by Emily
The fire crackled and the trees sighed.
Quait wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, but he was suddenly aware of Chaka shaking him gently.
"What is it?" he whispered.
There was a glow above the ridge. Barely discernible, but it was there. "There's a light in the glass building."
He climbed out of his blanket and pulled on trousers and a shirt.
"What do we do?" she said.
"What would you recommend?"
"I think we should clear out."
Quait tried to look amused and confident. "There's a natural explanation." He strapped on his holster. "But I think we better wake the others."
Minutes later, they all stood on top of the ridge, looking at two illuminated ground floor windows.
"Something's moving in there," said Flojian.
The angle didn't allow them to make out what it was.
"Let it go," advised Shannon. "It has nothing to do with why we're here."
"It has everything to do with why we're here," said Silas. "We're here to learn about the Roadmakers."
"Silas," he said patiently, "it's probably just a couple of people like us, holed up. You go in there, it might be a fight."
"The ridge," said Silas. "Maybe there's a connection with the ridge."
"That's unlikely," pursued the forester.
"But who knows?" Silas started down the side of the hill. "I'll be back."
Chaka joined him. Quail asked them to wait and went back to the campsite for a lantern, which he left dark.
"All right," Shannon said, checking his weapon and shoving it into his holster. "Let's go. But I hope nobody gets his idiot head blown off."
"No, Jon," said Silas. "If we walk into something, I'd rather some of us be outside. And I'd like you to be in a position to lead the rescue. Okay? Stay here. If we don't come back, use your judgment."
Shannon looked unhappy.
It was dark on the hill. Quait stepped into a hole and Silas tripped over a vine. Nevertheless, they made it safely to the bottom of the ridge and crossed the fifty yards or so that separated them from the buildings.
A dozen stone steps, bordered by a low wall, led up to the terrace. "Horses in the barn," said Quait, detouring to take a look. There were three. With a wagon.
They crept up to the lighted windows and looked in.
The lamp was bright, and it burned steadily. It stood atop a side table, illuminating an armchair. But they saw no sign of a flame. There were several other pieces of furniture in the room, including a sofa. A cabinet held a set of unbound books.
"What do you think?" said Silas. His fingers lingered near his gun. He wasn't used to the weapon, and Quait had noticed he walked with a mild swagger when he wore it. Tonight, though, the swagger wasn't there.
Quait tried the windows. They were locked.
"I'd like to know how that lamp works," said Chaka.
They watched for a while, but the room stayed empty. They returned at last to the front, climbed the steps, and crossed the terrace. There'd been four doors. Three were still in place; the fourth was missing, its space protected by a piece of thick gray canvas. Beyond, Quait could see a shadowy lobby, and the silhouettes of chairs and tables.
An inscription was engraved across the face of the building: THE RICHARD FEYNMAN SUPERCOLLIDER.
"Who was Richard Feynman?" Chaka asked.
Silas shook his head. "Don't know."
Quait glanced back up at the ridge. Shannon and the others were invisible, but he knew they were there watching. "Stay put," he said, and padded over to the sheet of canvas.
Chaka and Silas were already following him. He tried unsuccessfully to wave them back, and slipped through the
opening.
Had Chaka not been present, Quait would have looked a bit more, hoping to find a less direct way in. But the horses in the barn suggested the occupant was human rather than demonic. He wasn't going to pass up a chance to play a heroic role by fumbling around looking for back doors.
A long counter stretched half the length of the rear wall. He moved a few steps away from the entrance, away from the glass so that he was not silhouetted against the stars. The floor was thick with dirt and leaves. There were two other doorways leading into the area and a staircase immediately to the left.
"Hello," he called softly. "Anybody here?"
The wind sucked at the canvas.
He satisfied himself that the lobby was empty, and moved into a corridor. The walls were dirty white, pocked, and streaked with water stains. Doorways opened on either side, most into bare rooms. Other spaces, like the one they'd seen from outside, were loaded with Roadmaker furniture.
