The winch was still turning. Chris grabbed it, then jumped away as the fourth soldier’s sword came down with a clang. The cage sank lower. Chris backed away. Marek was holding his bound wrists out to Chris; but Chris was not sure he could control the sword. Marek was shouting, “Do it!” so Chris swung; the rope snapped; and then the fourth soldier was on him. The soldier fought with the fury of a man trapped; Chris was cut on the forearm as he backed away. He realized he was in trouble, when suddenly his attacker looked down in horror, the bloody point of a sword protruding from his abdomen. The soldier toppled, and Chris saw Marek holding the blade.
Chris ran for the winch. He grabbed the crank and managed to stop the descent. Now he could see that the cage was deep in the oily water; the Professor’s head was barely above the surface. Another turn of the crank and he would have been submerged.
Marek came over, and together they began to crank the cage back up. Chris said, “How much time is left?”
Marek looked at his counter. “Twenty-six minutes.”
Meanwhile, Arnaut and Oliver fought on; they were now in a dark corner of the dungeon, and Chris could see the sparks from their clashing swords.
The cage rose dripping into the air. The Professor smiled at Chris. “I thought you’d be in time,” he said.
The black bars of the cage were slippery in Chris’s hands as he swung the cage overhead, away from the pit. Slime and black water dripped onto the dirt floor of the dungeon, leaving little pools. Chris went back to the winch; he and Marek cranked the cage down, lowering it to the floor. The Professor was soaked, but he seemed relieved to be on solid ground again. Chris went back to open the cage, but he saw that it was locked. There was a heavy iron padlock the size of a man’s fist.
“Where’s the key?” Chris said, turning to Marek.
“I don’t know,” Marek said. “I was on the ground when they put him in, I didn’t see what happened.”
“Professor?”
Johnston shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was looking there.” He nodded toward the pit.
Marek clanged his sword against the lock. Sparks flew, but the padlock was solid; the sword only scratched it. “That’s never going to work,” Chris said. “We need the damn key, André.”
André turned and looked around the dungeon. Chris said, “How much time is left?”
“Twenty-five minutes.”
Shaking his head, Chris went to the nearest dead soldier, and began searching the body.
* * *
00:21:52
In the control room, Stern watched as the technicians dipped the pale rubber membrane into a bucket of adhesive, and then placed it, still dripping, inside the mouth of the glass shield. Then they attached a compressed-air hose and the rubber began to expand. For a moment, it was possible to see that it was a weather balloon, but then it expanded still further, the rubber spreading and thinning, becoming translucent, assuming the curving shape of the glass shield until it had reached every corner of the container. Then the technicians capped it, clicked a stopwatch, and waited while the adhesive hardened.
Stern said, “How much time?”
“Twenty-one minutes to go.” Gordon pointed to the balloons. “It’s homely, but it works.”
Stern shook his head. “It was staring me in the face, for the last hour.”
“What was?”
“Blowouts,” he said. “I kept thinking, what are we trying to avoid here? And the answer is, blowouts. Just like a car, when the tires blow out. I kept thinking of car blowouts. And it seemed odd, because blowouts are so rare now. New cars hardly ever have them. Because the new tires have an inner membrane that’s self-sealing.” He sighed. “I kept wondering why this rare thing was on my mind, and then I realized that was the whole point: there was a way to make a membrane here, too.”
“This is not self-sealing,” Kramer said.
“No,” Gordon said, “but it’ll add thickness to the glass and spread the stress.”
“Right,” Stern said.
The technicians had put balloons in all the tanks, and capped them. Now they were waiting for the glue to harden. Gordon glanced at his watch. “Three more minutes.”
“And then how long for each tank?”
“Six minutes. But we can do two tanks at a time.”
Kramer sighed. “Eighteen minutes. Cutting it close.”
“We’ll make it,” Gordon said. “We can always pump the water faster.”
“Won’t that stress the tanks more?”
“Yes. But we can do it, if we have to.”
Kramer looked back at the monitor, where the field was undulating. But the peaks were clearer now. She said, “Why are the field bucks changing?”
