Ronin shook his head. 'I do not understand any of this.'

  'Yes,' the Magic Man said in a whisper. 'I believe that.'

  'I believe at first they felt that I would never actually get so far as to actually be able to build it,' said Borros quietly. 'After all, Mastaad was there reporting on every step I took. In the beginning I paid him no notice, let him do as little as possible because that is the way I am. But he lacked patience and because of his singlemindedness I became suspicious.

  'There are always stories, you know, of Security keeping track of all the Magic Men, but' - he lifted his hands - 'one is never sure what to believe. But once I was sure that the construction was possible I became suspicious of everyone. Then I caught him going through my notes and I was sure. I threw him out and burned the notes.

  'He could not read them, of course, but he already knew enough to tell them that I would build it. So they came in directly.'

  'But you said that this - Machine you had devised would be able to detect temperature and winds on the surface. Why - ?'

  'Why are they so afraid? Because it would have proved that there is life Up there. Human life. They do not want that.'

  He sighed. 'The old order is entrenched in its power. Never mind the confrontation. If it happens it will not matter who is victorious. The Saardins are secure in their control over all the peoples of the Freehold. The ancient patterns have been set; they are changeless. If war comes, there will be destruction and loss of life. But then there will be stabilization, and the structure will remain.'

  He stared at Ronin. 'Imagine what would happen if people knew that there were men on the surface, that it could support life. There would be a movement to go Up, open the Freehold, live Above. That would blow everything apart, and their power would be gone. Confined here, we have no choice.'

  'But we are slowly dying,' Ronin said. 'That surely must be obvious to them.'

  Borros nodded. 'Oh, it is. But it is a death by slow attrition. As they view it, death may not truly come for a century, perhaps two. By then - ' He shrugged. 'They live in an eternal present.' The hands moved over the dark blanket.

  'I have seen the surface,' said Ronin.

  'Ah.'

  'A Machine called a Lens. The surface is -covered in ice and snow. Completely.'

  The Magic Man smiled without warmth. 'Above us, yes. The ice is quite solid for a kilo­metre or more, I believe, although there is no real way of determining that. But I have learned that the Freehold is located near one end of the planet' -he gestured - 'like this, and we are here, near the top. Ice covers the planet at top and bottom. Millennia ago it was more confined, I believe, now it covers more of the planet. But not all. You see?

  Near the centre it is warmer, the land is brown, the sun shines out of a clear sky and heats the land and the people.'

  'How do you know this?'

  Borros shrugged again. 'It is all pointless, this knowledge, for before long we will all of us -Freehold and surface dweller alike - be destroyed.'

  'You spoke of this when you - '

  'Yes, you were here, saw the state I was in. I was then more susceptible to the emanations.'

  'It was -1 felt a kind of presence.'

  The Magic Man nodded. 'Entirely possible. There have been Cycles lately when it was cer­tainly strong enough.'

  'But what is it?'

  'As yet I cannot answer that. I have not the knowledge.'

  'It is real.'

  'Oh, yes. Just, I believe, a long way off.'

  'And now - ?'

  'Now we both have a decision to make. I must get to the surface, to the people Above. There is very little chance that this - force can be stopped. But I must try. And so, I believe, must you.' He said it rather smugly. Ronin disliked him, did not trust him, and yet he knew that he was right. It was irksome.

  The thin frosty smile came again, unpleasant and inevitable. 'I see that I am correct. All right. It is settled. Now for the second part. Before we attempt to leave, you must go Downshaft.'

  The smile dissolved like ice in a hearth. 'You must go,' he said slowly, 'below the ninety-ninth Level.'

  'I have no ink,' he said, pricking it. 'I will give you the best description I can but I am afraid that my knowledge is limited.'

  The blood oozed out as he squeezed the finger. 'Still, it is better than nothing.' And he began to draw on the fabric.

  Ronin had said, 'But the ninety-ninth is the lowest Level. Below that is the rock foundation of the Freehold.'

