It Could Be Anything
Page 7
darkness,hung swaying. It was impossible to tell whether the end reached anysolid footing below. He couldn't waste any more time looking for help.He would have to try it alone.
There was a scrape of shoe leather on the pavement outside. He turned,stepped out into the white sunlight. The fat man rounded the corner,recoiled as he saw Brett. He flung out a pudgy forefinger, hisprotruding eyes wide in his blotchy red face.
"There he is! I told you he came this way!" Two uniformed policemen cameinto view. One eyed the gun at Brett's side, put a hand on his own.
"Better take that off, sir."
"Look!" Brett said to the fat man. He stooped, picked up a crust ofmasonry. "Look at this--just a shell--"
"He's blasted a hole right in that building, officer!" the fat manshrilled. "He's dangerous."
The cop ignored the gaping hole in the wall. "You'll have to come alongwith me, sir. This gentleman registered a complaint ..."
Brett stood staring into the cop's eyes. They were pale blue eyes,looking steadily back at him from a bland face. Could the cop be real?Or would he be able to push him over, as he had other golems?
"The fellow's not right in the head," the fat man was saying to the cop."You should have heard his crazy talk. A troublemaker. His kind have gotto be locked up!"
The cop nodded. "Can't have anyone causing trouble."
"Only a young fellow," said the fat man. He mopped at his forehead witha large handkerchief. "Tragic. But I'm sure that you men know how tohandle him."
"Better give me the gun, sir." The cop held out a hand. Brett movedsuddenly, rammed stiff fingers into the cop's ribs. He stiffened,toppled, lay rigid, staring up at nothing.
"You ... you killed him," the fat man gasped, backing. The second coptugged at his gun. Brett leaped at him, sent him down with a blow to theribs. He turned to face the fat man.
"I didn't kill them! I just turned them off. They're not real, they'rejust golems."
"A killer! And right in the city, in broad daylight."
"You've got to help me!" Brett cried. "This whole scene: don't you see?It has the air of something improvised in a hurry, to deal with theunexpected factor; that's me. The Gels know something's wrong, but theycan't quite figure out what. When you called the cops the Gelsobliged--"
* * *
Startlingly the fat man burst into tears. He fell to his knees.
"Don't kill me ... oh, don't kill me ..."
"Nobody's going to kill you, you fool!" Brett snapped. "Look! I want toshow you!" He seized the fat man's lapel, dragged him to his feet andacross the sidewalk, through the opening. The fat man stopped dead,stumbled back--
"What's this? What kind of place is this?" He scrambled for the opening.
"It's what I've been trying to tell you. This city you live in--it's ahollow shell. There's nothing inside. None of it's real. Only you ...and me. There was another man: Dhuva. I was in a cafe with him. A Gelcame. He tried to run. It caught him. Now he's ... down there."
"I'm not alone," the fat man babbled. "I have my friends, my clubs, mybusiness associates. I'm insured. Lately I've been thinking a lot aboutJesus--"
He broke off, whirled, and jumped for the doorway. Brett leaped afterhim, caught his coat. It ripped. The fat man stumbled over one of thecop-golems, went to hands and knees. Brett stood over him.
"Get up, damn it!" he snapped. "I need help and you're going to helpme!" He hauled the fat man to his feet. "All you have to do is stand bythe rope. Dhuva may be unconscious when I find him. You'll have to helpme haul him up. If anybody comes along, any Gels, I mean--give me asignal. A whistle ... like this--" Brett demonstrated. "And if I get introuble, do what you can. Here ..." Brett started to offer the fat manthe gun, then handed him the hunting knife. "If anybody interferes, thismay not do any good, but it's something. I'm going down now."
The fat man watched as Brett gripped the rope, let himself over theedge. Brett looked up at the glistening face, the damp strands of hairacross the freckled scalp. Brett had no assurance that the man wouldstay at his post, but he had done what he could.
"Remember," said Brett. "It's a real man they've got, like you and me... not a golem. We owe it to him." The fat man's hands trembled. Hewatched Brett, licked his lips. Brett started down.
