by Keith Laumer
He unslung the rope from his shoulder, tied one end to the brass stump, threw the coil down the precipitous side. It fell away into darkness, hung swaying. It was impossible to tell whether the end reached any solid 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, his protruding eyes wide in his blotchy red face.
“There he is! I told you he came this way!” Two uniformed policemen came into 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 of masonry. “Look at this—just a shell—”
“He’s blasted a hole right in that building, officer!” the fat man shrilled. “He’s dangerous.”
The cop ignored the gaping hole in the wall. “You’ll have to come along with 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 got to 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 with a large handkerchief. “Tragic. But I’m sure that you men know how to handle him.”
“Better give me the gun, sir.” The cop held out a hand. Brett moved suddenly, 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 cop tugged at his gun. Brett leaped at him, sent him down with a blow to the ribs. He turned to face the fat man.
“I didn’t kill them! I just turned them off. They’re not real, they’re just 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 the unexpected factor; that’s me. The Gels know something’s wrong, but they can’t quite figure out what. When you called the cops the Gels obliged—”
* * * *
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 to show you!” He seized the fat man’s lapel, dragged him to his feet and across 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 a hollow 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 Gel came. 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, my business associates. I’m insured. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Jesus—”
He broke off, whirled, and jumped for the doorway. Brett leaped after him, caught his coat. It ripped. The fat man stumbled over one of the cop-golems, went to hands and knees. Brett stood over him.
“Get up, damn it!” he snapped. “I need help and you’re going to help me!” He hauled the fat man to his feet. “All you have to do is stand by the rope. Dhuva may be unconscious when I find him. You’ll have to help me haul him up. If anybody comes along, any Gels, I mean—give me a signal. A whistle… like this—” Brett demonstrated. “And if I get in trouble, do what you can. Here …” Brett started to offer the fat man the gun, then handed him the hunting knife. “If anybody interferes, this may 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 the edge. Brett looked up at the glistening face, the damp strands of hair across the freckled scalp. Brett had no assurance that the man would stay 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. He watched 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 a crumbling concrete pipe two feet in diameter. Brett was ten feet below the rim of floor now. Above, the broad figure of the fat man was visible in silhouette against the jagged opening in the wall.
Now the cliff shelved back; the rope hung free. Brett eased past the cut end of a rusted water pipe, went down hand over hand. If there were nothing 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 with expanding rings where bits of debris dislodged by his passage peppered the surface.
There was a rhythmic vibration in the rope. Brett felt it through his hands, 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 rope collapsed around him with a sustained splashing. He got to his feet, groped for the end of the rope. The glossy nylon strands had been cleanly cut.
* * * *
For half an hour Brett waded in waist-deep water along a wall of damp clay that rose sheer above him. Far above, bars of dim sunlight crossed the upper reaches of the cavern. He had seen no sign of Dhuva… or the Gels.
He encountered a sodden timber that projected above the surface of the pool, clung to it to rest. Bits of flotsam—a plastic pistol, bridge tallies, a golf bag—floated in the black water. A tunnel extended through the clay wall ahead; beyond, Brett could see a second great cavern rising. He pictured the city, silent and empty above, and the honey-combed earth beneath. He moved on.
An hour later Brett had traversed the second cavern. Now he clung to an outthrust spur of granite directly beneath the point at which Dhuva had disappeared. Far above he could see the green-clad waitress standing stiffly on her ledge. He was tired. Walking in water, his feet floundering in soft mud, was exhausting. He was no closer to escape, or to finding Dhuva, than he had been when the fat man cut the rope. He had been a fool to leave the man alone, with a knife… but he had had no choice.
He would have to find another way out. Endlessly wading at the bottom of the pit was useless. He would have to climb. One spot was as good as another. 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 water main. 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. He gathered 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 twined the rope around his legs, inched higher. The slender cable was smooth as glass. 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 worked his way up, his hands aching and raw. A projecting tangle of power cable gave a secure purchase for a foot. He rested. Nearby, an opening two feet in diameter gaped in the clay: a tunnel. It might be possible to swing sideways across the face of the clay and reach the opening. It was worth a try. His stiff, clay-slimed hands would pull him no higher.
He gripped the rope, kicked off sideways, hooked a foot in the
tunnel mouth, half jumped, half fell into the mouth of the tunnel. He clung to the rope, shook it loose from the pipe above, coiled it and looped it over his shoulder. On hands and knees he started into the narrow passage.