  'Another deception,' Borros said didactically. 'They are quite expert at it. The remnants of another civilization - the civilization of our ances­tors - lies below the Freehold. I am quite sure. I know because Korabb went there.

  'She was my wife. They told me she was dead, killed while working on one of the massive Energy Converters. Shredded beyond a hope, they said. That was six Sign ago, and all that time I believed - ' He shook his head. 'I do not know what I believed.'

  'But what happened?'

  'I shall never know. But my opinion is - Look, ten Cycles before they reported her death, she told me that she had found what she believed to be an entrance to a world below the Freehold on the ninety-ninth Level.

  'I was beside myself with excitement. Why, when I thought of the secrets, the knowledge that such a world might contain! They couldn't very well have burned everything - some books and

  plans that had been brought Up, yes, but not the actual Machines themselves.

  'I knew I could never get to that Level myself, so I urged her to do a bit of exploring on her own. She made one brief foray Down there and I knew I had been right.

  'I believe now that they must have caught her going Down there a second time. They would have wanted to know what she found. Freidal would want that very much; you saw how much. Perhaps they let her go, afterward.'

  There was silence for a while. Ronin watched the Magic Man's movements on the scrap of fabric.

  'The answer to what comes is Down there,' Borros said. 'I know it. You must find it and bring it back. Only then can we leave.' He continued to draw. 'It is written on a scroll; written in peculiar glyphs. Here, I am writing glyphs in that mode so that you will recognize them. The scroll will have a heading. Look, this is it. That is all I know. It will tell us much about that which comes, perhaps even describe a method of defence. Who knows?' He shrugged again, and looked up for the last time. 'It is our only hope.' And gave him the scrap of fabric, stiff now with the drying blood.

  'And, Ronin,' he said blandly, 'try to get back before they rend me to pieces.'

  The panel seemed easy enough to understand; if only it worked.

  They heard the sounds of boots, soft voices, indistinct but drawing closer from beyond the Corridor's turning.

  Ronin pressed a button and the Lift's massive metal doors slid shut, sealing them in velvet black­ness and total silence.

  'We are not moving.'

  He groped in the darkness, pushed a sphere marked for ninety-five. Close enough. It glowed a cold blue and they began to descend.

  He had been in one before and immediately he knew it was all wrong. Instead of the steady humming descent, the Lift plunged in jerks and starts, so that they had trouble keeping their footing and were forced to brace themselves against the walls.

  They continued to drop with increasing speed now and the vibrations became more pronounced, the swinging of the Lift more erratic.

  They felt the • lurch then and their stomachs seemed to rise sickeningly. They felt light. The cable had snapped, he realized. They were hurtling down the Lift shaft at tremendous speed. Their ears blocked, and he heard a moaning beside him.

  There was a time when he would not have been able to tell. Certain fundamentals had to be pointed out, explained, and then incorporated so that they became reflexive. And then it was a matter of sharpening the instincts. It took time.

  He stood at the threshold of his quarters and knew someone was inside. He realized it as he was reaching for the Overhead panel. He left the rooms dark and, conscious that he was a perfect silhouette in the glow of the Corridor Overheads, went swiftly, silently in.

  Across the room, hanging on the wall, was his scabbarded sword. It seemed very far away.

  He went across to it and no one stopped him. Slowly he withdrew the blade, keeping the door­way to the rear room in his line of vision.

  He came into the rear room very quickly, cross­ing the threshold and lighting the Overheads sim­ultaneously, his sword above his eyes to shield them from the first bloom of the light.

  G'fand blinked at him, squinting. He wore dark leggings and a light shirt of heavy material.

  'What are you doing here?' Ronin said with some annoyance, to cover his relief.

  The Scholar was pale and drawn, as if he had not slept for some time.

  'I came to talk to you. To tell you something.' Despite his obvious tiredness, there seemed a certain resolution about him, perhaps in the way he stood, which Ronin had not seen before.

  'Why are you hiding back here then?'

  'I heard someone about to come in and I sud­denly thought that it might be K'reen.'

  Ronin could not help smiling. 'I am quite sure she would have understood.'

