New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos

by Ramsey Campbell

  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 recognized 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 realized 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.

  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 burning 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 towards 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 rubbertyred 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 on to 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.

  There must be seepage from one of the shafts. Even as he ran forward the last few yards, Driscoll knew in his inmost soul that the leakage was almost certainly from Shaft Number 247. Not only Wainewright's story but all his inquiries had prepared him for that. There was a strange stench in his nostrils now; one that was vaguely repellent but at the same time familiar.

  Driscoll stumbled on something slimy and almost fell. He swore and recovered himself, but he was badly shaken just the same. The torch beam trembled as he waved it wildly across the floor. Dark rivulets of water flowed across the tiling; curiously, there were many dry patches, which told Driscoll immediately that there were a number of shafts involved.

  He was almost there now. His footsteps echoed monstrously back from the ceiling. He was no longer conscious of the water slopping over his feet. Driscoll was only vaguely aware of why he had come here. But there was a strong compulsion at the back of his mind; he had to come. And he knew it had something to do with Wainewright.

  He stumbled again and almost fell. He put out his hand to the shafting and supported himself. He saw without surprise the black-painted letters as his torch danced across them: SHAFT NO. 247.

  There was a strange odour now; something that he had not smelled before. He could not place it and paused hesitant]y, the torch in his suddenly nervous hand trembling across the arched metal ceiling of the tunnel. There was dampness, of course; that was something to be expected with the water underfoot. But there was something else, something almost obscene. An animal smell, pungent and rotting to the nostrils; reptilian, if you like.

  Driscoll had once visited the zoological gardens long ago, where the few remaining specimens were kept. The aquarium had particularly fascinated him. There was something of that now. The great saurians, some almost a hundred years old, sleeping caked in their beds of mud; glazed green eyes immobile for hours on end. The torch wavered again, and Driscoll sharply snapped his mind back to the present.

  He moved cautiously, deliberately blocking out the heavy
miasma as he splashed the last yard to the shaft. It was enormous; he couldn't quite remember its original purpose though it was primarily to do with inspection. Wainewright had been correct about one thing. There was rust on the casing and the bolts. He touched the cold metal with a tentative forefinger, saw it come away red in the light of the torch.

  The inspection-chamber hatch was ajar. Driscoll soon saw why. There was something protruding from it. Something grey and rubbery from which the stench emanated. Driscoll did not like to touch it. Instead, he worked the hatch pivot with his torch. The thing that was jammed in the gap moved as the aperture grew. It looked like an embryonic hand with tiny fingers. Driscoll was startled; his hand slipped on the torch, the metal slid back with a harsh rumble, disturbing in the gloom of the tunnel, and the mass fell with a slopping splash into the water, where it was presumably carried away. Driscoll felt relieved.

  The inspection chamber was empty as he had hoped. The door that connected with the Outside was firmly closed and latched. Driscoll bent his head and listened intently. He could hear nothing but the sound of running water. It was absurd really. He did not know what he expected to hear.

  But there was another odour; something like a musky perfume that made his head swim. Driscoll knew what had fascinated Wainewright and his friend Deems before him. The heady odour had something in it that reached back deep into his roots. He saw green fields; a blue sky; corn waving in the breeze. This was not something on the vision tube, but an atavistic memory of reality.

  Driscoll staggered and reached out a hand to save himself; he saw the message pad then, lying in the bottom of the chamber. He knew before he picked it up that it was Wainewright's. It bore his own name he saw without surprise. It merely repeated in block capitals: FREEDOM! And underneath, in smaller letters: UNTIL WE MEET OUTSIDE. A scribbled W ended the message.

  Driscoll stood and an overwhelming sadness enveloped him; a sadness that was dispelled only by the faint wail of the emergency-squad siren. He took the message pad with him as he went splashing back up the tunnel.

  Driscoll was suspended, of course. Someone must have seen him before he regained his quarters, or perhaps the cameras had been working before the lights came on. Hort did not ask to see him; there was merely the dreaded green chit with the official stamp slipped beneath his door as he slept.

  There would be an official hearing in a week's time.

  Driscoll did not wait for the hearing. Something had happened to him. He was hardly conscious of it himself. Nothing seemed to have changed, yet everything had subtly altered. There were no more chess games with Karlson. Nothing was said, but Karlson was never in evidence when Driscoll took his meals. Strangely enough, Krampf, the only person in Central Control who secretly irritated Driscoll, seemed sympathetic at this time of crisis.

  Twice Driscoll had met him in the corridors, and it seemed to him that there was a strange secret compassion in his eyes. But he dare not speak to Driscoll; no one dare while he was awaiting the hearing. Similarly, he was no longer welcome in Records, and Driscoll felt he would be under surveillance if he went out. He was no longer trusted; that was the brutal truth. And a person who was no longer trusted here was a nonperson.

  He kept his cabin; he could use the restaurant facilities and watch the vision tube. In effect he was limited to eating, sleeping, and passing his time as best he might. No messages came for him; there was no communication from above apart from the green chit; and Hort certainly had no wish to see him. That might prejudice the proceedings.

  Driscoll thought about it for three days and three nights; then he made up his mind. It was night as time was measured here, and there would be few people on duty. Driscoll packed a few things; he carried with him a hammer, a wrench, and heavy-duty wire cutters with insulated handles, together with a food supply for three weeks. At the intersection of the first corridor he smashed the camera lens there. He went purposefully down the passages, smashing every installation he could find.

  Within a minute the alarm was reverberating along the corridors. Driscoll did not care. He was running strongly now, every sense alert.

