bed to the front of

the train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties. The coupling stood

open. The tall, dusty coach stood silently on its iron wheels, waiting.

Ahead the tracks went on--

And stopped.

He walked along the ties, following the iron rails, shiny on top, and

brown with rust on the sides. A hundred feet from the train they ended.

The cinders went on another ten feet and petered out. Beyond, the fields

closed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was lower now in the west, its

light getting yellow and late-afternoonish. He turned and looked back at

the train. The cars stood high and prim, empty, silent. He walked back,

climbed in, got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket. He

jumped down to the cinders, followed them to where they ended. He

hesitated a moment, then pushed between the knee-high stalks. Eastward

across the field he could see what looked like a smudge on the far

horizon.

He walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the dead stalks, and

went to sleep.

* * *

He lay on his back, looking up at pink dawn clouds. Around him, dry

stalks rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly earth under his

fingers. He sat up, reached out and broke off a stalk. It crumbled into

fragile chips. He wondered what it was. It wasn't any crop he'd ever

seen before.

He stood, looked around. The field went on and on, dead flat. A locust

came whirring toward him, plumped to earth at his feet. He picked it up.

Long elbowed legs groped at his fingers aimlessly. He tossed the insect

in the air. It fluttered away. To the east the smudge was clearer now;

it seemed to be a grey wall, far away. A city? He picked up his bag and

started on.

He was getting hungry. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning. He

was thirsty too. The city couldn't be more than three hours' walk. He

tramped along, the dry plants crackling under his feet, little puffs of

dust rising from the dry ground. He thought about the rails, running

across the empty fields, ending ...

He had heard the locomotive groaning up ahead as the train slowed. And

there had been feet in the corridor. Where had they gone?

He thought of the train, Casperton, Aunt Haicey, Mr. Phillips. They

seemed very far away, something remembered from long ago. Up above the

sun was hot. That was real. The rest seemed unimportant. Ahead there was

a city. He would walk until he came to it. He tried to think of other

things: television, crowds of people, money: the tattered paper and the

worn silver--

Only the sun and the dusty plain and the dead plants were real now. He

could see them, feel them. And the suitcase. It was heavy; he shifted

hands, kept going.

There was something white on the ground ahead, a small shiny surface

protruding from the earth. Brett dropped the suitcase, went down on one

knee, dug into the dry soil, pulled out a china teacup, the handle

missing. Caked dirt crumbled away under his thumb, leaving the surface

clean. He looked at the bottom of the cup. It was unmarked. Why just one

teacup, he wondered, here in the middle of nowhere? He dropped it, took

up his suitcase, and went on.

* * *

After that he watched the ground more closely. He found a shoe; it was

badly weathered, but the sole was good. It was a high-topped work shoe,

size 10-1/2-C. Who had dropped it here? He thought of other lone shoes

he had seen, lying at the roadside or in alleys. How did they get

there...?

Half an hour later he detoured around the rusted front fender of an

old-fashioned car. He looked around for the rest of the car but saw

nothing. The wall was closer now; perhaps five miles more.

A scrap of white paper fluttered across the field in a stir of air. He

saw another, more, blowing along in the fitful gusts. He ran a few

steps, caught one, smoothed it out.

BUY NOW--PAY LATER!

He picked up another.

PREPARE TO MEET GOD

A third said:

WIN WITH WILLKIE

* * * * *

The wall loomed above him, smooth and grey. Dust was caked on his skin

and clothes, and as he walked he brushed at himself absently. The

suitcase dragged at his arm, thumped against his shin. He was very

hungry and thirsty. He sniffed the air, instinctively searching for the

odors of food. He had been following the wall for a long time, searching

for an opening. It curved away from him, rising vertically from the

level earth. Its surface was porous, unadorned, too smooth to climb. It

was, Brett estimated, twenty feet high. If there were anything to make a

ladder from--

Ahead he saw a wide gate, flanked by grey columns. He came up to it, put

the suitcase down, and wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief.

Through the opening in the wall a paved street was visible, and the

facades of buildings. Those on the street before him were low, not more

than one or two stories, but behind them taller towers reared up. There

were no people in sight; no sounds stirred the hot noon-time air. Brett

picked up his bag and passed through the gate.

For the next hour he walked empty pavements, listening to the echoes of

his footsteps against brownstone fronts, empty shop windows, curtained

glass doors, and here and there a vacant lot, weed-grown and desolate.

He paused at cross streets, looked down long vacant ways. Now and then a

distant sound came to him: the lonely honk of a horn, a faintly tolling

bell, a clatter of hooves.

He came to a narrow alley that cut like a dark canyon between blank

walls. He stood at its mouth, listening to a distant murmur, like a

crowd at a funeral. He turned down the narrow way.

It went straight for a few yards, then twisted. As he followed its

turnings the crowd noise gradually grew louder. He could make out

individual voices now, an occasional word above the hubbub. He started

to hurry, eager to find someone to talk to.

Abruptly the voices--hundreds of voices, he thought--rose in a roar, a

long-drawn Yaaayyyyy...! Brett thought of a stadium crowd as the home

team trotted onto the field. He could hear a band now, a shrilling of

brass, the clatter and thump of percussion instruments. Now he could see

the mouth of the alley ahead, a sunny street hung with bunting, the

backs of people, and over their heads the rhythmic bobbing of a passing

procession, tall shakos and guidons in almost-even rows. Two tall poles

with a streamer between them swung into view. He caught a glimpse of

tall red letters:

... For Our Side!

* * *

He moved closer, edged up behind the grey-backed crowd. A phalanx of

yellow-tuniced men approached, walking stiffly, fez tassels swinging. A

small boy darted out into the street, loped along at their side. The

music screeched and wheezed. Brett tapped the man before him.

"What's it all about...?"

He couldn't hear his own voice. The man ignored him. Brett moved along

behind the crowd, looking for a vantage point or a thinning in the

ranks. There seemed to be fewer people ahead. He came to the end of the

crowd, moved on a few yards, stood at the curb. The yellow-jackets had

passed now, and a group of round-thighed girls in satin blouses and

black boots and white fur caps glided into view, silent, expressionless.