  G'fand flushed slightly. 'I - it might have been embarrassing.'

  Ronin turned and went into the larger room. G'fand followed.

  Ronin lit the Overheads and took the scabbard off the wall, strapped it on. 'Tell me what is so important.'

  G'fand ran his fingers through his long hair. 'I cannot bear to be here a moment longer. I must leave. I know what you must think! But at least you can understand why I. must go. If leaving means freezing on the surface, then I tell you I find that preferable to the living death of the Freehold. At least I shall be free for a time, my own master. Here, I am encased, unable to breathe.'

  Unaccountably, Ronin found himself thinking of the Salamander's vast library. Rows and rows of books that G'fand would never have an oppor­tunity to read.

  'Calm yourself,' he said. 'I do not think you truly mean that.'

  'But I do!' There was a sadness now in the Scholar's voice. 'You are like all the rest. You do not think I am a man. But I have some proficiency with weapons now - I can use sword and dagger - ' '

  'And how will you eat?' Ronin asked, reaching into the high wardrobe and withdrawing a light mailed corselet.

  'With these,' G'fand said proudly. From under his shirt he produced two bands wide enough to fit snugly around a man's upper arm.

  Ronin paused. 'Food bands. Where did you get those?'

  'I stole them. And do not worry, they will not be missed.'

  Ronin donned the metal corselet. 'You are seri­ous then?'

  G'fand nodded. 'That I am.'

  Abruptly something the Scholar had said floated up from the recesses of his mind: / have partially deciphered the glyphs of the very ancient writing. It had meant nothing to him at the time, but now -

  'A journey is what you need. Is that correct?'

  G'fand gave him a puzzled look. 'Ronin, I must get out now - this Spell.'

  He took something out of the wardrobe, held it in his hand. 'Come with me instead.'

  'With you? But what - ?' The Scholar was staring at the food band Ronin was holding. He watched, fascinated, as Ronin worked it on to his arm.

  'What do you say? I leave now.'

  'But where - ? I don't - '

  'With luck, out of the Freehold. I will explain it on the way. Fetch your weapons.' He reached for his dagger.

  The close air was filled with a high keening sound that wavered in tone but built in intensity. The Lift shook as it dropped, trying to shake itself apart.

  Ronin pressed the other floor spheres on the panel in front of him. They lit up in twos and rees as his fingers touched them. The Lift contin--d its mad flight, their cold blue glow mocking.

  He remembered, then. The red sphere at the top of the panel. He hit it.

  The Lift slammed to a halt and their legs buckled like fabric. The car hung, quivering, suspended in the shaft, the broken cable above them singing as it snaked on to the top of the Lift. Ronin regained his feet, took several deep breaths. G'fand was still on his haunches, sobbing in great lungfuls of air.

  'Ronin, we -'

  'No time. We have got to get out of here quickly. I have no idea how long this brake will hold.' His hands worked at the panel but the doors remained shut. He drove his fingers at the centre seam of the doors. 'Come on! We must open it up.'

  G'fand was on his knees. He put his hands on his thighs and lifted his head. Sweat had matted his long hair across his forehead and along his cheeks. He looked as if he were bound to the floor.

  'We - we almost died - '

  'G'fand, the doors!'

  'Crushed like vermin - bones to jelly - ' His eyes were glazed; he was dazed by the force of his imagination.

  Ronin turned and pulled him to his feet, attempting to transmit some of his strength. 'G'fand, we are not dead!' Their faces were very close. 'But we soon may be unless we get out of here! I cannot do this myself. I need your help.'

  His eyes focused then. 'Yes. Yes. We will open the doors. The two of us.'

  They dug their fingers into the centre seam, both pulling from the same side. They heaved and strained until their arms ached and their stretched shoulder joints burned and the water rolled down their faces and into their eyes, making them sting and clouding their vision. Muscles popped and their legs stiffened with the effort. They clenched their teeth and the cords along their necks stood out.

  And minutely they felt the door move. They panted like animals but speech was too much added effort and they pulled with renewed deter­mination. And slowly, slowly, the door slid back.

