The Direktor glanced at him. ‘Oh, and are you interested?’ And without waiting for an answer, nodding grimly, he continued, ‘Then you must see it for yourself.’
He called over a private soldier and sent him hurrying off on an errand. And while they waited: ‘Can we borrow a couple of these radiation tags from your staff here?’ And then to Szalny: ‘Felix, I want you to go and sit in one of those chairs on the perimeter.’ And finally, to a second soldier: ‘You there – go and get this man a mug of hot tea. And hurry!’
Luchov and the Major clipped radiation hazard tags to their clothing; the first soldier returned with a pair of gas masks; slinging these over their shoulders, the pair descended through the steel hatch into the lower half of the chamber. Down there, the Gate glared on them from where it hung suspended, weightless in the centre of spherical space.
Reaching the bottom of the steel ladder, Luchov stepped carefully down between the gaping mouths of circular shafts cutting at all angles into the giant stone bowl of the floor. These were ‘wormholes’: energy channels which had been eaten through the solid granite in the first seconds of the Perchorsk accident, when previously rigid matter had taken on the consistency of dough. ‘Watch how you go,’ he called up to the young officer. ‘And give a wide berth to wormholes with their radiation seals intact. They’re still a little hot. Of course, you’d know all about that sort of thing, wouldn’t you?’ He set out to negotiate the perfectly smooth cold stone floor, following corrugated rubber ‘steps’ which had been laid down to provide for a firmer tread.
And climbing away from the hub, they were soon obliged to use iron rungs where these had been grafted into a sloping ‘floor’ which gradually curved into the vertical; which was also when Luchov drew level with a three-foot diameter shaft whose lead-lined manhole seal had been left standing open. He’d first spotted the open hatch as he came down the ladder and guessed that this was where Szalny had been working. For corroboration, a pocket torch with the maintenance engineer’s name scratched into its plastic casing lay where Szalny had left it in the wormhole’s gaping mouth.
Luchov took up the torch, and lighting the way ahead he crawled into the hole. ‘Still interested, are you?’ His almost sardonic voice echoed back to the Major who followed on hands and knees. ‘Good. But if I were you I’d put on that gas mask.’
Szalny had left a rope attached to the last rung; it snaked out of sight into the wormhole, which wound first to the left, then tilted into a gentle descent for maybe thirty feet before levelling out, and finally turned sharply right . . . into darkness. Into the permanent midnight of a place long abandoned.
‘In the old days,’ Luchov breathed, where he pierced the smoky darkness with a shaft of light and lowered himself carefully to the lumpy, uneasy-feeling floor, ‘they used to service the pile from down here.’ His voice, mask-muffled, had become a susurrating echo. ‘But of course, that was before the pile ate itself.’
The young officer was close behind; clambering awkwardly out of the wormhole, he stood up and caught hold of Luchov’s smock to steady himself. But Luchov was pleased to note that the Major’s hand shook and his breathing was a little panicked. Probably from unaccustomed exertion; indeed, mainly from that . . . until Luchov let the beam of the torch creep across the walls, the floor, the magmass inhabitants of the place.
Then the Major’s breathing turned to panting and his shaking got a lot worse, until after a while he gasped, ‘My God!’
Luchov stepped carefully, fastidiously over anomalous and yet homogeneous debris. Over debris which had tried to be homogeneous, anyway. ‘When the accident happened,’ he said, ‘matter became very flexible and flowing. A melting pot without the heat. Oh, there was some heat – a lot, in places – but that was mainly chemical reaction or nuclear residual. It had little to do with the way rock, rubber, plastic, metal, flesh, and bones melted together into this. This was a different sort of heat, an alien sort, the result of the forging of the Gate. As you can see, things get tangled at the crossroads of universes.’