Cthulhu 2000

by Editor Jim Turner

  “Deems was my friend,” he said. “My only real friend. His going was a dreadful shock.”

  “I can understand that,” Driscoll said gently. “I want to help.”

  Wainewright shifted on his seat. His eyes looked vague and half-frightened.

  “If only I could believe that.…”

  Driscoll showed a faint flicker of impatience. He cupped his big hands round his right kneecap and rocked himself to and fro.

  “You have ample proof of it,” he pointed out. “My very presence here. You know we are not supposed to meet off Watch.”

  The point struck home; Wainewright narrowed his eyes and flinched back slightly, as though his companion had struck him. He made up his mind. He started to talk, breathing heavily between sentences, as though he were running.

  “Deems knew,” he said. “He was always telling about it. On Watch as well as off. He knew there was something.”

  “Out There?” Driscoll prompted.

  Wainewright nodded. He swallowed once or twice but realised he had to go on; he had committed himself, and it was too late to turn back.

  “It started with Shaft Number 247. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  Driscoll stared at him. He shook his head. Wainewright smiled thinly.

  “It was a well-kept secret. It’s right on the edge of our section. It’s a strange place. No one wants to say anything about it. The lighting system is always going there, so that the tunnels are often in semidarkness. There have been odd noises and movements in the shafts. Water has come through in one or two places, and some of the valves are rusting.”

  Driscoll looked at Wainewright incredulously. He licked his lips, but there was the stamp of sincerity in the look he returned.

  “It’s perfectly true,” he said. “Only none of the official reports refer to it. Special teams attend to it, and no formal records are kept.”

  Driscoll stared at his companion in silence for a long moment.

  “I take it you know what you’re saying?”

  Wainewright nodded. He kept his watery eyes fixed on the other.

  “This thing has been with me for a long time. I know exactly what I’m saying. And I am choosing my words with care.”

  Driscoll kept his bleak gaze fully ahead of him, not seeing Wainewright for the moment. His brain was heavy with dark thoughts.

  “Go on.”

  Wainewright made a pathetic little flourishing movement with his hands.

  “Did you know, for instance, that there have been breaks in the tunnel? Water in the shafts and, as I said, rust on the valves?”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  His voice sounded a little unsteady, even to himself. Wainewright permitted himself a shy, hesitant smile. He stirred uneasily, his eyes searching Driscoll’s face.

  “You will not find it in the records. But he knew.”

  Driscoll’s senses must have been a little dulled this afternoon. He looked blankly at Wainewright, the bland, smooth lighting of the room beating down on them, turning their figures to a pale butter yellow.

  “Deems, of course,” Wainewright went on, as though a flood of emotion had been released in him. “He was determined to know. He confided in me. The thing had been on his mind for some time. He was convinced there was something in the shafts. And Shaft Number 247 was the obvious.…”

  “Why obvious?” Driscoll interrupted.

  Wainewright passed a bluish tongue across dry lips.

  “Surely you must know that. It is the largest. It was the inspection tunnel years ago. When people went Out There to check on conditions.”

  Driscoll was slightly irritated with himself; he put his hands round his kneecap again and rocked to and fro. Of course; he remembered now. He smiled confidently at his companion.

  “The shaft with the inspection capsule? Is it still there?”

  Wainewright shook his head.

  “The authorities had it taken out. But the chamber still exists. And it would be no great thing to undo the bolts of the hatch.”

  Driscoll was startled; he sat, his strong face immobile as he stared at Wainewright.

  “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  Wainewright shrugged.

  “Why would Deems want to go there? To find out. To increase the sum of human knowledge, of course. The movement in the shafts …”

  Despite himself, a slight chill had spread over Driscoll. He looked at the indicator on the bulkhead near where he sat, wondering if the temperature of the chamber had been altered. But it was quite normal. His tone of voice was absolutely level when he spoke.

  “What do you think is there, Wainewright?”

  The watery blue eyes had a strange filmy expression in them.

  “There is something … animate, shall we say. Something that wants to get in touch with us. Why should Shaft Number 247 leak, for example? The situation is almost unprecedented.”

  Driscoll leaned forward, his eyes intent on the other’s face.

  “Why does Shaft Number 247 leak?”

  Wainewright licked his lips again, and his eyes were dark and haunted as he stared back.

  “Because something is turning the bolts from the other side,” he said simply.

  * * *

  “I think you had better tell me how Deems died,” said Driscoll quietly.

  There was a sulphurous silence in the room now. Wainewright’s eyes were like pale blue holes in the blankness of his face. He gestured toward the teapot. Driscoll declined with a brief shake of his head. He had to hold his impatience in check.

  “Deems?”

  Wainewright passed his tongue over his lips again.

  “He knew about Shaft 247, you see. He had found how to open it. There was a temporary fault on the circuits in that section. He went there unknown to the authorities. The place had a fascination for him.”

  He paused again and looked at Driscoll. There was an imploring look on his face as though he were asking his companion for help he knew the latter was unable to give.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Deems was my best friend. It emerged over a long period. He had made up his mind, you see.”

