The vehicle dropped. Its engine was silent; he presumed they were in a large elevator. They stopped, moved forward again, still silent, paused, then carried on forward and down. This time the spiral was obvious. There was still no noise from the vehicle’s engine, so they were either being towed, or freewheeling.
The black liquid drained slowly from the windows as they drew to a halt. They were in a wide tunnel under long white strip lights. The tunnel extended back until it started to curve, forward until it ended before large metal doors.
Mollen was nowhere to be seen.
He tested the car door, opened it, stepped out.
The tunnel was warm, though the air seemed fresh enough. He took off the old raincoat. He looked at the metal doors. Set into them was a smaller door. There was no handle to pull, so he pushed it, but nothing happened. He went back to the car, found the horns, blew them.
The noise crashed into the tunnel, rang in his ears, echoing. He sat in the back of the car.
After a while, the woman came through the small door. She came to the car, looked in through the window.
‘Hello.’
‘Good afternoon. Here I am.’
‘Yes. And still wearing your glasses.’ She smiled. ‘Please; come with me,’ she said, and walked quickly off. He collected the old raincoat and followed.
Behind the doors the tunnel went on, then they came to doors set into the side of the wall; a small elevator took them down still further. The woman wore a straight, all-covering gown in black with thin white stripes.
The lift stopped. They entered a small hallway like that of a private house, set about with pictures and potted plants and finished in streaky, smokily smooth stone. A thick carpet smothered their footsteps as they went down some steps and onto a large balcony set halfway up the wall of a large hall; everywhere else the hall was covered with books or tables, and they walked down a staircase with books below the wood under their feet, books above the wood over their heads.
She guided him round floor-standing book-stacks, and led him to a table with chairs around it. A machine stood on the table-top with a small screen set into it and spools scattered about it.
‘Wait here, please.’
Beychae was in his bedroom, resting. The old man – bald, face deeply lined, dressed in robes which hid the modest paunch he’d developed since he’d devoted himself to study – blinked as she tapped at and opened the door. His eyes were still bright.
‘Tsoldrin. I’m so sorry to disturb you. Come and see who I’ve brought to see you.’
He came with her along the corridor, and stood at the door while the woman pointed to the man standing at the table with the tape-reading screen on it.
‘Do you know him?’
Tsoldrin Beychae put on some glasses – he was old-fashioned enough to wear his age rather than try to disguise it – and peered at the man. The fellow was fairly young, long-legged, dark-haired – the hair swept back, held in a pony-tail – and possessed a striking, even handsome face, darkened by the sort of beard-growth that never disappears through surface shaving alone. The lips were disquieting, looked at exclusively; they appeared cruel and arrogant, and only when the eye took in the rest of the face as well did this impression seem too severe, and – reluctantly, perhaps – the observer had to allow that the dark glasses could not completely hide wide eyes and full brows, which – open and obvious – made the complete impression not disagreeable.
‘I might have met him, I’m not sure,’ Beychae said slowly. He thought that perhaps he had met the man before; there was something worryingly familiar about that face, even behind the shades.
‘He wants to meet you,’ the woman said. ‘I took the liberty of telling him it was mutual. He thinks you might have known his father.’
‘His father?’ Beychae said. That might account for it; perhaps the fellow bore a resemblance to somebody he’d known, and that accounted for the odd, slightly disturbing feeling he was experiencing. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself, shall we?’
‘Why not?’ the woman said. They walked out into the centre of the library. Beychae drew himself up; he’d noticed that he was stooping more these days, but he was still vain enough to want to greet people straight-backed. The man turned round towards them. ‘Tsoldrin Beychae,’ the woman said; ‘Mr Staberinde.’
‘An honour, sir,’ he said, looking at Beychae with a strange, intense expression, his face tight-looking, wary. He took the older man’s hand in his.
The woman looked puzzled. The expression on Beychae’s old, lined face was unreadable. He stood looking at the man, his hand limp in the other’s grip.