  He was smashing light fixtures too; he was surprised how easily they broke. No one had ever done this before. It was absurdly easy. At the time he hoped that the tunnel section was not guarded; there could be no turning back now. He found his way with difficulty. He must have fused something at the last light installation he smashed, for all these corridors were plunged into darkness.

  The small cone of his torch wavered ahead, steadying on the smooth metal surface of the tunnel walls, the heavy bolts and rivets overhead. Here was the place; there was no one about. Water dripped somewhere' up ahead as Driscoll splashed unhesitatingly through the puddles. The strange nostalgic stench was in his nostrils. He adjusted the pack on his back and set off at a staggering run over the last quarter of a mile. His heart was beating a little more unsteadily than he would have liked. Still there was no siren of the emergency squad.

  The shafting was in front of him. Driscoll could almost taste the stench in his nostrils. It was not oppressive. On the contrary. He breathed deeply. It brought back things he had forgotten ever existed. Sunlight; wavering corn; clouds moving across a blue sky;~a woman's smile; a child tottering towards an old woman in a white dress.

  He stood before Shaft Number 247, noting its massive strength and immense size. Quite without surprise he saw that the hatch of the inspection chamber was half-open. It slid easily beneath his touch. Dance music was reverberating from somewhere; a girl in a bathing suit plunged into blue water, droplets of spray raining downward; there were flowers and with them the fragrant perfume that had been lost for so many decades.

  The girl was smiling again. A grave grey-eyed girl, with tawny-gold hair. Driscoll stepped into the inspection chamber. It was cold and he instinctively shrank at the dampness which settled on his face and clothing. A hurdy-gurdy was playing, and he could smell roast chestnuts. A child bounded past on a scooter, his feet making a click-clacking noise on the setts of the paving. There was the distinctive impact of a cricket ball connecting with a ball on a summer afternoon. Driscoll nodded at the ripple of applause.

  He could see the point now. Everything down here was negative. He had to know. He thought of Krampf, Deems, and Wainewright; of Hort and Karlson. He had no real friends; hitherto, the only reality was the tunnels burrowing beneath the earth and the remorselessly efficient humming of the machinery.

  It did not seem to be enough. Driscoll set his teeth. Perspiration was streaming down his face as he reached out to the interior hatch of the inspection chamber of Shaft Number 247. A child lifted her head and put her arms round Driscoll's neck. He was smiling as he began to turn the bolts.

  Black Man With a Horn by T. E. D. KLEIN

  The Black [words obscured by postmark] was fascinating - I must get a snap shot of him.

  H. P. LOVECRAFT, rOSTC~,RO TO r. HOFFMANN PRICE, 7/23/1934

  There is something inherently comforting about the first-person past tense. It conjures up visions of some deskbound narrator puffing contemplatively upon a pipe amid the safety of his study, lost in tranquil recollection, seasoned but essentially unscathed by whatever experience he's about to relate.

  It's a tense that says, 'I am here to tell the tale. I lived through it.'

  The description, in my own case, is perfectly accurate - as far as it goes. I am indeed seated in a kind of study: a small den, actually, but lined with bookshelves on one side, below a view of Manhattan painted many years ago, from memory, by my sister. My desk is a folding bridge table that once belonged to her. Before me the electric typewriter, though somewhat precariously supperted, hums soothingly, and from the window behind me comes the familiar drone of the old air conditioner, waging its lonely battle against the tropic night. Beyond it, in the darkness outside, the small night-noises are doubtless just as reassuring; wind in the palm trees, the mindless chant of crickets, the muffled chatter of a neighbour's TV, an occasional car bou
nd for the highway, shifting gears as it speeds past the house...

  House, in truth, may be too grand a word; the place is a green stucco bungalow just a single story tall, third in a row of nine set several hundred yards from the highway. Its only distinguishing features are the sundial in the front yard, brought here from my sister's former home, and the jagged little picket fence, now rather overgrown with weeds, which she had erected despite the protests of neighbours.

  It's hardly the most romantic of settings, but under normal circumstances it might make an adequate background for meditations in the past tense. 'I'm still here,' the writer says, adjusting to the tone. (I've even stuck the requisite pipe in mouth, stuffed with a plug of latakia.) 'It's over now,'

  he says. 'I lived through it.'

  A comforting premise, perhapsú Only, in this case, it doesn't happen to be true. Whether the experience is really 'over now' no one can say; and if, as I suspect, the final chapter has yet to be enacted, then the notion of my 'living through it' will seem a pathetic conceit.

  Yet ! can't say I find the thought of my own death particularly disturbing. I get so tired, sometimes, of this little room, with its cheap wicker furniture, the dull outdated books, the night pressing in from outside ú.. And of that sundial out there in the yard, with its idiotic message. 'Grow old along with me...'

  I have done so, and my life seems hardly to have mattered in the scheme of things. Surely its end cannot matter much either.

  Ah, Howard, you would have understood.

  That, boy, was what I call a travel-experience! – H.P LOVECRAFT, 3/12/1930

  If, while I set it down, this tale acquires an ending, it promises to be an unhappy one. But the beginning is nothing of the kind; you may find it rather humorous, in fact - full of comic pratfalls, wet trouser cuffs, and a dropped vomit-bag.

  'I steeled myself to endure it,' the old lady to my right was saying. 'I don't mind telling you I was exceedingly frightened. I held on to the arms of the seat and just gritted my teeth. And then, you know, right after the captain warned us about that turbulence, when the tail lifted and fell, flip-flop, flip-flop, well -' she flashed her dentures at me and patted my wrist, ' - I don't mind telling you, there was simply nothing for it but to heave.'