The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

A ladder was let down from the belly hatch. Jill and Piscator hastened from the control room, walked swiftly down the passage­way, and then went down the ladder. Doctor Graves was waiting for them, his black bag in his hand.

The helicopter had crashed about 30 meters from the dome. With its flames a beacon, they pressed through the fog toward it. Jill’s heart beat hard as they neared the wreckage. It seemed impossible that vigorous, flamboyant Firebrass could be dead.

He lay a few meters from the flaming mass where the impact had thrown him. The others were still in the machine, the blackened body of one sitting up in its seat.

Graves handed his lamp to Piscator and bent down over the figure. Smoke mingled with the fog and brought the sickening stench of burning gasoline and flesh to them. Jill felt as if she were going to vomit.

“Hold the light steady!” Graves said sharply.

Jill did so, forcing herself to look at the corpse. His clothes had been blown off him; his skin was seared from top to bottom. Despite the burning, his features were still recognizable. He must not have been in the flames long. Perhaps he had been ejected by the explo­sion before the machine crashed. The fall would account for the removal of the top of his head.

Jill could not see why the doctor had to examine the body. She was about to tell him so when he stood up. His hand, its palm open, was held out to her.

“Look at this.”

She brought the lamp close to his hand. The object in it was a sphere the size of a matchhead.

“It was on his forebrain. I don’t know what the hell it is.”

After he had wiped it clean of blood, he said, “It’s black.”

He wrapped the little ball in a cloth and dropped it into his bag.

“What do you want to do with the bodies?” . Jill looked at the blazing mass of crumpled metal. “There’s no use wasting foam to put the fire out now,” she said in a dull voice. She looked at the men who had followed them. “Peterson, you get the body back to the ship. Wrap it up first. The rest of you follow me.”

A few minutes later, they halted before the dome. Searchlights from the dirigible were turned on it, making it look like a ghost of an Eskimo igloo. Using her lamp, Jill saw that the dome was made of the same grey metal as the tower. It seemed to be continuous with the metal of the tower. At least, there was no sign of welding, no seams. It was as if it were a bubble blown from the surface.

The others stood back from its arched entrance, waiting for her to decide what to do. Their lights revealed an opening like a cavern. About 10 meters beyond, the walls curved in, forming a corridor about 3 meters wide and 2.5 meters high. The walls were of the same grey substance. At its end, about 30 meters away, the hall curved abruptly. If there was an entrance down into the tower itself, it had to be just beyond the curve.

Just above the opening were two symbols, both in altorelief. The top one was a semicircle, and it bore the seven primary colors. Below it was a circle inside of which was a looped cross, the Egyptian ankh.

“A rainbow above the emblem of life and resurrection,” Jill said.

Piscator said, “Pardon me. The cross within the circle is also the astrological-astronomical symbol for Earth. However, in that sym­bol, the cross is a simple one, not the looped cross.”

“A symbol of hope, that rainbow. And, if you remember the Old Testament, it’s God’s sign of covenant with His people. It also evokes the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the Emerald City of Oz, and many other things.”

Piscator looked curiously at her.

She was silent for a minute, overcome with awe and a fear that she hoped would not become overwhelming.

Then she said, “I’m going in. You wait here, Piscator. When I get to the end of the hall, I’ll signal you to come on in, too. If there’ s no trouble, that is.