Which left open the question of just where it did go. To another asteroid-ship launching pad? Too much to hope for. To a room full of ship-activating plates? A more reasonable possibility.
The circular opening displayed no inclination to close behind him, and nothing he could do would persuade the system to activate. If, he reminded himself, it was still functional.
Once again he debated whether to go looking for his sole remaining companion, and once again he determined to give her the space she evidently desired. Low could repair and fix a great many things, but a blue funk wasn’t one of them.
Climbing onto the platform, he found himself marveling at the material. It looked like polished wood, until he bent close and discovered that he could see partway into its brown depths. Nothing here was completely solid. He found himself wondering if the effect was intentional or simply a by-product of Cocytan manufacturing techniques.
Maybe staring hard at the bench was the accepted method of activation, or perhaps his weight tripped some concealed mechanism within the bench. Or possibly the weight of ages had resulted in a longer-than-normal delay in departure. Whatever the cause, the opening behind him irised shut, encasing him within the sphere. The door had materialized out of nothingness in much the same fashion as the archway to the grand chamber had disappeared before him.
He hammered on the barrier, to no avail. It was sealed tight. How tight? He found himself wondering if the Cocytans had perhaps traveled in the sphere in a state of suspended animation, or naturally induced estivation. If so, the device’s occupants would not have been burdened with the need to breathe.
Unfortunately, he was.
Light bloomed on the surface of the sphere, both within and without. What had he gotten himself into? The air remained fresh and plentiful—for now. Had he misinterpreted the machine’s function? Was it indeed part of some local transportation system—or the Cocytan version of a high-end mousetrap?
The sphere rocked as if jolted by something unseen. He closed his eyes, waiting for the bolt of electricity or hiss of poison gas. When neither materialized, he opened his eyes … and found himself staring down the long black line of the tunnel.
The sphere was moving forward. Looking back, he could clearly see the platform and the open archway that led to the big chamber receding behind him. Reflections proved that the sphere was rotating within the groove like a billiard ball speeding back down its loading chute, but within the sphere all was stable. The bench did not even vibrate, remaining level and steady as the vehicle continued to accelerate.
There were no landmarks within the featureless tunnel, no running lights or glowing signposts. This made it difficult to estimate his speed, but calculating comparative velocity was something Low was particularly good at. He determined that the sphere was racing along at well over a hundred miles an hour. How far over he couldn’t tell.
He tried to recall what little they knew of the terrain they’d crossed. Brink had alluded to the possibility that they might have come down on an island, but without circumnavigating it they had no proof it was not part of a larger body of land. Based on what they’d seen, Low doubted they’d landed on part of a continent. A peninsula perhaps, if not an island.
If that was the case, then there was a good chance he was now traveling beneath a Cocytan ocean. Sitting back on the bench, he could only hope that the tunnel would terminate somewhere above the surface.
CHAPTER 11
Others recorded his progress, effortlessly pacing the sphere. Though once they had been conscious of such things, they no longer had any need to calculate its speed. In their present state, intangibles such as relative velocity meant nothing to them.
Several hovered high above the ocean, tracking the sphere’s forward motion as though sea, sky and stone did not exist. Which for them, it no longer did. Others followed down the tunnel, while a hundred companions passed effortlessly through the same solid rock. Density was a concept that for them held only philosophical meaning, and they traveled as easily through iron as through air.
They were indifferent to solid matter, but passing through the trees as effortlessly as through the forest no longer held any thrill for them. There is no challenge in that which is simple, and where there is no challenge, life is but a poor thing. The thousandth time one does something, it stinks of repetition rather than discovery.
Gladly would they have given up their ease of passage to feel the rock, smell the air or taste the water. None of these were options open to them. They had voluntarily abandoned the real world and could not find the way back. At first, pure thought had been a new sensation. It had grown dry and tasteless with remarkable speed.
The pleasure of anticipation was one of the few that still remained to them.
“See what they have accomplished already,” declared a rotating polygon of presences.
“It stumbles about. Only natural that it should occasionally stumble into good fortune.” The doyens of depression were still as active as ever.
“They are not animals. The intellectually inhibited would have run from the door-opener instead of making use of it.”
“Very well. That which is supported by proof must be conceded. The bipeds possess a low-level intelligence and some problem-solving ability. That makes them little different from those who have come before … and failed. Others have succeeded in opening doors. Where they fail is in what they do with what they find.”
“Be not impatient for failure,” chided one-and-forty on the verge of auspiciousness.
“Not we,” came the response. “We only observe and extrapolate.”
“Then do not extrapolate failure. We swim in a sea of it already. There is no need to add to the volume.” Even argument about arguing provided respite from the all-encompassing tedium. In that respect the arrival of the three humans had already proven beneficial to the displaced masters of the fourth planet.
There was so much they could have told the travelers had they only been able to make contact. A whisper in the mind, a few carefully planted thoughts, would have prevented Brink’s death and smoothed the way. It was not possible. Despite their mastery of time and space, the Cocytans could only wait and watch, as frustrated as any snail seeking to circumnavigate a sequoia.
They could, however, still feel.
So gradual was the tunnel’s descent, so perfectly fabricated its walls, that even Low, who had a better sense of up and down than most humans, could not tell how deep he had traveled nor how far. There was no mistaking when the sphere began to lose speed, though.
Light appeared up ahead, and the remarkable transport mechanism deposited him gently in a docking chamber that was identical to the one he had just left. Only the fact that the ceiling was slightly lower indicated that he had not traveled in an aimless circle. He had definitely arrived somewhere.
Rising from the bench, he began carefully to feel that portion of the sphere’s interior that had originally contained the entrance. It remained solid to the touch.
Careful, he told himself. Don’t lose it here.
Maybe he brushed over a switch as transparent as the wall itself, or perhaps the entrance simply took time to cycle. Whatever the cause, it irised open and allowed him to disembark.
There was an arch off to his left and he walked toward it. A glance back showed that the sphere remained where he’d left it. As it displayed no inclination to return on its own, he felt safe in assuming it would wait for his return.
The sealed door presented a greater problem. There was no versatile robot here to activate concealed mechanisms and no suggestion in the floor of subterranean storerooms where one might be found. Enigmatic glyphs and engravings reflected back at him, teasingly obvious. Not knowing what else to do, he reached for one.
The barrier melted aside.
Interesting, he mused as he passed cautiously through the gaping portal. The activation of certain ancient mechanisms required special tools, whereas others apparently responded to one’s mere presence. Apparently there was no predicting which were going to be cooperative and which obstinate. The door stayed open behind him.
He found himself in a vaulted room much smaller than the one he’d left behind. It was filled with the usual flowing bulges and distortions in the walls and floor. More inscrutable alien devices. An open portal led outside. That, at least, he knew how to make use of.
A gentle, warm breeze greeted him as he stepped through. He found himself on a rocky bluff overlooking the sea. It was steep and sheer enough to tease an experienced diver, which didn’t matter. A recreational swim was not high on his current list of priorities.