At the end of the corridor he turned left, toward the light that he could see leaking under a door.
He checked each room as he went by, saw no one, and pushed finally into the illuminated room. He was surprised by a surge of warm, dry air, although no fire was visible. The heat seemed to be coming from a series of pipes protruding from the wall. He was so absorbed by the device that he was not aware someone had come in behind him.
"It'll burn you," said a voice. Idiot. Quait spun around and looked into the muzzle of a Makar bear rifle.
His gaze moved slowly from the weapon to a pair of narrow, irritated eyes. Little man, bald rounded skull, thick forearms, gray-black beard. Sharp white teeth. "I mean no harm, friend," Quait said.
"And you'll do none." Gravelly voice. "Take the gun out very slowly and put it down or I'll kill you where you stand." To Quail's discomfort, the man sounded jittery.
"Take it easy," Quait said. "I'm no threat." He eased the weapon out and dropped it onto a sofa.
"I can see that." The man took a long minute to consider him. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you here?"
"My name's Quait Esterhok. I'm just passing through. It's cold outside. I came in looking for shelter. I didn't realize anyone was here."
"Over there." He wanted Quait in the middle of the room.
Quait complied. "Who are you?" he asked.
The bald-headed man kept the weapon aimed at a point between Quail's eyes.
"Look," said Quait. "If you want me to leave, I'll leave." He took a tentative step to get out, but something in the man's expression warned him to go no farther.
"I don't see many visitors," the bald man said. "Who's with you?"
"Nobody."
He glanced at one of the chairs. "Sit."
Quait sat.
"Nobody travels this country alone, Esterhok. Now, I think your chances of getting out of here without a couple of holes in your carcass are going to improve considerably if you tell me the truth."
"I wouldn't lie to a man holding a gun," Quait said. While they stared at each other, Chaka called his name. "You okay, Quait?" she cried. And, lower but still discernible, "Where'd he go, Silas?"
Quait grinned at his captor. "I'm okay," he called. "But stay where you are. There's a man here with a gun."
"Tell them to come in here where I can see them."
"No," said Quait. "I won't do that."
The man wiped his face with his sleeve. He wore a crumpled gray shirt and baggy black trousers. "You in the hall," he rumbled. "Come in here now, all of you, guns down, hands up, or I'll kill this one."
That brought a long silence. The bald man backed into a corner of the room so he could cover both Quait and the doorway.
"Don't shoot anybody," said Chaka. She came in, hands raised. Silas followed directly behind.
"What are you," sputtered Silas, "a lunatic?"
"That's an open question, I suppose." The bald man glanced into the corridor. "Is there anyone else?"
"No," said Quait. "You've got everybody."
"I hope so. If there are any surprises, I'm going to start shooting. And you three will be first. Now, what are you doing in my house?"
Quait tried to explain. Silas, true to his nature, had focused on the handful of unbound volumes in the cabinet. Sudde
nly he sighed. "Ilion Talley,* he said. "Where did you get these?"
The bald man eyed him suspiciously. "How did you know my name?"
"You?" said Silas. "I was talking about the author of these books."
"I am he."
Silas frowned and pursed his lips. "Ilion Talley's dead."
"Oh, not as dead as some would like."
"Are you really Talley? Of Masandik?"
"Of course, you nitwit. Who else would I be?" The rifle wavered and his voice softened. "You know of me, then?"
"Everyone knows the Mechanic," said Silas. He was staring hard at the bald man. "I do believe ..." he said. "I believe it really is you." He clapped his hands. "Wonderful. This makes the entire trip worthwhile. Whatever else happens." He plunged forward, completely forgetful of the weapon.
Talley hesitated and then, if he'd had a mind to shoot, it was too late. Silas was by him, pumping his hand. "Mar-velous," Silas said. "We met years ago, but I was very young and you'd have no way of remembering. My name's Silas Glote."
