“Thanks a lot,” Roger said. He was discovering new pains with every move. “How did I get this bruise on my side?”
“That was when Bimbo throwed ye down and jumped on ye.”
“What happened to my elbow? Both elbows?”
“Must have been when Bimbo was dragging ye around by the heels.”
“I guess I lost the hide on my seat at the same time.”
“Nope. That was when I hauled ye in here. Too heavy to lift. But don’t fret. Tomorrow ain’t too far off.”
“Glad to see you’re a philosopher.” Roger’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. The oldster, he saw, was dressed in a dark blue nautical uniform.
“Who are you?” Roger asked. “How did you get here, in the same place with Bimbo?”
“Name’s Luke Harwood. Can’t rightly say how I got here. Just came ashore to try out my land legs and must of got into some bad rum. Last I remember was heading outside for some fresh air. I woke up here.” He sighed. “Guess it’s the Lord’s punishment for that little business in Macao back in ought nine.”
“Would that be . . . nineteen nine?”
“That’s it, feller.”
“Golly, you don’t look that old; but I suppose you were a nipper at the time.”
“Well—I sometimes was knowed to take a snort, in good company. But I was never drunk a day in my life. I figger I was hit on the head. Can’t rightly say whether I was kilt outright or lingered awhile.”
“Where were you when you were, ah, alive?”
“Little place name of Pottsville.”
“The same town! But . . . in those days there wasn’t any bus station!”
“Don’t follow ye there, feller.”
“But it was probably the spot where the station was built later! That means the Aperture has been there for years and years! It could be the explanation of some of these mysterious disappearances you hear about, where people step around the corner and are never heard from again.”
“I bet they’re wondering what become of me,” Luke said sadly. “Hardnose Harwood, they used to call me. Set yer watch by me. Never thought I’d end up a ship-jumper.”
“Listen, Mr. Harwood, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Can’t do it,” Harwood said flatly. “I’ve tried, lad—many’s the time. But there’s no way out.”
“Certainly there is! The same way you came in! It’s down by the river. If you can show me the way to where I met Bimbo . . . ”
“You ain’t making sense, boy. Once ye’re dead and in Purgatory, ye’re in for life!”
“I suppose after searching for the exit for sixty years and not finding it, it’s hard to believe,” Roger conceded, “but—”
“What sixty years?” Harwood frowned.
“The sixty years you’ve been here, since you arrived as a small boy.”
“Ye lost yer rudder, feller? I been here twenty-one days tomorrow!”
“Well—I suppose we can figure that part out later.” Roger dismissed the chronology. “But listen—where’s Bimbo now?”
“Sleeping off chow in his den down the line, most likely. Bimbo’s like the weather: same every day.”
“Good; then we’ll sneak past him, and—”
“Forget it, feller. Bimbo likes to find things where he left ’em.”
“I don’t care what he likes! I’m getting out before he kills me. Are you coming, or not?”
“Look here, boy, I taken ye aside to save ye some hard knocks by tipping ye off to the system! If ye know what’s good for ye, ye’ll—”
“It will be good for me to leave—now,” Roger said. “So long, Mr. Harwood. It was nice knowing you.”
“Stubborn, ain’t ye?” The sailor grunted. “Well, seein’s ye’re determined, I reckon I’ll go along and watch the fun. Now remember—when Bimbo catches ye, don’t kick around. That jest riles him.”
Stealthily, the two lifted the bamboo mat aside and peered out into the dusty sunshine. The cave, Roger saw, opened onto a rock-strewn ledge above a steep slope shelving down to woodland. It was a long drop; the tops of the great trees barely reached the level of the cave mouth.
Harwood led the way on tiptoe along the ledge. At the entrance to a second, larger cave, he paused, glanced quickly inside.
“Curious,” he said. “He ain’t here. Wonder where he’s at?”
Roger went past him to a sharp angle in the path, edged around it—and was face to face with Bimbo.
“Oh,” Harwood said as Roger reappeared around the corner, tucked under the ape-man’s shaggy arm. “I see ye found him.”