“They’re not,” Gordon said without looking back.
“Yes,” she said. “They are. The spikes are getting smaller.”
“Smaller?”
Gordon came over to look. He frowned as he stared at the screen. There were four peaks, then three, then two. Then four again, briefly. “Remember, what you’re seeing is really a probability function,” he said. “Field amplitudes reflect the probability that the event will take place.”
“In English?”
Gordon stared at the screen. “Something must have gone wrong back there. And whatever it is, it’s changed the probability that they will return.”
* * *
00:15:02
Chris was sweating. He grunted as he flopped the soldier’s inert body onto its back, and resumed his search. He’d spent frantic minutes going through the maroon-and-gray uniforms of two of the dead soldiers, trying to find the key. The surcoats were long, and underneath that, the soldiers wore quilted shirts; all in all, a lot of cloth. Not that the key could be easily concealed; Chris knew that the cage padlock would require a key several inches long, and made of iron.
But Chris didn’t find it. Not on the first soldier, and not on the second. Swearing, he got to his feet.
Across the dungeon, Arnaut was still fighting with Oliver; the clang of their swords continued ceaselessly, a steady metallic rhythm. Marek was walking along the walls, holding a torch, searching the dark corners of the dungeon. But he didn’t seem to be having success, either.
Chris could almost hear the clock ticking in his head. He looked around, wondering where a key could be hidden. Unfortunately, he realized, it could be almost anywhere: hanging on a wall, or tucked into the base of a torch holder. He went over to the winch and looked around the mechanism. And there he found it — a large iron key, at the foot of the winch. “Got it!”
Marek looked up, glanced at his wrist counter as Chris hurried over to the cage to insert the key. The key went right in, but it wouldn’t turn. At first he thought the mechanism was stuck, but after thirty agonizing seconds of effort, he was forced to conclude that this was not the key, after all. Feeling helpless and angry, he flung the key to the ground. He turned to the Professor, locked behind the bars.
“I’m sorry,” Chris said. “I’m really sorry.”
As always, the Professor was unruffled. “I’ve been thinking, Chris,” he said, “about exactly what happened.”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“And I think Oliver had it,” the Professor said. “He locked me in himself. I think he kept the key.”
“Oliver?”
Across the room, Oliver continued to fight, although he was now obviously losing. Arnaut was a better swordsman, and Oliver was drunk and winded. Smiling grimly, Arnaut drove Oliver back with measured blows to the edge of the pit. There Oliver, gasping and sweating, leaned on the railing, too exhausted to continue.
Arnaut gently put the point of his sword to Oliver’s neck. “Mercy,” Oliver said, panting. “I beg mercy.” But it was clear that he did not expect it. Arnaut slowly pressed harder with the sword. Oliver coughed.
“My Lord Arnaut,” Marek said, stepping forward. “We need the key to the cage.”
“Eh? Key? To the cage?”
Gasping, Oliver smiled. “I know where it lies.”
Arnaut jabbed with the sword. “Tell us.”
Oliver shook his head. “Never.”
“If you tell us,” Arnaut said, “I shall spare your life.”
At this, Oliver glanced up sharply. “Certes?”
“I am no treacherous, two-faced Englishman,” Arnaut said. “Give us the key, and I swear as a true gentle of France that I shall not kill you.”
Panting, Oliver stared at Arnaut for several seconds. Finally he stood once again and said, “Very well.” He threw away his sword, reached under his robe, and brought out a heavy iron key. Marek took it.
Oliver turned back to Arnaut. “So: I have done my part. Are you a man of your word?”
“In deed,” Arnaut said, “I shall not kill you . . .” He moved forward swiftly, and clasped Oliver’s knees. “I shall bathe you.”
And he flipped Oliver bodily over the rail, into the pit. Oliver landed with a splash in the black water below; he came up sputtering. Cursing, he swam to the side of the pit and reached toward the rocks to get a handhold. But the rocks that lined the pit were dark with slime. Oliver’s hands slipped off. He could get no purchase. He treaded water, slapping ineffectually at the surface. He looked up at Arnaut, and swore.