Quait knew the Mechanic's reputation. Ilion Talley had been renowned throughout the five cities as a philosopher, artist, and engineer. He had designed and overseen the construction of Masandik's superlative water and sewage system, with its state-of-the-art pumps; he had sculpted the magnificent Lyka for her temple at Farroad; he had devised the modern repeating rifle.
"And you're not dead," said Silas.
"Apparently not." Talley laid the weapon on a table.
He'd reportedly died twenty years before, in Masandik. It had been put about that a committee of citizens had charged him and a young woman with impiety, and burned both at the stake.
Talley waved everyone to sit down, and leaned back against the desktop. "It's nice to know I haven't been forgotten. And that there are still people who think well of me."
"You were accused of defiling the gods," said Silas.
"So they said I was dead, did they?" He chuckled. "A more incompetent pack of fools I've never known."
"What happened?" asked Quait.
"Yolanda," he said.
"Pardon?"
"I hired Yolanda to copy manuscripts. She was pretty, so my students were naturally drawn to her. They found excuses to come to my office. They asked questions. And Yolanda forgot that she was not their teacher. She also believed that teachers were bound to the truth." He fixed Silas with a long gloomy stare. "You look like a teacher." It was not a question.
"lam."
"Then you understand her naivete. I tried to explain the political realities to her, the need to avoid offending the com-nunity's sensibilities." He shrugged. "She wouldn't listen, and t got around after a while that she did not believe in the gods, rhat she was a profane influence on young people."
Quait frowned. "But the upper classes are mostly skeptics. Were these not their children at the school?"
"Of course," said Talley. "But what these people believed, and what they were prepared to admit publicly, were not at all :he same thing."
"They said you were both killed," said Silas.
"We were gone before they arrived. I don't know who they killed, if anyone, but it most certainly was not me. It was cold, however. Dead of winter. Yolanda died on the road, so I suppose they achieved one of their goals." His eyes clouded. "I've been here since, for the most part. No place else to go. Nobody would have given me sanctuary."
"Twenty years is a long time," said Silas. "Things have changed. You're a hero now in Masandik. They would welcome you back."
"Twenty years. Is it really that long?" He laughed. "Quite a few of the scoundrels must have died."
Silas glanced over the volumes, lined up neatly in a cabinet. "May I ask what you've been writing about?" Quait would have liked to examine the volumes themselves, but one did not simply take it upon himself to pick up another person's book.
"I've completed the definitive history of the Baranji Empire," Talley said. "There are also ruminations on the nature of the Roadmakers' world." He came away from the desktop, opened a book, and laid it where they could see its table of contents. "This is a collection of philosophical speculations. The nature of evil. Whether man has a purpose. Whether there is such a thing as absolute morality. And so on."
"No wonder they were after you," laughed Chaka.
They all joined in, and the doleful mood dissipated. "You must forgive my caution. Visitors here are seldom civil." Talley returned his attention to his books. "I also have a study of
the types of trees, their characteristics, their growing seasons, the best time to plant. And an analysis of the customs and ethical systems of the local Tuks. And a political history of Masandik." He took down several more for his visitors to look at, and it struck Quait that the man had been writing here alone for years and had probably never before been able to show his work to anyone. Or at least to anyone who gave a damn.
"I'm forgetting my manners," said Talley. "Would you like some tea?"
He set up cups, left the room, and returned moments later with a steaming pot. "It's just as well things happened the way they did," he said, pouring. "I've spent my time here far more productively than I could have in Masandik. Tell me, does the Legate still rule?"
"He was overthrown more than a decade ago," said Silas. "Masandik is a republic. They're all republics now, all the cities."
"Well," said Talley gloomily, "I'm not sure that's such good news. Mob rule, it sounds like."
Quait had gone over to investigate the lamp, which continued to put out a steady glow. "You have heat without fire," he said, "and light without a flame." The light source was inside a glass tube.
"How does it work?" asked Chaka.