“Don’t just stand there!” Roger bleated. “Do something!”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Harwood said. He turned and dashed off at top speed. Instantly, Bimbo dropped Roger and lumbered in pursuit. It was a short chase, since the ledge ended after forty feet in a jumble of fallen rock.
“Now, Bimbo”—Harwood scrambled backward, grabbed up a jagged chunk of stone—”ye restrain yerself! Remember last time. That smarted some, didn’t it, when I busted ye in the lip?”
Bimbo, unintimidated, closed in, yowled when the thrown missile smacked into his wide face; he grabbed Harwood, and proceeded to flail him against the ground. Roger staggered to his feet, caught up a stout length of oak branch, rushed up behind the ape-man, and brought the club down with all his strength on the bullet head. Bimbo ignored the blow, and the three that followed. The fourth seemed to annoy him. He dropped Harwood and whirled. Roger jumped, found a handhold, scrambled up, looked back to see Bimbo’s outstretched hand clutch the rock inches from his heels. He kicked at the raking fingers, then scaled another ten feet of rock, pulled himself up onto flat ground. Already Bimbo’s rasping breath and scuffling hands were audible just below. Roger looked around hastily for a missile, saw nothing he could use as a weapon. He turned and ran as the furious troll face rose into view.
2
For the first two hundred paces, Roger sprinted at his best speed through open woods directly away from the starting point, careless of noise, acutely aware of Bimbo’s crashing progress behind him. In the momentary shelter of a shallow depression, he made a right-angle turn, ran on as silently as possible, emerging after a few hundred feet into open ground with a distant view of mountains. For a moment his heart sank—but in the desert, too, the apparent vista had stretched for miles. He hadn’t lost yet. He ran on, conscious of the hopelessness of his exposed position if Bimbo should suspect the change of course too soon.
He was close to exhaustion when he counted off the last few yards of what he hoped would prove to be a closed circle. And there ahead was the hollow where he had changed direction. He dropped flat behind a bush to catch his breath, listening to the sounds of breaking brush and the hoarse bellows of the frustrated Bimbo threshing about in the underbrush well off to the right. His wind recovered, Roger retraced his steps to the bluff above the cave. Below, a dozen heavy, shaggy half-men had emerged from concealment. They stood in a ragged circle around Luke Harwood, who was sitting up, holding his side.
Roger swung over the edge, scrambled quickly down to the ledge. At sight of him, the brute-men scattered, disappearing into the innumerable hollows in the rock. With the exception of Bimbo, it appeared, the brutal appearance of the creatures concealed timorous natures. Harwood tottered to his feet, dusty and disheveled, dabbing ineffectually at a bloody nose.
“Ye shouldn’t have done it, lad! He hates to have anybody interfere with him when he’s having fun!”
“I missed a swell chance to finish him,” Roger said between gasps of breath. “I should have climbed up and rolled a rock down on him.”
“Ahhh,” Harwood demurred. “Killing him really gets his dander up. I killed him three times before I gave it up. If ye’d squashed him I dread to think o’ the consequences. Now, give yerself up, man! Wait here and take what comes like a man! It can’t last forever—though he’s learned to be sly about it, to stretch it out till sundown. But tomorrow will come at last, and unless ye’ve angered him beyond measure, he’ll have forgot by then!”
“Never mind tomorrow. Come on; I’ve thrown him off the scent for the moment.”
A hoarse bellow sounded from the clifftop above.
“He’s found yer trail,” Harwood hissed. “Ye’re in for it—unless . . . ” There was speculation in his eyes. “Down by the creek, ye say?”
“Which way down?” Roger snapped.
“Come along,” Harwood said. “I guess I owe ye that much.”
3
Five minutes later Roger and Harwood stood beside the small stream which flowed through the wooded ground below the cliff, all that remained of the mighty flow which, ages ago, had carved the gorge.
“There was a nice stand of timber at the spot I’m looking for,” Roger said. “A big elm, a yard in diameter, about ten feet from the bank—”