“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? Fesseron, 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 hundred 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 said. He drank the last of 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 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.”
“Have you now? What else have you got in Fesseron?”
“Jefferson,” Brett said. “Well, we’ve got records, and stock car races, and the radio and TV, and—”
“Stockar?”
“You know: automobiles; they race.”
“An animal?”
“No, a machine; made of metal.”
“Made of metal? And yet alive?”
“No, it’s—”
“Dead and yet it moves.” Dhuva burst out laughing. “Those priests,” he said. “They’re the same everywhere, I see, Brett. 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 spinning around, like islands adrift in the sea.”
“Well—”
“Never mind, Brett.” 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, which ignored Brett. 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 pink-cheeked 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. A weapon, he thought—perhaps in a store . . . At the corner he turned, walked along past silent shop windows crowded with home permanent kits, sun glasses, fingernail polish, suntan lotion, paper cartons, streamers, plastic toys, varicolored 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 small 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 knob, then stepped back and kicked the door. With a hollow sound the door fell inward, taking with it the jamb. Bits of mortar fell. Brett stood staring at the gaping opening. A fragment of mortar dropped with a dry clink. Brett stepped through the breach in the grey facade into a vast, empty cavern. The black pool at the bottom of the pit winked a flicker of light back at him in the deep gloom.
He looked around. 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—