  Wainewright’s eyes were closed now as though he could no longer bear to look at Driscoll.

  “You mean to go Out There?”

  Driscoll’s voice was unsteady. Wainewright opened his eyes. For once they were sharp and unwavering. He nodded.

  “He found life intolerable here. He could not adjust. And he had to discover what lay Outside. He made his plans carefully. But even I did not entirely realise his determination.”

  Driscoll sat on in heavy silence. He was aware that it was dangerous to listen to Wainewright; that he had now become his confidant. That would be knowledge difficult to live with. He was becoming confused, which was a completely unknown quantity with him hitherto. Yet he had to find out more about Deems.

  None of this showed on his face, which expressed only polite interest as he waited for his companion to continue. But Wainewright seemed to have become aware of the enormity of his conduct. For one did not talk like this, especially to persons of Driscoll’s rank and calibre. Yet Wainewright was encouraged by the other’s silence; by the calm, intent look on his face. He stirred on the chair opposite and then went on without hesitation, as though he had finally made up his mind.

  “Deems came to see me before he went Out,” he said. “He was more than usually agitated that night. He called here just as you have called today, which was an equally extraordinary circumstance.”

  “Did he tell you what he was going to do?”

  Wainewright shook his head.

  “Hints only. But he was tremendously disturbed. More than I had ever seen him before. He had studied the phenomena, you see. And it was my conviction that he knew what was moving in the shafts Out There.”

  Wainewright cleared his throat nervously.

  “He talked about wanting to be free. He was convinced contact was being ma
de for some purpose. That there was a benevolence … a peace.…”

  He fell silent for long moments. Driscoll felt the whole weight of the roof covering the miles of tunnels and galleries on his shoulders, pressing him downward into the black bowels of the earth. It was a feeling completely alien to him and he did not like it.

  “What happened that night? When the alarm bells rang?”

  “I relieved Deems,” Wainewright went on. “He appeared quite normal. We exchanged no formal word. We just looked at one another. I did not remember that look until afterward. Then he went off, to seek his bunk, I thought. The alarm bells rang about half an hour later. Collins was in charge that night. He did not give me formal permission to leave, but he must have noticed something in my expression, for he nodded as I got up.

  “I ran down the corridors. I knew exactly where to go. There was no lighting in the section housing Shaft Number 247. And I knew it would take the emergency squad more than twenty minutes to reach the area. I had no fear. But I think also I knew what I would find.”

  He swallowed, a thin glaze of sweat on his face; then, as Driscoll ventured no comment, he hurried on.

  “I had a torch with me. There was a lot of water in the tunnel. The cover of the shaft was open. Or rather it was unlatched. I shone the light in the inspection chamber. There was a note at the bottom, addressed to me. And a grey viscous material that had been crushed in the edge of the metal doors. It looked like primitive embryonic fingers.”

  Wainewright stopped and shuddered. He seemed to fight for breath and then turned and gulped mouthfuls of hot strong tea. Driscoll sat immobile, but his big hands were locked together; his knuckles showed white.

  “What was in the note?”

  “ ‘This is the first. There will be many others. Come Outside. There is a shining peace, a brightness, a freedom.…’

  “The writing was spidery, as though it had been cut off suddenly.”

  Wainewright looked pale, his eyes haunted by forbidden knowledge.

  “It was then that I knew Deems had not written it.”

  * * *

  Driscoll slept badly that night. Wainewright’s words and the image of his tense, strained form kept coming back to him. Finally Driscoll got up, put on the lights, and sat staring at the full-scale chart of the gallery system covered by his section. He could not recall such a night, which was disturbing in itself. He decided to tell no one of his interview with Wainewright; it could do no good, and he knew Wainewright himself would say nothing.

  The authorities must have realised that Wainewright had been at the shaft. Driscoll knew, though he had not specifically asked, that Wainewright must have disposed of the note and the material in the inspection chamber, but even so there would have been suspicion. Which was no doubt why Hort and Karlson were so interested; and why there was an embargo on the official reports of the incident.

  The cameras would have noted in which direction Wainewright was hurrying, even if the area surrounding the shaft had been in darkness; and in any case Collins would immediately have switched to infrared. No, there must be some other reason why no action had been taken over Wainewright. But it had been decidedly dangerous, Driscoll’s visit to his apartment; he would have to be especially careful, particularly if he went there again.

  Driscoll was surprising himself by the convolution of his thoughts this evening; he wondered what reports Collins himself had made of Wainewright’s absence from Control on that occasion, and what log entries related to it. He would carry out his own check, though he had no doubt that Hort would have skillfully covered up the situation.

  He stared at the blueprint of the tunnels, noting exactly what junctions would make the best approach. His heart was beating slightly faster than normal as he returned the document to its case. He went back to bed and this time slept better.

  But his doubts returned on the following day. He had an earlier Watch that evening and had no opportunity of seeing Collins. In any case it would be unwise to make verbal inquiries. And it was certain that he would again draw a blank if he returned to Central Records.

