by Herb Hughes
The room was monstrously huge, many times larger than anything man had ever built on Agrilot. It was maybe a hundred meters wide and three hundred long. For some reason, the roof had collapsed in one small spot and formed the debris pile he was clinging to, and it had happened quite recently. There was no dust on the rocks in the pile but he could see a thick layer of dust on the floor below.
He thought about going back to Toadstool and looked up at the rope. The end was well within reach, if he could maintain his balance and climb a couple of meters up the rock pile. But as he looked up at the hole above him, he remembered there was nothing in the desert except death, so he decided to investigate the room.
Slowly, picking his way carefully, he climbed down the rest of the way, making sure he had a firm footing with each step so that he didn’t repeat the slide that had caused all the scratches on his arms. Finally, he reached the floor.
The dust was so thick the soles of his battered old sandals completely disappeared. It was as though he was walking in smoke. Standing firmly on the floor, he looked around the room more carefully. It was not empty, but there was nothing discernable. The floor was covered with junk. That’s all it was. Everything was a mess, a crazy, twisted mess. But as he stood and looked at it he could tell that it used to have an order to it, perhaps a long time ago, because there was something of an order to the mess.
There were piles of metal rails in ragged checkerboard rows and columns across almost the entire room, all covered with a thick layer of dust. There were small rectangular sheets of glass scattered all around the metal rails. Strange filaments and tubes of various types, some corroded and some only dusty, wound their way in and out of everything. And there were bucket-sized piles of dust in a regular grid across the entire room, one pile in the middle of every opening made by the rows and columns of metal rails that had collapsed to the floor.
Mac bent over and touched one of the piles of dust. It gave easily but was much firmer than the dust that blanketed everything. Different types of dust? Apparently so, but more substantial dust, more like a fine powder than the fuzzy stuff that covered the floor. There were thousands and thousands of the little piles, all well above ankle high, in a semi-neat grid.
“Strangest damned thing I ever seen,” Mac mumbled. He picked up one of the rectangles of glass. It was not glass at all. It was far too light. And it didn’t break, either. Not a single one of the many thousands of pieces appeared to be broken or cracked or even scratched. He tried to bend it but couldn’t. He tossed it back down to the floor and it clattered against the metal rails with a great noise that echoed back and forth for several seconds. The sound was so loud and long in the otherwise totally silent room that it caused Mac to jump and cringe, but the panel had not cracked or broken.
Except for a three meter wide aisle between the near wall and the start of the mess, everywhere he looked was utter destruction. Still, it was obvious that it had once been something significant.
“God knows what,” Mac mumbled again. Even his mumbles sounded like screams in the quiet of the room, so Mac decided to keep his mouth shut. You can hear yourself inside your head, you old fool. If you listen, that is. But nobody much listens to you anyway, so why should you listen to yourself?
He began walking the length of the room, in the open aisle along the wall. There was a large opening in the far wall and another in the left wall, the opposite wall from where he was walking. The openings were about three meters wide and four high. There were no doors. Mac could see by the glow inside that both openings led to other large rooms. Even from this distance, he could see more of the same destruction. As he was about half way to the far opening, he realized that he could see another opening at the far end of the second room. He was trying to see if this third room was also identical when he tripped over something and went sprawling across the floor, slamming into the piles of metal rails and shattering the silence with a deafening noise.
“Dipsey, doosey… Oh! What was that? Was that a sound? A SOUND! Exalted self, did you hear something? Did you hear a sound, an actual sound?
“Only your imagination serfly self. You are becoming quite mad, you know. And quite mad selves tend to hear things.
“But it sounded so real. Like it really was a real sound. Do you remember real sounds?
“Of course, fool.”
Once the echoes quit bouncing off the walls, Mac picked himself up and, covered in the wispy dust on the floor, tried to brush himself off. Then he looked back at the thing he had tripped over. It was shaped a little like a person, but was not human. It was a mechanical contraption of some sort, a poor imitation person. It had a round body with tracked rollers on the bottom, long, thick tubes for arms, and an oblong ball for a head. And it was dead. It lay there sprawled on the floor, covered in dust and doing nothing.
“This place gets stranger and stranger,” Mac whispered to himself. He shrugged his shoulders, turned, and continued walking toward the end of the room, paying a little more attention to the floor immediately in front of him. When he went through the three meter thick opening he confirmed that the next room was identical to the first, except there was no hole in the ceiling. It also had a side room to the left, but he decided not to make any turns. He wanted to walk on a straight path so it would be easy to find his way back.
He continued walking through huge room after huge room, all identical. He found several more of the imitation people sprawled on the floor. One looked like the original, even down to the colors, but the others were different. Some weren’t even shaped like a person at all. They were merely some sort of machine that used to move around. The one thing they all had in common, though, was that they were all dead. They did nothing but lay unmoving on the floor.
As strange as the place was, it was beginning to get quite monotonous. As he entered the eleventh room, he was ready to give up and return but he noticed that the twelfth room in the distance had no opening at the far end. “The last room!” he said aloud then cringed as his voice shattered the silence and echoed off the walls.