  They stooped when it was open wide enough for them to get through, dropped their arms, which felt as heavy as iron, and gasped at the air. Their mouths were dry.

  They looked up then and found that they were between Levels. But they were in luck. Perhaps a metre above them beckoned the open entrance to a Level, the protective doors having been sheared away at some previous time, stumps hanging like rotted teeth.

  There came an ominous groaning as of tortured metal, and the Lift lurched sickeningly. Ronin put his hands together and G'fand stepped on to them, launching himself upward until he could grasp the lip of the entrance. The groaning came again and he strained, lifting one knee, finally levering him­self up on to the Level.

  The Lift lurched again and, below him, Ronin's ears were filled with a metallic shrieking. The Lift trembled and slid and he saw the walls of the shaft rise as the brake began to give way. The Lift lurched sideways, caught on a protrusion in the shaft, and Ronin coiled his body and leapt. The screaming of hot metal was all that he could hear. His fingers caught the lip of the Level, but one hand, slick with sweat, slid off and he hung for a moment, swinging with unwanted momentum by one arm until G'fand reached down, grasped the free hand, and pulled up. He felt the Lift shudder once again and the top of the car slid down. He pushed with his arms, propelling himself on to the Level, and G'fand pulled him from the lip of the entrance, as with a terrible grinding the Lift plum­meted down the shaft, the car's top several centi­metres from cutting Ronin in two.

  They were assaulted by the combined stench of rotting garbage, excrement, and myriad unwashed bodies. The odour grew as they passed doorways, black and gaping. G'fand peered into one and gasped, choked. Ronin held his breath and pulled him quickly back. Still he caught a glimpse of white bone, a staring human eye, blackness where the other should have been. There was the impres­sion of much movement along the floor, the sounds of soft scuttling.

  'Where are we?' G'fand whispered.

  Ronin shrugged. 'Far Downshaft, anyway.'

  'What do we do now?'

  'Find another way Downshaft to the ninety-ninth.' He pointed. 'We will try this way.'

  The corridor curved away from them, dim and grimy with disrepair. Ronin thought, Could we be as far Down as the Workers' Levels? The Overheads were going. They glowed dismally, sputtering at spots, completely burned out at others. Apparently they had been dark for some time, because torches crackled and flared in make­shift niches carved crudely into the walls. So what light there was was a bizarre blend of fiery orange and cold blue-white.

  They paused once to listen but all they could hear was the background drone of dripping water and tiny scurrying feet.

  They went quickly and quietly. The walls here had lost all semblance of colour. Theoretically all Levels were colour coded so that one could tell at a glance what Level one was on. But these walls were covered with a thick coating of filth on to which obscene words and grotesque pictures had been drawn or roughly carved. Their obvious anguish was appalling.

  They spied no one. Now and again they passed cracks in the ceiling and walls, extended networks of neglect, the damage once or twice so extensive that the sections on either side no longer matched. Several times they were obliged to clamber over blocks of rubble where parts of the Corridor had collapsed. The light grew perceptibly dimmer.

  Ronin paused, extending an arm, holding G'fand back. He peered ahead. They went forward slowly about six metres and stopped abruptly.

  It looked as if a gigantic fist had smashed into the Corridor. Something apparently had exploded

  with tremendous force from the inner Well, tear­ing open the wall, crumbling the floor for a space of a metre and a half. They peered cautiously into the gaping hole. There appeared to be a fire burning below on what they took to be the next Level.

  G'fand wiped at his forehead. 'Frost!' he whis­pered. 'What is happening?'

  Ronin said nothing. He looked across the face of the pit.

  'Perhaps we should see if we can help.'

  'These Levels appear to be deserted,' Ronin said somewhat distractedly.

  'Still -'

  'Our problem is how to cross this pit. There is nothing we could do in any event.'

  G'fand looked up out of the flickering light. 'Why not retrace our steps and traverse the Corri­dor from the opposite direction?'

  'Too much time lost, and the Corridor might be in worse repair. We press onward here; there is no turning back.'

 

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