As they reached a point fifty feet from Brett, they broke abruptly into

a strutting prance, knees high, hips flirting, tossing shining batons

high, catching them, twirling them, and up again ...

Brett craned his neck, looking for TV cameras. The crowd lining the

opposite side of the street stood in solid ranks, drably clad, eyes

following the procession, mouths working. A fat man in a rumpled suit

and a panama hat squeezed to the front, stood picking his teeth.

Somehow, he seemed out of place among the others. Behind the spectators,

the store fronts looked normal, dowdy brick and mismatched glass and

oxidizing aluminum, dusty windows and cluttered displays of cardboard, a

faded sign that read TODAY ONLY--PRICES SLASHED. To Brett's left the

sidewalk stretched, empty. To his right the crowd was packed close, the

shout rising and falling. Now a rank of blue-suited policemen followed

the majorettes, swinging along silently. Behind them, over them, a piece

of paper blew along the street. Brett turned to the man on his right.

"Pardon me. Can you tell me the name of this town?"

The man ignored him. Brett tapped the man's shoulder. "Hey! What town is

this?"

The man took off his hat, whirled it overhead, then threw it up. It

sailed away over the crowd, lost. Brett wondered briefly how people who

threw their hats ever recovered them. But then, nobody he knew would

throw his hat ...

"You mind telling me the name of this place?" Brett said, as he took the

man's arm, pulled. The man rotated toward Brett, leaning heavily against

him. Brett stepped back. The man fell, lay stiffly, his arms moving, his

eyes and mouth open.

"Ahhhhh," he said. "Whum-whum-whum. Awww, jawww ..."

Brett stooped quickly. "I'm sorry," he cried. He looked around. "Help!

This man ..."

Nobody was watching. The next man, a few feet away, stood close against

his neighbor, hatless, his jaw moving.

"This man's sick," said Brett, tugging at the man's arm. "He fell."

The man's eyes moved reluctantly to Brett. "None of my business," he

muttered.

"Won't anybody give me a hand?"

"Probably a drunk."

Behind Brett a voice called in a penetrating whisper: "Quick! You! Get

into the alley...!"

He turned. A gaunt man of about thirty with sparse reddish hair,

perspiration glistening on his upper lip, stood at the mouth of a narrow

way like the one Brett had come through. He wore a grimy pale yellow

shirt with a wide-flaring collar, limp and sweat-stained, dark green

knee-breeches, soft leather boots, scuffed and dirty, with limp tops

that drooped over his ankles. He gestured, drew back into the alley. "In

here."

Brett went toward him. "This man ..."

"Come on, you fool!" The man took Brett's arm, pulled him deeper into

the dark passage. Brett resisted. "Wait a minute. That fellow ..." He

tried to point.

"Don't you know yet?" The red-head spoke with a strange accent. "Golems

... You got to get out of sight before the--"

* * *

The man froze, flattened himself against the wall. Automatically Brett

moved to a place beside him. The man's head was twisted toward the alley

mouth. The tendons in his weathered neck stood out. He had a three-day

stubble of beard. Brett could smell him, standing this close. He edged

away. "What--"

"Don't make a sound! Don't move, you idiot!" His voice was a thin hiss.

Brett followed the other's eyes toward the sunny street. The fallen man

lay on the pavement, moving feebly, eyes open. Something moved up to

him, a translucent brownish shape, like muddy water. It hovered for a

moment, then dropped on the man like a breaking wave, flowed around him.

The body shifted, rotating stiffly, then tilted upright. The sun struck

through the fluid shape that flowed down now, amber highlights

twinkling, to form itself into the crested wave, flow away.

"What the hell...!"

"Come on!" The red-head turned, trotted silently toward the shadowy bend

under the high grey walls. He looked back, beckoned impatiently, passed

out of sight around the turn--

Brett came up behind him, saw a wide avenue, tall trees with chartreuse

springtime leaves, a wrought-iron fence, and beyond it, rolling green

lawns. There were no people in sight.

"Wait a minute! What is this place?!"

His companion turned red-rimmed eyes on Brett. "How long have you been

here?" he asked. "How did you get in?"

"I came through a gate. Just about an hour ago."

"I knew you were a man as soon as I saw you talking to the golem," said

the red-head. "I've been here two months; maybe more. We've got to get

out of sight. You want food? There's a place ..." He jerked his thumb.

"Come on. Time to talk later."

* * *

Brett followed him. They turned down a side street, pushed through the

door of a dingy cafe. It banged behind them. There were tables, stools

at a bar, a dusty juke box. They took seats at a table. The red-head

groped under the table, pulled off a shoe, hammered it against the wall.

He cocked his head, listening. The silence was absolute. He hammered

again. There was a clash of crockery from beyond the kitchen door. "Now

don't say anything," the red-head said. He eyed the door behind the

counter expectantly. It flew open. A girl with red cheeks and untidy

hair, dressed in a green waitress' uniform appeared, swept up to the

table, pad and pencil in hand.

"Coffee and a ham sandwich," said the red-head. Brett said nothing. The

girl glanced at him briefly, jotted hastily, whisked away.

"I saw them here the first day," the red-head said. "It was a piece of

luck. I saw how the Gels started it up. They were big ones--not like the

tidiers-up. As soon as they were finished, I came in and tried the same

thing. It worked. I used the golem's lines--"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Brett said. "I'm going to ask

that girl--"

"Don't say anything to her; it might spoil everything. The whole

sequence might collapse; or it might call the Gels. I'm not sure. You

can have the food when it comes back with it."

"Why do you say 'when "it" comes back'?"

"Ah." He looked at Brett strangely. "I'll show you."

Brett could smell food now. His mouth watered. He hadn't eaten for

twenty-four hours.

"Care, that's the thing," the red-head said. "Move quiet, and stay out

of sight, and you can live like a County Duke. Food's the hardest, but

here--"

The red-cheeked girl reappeared, a tray balanced on one arm, a heavy cup

and saucer in the other hand. She clattered them down on the table.

"Took you long enough," the red-head said. The girl sniffed, opened her

mouth to speak--and the red-head darted out a stiff finger, jabbed her

under the ribs. She stood, mouth open, frozen.