* * * *
The tunnel curved left, then right, dipped, then angled up. Brett crawled steadily, the smooth stiff clay yielding and cold against his hands and sodden knees. Another smaller tunnel joined from the left. Another angled in from above. The tunnel widened to three feet, then four. Brett got to his feet, walked in a crouch. Here and there, barely visible in the near-darkness, objects lay imbedded in the mud: a silver-plated spoon, its handle bent; the rusted engine of an electric train; a portable radio, green with corrosion from burst batteries.
At a distance, Brett estimated, of a hundred yards from the pit, the tunnel opened into a vast cave, green-lit from tiny discs of frosted glass 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 concrete columns the floor was littered with pale sticks and stones, gleaming dully in the gloom.
Brett started across the floor. One of the sticks snapped underfoot. He kicked a melon-sized stone. It rolled lightly, came to rest with hollow eyes staring toward him. A human skull.
* * * *
The floor of the cave covered an area the size of a city block. It was blanketed with human bones, with here and there a small cat skeleton or the fanged snout-bones of a dog. There was a constant rustling of rats that played among the rib cages, sat atop crania, scuttled behind shin-bones. Brett picked his way, stepping over imitation pearl necklaces, zircon rings, plastic buttons, hearing aids, lipsticks, compacts, corset stays, prosthetic devices, rubber heels, wrist watches, lapel watches, pocket watches with corroded brass chains.
Ahead Brett saw a patch of color: a blur of pale yellow. He hurried, stumbling over bone heaps, crunching eyeglasses underfoot. He reached the still figure where it lay slackly, face down. Gingerly he squatted, turned it on its back. It was Dhuva.
Brett slapped the cold wrists, rubbed the clammy hands. Dhuva stirred, moaned weakly. Brett pulled him to a sitting position. “Wake up!” he whispered. “Wake up!”
Dhuva’s eyelids fluttered. He blinked dully at Brett.
“The Gels may turn up any minute,” Brett hissed. “We have to get away from here. Can you walk?”
“I saw it,” said Dhuva faintly. “But it moved so fast …”
“You’re safe here for the moment,” Brett said. “There are none of them around. But they may be back. We’ve got to find a way out!”
Dhuva started up, staring around. “Where am I?” he said hoarsely. Brett seized his arm, steadied him on his feet.
“We’re in a hollowed-out cave,” he said. “The whole city is undermined with them. They’re connected by tunnels. We have to find one leading back to the surface.”
Dhuva gazed around at the acres of bones. “It left me here for dead.”
“Or to die,” said Brett.
“Look at them,” Dhuva breathed. “Hundreds… thousands …”
“The whole population, it looks like. The Gels must have whisked them down here one by one.”
“But why?”
“For interfering with the scenes. But that doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting out. Come on. I see tunnels on the other side.”
They crossed the broad floor, around them the white bones, the rustle of rats. They reached the far side of the cave, picked a six-foot tunnel which trended upward, a trickle of water seeping out of the dark mouth. They started up the slope.
* * * *
“We have to have a weapon against the Gels,” said Brett.
“Why? I don’t want to fight them.” Dhuva’s voice was thin, frightened. “I want to get away from here… even back to Wavly. I’d rather face the Duke.”
“This was a real town, once,” said Brett. “The Gels have taken it over, hollowed out the buildings, mined the earth under it, killed off the people, and put imitation people in their place. And nobody ever knew. I met a man who’s lived here all his life. He doesn’t know. But we know…and we have to do something about it.”
“It’s not our business. I’ve had enough. I want to get away.”
“The Gels must stay down below, somewhere in that maze of tunnels. For some reason they try to keep up appearances… but only for the people who belong here. They play out scenes for the fat man, wherever he goes. And he never goes anywhere he isn’t expected to.”
“We’ll get over the wall somehow,” said Dhuva. “We may starve, crossing the dry fields, but that’s better than this.”
They emerged from the tunnel into a coal bin, crossed to a sagging door, found themselves in a boiler room. Stairs led up to sunlight. In the street, in the shadow of tall buildings, a boxy sedan was parked at the curb. Brett went to it, tried the door. It opened. Keys dangled from the ignition switch. He slid into the dusty seat. Behind him there was a hoarse scream. Brett looked up. Through the streaked windshield he saw a mighty Gel rear up before Dhuva, who crouched back against the blackened brick front of the building.
“Don’t move, Dhuva!” Brett shouted. Dhuva stood frozen, flattened against the wall. The Gel towered, its surface rippling.
