"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."