* * * * *
The descent was easy. The rough face of the excavation gave footholds.The end of a decaying timber projected; below it was the stump of acrumbling concrete pipe two feet in diameter. Brett was ten feet belowthe rim of floor now. Above, the broad figure of the fat man was visiblein silhouette against the jagged opening in the wall.
Now the cliff shelved back; the rope hung free. Brett eased past the cutend of a rusted water pipe, went down hand over hand. If there werenothing at the bottom to give him footing, it would be a long climb back...
Twenty feet below he could see the still black water, pockmarked withexpanding rings where bits of debris dislodged by his passage pepperedthe surface.
There was a rhythmic vibration in the rope. Brett felt it through hishands, a fine sawing sensation ...
He was falling, gripping the limp rope ...
He slammed on his back in three feet of oily water. The coils of ropecollapsed around him with a sustained splashing. He got to his feet,groped for the end of the rope. The glossy nylon strands had beencleanly cut.
* * *
For half an hour Brett waded in waist-deep water along a wall of dampclay that rose sheer above him. Far above, bars of dim sunlight crossedthe upper reaches of the cavern. He had seen no sign of Dhuva ... or theGels.
He encountered a sodden timber that projected above the surface of thepool, clung to it to rest. Bits of flotsam--a plastic pistol, bridgetallies, a golf bag--floated in the black water. A tunnel extendedthrough the clay wall ahead; beyond, Brett could see a second greatcavern rising. He pictured the city, silent and empty above, and thehoney-combed earth beneath. He moved on.
An hour later Brett had traversed the second cavern. Now he clung to anoutthrust spur of granite directly beneath the point at which Dhuva haddisappeared. Far above he could see the green-clad waitress standingstiffly on her ledge. He was tired. Walking in water, his feetfloundering in soft mud, was exhausting. He was no closer to escape, orto finding Dhuva, than he had been when the fat man cut the rope. He hadbeen a fool to leave the man alone, with a knife ... but he had had nochoice.
He would have to find another way out. Endlessly wading at the bottom ofthe pit was useless. He would have to climb. One spot was as good asanother. He stepped back and scanned the wall of clay looming over him.Twenty feet up, water dripped from the broken end of a four-inch watermain. Brett uncoiled the rope from his shoulder, tied a loop in the end,whirled it and cast upward. It missed, fell back with a splash. Hegathered it in, tried again. On the third try it caught. He tested it,then started up. His hands were slippery with mud and water. He twinedthe rope around his legs, inched higher. The slender cable was smooth asglass. He slipped back two feet, then inched upward, slipped again,painfully climbed, slipped, climbed.
After the first ten feet he found toe-holds in the muddy wall. He workedhis way up, his hands aching and raw. A projecting tangle of power cablegave a secure purchase for a foot. He rested. Nearby, an opening twofeet in diameter gaped in the clay: a tunnel. It might be possible toswing sideways across the face of the clay and reach the opening. It wasworth a try. His stiff, clay-slimed hands would pull him no higher.
He gripped the rope, kicked off sideways, hooked a foot in the tunnelmouth, half jumped, half fell into the mouth of the tunnel. He clung tothe rope, shook it loose from the pipe above, coiled it and looped itover his shoulder. On hands and knees he started into the narrowpassage.
* * *
The tunnel curved left, then right, dipped, then angled up. Brettcrawled steadily, the smooth stiff clay yielding and cold against hishands and sodden knees. Another smaller tunnel joined from the left.Another angled in
from above. The tunnel widened to three feet, thenfour. Brett got to his feet, walked in a crouch. Here and there, barelyvisible in the near-darkness, objects lay imbedded in the mud: asilver-plated spoon, its handle bent; the rusted engine of an electrictrain; a portable radio, green with corrosion from burst batteries.
At a distance, Brett estimated, of a hundred yards from the pit, thetunnel opened into a vast cave, green-lit from tiny discs of frostedglass set in the ceiling far above. A row of discolored concrete piles,the foundations of the building above, protruded against the near wall,their surfaces nibbled and pitted. Between Brett and the concretecolumns the floor was littered with pale sticks and