Brett eased from the seat. He stood on the pavement, fifteen feet from the Gel. The rank Gel odor came in waves from the creature. Beyond it he could see Dhuva’s white terrified face.
Silently Brett turned the latch of the old-fashioned auto hood, raised it. The copper fuel line curved down from the firewall to a glass sediment cup. The knurled retaining screw turned easily; the cup dropped into Brett’s hand. Gasoline ran down in an amber stream. Brett pulled off his damp coat, wadded it, jammed it under the flow. Over his shoulder he saw Dhuva, still rigid—and the Gel, hovering, uncertain.
The coat was saturated with gasoline now. Brett fumbled a match box from his pocket. Wet. He threw the sodden container aside. The battery caught his eye, clamped in a rusted frame under the hood. He jerked the pistol from its holster, used it to short the terminals. Tiny blue sparks jumped. He jammed the coat near, rasped the gun against the soft lead poles. With a whoosh! the coat caught; yellow flames leaped, soot-rimmed. Brett snatched at a sleeve, whirled the coat high. The great Gel, attracted by the sudden motion, rushed at him. He flung the blazing garment over the monster, leaped aside.
The creature went mad. It slumped, lashed itself against the pavement. The burning coat was thrown clear. The Gel threw itself across the pavement, into the gutter, sending a splatter of filthy water over Brett. From the corner of his eye, Brett saw Dhuva seize the burning coat, hurl it into the pooled gasoline in the gutter. Fire leaped twenty feet high; in its center the great Gel bucked and writhed. The ancient car shuddered as the frantic monster struck it. Black smoke boiled up; an unbelievable stench came to Brett’s nostrils. He backed, coughing. Flames roared around the front of the car. Paint blistered and burned. A tire burst. In a final frenzy, the Gel whipped clear, lay, a great blackened shape of melting rubber, twitching, then still.
* * * *
“They’ve tunneled under everything,” Brett said. “They’ve cut through power lines and water lines, concrete, steel, earth; they’ve left the shell, shored up with spidery-looking trusswork. Somehow they’ve kept water and power flowing to wherever they needed it—”
“I don’t care about your theories,” Dhuva said; “I only want to get away.”
“It’s bound to work, Dhuva. I need your help.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll have to try alone.” He turned away.
“Wait,” Dhuva called. He came up to Brett. “I owe you a life; you saved mine. I can’t let you down now. But if this doesn’t work… or if you can’t find what you want—”
“Then we’ll go.”
Together they turned down a side street, walking rapidly. At the next corner Brett pointed.
“There’s one!” They crossed to the service station at a run. Brett tried the door. Locked. He kicked at it, splintered the wood around the lock. He glanced around inside. “No good,” he called. “Try the next building. I’ll check the one behind.”
He crossed the wide drive, battered in a door, looked in at a floor covered with wood shavings. It ended ten feet from the door. Brett went to the edge, looked down. Diagonally, forty feet away, the underground fifty-thousand-gallon storage tank which supplied the gasoline pumps of the station perched, isolated, on a column of striated clay, ribbed with chitinous Gel buttresses. The truncated feed lines ended six feet from the tank. From Brett’s position, it was impossible to say whether the ends were plugged.
Across the dark cavern a square of light appeared. Dhuva stood in a doorway looking toward Brett.
“Over here, Dhuva!” Brett uncoiled his rope, arranged a slip-noose. He measured the distance with his eye, tossed the loop. It slapped the top of the tank, caught on a massive fitting. He smashed the glass from a window, tied the end of the rope to the center post. Dhuva arrived, watched as Brett went to the edge, hooked his legs over the rope, and started across to the tank.
It was an easy crossing. Brett’s feet clanged against the tank. He straddled the six-foot cylinder, worked his way to the end, then clambered down to the two two-inch feed lines. He tested their resilience, then lay flat, eased out on them. There were plugs of hard waxy material in the cut ends of the pipes. Brett poked at them with the pistol. Chunks loosened and fell. He worked for fifteen minutes before the first trickle came. Two minutes later, two thick streams of gasoline were pouring down into the darkness.
* * * *
Brett and Dhuva piled sticks, scraps of paper, shavings, and lumps of coal around a core of gasoline-soaked rags. Directly above the heaped tinder a taut rope stretched from the window post to a child’s wagon, the steel bed of which contained a second heap of combustibles. The wagon hung half over the ragged edge of the floor.