Possibly these columns or stacks had been fretted from the mountains, to be left standing there like weird, frozen sentinels as the mountains themselves melted from around them. Certainly they were a ‘natural’ feature, for it was impossible to conceive of any creatures aspiring or even requiring to build them. And yet at the same time there was that about them which hinted of more than nature’s handiwork. Especially in the towers and turrets and flying buttresses of their crowns, which looked for all the world like . . . castles?
But no, that could only be his imagination at work, his need to people this place with creatures like himself. It was a trick of the spectral light, a mirage of the twining mists which wreathed those great menhirs, a visual and mental distortion conjured of distance and dreams. Men had not built these megaliths. Or if they had, then they were not men as Michael J. Simmons understood them.
So … what sort of men? Wamphyri? Flight of fancy it might well be, but again, in his mind’s eye, Jazz saw the warrior burning on the walkway, and heard his voice raised in savage pride and defiance: ‘Wamphyri.r
Mile-high castles: the aeries of the Wamphyri! Jazz gave a snort of grim amusement at his own imaginings, but … the idea had taken hold of his mind and for the moment was fixed there.
Suddenly a mood was on him; he felt as lonely – more lonely – than he’d ever felt in his life. And the thought struck him anew that he was alone, and totally friendless in a world whose denizens . . .. . . What denizens? Animals? Jazz hadn’t seen a one!
He looked at the sky. No birds flew there, not even a lone kite on the lookout for an evening meal. Was it evening? It felt like it. Indeed it felt like the evening not only of a place but of an entire world. A world where it was always evening? With the sun so low in the sky, that was possible. On this side of the mountains, anyway. And on the other side . . . morning? Always morning?
Reverie had taken hold, out of phase with Jazz’s character, from which he must forcibly free himself. He gave a sigh, shook himself, set out with more purpose toward the opening of the pass and the blister-sun beyond it. The pass didn’t lie level but climbed toward the crest of a saddle; and so Jazz, too, must climb. He found the extra effort strangely exhilarating; also, it kept him warm and was something he could concentrate on. Along the way grew coarse grasses and stunted shrubs, even the occasional pine, and above the scree the steep slopes were dense with tall trees. Just here the place was so like parts of the world he knew that . . . but it wasn’t the world he knew. It was alien, and he’d had proof enough that it housed creatures whose natures were lethal.
Twenty-five minutes or so later, pausing to lean against a great boulder, Jazz turned and looked back.
The sphere was now a little less than two miles behind and below him, and he had actually entered the mouth of the ‘V where it lay like a slash through the mountain range. But back there on the rock-littered plain … the sphere was like a brilliant egg half-buried in its magmass nest. And a dark speck moved like a microbe against its glare. It could only be Vyotsky. A moment more – and Jazz nodded sourly. Oh, yes, that was Vyotsky all right!
The crack of a single ringing shot came echoing up to Jazz, bouncing itself from wall to wall of the pass. The Russian had found his gun where Jazz had left it for him; now he was telling this alien world that he was here. ‘So look out!’ he was saying. ‘A man is here, and one to be reckoned with! If you know what’s good for you, don’t try fooling around with Karl Vyotsky!’ Like a superstitious peasant whistling in the dark. Or maybe he was just saying: ‘Simmons, it’s not over yet. This is just to warn you: keep looking back!’