The Source by Brian Lumley

‘Karl,’ Khuv called out. ‘There’s no way you can get back right now, and you can’t just go on kneeling there like a lost waif. Or you can, but it won’t do you any good. Oh, we can feed you – of course we can – simply by pushing food through to you! Simmons was quite wrong about that. It was something he hadn’t thought out, that’s all. But he was right when he said you’ll die. You will eventually, Karl! How long that will be depends on how long you’ve got before Encounter Six. Do you follow me?’

Khuv waited for Vyotsky’s reply. Communicating through the gate was a frustrating business, but eventually Vyotsky nodded and got to his feet. Just doing that took him all of two minutes and more, and meanwhile the figure of the British agent was dwindling into the distance, oh-so-slowly vanishing from sight. Then Vyotsky’s face and mouth began to work grotesquely, and his words came in a dull, distant, slow-motion booming. Khuv made him out to say: ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Simply this: that we kit you out exactly like Simmons, give you all we can of equipment and concentrated food. Then at least you’ll have the same chance he has.’

Eventually the answer came back: ‘No chance, is that what you mean?’

‘A slim chance,’ Khuv insisted. ‘You won’t know unless you try it.’ He called forward an NCO from the squad of soldiers at his rear, issued sharp, rapid orders. The man went off at a run. ‘Now Karl, listen,’ Khuv continued. ‘Is there anything you can think of that might be useful to you – other than what Simmons has?’

Again Vyotsky’s slow nod, and at last, ‘A motorcycle.’

Khuv’s jaw fell open. They had no idea what the terrain would be like. He said so, and:

‘So if I can’t ride it, then I’ll ditch the bloody thing!’ Vyotsky answered. ‘For God’s sake, is it too much? If I could fly a helicopter I’d ask for that instead!’

Khuv issued more instructions; but all of this taking time, and Simmons now a dot on the white horizon, gradually drawing away like an ant across the face of a sand dune.

The equipment began to arrive, and a trolley to carry it. The trolley was loaded and pushed into the sphere, and Vyotsky commenced the endless business of kitting-up. He was working as fast as he could, but to Khuv and the other observers it was like watching the progress of a snail. The paradox was this: that it was just as bad for Vyotsky. He felt that he was the one moving at speed, and they were the flies stuck in treacle! While to them even the droplets of sweat falling from his brow took seconds to strike the invisible floor where he stood.

At last his motorcycle arrived: a heavy military model -but in good working order, with about two hundred and fifty miles of fuel in her belly. The bike was put on its stand on a second trolley and wheeled through. On the other side, Vyotsky began the incredibly slow process of mounting the machine, kick-starting its engine into life. But whatever might be wrong with time in there, the rest of the physical spectrum seemed in order. The bike coughed, made a noise like great hammers on oak, where the beat of each piston was a distinct, individual sound, and Vyotsky lifted his feet off the ground. And slowly, oh-so-slowly – but still a great deal faster than Simmons -so Vyotsky and his machine dwindled into the white distance and finally disappeared from view. Two empty trolleys were all that was left . . .

After Vyotsky had gone, Khuv continued to watch the sphere until his eyes began to hurt. Then he turned and crossed the walkway to the Saturn’s-rings platform, and started up the wooden stairs to the shaft through the magmass. There on the landing at the mouth of the shaft Viktor Luchov was waiting for him. Khuv came to a halt, said:

‘Direktor Luchov, I notice you distanced yourself from this experiment. Indeed you were conspicuous by your absence!’ His tone was neutral, or if anything even a little defensive.