Brett half rose. "He's crazy, miss," he said. "Please accept--"

"Don't waste your breath." Brett's host was looking at him triumphantly.

"Why do I call it 'it'?" He stood up, reached out and undid the top

buttons of the green uniform. The waitress stood, leaning slightly

forward, unmoving. The blouse fell open, exposing round white

breasts--unadorned, blind.

"A doll," said the red-head. "A puppet; a golem."

* * *

Brett stared at her, the damp curls at her temple, the tip of her tongue

behind her teeth, the tiny red veins in her round cheeks, and the white

skin curving ...

"That's a quick way to tell 'em," said the red-head. "The teat is

smooth." He rebuttoned the uniform, then jabbed again at the girl's

ribs. She straightened, patted her hair.

"No doubt a gentleman like you is used to better," she said carelessly.

She went away.

"I'm Awalawon Dhuva," the red-head said.

"My name's Brett Hale." Brett took a bite of the sandwich.

"Those clothes," Dhuva said. "And you have a strange way of talking.

What county are you from?"

"Jefferson."

"Never heard of it. I'm from Wavly. What brought you here?"

"I was on a train. The tracks came to an end out in the middle of

nowhere. I walked ... and here I am. What is this place?"

"Don't know." Dhuva shook his head. "I knew they were lying about the

Fire River, though. Never did believe all that stuff. Religious hokum,

to keep the masses quiet. Don't know what to believe now. Take the roof.

They say a hundred kharfads up; but how do we know? Maybe it's a

thousand--or only ten. By Grat, I'd like to go up in a balloon, see for

myself."

"What are you talking about?" Brett said. "Go where in a balloon? See

what?"

"Oh, I've seen one at the Tourney. Big hot-air bag, with a basket under

it. Tied down with a rope. But if you cut the rope...! But you can bet

the priests will never let that happen, no, sir." Dhuva looked at Brett

speculatively. "What about your county: Fession, or whatever you called

it. How high do they tell you it is there?"

"You mean the sky? Well, the air ends after a few miles and space just

goes on--millions of miles--"

Dhuva slapped the table and laughed. "The people in Fesseron must be

some yokels! Just goes on up; now who'd swallow that tale?" He chuckled.

"Only a child thinks the sky is some kind of tent," said Brett. "Haven't

you ever heard of the Solar System, the other planets?"

"What are those?"

"Other worlds. They all circle around the sun, like the Earth."

"Other worlds, eh? Sailing around up under the roof? Funny; I never saw

them." Dhuva snickered. "Wake up, Brett. Forget all those stories. Just

believe what you see."

"What about that brown thing?"

"The Gels? They run this place. Look out for them, Brett. Stay alert.

Don't let them see you."

* * *

"What do they do?"

"I don't know--and I don't want to find out. This is a great place--I

like it here. I have all I want to eat, plenty of nice rooms for

sleeping. There's the parades and the scenes. It's a good life--as long

as you keep out of sight."

"How do you get out of here?" Brett asked, finishing his coffee.

"Don't know how to get out; over the wall, I suppose. I don't plan to

leave though. I left home in a hurry. The Duke--never mind. I'm not

going back."

"Are all the people here ... golems?" Brett said. "Aren't there any more

real people?"

"You're the first I've seen. I spotted you as soon as I saw you. A live

man moves different than a golem. You see golems doing things like

knitting their brows, starting back in alarm, looking askance, and

standing arms akimbo. And they have things like pursed lips and knowing

glances and mirthless laughter. You know: all the things you read about,

that real people never do. But now that you're here, I've got somebody

to talk to. I did get lonesome, I admit. I'll show you where I stay and

we'll fix you up with a bed."

"I won't be around that long."

"What can you get outside that you can't get here? There's everything

you need here in the city. We can have a great time."

"You sound like my Aunt Haicey," Brett said. "She said I had everything

I needed back in Casperton. How does she know what I need? How do you

know? How do I know myself? I can tell you I need more than food and a

place to sleep--"

"What more?"

"Everything. Things to think about and something worth doing. Why, even

in the movies--"

"What's a movie?"

"You know, a play, on film. A moving picture."

"A picture that moves?"

"That's right."

"This is something the priests told you about?" Dhuva seemed to be

holding in his mirth.

"Everybody's seen movies."

Dhuva burst out laughing. "Those priests," he said. "They're the same

everywhere, I see. The stories they tell, and people believe them. What

else?"

"Priests have nothing to do with it."

Dhuva composed his features. "What do they tell you about Grat, and the

Wheel?"

"Grat? What's that?"

"The Over-Being. The Four-eyed One." Dhuva made a sign, caught himself.

"Just habit," he said. "I don't believe that rubbish. Never did."

"I suppose you're talking about God," Brett said.

"I don't know about God. Tell me about it."

"He's the creator of the world. He's ... well, superhuman. He knows

everything that happens, and when you die, if you've led a good life,

you meet God in Heaven."

"Where's that?"

"It's ..." Brett waved a hand vaguely, "up above."

"But you said there was just emptiness up above," Dhuva recalled. "And

some other worlds whirling around, like islands adrift in the sea."

"Well--"

"Never mind," Dhuva held up his hands. "Our priests are liars too. All

that balderdash about the Wheel and the River of Fire. It's just as bad

as your Hivvel or whatever you called it. And our Grat and your Mud, or

Gog: they're the same--" Dhuva's head went up. "What's that?"

"I didn't hear anything."

* * *

Dhuva got to his feet, turned to the door. Brett rose. A towering brown

shape, glassy and transparent, hung in the door, its surface rippling.

Dhuva whirled, leaped past Brett, dived for the rear door. Brett stood

frozen. The shape flowed--swift as quicksilver--caught Dhuva in

mid-stride, engulfed him. For an instant Brett saw the thin figure, legs

kicking, upended within the muddy form of the Gel. Then the turbid wave

swept across to the door, sloshed it aside, disappeared. Dhuva was gone.