Talley smiled enigmatically. "Roadmaker technology. I'm not sure myself of the principles behind it. But I'll learn in time." He touched a knob and the light died. Touched it again and it came back on.
"Marvelous," said Silas.
The lamp was unpretentious, apparently metal, rounded at its base, lacking the ornate style of the better class of Road-maker art objects that were popular in League cities. On closer examination, Quait saw that it was not metal at all. It was made of one of the time-defying artificial substances.
"I had several of them originally, but they've been giving out one by one." He shook his head in silent wonder. "They're really quite remarkable. They grow dim on occasion, but I have
only to connect them to a device in the basement to replenish the light."
Quail returned to the source of the room's warmth, the pipes. There were six of them, in parallel loops, protruding from one wall. "And this?" he asked.
"Ah," said Talley. "This is my invention." He waited until everyone had had time to inspect it. "It's really quite simple," he said, smiling broadly. "Please follow me." He swept up the lamp and led the way into the next room.
It was spacious, with a partially collapsed ceiling supported by a pair of wooden beams and a boarded-up fireplace. A long battered worktable stood in a corner. Pots and ladles hung from hooks, and a heavy, dust-laden purple curtain covered the windows. A stock of firewood had been laid by, and a furnace crouched in the center of the room.
The furnace was mounted on four bear-claw legs. It was divided into upper and lower compartments. Quait could hear water boiling in the upper. A wide black duct connected the back of the furnace with the ceiling. A gray pipe, much narrower and wrapped with gauze, plunged into the wall. "This one," the one joined to the ceiling, "carries off the smoke," he explained. "This carries steam into radiant devices in the office and the far wing." He smiled broadly, vastly pleased with himself. "The entire suite stays quite comfortable."
"Brilliant," observed Silas. He produced his notebook and began drawing a picture of the apparatus.
Talley's shrug said that it was nothing.
Quait was, of course, familiar with furnaces, which had begun to replace fireplaces in some Illyrian homes. They were a more efficient means of heating a room. But it had never occurred to
him that it might be possible to transport excess heat to remote places in a dwelling. Silas was ecstatic. He fired a barrage of questions and wrote down the answers. "If you have no objection," he said, "we'll take this idea home with us."
"Whatever you wish. It's really only a minor thing." He sipped his tea. "And where are you headed? What brings you to the far country?"
"We're hoping to find Haven," said Silas.
Talley's expression changed. He had possibly been alone too long to hide his feelings, but it now became apparent that he'd decided he was in the presence of cranks. "I see. Well, I wish you all good fortune."
"Actually," said Silas defensively, "it's not as far-fetched as it sounds."
"I'm sure it isn't."
They were moving again, Talley walking them back toward his workroom. "What's the ridge all about?" Chaka asked.
Talley looked puzzled.
"The one that surrounds this place," she prompted.
"Oh. The ring. It's a tunnel. The people who built the facility hoped to use it to learn how the Earth was created."
Silas showed no reaction, but Quait felt uneasy.
"Avila was right," said Chaka.
"Avila is one of our friends," Quait explained. "She said much the same thing."
"How did they intend to do that?" asked Silas.
"Don't know. I can't read the results."
"You mean they were destroyed?"
"I mean I can't read them."
Silas looked around, as if he expected to see them lying somewhere on a table. "Maybe we could help?"
Talley chuckled deep in his throat. "Of course," he said. "Please come with me."
He took them out into the lobby and down two flights of stairs. They turned left into another corridor, lined with doorways. The walls were gray and crumbly.
"In here." They passed into another workroom. Rows of dull white metal cases occupied a central table and most of the wall space. Black cables snaked across the floor. The room looked surprisingly clean.
Another door, made of heavy metal, stood ajar. "This is the entry to the ring," he said. He pulled it open, hit a wall switch, and interior lights blossomed. They looked into a tunnel. Walls and ceiling were lined with cables and ridges, and a grate had been placed over the concrete floor. The passageway gradually