“Oh, my jellyness! Great revered self, it IS a noise. And not just any noise, but a sound uttered by a living being! A voice in the distance! There is another person here. I thought I was the last, and soon to be jellied into not even that.
“Even I heard it this time, lowly self. If this is a delusion, you have now infected me with it.
“It is not, but it must be. Or are we dreaming? Have the dreams come back? Is it possible?
“No. Absolutely impossible. The equipment is long since broken and there is nothing and no one to fix anything.
“You are right. There is no one else except you and I and that’s the last one because we’re each only half of one so putting us together makes only one, not two. That’s why we’re the last one. Not the last one and the next to last one. Not even…
“Oh cruzzles! Shut up and listen. We may not be the last one after all.”
Mac kept moving along with hurried steps even though he was bone weary. He had to explore the last room then he could turn around and go back and tell Toadstool all about it. After that, they could lie down and die together.
As he got closer, he could see at the far end of the room, in the corner next to the aisle, that the metal framework was not fully collapsed. He took a few more steps then stopped. This was different. It was destruction, no doubt, but not total destruction. His heartbeat quickened, and he hesitated for a moment. Curiosity got the best of him. He started walking again, picking up his pace with every step.
Chapter 17
Houses and yards soon gave way to stores and crowded apartment buildings as Jack and Sheffie entered the fringes of the city. Further into town, open spaces disappeared altogether as each building hugged the buildings next door. Most had slightly elevated wood walks along the front, the wood worn slick smooth from years of trodding shoes. This went on for block after block after block.
There were stores of all types and descriptions, factories
where they could hear the sounds of dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people working, restaurants, theatres, stables, and everything else anyone could imagine. Lisbon was huge.
Traffic came and went constantly. They were riding on a major street crowded with people using every conceivable mode of travel. Some walked along the wood sidewalks and in the dirt and gravel streets, some rode horses, some rode in open wagons, the wood sides grayed and aging, while some rode in expensive covered carriages. They passed one automobile as well, though it was not Avery’s. It was shorter, wider, slower, much lower to the ground, and not as noisy as it puttered along a cross street in front of them. The entire automobile had been painted white, pipes and tanks and all, but it was smudged and smeared with dirt and dust and grease and grime so that the end result was a dirty, splotchy tan.
The people of Lisbon were diverse. Men were dressed in everything from expensive three-piece suits and tall hats to dirty grayish-brown cotton pants and filthy, dirt-smeared t-shirts, bordering on being nothing more than rags. Women’s wear ranged from elegant velvet dresses to simple grayish-brown cotton sacks. The people looked different as well. Ethnic groups were still distinct in many cases, but had tended to mix more in the city, with the result that there was a mixture of facial features and skin tones that weren’t often found among country folks.
A few people smiled at Jack and Sheffie, and one or two people waved, but not many. Most men and women went by indifferently, without so much as a nod. Few even bothered to make eye contact, however briefly. Jack was used to being recognized and surrounded by people. It wasn’t happening in Lisbon. This total anonymity was strange. As much as he tried to dodge the crowds sometimes, he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t sure he liked being merely another person on the street.
They became uneasy as they rode into a section of town with trash littering the sidewalks and roadway, with dilapidated houses and stores of bent and broken gray lumber. There were a few with crumbling red brick, though brick was rare in this area. The people in this part of town were not as well dressed, wearing torn and tattered clothes that were often dirty. Some of them had, all too obviously, been drinking heavily in the early afternoon.
As they rode further the city became better again, with block after shining block of well-kept buildings. The seedy part of town had been relatively small.
Soon the crunch of gravel beneath hooves changed to the steady clop of cobblestones. The center of town had paved streets!
Following Avery’s directions, they found the hotel. It was not difficult. The Lisbon was only two blocks off Main Street. The building was four-story, all red brick, and had elaborate castings over each of the many dozens of windows, with intricate brickwork above the castings.
It was well after lunch when they arrived, winding their way around a curving, flower-lined cobblestone drive that led from the street to the hotel entrance. A white canopy over the drive protected guests from the weather, not that it mattered to someone arriving on horseback. Most of their guests arrived in covered carriages, Jack realized. Perhaps even a few in automobiles. The people who could not afford to own a carriage, could not afford to stay at this hotel.
Lightly tugging the reins, Jack halted Killer near a sign that read, “GUEST REGISTER.” They were met by a young man in a double-breasted red suit with five gold braids across the front and around the ends of his sleeves. He also wore a cylindrical red cap that was flat on top and had five more gold braids running around the top of the hat and another across the small brim on the front.
“Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Wheat and Ms. Jarrett?”
“Yes.”
“Right this way. Please allow me to help you, ma’am.”
The young man turned toward the hotel entrance, made a quick summoning motion, then turned back to help Sheffie dismount before Jack could even get his weary body down from Killer. Two other hotel employees dressed in the same manner, though with fewer gold braids, came rushing through the front door. The higher ranking young man led Jack and Sheffie inside while the other two began unloading the pack horses.