Brett stood rooted, staring at the doorway. A bar of sunlight fell

across the dusty floor. A brown mouse ran along the baseboard. It was

very quiet. Brett went to the door through which the Gel had

disappeared, hesitated a moment, then thrust it open.

He was looking down into a great dark pit, acres in extent, its sides

riddled with holes, the amputated ends of water and sewage lines and

power cables dangling. Far below light glistened from the surface of a

black pool. A few feet away the waitress stood unmoving in the dark on a

narrow strip of linoleum. At her feet the chasm yawned. The edge of the

floor was ragged, as though it had been gnawed away by rats. There was

no sign of Dhuva.

Brett stepped back into the dining room, let the door swing shut. He

took a deep breath, picked up a paper napkin from a table and wiped his

forehead, dropped the napkin on the floor and went out into the street,

his suitcase forgotten now. At the corner he turned, walked along past

silent shop windows crowded with home permanents, sun glasses,

fingernail polish, suntan lotion, paper cartons, streamers, plastic

toys, vari-colored garments of synthetic fiber, home remedies, beauty

aids, popular music, greeting cards ...

At the next corner he stopped, looking down the silent streets. Nothing

moved. Brett went to a window in a grey concrete wall, pulled himself up

to peer through the dusty pane, saw a room filled with tailor's forms,

garment racks, a bicycle, bundled back issues of magazines without

covers.

He went along to a door. It was solid, painted shut. The next door

looked easier. He wrenched at the tarnished brass nob, then stepped back

and kicked the door. With a hollow sound the door fell inward, taking

with it the jamb. Brett stood staring at the gaping opening. A fragment

of masonry dropped with a dry clink. Brett stepped through the breach in

the grey facade. The black pool at the bottom of the pit winked a

flicker of light back at him in the deep gloom.

* * *

Around him, the high walls of the block of buildings loomed in

silhouette; the squares of the windows were ranks of luminous blue

against the dark. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight. Far above,

the roof was dimly visible, a spidery tangle of trusswork. And below was

the abyss.

At Brett's feet the stump of a heavy brass rail projected an inch from

the floor. It was long enough, Brett thought, to give firm anchor to a

rope. Somewhere below, Dhuva--a stranger who had befriended him--lay in

the grip of the Gels. He would do what he could--but he needed

equipment--and help. First he would find a store with rope, guns,

knives. He would--

The broken edge of masonry where the door had been caught his eye. The

shell of the wall, exposed where the door frame had torn away, was

wafer-thin. Brett reached up, broke off a piece. The outer face--the

side that showed on the street--was smooth, solid-looking. The back was

porous, nibbled. Brett stepped outside, examined the wall. He kicked at

the grey surface. A great piece of wall, six feet high, broke into

fragments, fell on the sidewalk with a crash, driving out a puff of

dust. Another section fell. One piece of it skidded away, clattered down

into the depths. Brett heard a distant splash. He looked at the great

jagged opening in the wall--like a jigsaw picture with a piece missing.

He turned and started off at a trot, his mouth dry, his pulse thumping

painfully in his chest.

Two blocks from the hollow building, Brett slowed to a walk, his

footsteps echoing in the empty street. He looked into each store window

as he passed. There were artificial legs, bottles of colored water,

immense dolls, wigs, glass eyes--but no rope. Brett tried to think. What

kind of store would handle rope? A marine supply company, maybe. But

where would he find one?

Perhaps it would be easiest to look in a telephone book. Ahead he saw a

sign lettered HOTEL. Brett went up to the revolving door, pushed inside.

He was in a dim, marble-panelled lobby, with double doors leading into

a beige-carpeted bar on his right, the brass-painted cage of an elevator

directly before him, flanked by tall urns of sand and an ascending

staircase. On the left was a dark mahogany-finished reception desk.

Behind the desk a man stood silently, waiting. Brett felt a wild surge

of relief.

"Those things, those Gels!" he called, starting across the room. "My

friend--"

He broke off. The clerk stood, staring over Brett's shoulder, holding a

pen poised over a book. Brett reached out, took the pen. The man's

finger curled stiffly around nothing. A golem.

* * *

Brett turned away, went into the bar. Vacant stools were ranged before a

dark mirror. At the tables empty glasses stood before empty chairs.

Brett started as he heard the revolving door thump-thump. Suddenly soft

light bathed the lobby behind him. Somewhere a piano tinkled More Than

You Know. With a distant clatter of closing doors the elevator came to

life.

Brett hugged a shadowed corner, saw a fat man in a limp seersucker suit

cross to the reception desk. He had a red face, a bald scalp blotched

with large brown freckles. The clerk inclined his head blandly.

"Ah, yes, sir, a nice double with bath ..." Brett heard the unctuous

voice of the clerk as he offered the pen. The fat man took it, scrawled

something in the register. "... at fourteen dollars," the clerk

murmured. He smiled, dinged the bell. A boy in tight green tunic and

trousers and a pillbox cap with a chin strap pushed through a door

beside the desk, took the key, led the way to the elevator. The fat man

entered. Through the openwork of the shaft Brett watched as the elevator

car rose, greasy cables trembling and swaying. He started back across

the lobby--and stopped dead.

A wet brown shape had appeared in the entrance. It flowed across the rug

to the bellhop. Face blank, the golem turned back to its door. Above,

Brett heard the elevator stop. Doors clashed. The clerk stood poised

behind the desk. The Gel hovered, then flowed away. The piano was silent

now. The lights burned, a soft glow, then winked out. Brett thought

about the fat man. He had seen him before ...

He went up the stairs. In the second floor corridor Brett felt his way

along in near-darkness, guided by the dim light coming through transoms.

He tried a door. It opened. He stepped into a large bedroom with a

double bed, an easy chair, a chest of drawers. He crossed the room,

looked out across an alley. Twenty feet away white curtains hung at

windows in a brick wall. There was nothing behind the windows.

There were sounds in the corridor. Brett dropped to the floor behind the

bed.

"All right, you two," a drunken voice bellowed. "And may all your

troubles be little ones." There was laughter, squeals, a dry clash of

beads flung against the door. A key grated. The door swung wide. Lights

blazed in the hall, silhouetting the figures of a man in black jacket

and trousers, a woman in a white bridal dress and veil, flowers in her

hand.