‘Mr… Staberinde,’ Beychae said, flatly.
Beychae turned to the woman in the long black gown. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ she murmured, and backed away.
He could see Beychae knew. He turned and walked towards an aisle between the book-stacks, and watched Beychae follow him, eyes full of wonderment. He stood between the shelved books, and – as though it might have been an unconscious movement – tapped his ear as he spoke to Beychae. ‘I think you may have known my… ancestor. He went by a different name.’ He took off the dark glasses.
Beychae looked at him. His expression did not change. ‘I think I did,’ Beychae said, glancing round the space behind him. He indicated a table and chairs. ‘Please; let’s sit down.’
He replaced the glasses.
‘So what brings you here, Mr Staberinde?’
He sat down across the table from the older man. ‘Curiosity, as far as you’re concerned. What brought me to Solotol was… just an urge to see it. I’m, ah… connected with the Vanguard Foundation; there have been some changes at the top there. I don’t know if you’ve heard.’
The old man shook his head. ‘No; I don’t keep up with the news, down here.’
‘Yes.’ He made a show of looking around. ‘I guess…’ he looked back into Beychae’s eyes ‘… I guess it isn’t the best place for communication, hmm?’
Beychae opened his mouth, then looked annoyed. He glanced behind him. ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. He stood up again. ‘Excuse me.’
He watched the older man go. He forced himself to sit where he was.
He looked round the library. So many old books; they smelled. So many words set down, so many lives spent scribbling, so many eyes dimmed by reading. He wondered that people bothered as much as they did.
‘Now?’ he heard the woman say.
‘Why not?’
He turned in the seat to watch Beychae and the woman emerge from the stacks. ‘Well, Mr Beychae,’ the woman said. ‘It might be awkward…’
‘Why? Have the elevators stopped working?’
‘No, but…’
‘Then what’s to stop us? Let’s go; I haven’t seen the surface for too long.’
‘Ah. Well, all right… I’ll make the arrangements.’ She smiled uncertainly, then walked away.
‘Well, Z… Staberinde,’ Beychae sat down again, smiling apologetically for an instant. ‘We’ll take a little trip to the surface, shall we?’
‘Yeah; why not?’ he said, carefully not looking too enthusiastic. ‘You keeping well, Mr Beychae? I heard you retired.’
They talked generally for a few minutes, then a young blonde woman walked out of the stacks, arms loaded with books. She blinked hard when she saw him, then came over behind Beychae, who looked up and smiled at her. ‘Ah; my dear; this is Mr… Staberinde.’ Beychae smiled diffidently at him. ‘My assistant, Ms Ubrel Shiol.’
‘Delighted,’ he nodded.
Shit, he thought.
Ms Shiol put the books down on the table and put her hand on Beychae’s shoulder. The old man put his own thin fingers on top of hers.
‘I hear we might be taking a trip up to the city,’ the woman said. She looked down at the old man, smoothed her plain smock dress with her other hand. ‘This is very sudden.’
‘Yes,’ Beychae agreed. He smiled up at her. ‘You’ll find that old men still retain the ability to surprise, on occasion.’
‘It’ll be cold,’ the woman said, drawing away. ‘I’ll fetch your warm clothes.’
Beychae watched her go. ‘Wonderful girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without her.’
‘Indeed,’ he replied. You may have to learn, he thought.
The journey back up to the surface took an hour to arrange. Beychae seemed excited. Ubrel Shiol made him put on warm clothes, changed out of her smock into a one-piece, and put her hair up. They took the same car; Mollen drove. He, Beychae and Ms Shiol sat on the broad rear bench; the woman in the black robe sat across from them.
They left the tunnel for the bright light of day; snow covered a broad yard with tall wire gates before them. Security men watched the car go past as the gates opened. The car set off down a side road for the nearest turnpike, then stopped at the junction.