“Welcome to The Lisbon. I believe you will find your stay here most comfortable. No need to worry about registering. Everything has been taken care of. I will take you directly to your room.”
Their suite was, once again, on the top floor. It had four main rooms: a lavish sitting or living room with white framed furniture upholstered in a purple, green, and gold brocade; a small but well-furnished kitchen that was so spotless it was as though no one had ever prepared a meal there; a formal dining room with an extravagant chandelier above a richly dark-stained wood table with eight chairs; and a large, lace-edged bedroom with a wispy white canopy above the bed. There was also a complete bath that opened both to the bedroom and to the sitting room. As the bellboy showed them each succeeding room, Sheffie would squeeze Jack’s hand even harder.
On the far side of the bedroom, two glass doors opened to a small deck that overlooked the city center slightly to their left and the large lake directly ahead but quite a few blocks away. The curtains were open, and they could see the early afternoon sun glittering off the small, choppy waves that covered the surface of the lake. The breeze had the cool, damp feel of wind across water.
“I trust this is suitable,” the bellboy said.
“It’s beautiful,” Sheffie answered.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“Ah, not right now...” Jack started.
“I know it’s late, but we haven’t eaten lunch yet. We were in such a hurry to get here. Is there a good restaurant nearby?” Sheffie asked. “I’m starved.”
“We have telegraphed Mr. Witherstone of your arrival. He will be here within the hour to take you to the reception being held in your honor. Food will be readily available at the reception, but, in the meantime, I will have some of our famous ham rolls brought up.”
“Thank you. You have telegraph right here in the hotel?” Sheffie asked.
“Of course, madam. There is a telegraph key in the lobby. All major buildings have telegraph. I will be happy to send a message for you if you would like.”
“How wonderful! Let’s see….”
“Who are you sending a message to?” Jack asked, his brows curled in curiosity.
“Vishay Kulkarni, the head librarian.”
“Of course, madam. What message do you wish me to convey to Mr. Kulkarni?”
“Avery said the library was only three blocks away,” Jack said.
“Yes, sir,” the bellboy said. “But they, too, have a telegraph key. The message would get there instantly. Almost everyone in Lisbon either knows or is learning telegraph code. It’s all the rage these days.”
Jack was quiet as the implication began to fully sink in. The bellboy turned back to Sheffie, head cocked to listen attentively.
“Tell Mr. Kulkarni that Sheffie Jarrett and Jack Wheat have arrived in Lisbon. I would like to visit the library this afternoon, after the reception if it is not too late. I do hope it will be convenient for him. Ummm. That’s all.”
“Very good, madam. I will send it immediately.”
Sheffie opened her purse, but the bellboy refused, stating that everything had been taken care of.”
“Thank you, so much,” Sheffie said, her smile genuine. It was the smile that had knocked Jack over the first time they met. He had seen it many, many times since and it still had the same effect.
“You are welcome,” the bellboy replied. “We are delighted to have you here.” Then he walked to the front door and touched the tasseled end of a powder blue rope that hung from the ceiling, near the hinge side of the door. “Pull this rope, and a bell will ring at the desk. The clerk will have someone up immediately. Oh, yes. A carriage and driver will be available for you at a moment’s notice, day or night.”
The young man left as the other two bellboys were bringing in the luggage. They offered to help unpack, but Sheffie wanted to do that herself. They, too, refused to accept a tip. Mo
ments later there was another knock. The ham rolls. Once the waiter left and the door was closed, Sheffie threw herself into Jack’s arms, hugging him as tight as she could.
“Oh, this is so beautiful! I could stay here forever.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” Jack said, “But it’s not Borderton.”
“Of course, not,” Sheffie retorted. “This puts Borderton to shame!”
“Nice bed,” Jack said as he squeezed Sheffie, letting his hands slide down her back.
She smiled. They nuzzled their noses together a moment. Then Jack found Sheffie’s lips, and they kissed passionately. He tried to pull her down into the bed, but she resisted. Still, there was a spark in her eyes, and he didn’t want to lose it. He tried again, and she fell down with him. They rolled across the mattress, but as his fingers found the button on the back of her dress, there was a knock at the door. They jumped out of bed and Jack crossed the room and opened it.
“Message for Ms. Jarrett,” the bellboy said as he handed a slip of paper to Jack. “And Mr. Witherstone sent a quick wire saying he will be on the way shortly.”
“Avery’s got a telegraph key in his house?”
“No, sir. He was at city hall. We are not allowed to have telegraph keys in our homes yet. They don’t have enough lines for that now. But the day will be coming. Soon, I believe.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Jack handed the telegraph to Sheffie, and she read it aloud:
Miss Jarrett Stop Welcome to Lisbon Stop I will be at your service in the library all day Stop Looking forward to meeting a fellow librarian Stop We do hope Mister Wheat will be accompanying you as well Stop Would be delighted to meet a man of his reputation Stop Cordially yours Vishay Kulkarni