"Take care, Mel!"

"... do anything I wouldn't do!"

"... kiss the bride, now!"

The couple backed into the room, pushed the door shut, stood against it.

Brett crouched behind the bed, not breathing, waiting. The couple stood

at the door, in the dark, heads down ...

* * *

Brett stood, rounded the foot of the bed, approached the two unmoving

figures. The girl looked young, sleek, perfect-featured, with soft dark

hair. Her eyes were half-open; Brett caught a glint of light reflected

from the eyeball. The man was bronzed, broad-shouldered, his hair wavy

and blond. His lips were parted, showing even white teeth. The two

stood, not breathing, sightless eyes fixed on nothing.

Brett took the bouquet from the woman's hand. The flowers seemed

real--except that they had no perfume. He dropped them on the floor,

pulled at the male golem to clear the door. The figure pivoted, toppled,

hit with a heavy thump. Brett raised the woman in his arms and propped

her against the bed. Back at the door he listened. All was quiet now. He

started to open the door, then hesitated. He went back to the bed, undid

the tiny pearl buttons down the front of the bridal gown, pulled it

open. The breasts were rounded, smooth, an unbroken creamy white ...

In the hall, he started toward the stair. A tall Gel rippled into view

ahead, its shape flowing and wavering, now billowing out, then rising

up. The shifting form undulated toward Brett. He made a move to run,

then remembered Dhuva, stood motionless. The Gel wobbled past him,

slumped suddenly, flowed under a door. Brett let out a breath. Never

mind the fat man. There were too many Gels here. He started back along

the corridor.

Soft music came from double doors which stood open on a landing. Brett

went to them, risked a look inside. Graceful couples moved sedately on a

polished floor, diners sat at tables, black-clad waiters moving among

them. At the far side of the room, near a dusty rubber plant, sat the

fat man, studying a menu. As Brett watched he shook out a napkin, ran it

around inside his collar, then mopped his face.

Never disturb a scene, Dhuva had said. But perhaps he could blend with

it. Brett brushed at his suit, straightened his tie, stepped into the

room. A waiter approached, eyed him dubiously. Brett got out his wallet,

took out a five-dollar bill.

"A quiet table in the corner," he said. He glanced back. There were no

Gels in sight. He followed the waiter to a table near the fat man.

* * *

Seated, he looked around. He wanted to talk to the fat man, but he

couldn't afford to attract attention. He would watch, and wait his

chance.

At the nearby tables men with well-pressed suits, clean collars, and

carefully shaved faces murmured to sleekly gowned women who fingered

wine glasses, smiled archly. He caught fragments of conversation:

"My dear, have you heard ..."

"... in the low eighties ..."

"... quite impossible. One must ..."

"... for this time of year."

The waiter returned with a shallow bowl of milky soup. Brett looked at

the array of spoons, forks, knives, glanced sideways at the diners at

the next table. It was important to follow the correct ritual. He put

his napkin in his lap, careful to shake out all the folds. He looked at

the spoons again, picked a large one, glanced at the waiter. So far so

good ...

"Wine, sir?"

Brett indicated the neighboring couple. "The same as they're having."

The waiter turned away, returned holding a wine bottle, label toward

Brett. He looked at it, nodded. The waiter busied himself with the cork,

removing it with many flourishes, setting a glass before Brett, pouring

half an inch of wine. He waited expectantly.

Brett picked up the glass, tasted it. It tasted like wine. He nodded.

The waiter poured. Brett wondered what would have happened if he had

made a face and spurned it. But it would be too risky to try. No one

ever did it.

Couples danced, resumed their seats; others rose and took the floor. A

string ensemble in a distant corner played restrained tunes that seemed

to speak of the gentle faded melancholy of decorous tea dances on

long-forgotten afternoons. Brett glanced toward the fat man. He was

eating soup noisily, his napkin tied under his chin.

The waiter was back with a plate. "Lovely day, sir," he said.

"Great," Brett agreed.

The waiter placed a covered platter on the table, removed the cover,

stood with carving knife and fork poised.

"A bit of the crispy, sir?"

Brett nodded. He eyed the waiter surreptitiously. He looked real. Some

golems seemed realer than others; or perhaps it merely depended on the

parts they were playing. The man who had fallen at the parade had been

only a sort of extra, a crowd member. The waiter, on the other hand, was

able to converse. Perhaps it would be possible to learn something from

him ...

"What's ... uh ... how do you spell the name of this town?" Brett asked.

"I was never much of a one for spelling, sir," the waiter said.

"Try it."

"Gravy, sir?"

"Sure. Try to spell the name."

"Perhaps I'd better call the headwaiter, sir," the golem said stiffly.

From the corner of an eye Brett caught a flicker of motion. He whirled,

saw nothing. Had it been a Gel?

"Never mind," he said. The waiter served potatoes, peas, refilled the

wine glass, moved off silently. The question had been a little too

unorthodox, Brett decided. Perhaps if he led up to the subject more

obliquely ...

* * *

When the waiter returned Brett said, "Nice day."

"Very nice, sir."

"Better than yesterday."

"Yes indeed, sir."

"I wonder what tomorrow'll be like."

"Perhaps we'll have a bit of rain, sir."

Brett nodded toward the dance floor. "Nice orchestra."

"They're very popular, sir."

"From here in town?"

"I wouldn't know as to that, sir."

"Lived here long yourself?"

"Oh, yes, sir." The waiter's expression showed disapproval. "Would there

be anything else, sir?"

"I'm a newcomer here," Brett said. "I wonder if you could tell me--"

"Excuse me, sir." The waiter was gone. Brett poked at the mashed

potatoes. Quizzing golems was hopeless. He would have to find out for

himself. He turned to look at the fat man. As Brett watched he took a

large handkerchief from a pocket, blew his nose loudly. No one turned to

look. The orchestra played softly. The couples danced. Now was as good a

time as any ...

Brett rose, crossed to the other's table. The man looked up.

"Mind if I sit down?" Brett said. "I'd like to talk to you."