  Driscoll thought long about his interview with Wainewright and particularly his last few words; the implications were distinctly disturbing. He liked neither the message nor the somewhat imprecise description of what Wainewright had seen in the inspection chamber. If he had read Wainewright aright, the material had disappeared—“dissolved” was Wainewright’s term—before the emergency squad had arrived. And though he had not told Driscoll so, he had doubtless removed the note.

  So that the official records, whatever they were, would not tell the complete story as Driscoll had it from Wainewright. But the authorities were undoubtedly right to have their suspicions of Wainewright; Driscoll himself would have to be careful, extremely careful.

  The Captain of the Watch looked round the crowded restaurant. He was having lunch and had studiously avoided the glances of recognition from various acquaintances in the big room with its subdued lighting.

  However, as he was about to leave he suddenly noticed Karlson near the entrance. He had evidently finished his meal and was on his way out. He gave Driscoll an enigmatic look, and the latter could not be sure that he had seen and recognised him. Yet something vague and disquieting remained in his mind. There was another man with Karlson.

  Driscoll only glimpsed his back before the sliding doors cut him off, but it looked extraordinarily like Hort. Supposing that the Gallery Master and Karlson had been discussing him? Or, worse still, spying on him? Driscoll almost laughed aloud. Yet the supposition was not so fanciful as it might appear on the surface. Driscoll’s smile died on his lips. He wore a thoughtful expression as he went to prepare for his Watch.

  Normally Driscoll enjoyed his periods of duty; he was like all those who were able to wield power and accept responsibility and yet find it sit lightly on their shoulders. For all the shining instruments, the humming machinery, the routine purpose in the mechanics, and the meticulous attention to detail of those on Watch, there was yet an awesome responsibility for one who sat in Driscoll’s chair.

  One momentary lapse of attention, and the result could be chaos within the streamlined galleries, the miles of tunnels, and the sleeping city beyond. Driscoll had not faltered through long years, and yet on this occasion he found his well-ordered mind wandering; his thoughts troubled as he mused again on Wainewright and the indiscreet revelations he had made.

  But the training and self-discipline that had brought him to this pitch of well-ordered perfection carried on mechanically, and for four hours, as he noted and evaluated, coordinated the routines of personnel miles apart along the galleries, scanned the dials and vision tubes, and smoothly manipulated the switches and levers that motivated the electronics of this subterranean complexity, a residue of his mind was still engaged in sombre and deep-seated self-searching.

  It was near the end of the Watch when it happened; indeed, Driscoll had already handed over to his relief and was standing engaged in small talk on the details, when the alarm bells began to bleep and a flurry of activity animated the Control Room. He already knew before a glance confirmed it that the abnormality emanated from Shaft Number 247, and he had slipped silently out of Control before those bent over the desks and instrument panels were aware that he had gone.

  He ran down the gallery as unobtrusively as possible, though he realised that his image was being transmitted through the mounted cameras in each gallery and corridor back to Central Control. Ostensibly, he was making for his own quarters, but he diverged at right angles to bring himself into line with the section that interested him. He knew that if he hurried he would be first on the scene.

  He hardly understood why he was running at such speed; the situation was abnormal, of course, but there was some inner compulsion beyond that; something within himself that impelled him onward, despite the cautious core of reserve that advised against. Incredibly, Wainewright had been correct: the illumination of the approach tunnel was out.
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br />   Driscoll ran quickly back to his cabin, returned with a pocket-torch, and retraced his steps. Whether or not he could still be seen by the cameras he did not know; neither, at this precise moment in time, did he care. He only knew that the overpowering curiosity over Shaft Number 247 which Wainewright had aroused in him had to be satisfied. He was in darkness now, the beam of the torch dancing luminescent and elongated across the shining metal surface and massive studs of the gallery.

  The burring of the alarm went on; Driscoll knew that it would continue until the trouble had been put right. That was an invariable rule with the repeater system. He could imagine Hort’s figure hunched over the screen as he manipulated switches to give his orders. Driscoll pounded forward, grimly aware that he would have only ten minutes in which to satisfy himself of the accuracy of Wainewright’s statements. But ten minutes should be enough.

  He paused at a right-angle junction in the gallery, gained his bearings. He was astonished to hear a slopping noise as he ran down toward the main shafts. He played his torch on the floor of the tunnel, saw the beam reflected back from the creeping tide of water. He was running through the thin trickle now, heedless of the splashing. The gallery had an acrid salt smell, like that of the tang of the sea as Driscoll had smelled it when screened in ancient actuality material.

  But he had no time for analysis. He noticed that the cameras in the roof of the tunnel here were all out of action; the dim glow of the red emergency lights made his hands and the torch beam look like blood. There was only a hundred yards to go now. Driscoll knew that he would be first. No one else could possibly catch up with him, and there was no sign of anyone following behind.

  Not that anyone would come on foot; and the rubber-tyred trolleys of the emergency squad made only a faint whispering sound. But he would be able to hear their sirens from a long way off. Almost there now. Driscoll shone the torch onto the roof fittings; strange that the lighting had failed here and only here. It could not be due to the water. The pumps were working normally, which made it doubly strange.