The fat man blinked, motioned to a chair. Brett sat down, leaned across

the table. "Maybe I'm wrong," he said quietly, "but I think you're

real."

The fat man blinked again. "What's that?" he snapped. He had a high

petulant voice.

"You're not like the rest of them. I think I can talk to you. I think

you're another outsider."

The fat man looked down at his rumpled suit. "I ... ah ... was caught a

little short today. Didn't have time to change. I'm a busy man. And what

business is it of yours?" He clamped his jaw shut, eyed Brett warily.

"I'm a stranger here," Brett said. "I want to find out what's going on

in this place--"

"Buy an amusement guide. Lists all the shows--"

"I don't mean that. I mean these dummies all over the place, and the

Gels--"

"What dummies? Jells? Jello? You don't like Jello?"

"I love Jello. I don't--"

"Just ask the waiter. He'll bring you your Jello. Any flavor you like.

Now if you'll excuse me ..."

"I'm talking about the brown things; they look like muddy water. They

come around if you interfere with a scene."

The fat man looked nervous. "Please. Go away."

"If I make a disturbance, the Gels will come. Is that what you're afraid

of?"

"Now, now. Be calm. No need for you to get excited."

"I won't make a scene," Brett said. "Just talk to me. How long have you

been here?"

"I dislike scenes. I dislike them intensely."

"When did you come here?"

"Just ten minutes ago. I just sat down. I haven't had my dinner yet.

Please, young man. Go back to your table." The fat man watched Brett

warily. Sweat glistened on his bald head.

"I mean this town. How long have you been here? Where did you come

from?"

"Why, I was born here. Where did I come from? What sort of question is

that? Just consider that the stork brought me."

"You were born here?"

"Certainly."

"What's the name of the town?"

* * *

"Are you trying to make a fool of me?" The fat man was getting angry.

His voice was rising.

"Shhh," Brett cautioned. "You'll attract the Gels."

"Blast the Jilts, whatever that is!" the fat man snapped. "Now, get

along with you. I'll call the manager."

"Don't you know?" Brett said, staring at the fat man. "They're all

dummies; golems, they're called. They're not real."

"Who're not real?"

"All these imitation people at the tables and on the dance floor. Surely

you realize--"

"I realize you're in need of medical attention." The fat man pushed back

his chair and got to his feet. "You keep the table," he said. "I'll dine

elsewhere."

"Wait!" Brett got up, seized the fat man's arm.

"Take your hands off me--" The fat man went toward the door. Brett

followed. At the cashier's desk Brett turned suddenly, saw a fluid brown

shape flicker--

"Look!" He pulled at the fat man's arm--

"Look at what?" The Gel was gone.

"It was there: a Gel."

The fat man flung down a bill, hurried away. Brett fumbled out a ten,

waited for change. "Wait!" he called. He heard the fat man's feet

receding down the stairs.

"Hurry," he said to the cashier. The woman sat glassy-eyed, staring at

nothing. The music died. The lights flickered, went off. In the gloom

Brett saw a fluid shape rise up--

He ran, pounding down the stairs. The fat man was just rounding the

corner. Brett opened his mouth to call--and went rigid, as a translucent

shape of mud shot from the door, rose up to tower before him. Brett

stood, mouth half open, eyes staring, leaning forward with hands

outflung. The Gel loomed, its surface flickering--waiting. Brett caught

an acrid odor of geraniums.

A minute passed. Brett's cheek itched. He fought a desire to blink, to

swallow--to turn and run. The high sun beat down on the silent street,

the still window displays.

Then the Gel broke form, slumped, flashed away. Brett tottered back

against the wall, let his breath out in a harsh sigh.

Across the street he saw a window with a display of camping equipment,

portable stoves, boots, rifles. He crossed the street, tried the door.

It was locked. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in

sight. He kicked in the glass beside the latch, reached through and

turned the knob. Inside he looked over the shelves, selected a heavy

coil of nylon rope, a sheath knife, a canteen. He examined a Winchester

repeating rifle with a telescopic sight, then put it back and strapped

on a .22 revolver. He emptied two boxes of long rifle cartridges into

his pocket, then loaded the pistol. He coiled the rope over his shoulder

and went back out into the empty street.

* * *

The fat man was standing in front of a shop in the next block, picking

at a blemish on his chin and eyeing the window display. He looked up

with a frown, started away as Brett came up.

"Wait a minute," Brett called. "Didn't you see the Gel? the one that

cornered me back there?"

The fat man looked back suspiciously, kept going.

"Wait!" Brett caught his arm. "I know you're real. I've seen you belch

and sweat and scratch. You're the only one I can call on--and I need

help. My friend is trapped--"

The fat man pulled away, his face flushed an even deeper red. "I'm

warning you, you maniac: get away from me...!"

Brett stepped close, rammed the fat man hard in the ribs. He sank to his

knees, gasping. The panama hat rolled away. Brett grabbed his arm,

steadied him.

"Sorry," he said. "I had to be sure. You're real, all right. We've got

to rescue my friend, Dhuva--"

The fat man leaned against the glass, rolling terrified eyes, rubbing

his stomach. "I'll call the police!" he gasped.

"What police?" Brett waved an arm. "Look. Not a car in sight. Did you

ever see the street that empty before?"

"Wednesday afternoon," the fat man gasped.

"Come with me. I want to show you. It's all hollow. There's nothing

behind these walls--"

"Why doesn't somebody come along?" the fat man moaned.

"The masonry is only a quarter-inch thick," Brett said. "Come on; I'll

show you."

"I don't like it," said the fat man. His face was pale and moist.

"You're mad. What's wrong? It's so quiet ..."

"We've got to try to save him. The Gel took him down into this pit--"

"Let me go," the man whined. "I'm afraid. Can't you just let me lead my

life in peace?"

"Don't you understand? The Gel took a man. They may be after you next."

"There's no one after me! I'm a business man ... a respectable citizen.

I mind my own business, give to charity, go to church. All I want is to

be left alone!"

* * *

Brett dropped his hands from the fat man's arms, stood looking at him:

the blotched face, pale now, the damp forehead, the quivering jowls. The

fat man stooped for his hat, slapped it against his leg, clamped it on

his head.

"I think I understand now," said Brett. "This is your place, this

imitation city. Everything's faked to fit your needs--like in the hotel.

Wherever you go, the scene unrolls in front of you. You never see the

Gels, never discover the secret of the golems--because you conform. You

never do the unexpected."

"That's right. I'm law-abiding. I'm respectable. I don't pry. I don't

nose into other people's business. Why should I? Just let me alone ..."

"Sure," Brett said. "Even if I dragged you down there and showed you,

you wouldn't believe it. But you're not in the scene now. I've taken you

out of it--"

Suddenly the fat man turned and ran a few yards, then looked back to see

whether Brett was pursuing him. He shook a round fist.

"I've seen your kind before," he shouted. "Troublemakers."

Brett took a step toward him. The fat man yelped and ran another fifty

feet, his coat tails bobbing. He looked back, stopped, a fat figure

alone in the empty sunny street.

"You haven't seen the last of me!" he shouted. "We know how to deal with

your kind." He tugged at his vest, went off along the sidewalk. Brett

watched him go, then started back toward the hollow building.

* * * * *

The jagged fragments of masonry Brett had knocked from the wall lay as

he had left them. He stepped through the opening, peered down into the

murky pit, trying to judge its depth. A hundred feet at least. Perhaps a

hundred and fifty.

He unslung the rope from his shoulder, tied one end to the brass stump,

threw the coil down the precipitous side. It fell away into darkness,

hung swaying. It was impossible to tell whether the end reached any

solid footing below. He couldn't waste any more time looking for help.

He would have to try it alone.

There was a scrape of shoe leather on the pavement outside. He turned,

stepped out into the white sunlight. The fat man rounded the corner,

recoiled as he saw Brett. He flung out a pudgy forefinger, his

protruding eyes wide in his blotchy red face.

"There he is! I told you he came this way!" Two uniformed policemen came

into view. One eyed the gun at Brett's side, put a hand on his own.

"Better take that off, sir."

"Look!" Brett said to the fat man. He stooped, picked up a crust of

masonry. "Look at this--just a shell--"

"He's blasted a hole right in that building, officer!" the fat man

shrilled. "He's dangerous."

The cop ignored the gaping hole in the wall. "You'll have to come along

with me, sir. This gentleman registered a complaint ..."

Brett stood staring into the cop's eyes. They were pale blue eyes,

looking steadily back at him from a bland face. Could the cop be real?

Or would he be able to push him over, as he had other golems?

"The fellow's not right in the head," the fat man was saying to the cop.

"You should have heard his crazy talk. A troublemaker. His kind have got

to be locked up!"

The cop nodded. "Can't have anyone causing trouble."

"Only a young fellow," said the fat man. He mopped at his forehead with

a large handkerchief. "Tragic. But I'm sure that you men know how to

handle him."

"Better give me the gun, sir." The cop held out a hand. Brett moved

suddenly, rammed stiff fingers into the cop's ribs. He stiffened,

toppled, lay rigid, staring up at nothing.

"You ... you killed him," the fat man gasped, backing. The second cop

tugged at his gun. Brett leaped at him, sent him down with a blow to the

ribs. He turned to face the fat man.

"I didn't kill them! I just turned them off. They're not real, they're

just golems."

"A killer! And right in the city, in broad daylight."

"You've got to help me!" Brett cried. "This whole scene: don't you see?

It has the air of something improvised in a hurry, to deal with the

unexpected factor; that's me. The Gels know something's wrong, but they

can't quite figure out what. When you called the cops the Gels

obliged--"

* * *

Startlingly the fat man burst into tears. He fell to his knees.

"Don't kill me ... oh, don't kill me ..."

"Nobody's going to kill you, you fool!" Brett snapped. "Look! I want to

show you!" He seized the fat man's lapel, dragged him to his feet and

across the sidewalk, through the opening. The fat man stopped dead,

stumbled back--

"What's this? What kind of place is this?" He scrambled for the opening.

"It's what I've been trying to tell you. This city you live in--it's a

hollow shell. There's nothing inside. None of it's real. Only you ...

and me. There was another man: Dhuva. I was in a cafe with him. A Gel

came. He tried to run. It caught him. Now he's ... down there."

"I'm not alone," the fat man babbled. "I have my friends, my clubs, my

business associates. I'm insured. Lately I've been thinking a lot about

Jesus--"

He broke off, whirled, and jumped for the doorway. Brett leaped after

him, caught his coat. It ripped. The fat man stumbled over one of the

cop-golems, went to hands and knees. Brett stood over him.

"Get up, damn it!" he snapped. "I need help and you're going to help

me!" He hauled the fat man to his feet. "All you have to do is stand by

the rope. Dhuva may be unconscious when I find him. You'll have to help

me haul him up. If anybody comes along, any Gels, I mean--give me a

signal. A whistle ... like this--" Brett demonstrated. "And if I get in

trouble, do what you can. Here ..." Brett started to offer the fat man

the gun, then handed him the hunting knife. "If anybody interferes, this

may not do any good, but it's something. I'm going down now."

The fat man watched as Brett gripped the rope, let himself over the

edge. Brett looked up at the glistening face, the damp strands of hair

across the freckled scalp. Brett had no assurance that the man would

stay at his post, but he had done what he could.

"Remember," said Brett. "It's a real man they've got, like you and me

... not a golem. We owe it to him." The fat man's hands trembled. He

watched Brett, licked his lips. Brett started down.

* * * * *

The descent was easy. The rough face of the excavation gave footholds.

The end of a decaying timber projected; below it was the stump of a

crumbling concrete pipe two feet in diameter. Brett was ten feet below

the rim of floor now. Above, the broad figure of the fat man was visible

in silhouette against the jagged opening in the wall.

Now the cliff shelved back; the rope hung free. Brett eased past the cut

end of a rusted water pipe, went down hand over hand. If there were

nothing at the bottom to give him footing, it would be a long climb back

...

Twenty feet below he could see the still black water, pockmarked with

expanding rings where bits of debris dislodged by his passage peppered

the surface.

There was a rhythmic vibration in the rope. Brett felt it through his

hands, a fine sawing sensation ...

He was falling, gripping the limp rope ...

He slammed on his back in three feet of oily water. The coils of rope

collapsed around him with a sustained splashing. He got to his feet,

groped for the end of the rope. The glossy nylon strands had been

cleanly cut.

* * *

For half an hour Brett waded in waist-deep water along a wall of damp

clay that rose sheer above him. Far above, bars of dim sunlight crossed

the upper reaches of the cavern. He had seen no sign of Dhuva ... or the

Gels.

He encountered a sodden timber that projected above the surface of the

pool, clung to it to rest. Bits of flotsam--a plastic pistol, bridge

tallies, a golf bag--floated in the black water. A tunnel extended

through the clay wall ahead; beyond, Brett could see a second great

cavern rising. He pictured the city, silent and empty above, and the

honey-combed earth beneath. He moved on.

An hour later Brett had traversed the second cavern. Now he clung to an

outthrust spur of granite directly beneath the point at which Dhuva had

disappeared. Far above he could see the green-clad waitress standing

stiffly on her ledge. He was tired. Walking in water, his feet

floundering in soft mud, was exhausting. He was no closer to escape, or

to finding Dhuva, than he had been when the fat man cut the rope. He had

been a fool to leave the man alone, with a knife ... but he had had no

choice.

He would have to find another way out. Endlessly wading at the bottom of

the pit was useless. He would have to climb. One spot was as good as

another. He stepped back and scanned the wall of clay looming over him.

Twenty feet up, water dripped from the broken end of a four-inch water

main. Brett uncoiled the rope from his shoulder, tied a loop in the end,

whirled it and cast upward. It missed, fell back with a splash. He

gathered it in, tried again. On the third try it caught. He tested it,

then started up. His hands were slippery with mud and water. He twined

the rope around his legs, inched higher. The slender cable was smooth as

glass. He slipped back two feet, then inched upward, slipped again,

painfully climbed, slipped, climbed.

After the first ten feet he found toe-holds in the muddy wall. He worked

his way up, his hands aching and raw. A projecting tangle of power cable

gave a secure purchase for a foot. He rested. Nearby, an opening two

feet in diameter gaped in the clay: a tunnel. It might be possible to

swing sideways across the face of the clay and reach the opening. It was

worth a try. His stiff, clay-slimed hands would pull him no higher.

He gripped the rope, kicked off sideways, hooked a foot in the tunnel

mouth, half jumped, half fell into the mouth of the tunnel. He clung to

the rope, shook it loose from the pipe above, coiled it and looped it

over his shoulder. On hands and knees he started into the narrow

passage.

* * *

The tunnel curved left, then right, dipped, then angled up. Brett

crawled steadily, the smooth stiff clay yielding and cold against his

hands and sodden knees. Another smaller tunnel joined from the left.

Another angled in from above. The tunnel widened to three feet, then

four. Brett got to his feet, walked in a crouch. Here and there, barely

visible in the near-darkness, objects lay imbedded in the mud: a

silver-plated spoon, its handle bent; the rusted engine of an electric

train; a portable radio, green with corrosion from burst batteries.

At a distance, Brett estimated, of a hundred yards from the pit, the

tunnel opened into a vast cave, green-lit from tiny discs of frosted

glass set in the ceiling far above. A row of discolored concrete piles,

the foundations of the building above, protruded against the near wall,

their surfaces nibbled and pitted. Between Brett and the concrete

columns the floor was littered with pale sticks and stones, gleaming

dully in the gloom.

Brett started across the floor. One of the sticks snapped underfoot. He

kicked a melon-sized stone. It rolled lightly, came to rest with hollow

eyes staring toward him. A human skull.

* * * * *

The floor of the cave covered an area the size of a city block. It was

blanketed with human bones, with here and there a small cat skeleton or

the fanged snout-bones of a dog. There was a constant rustling of rats

that played among the rib cages, sat atop crania, scuttled behind

shin-bones. Brett picked his way, stepping over imitation pearl

necklaces, zircon rings, plastic buttons, hearing aids, lipsticks,

compacts, corset stays, prosthetic devices, rubber heels, wrist watches,

lapel watches, pocket watches with corroded brass chains.

Ahead Brett saw a patch of color: a blur of pale yellow. He hurried,

stumbling over bone heaps, crunching eyeglasses underfoot. He reached

the still figure where it lay slackly, face down. Gingerly he squatted,

turned it on its back. It was Dhuva.

Brett slapped the cold wrists, rubbed the clammy hands. Dhuva stirred,

moaned weakly. Brett pulled him to a sitting position. "Wake up!" he

whispered. "Wake up!"

Dhuva's eyelids fluttered. He blinked dully at Brett.

"The Gels may turn up any minute," Brett hissed. "We have to get away

from here. Can you walk?"

"I saw it," said Dhuva faintly. "But it moved so fast ..."

"You're safe here for the moment," Brett said. "There are none of them

around. But they may be back. We've got to find a way out!"

Dhuva started up, staring around. "Where am I?" he said hoarsely. Brett

seized his arm, steadied him on his feet.

"We're in a hollowed-out cave," he said. "The whole city is undermined

with them. They're connected by tunnels. We have to find one leading

back to the surface."

Dhuva gazed around at the acres of bones. "It left me here for dead."

"Or to die," said Brett.

"Look at them," Dhuva breathed. "Hundreds ... thousands ..."

"The whole population, it looks like. The Gels must have whisked them

down here one by one."

"But why?"

"For interfering with the scenes. But that doesn't matter now. What

matters is getting out. Come on. I see tunnels on the other side."

They crossed the broad floor, around them the white bones, the rustle of

rats. They reached the far side of the cave, picked a six-foot tunnel

which trended upward, a trickle of water seeping out of the dark mouth.

They started up the slope.

* * *

"We have to have a weapon against the Gels," said Brett.

"Why? I don't want to fight them." Dhuva's voice was thin, frightened.

"I want to get away from here ... even back to Wavly. I'd rather face

the Duke."

"This was a real town, once," said Brett. "The Gels have taken it over

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It Is Good To Be Alive