She nodded. “Thanks.”
He disappeared back inside. April walked through the gate and went directly into the Roundhouse, shutting the door against the cold.
At night the dome was a patchwork of light and dark, a scattering of illuminated alcoves. The lights shifted and moved as she did, following her, illuminating the ground in front, fading behind. As she approached the grid, it also lit up, spotlighted for her as if the place knew what she intended.
She hesitated. It was just as well Max wasn’t here, because then it would be impossible to back away. And until now she had believed she would back away. But the fear had almost dissipated. Something was out there, waiting for her. The illuminated grid looked both safe and inviting. Time to move out.
She switched on the flashlight and approached the icons. The triggers.
Touch the icon and you get twenty-three seconds to walk over and take your place on the grid.
She looked at the arrow, the rings, and the G clef.
The arrow.
It gleamed in the half-light. She touched the wall, just her fingertips. And pressed.
The light came on.
She took a deep breath, crossed the floor, and stepped onto the grid. The trench that had once been a channel extended out into the shadows. Across the dome, the wall was lost in the dark and the lights faded out and the night went on forever. She hitched the camera strap higher on her shoulder, taking comfort from the mundaneness of the act. She zipped her jacket almost to her neck and fought down a sudden urge to jump off the grid.
It was still dark when the telephone brought Max out of a deep sleep. He rolled over, fumbled for the instrument, picked it up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Collingwood? This is Henry Short. Out at the security gate.”
He immediately came awake. “Yes, Henry? What is it?”
“We can’t find Dr. Cannon,” he said.
He relaxed. “She’s sleeping next door.”
“No, sir. She came out here at about twelve-thirty. Went inside the Roundhouse. But she’s not in there now.”
Max looked at his watch. A quarter after three.
“We’ve checked the other buildings. She’s not anywhere. We can’t figure it out.”
“Is her car still there?”
“Yes, sir. She hasn’t come back through the gate.”
Max was genuinely puzzled. To him the conversation earlier that evening, with its implications and pointed omissions, had been purely hypothetical. “Henry, did you check the rear apartments in the Roundhouse?”
“We looked everywhere.”
“Okay. Call the police. I’m on my way.”
He hung up and rang her motel number. No one answered. He stared at the phone and finally recognized the possibility that she might have used the grid. Thoroughly alarmed, he dressed hastily, climbed into his car and started for Johnson’s Ridge. He should have told Henry to look in the channel. Maybe she’d fallen in there. It would have been easy enough for the security people to miss her.
He picked up his cellular phone, dialed the gate, and got a new voice. George Freewater. “How are we doing?” he asked.
“Still no news. The police are on their way.” Long pause. “Max, if she’s outside, she won’t last very long. It’s cold.”
“I know. Did you look in the channel?”
He heard a brief conversation on the other end, and then George came back. “Yes, we looked in the channel. Listen, Mr. Collingwood, we found something else. There’s a message addressed to you. It was on the front seat of her car.”
“Me?” Max’s stomach lurched. “What’s it say?”
“You want me to read it?”
“Yes, George. Please.”
“Okay. It says—Wait a minute; the light’s not so good here. It says, ‘Dear Max, I’m following the arrow. Since you’re reading this, something may have gone wrong. Sorry. I enjoyed working with you.’” George grunted. “What’s she talking about?”
Max’s headlights lost themselves in the dark. “I’m not sure,” he said. But he knew.
The Man in the White Suit is alive and well. Those who remember the classic British film starring Alec Guinness as a man who invented a cloth that resisted wrinkling and dirt may understand what’s happening these days to the clothing industry. Capitalization has been shrinking for clothing manufacturers since the first rumors surfaced of the possibility of developing a cloth very much like the one in the film. Numerous experts are on record that it is only a matter of time before the Roundhouse technology, which created superresistant materials on Johnson’s Ridge, becomes generally available. What will happen when that occurs is uncertain. But for now, tens of thousands of jobs have disappeared, and an entire industry is in chaos. This newspaper is a reluctant advocate of government intervention. But in this case, the time has come.
(Lead editorial, Wall Street Journal)
When Max walked into the Roundhouse, he was angry with April Cannon. She had put him in a terrible position. He berated himself for not guessing what might happen and heading it off.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
The dome was oppressive.
Henry Short was inside with two police officers. One was looking down into the pit. He was young, barely twenty-one. Sandy-haired, long, angular jaw, prominent nose.
The partner, who was bald and irritable, broke off his conversation with George Freewater as Max entered. “Sir, you’re Mr. Collingwood?”
“Yes,” said Max.
“I’m Deputy Remirov,” he said, producing a notebook that Max recognized as belonging to April. “What does this mean?”
I’m following the arrow.
“What’s the arrow?” the younger one asked.
Max hesitated briefly. “I don’t know,” he said.
Remirov looked unhappy. “You have no idea what she was trying to tell you?”
“No,” said Max. “Not a clue.”
The policeman didn’t believe a word of it. “Why would she write you a note you can’t understand?” he asked angrily.
Max squirmed. He wasn’t good at lying. And he didn’t like being evasive with police officers. He’d had little contact with them during his life, and they made him nervous. “I just don’t know,” he said.
Exasperated, Remirov turned back to George. “You’re sure she didn’t go out through the gate without being seen?”
“We’ve got a camera on the gate,” George said.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I guess it is possible. But we always have somebody on the monitors.”
“So you really don’t know,” said Remirov.
“Not without checking the tapes.”
“Why don’t we check the tapes?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.
Max wandered away to look at the grid. He saw no way to confirm whether she had actually used it. There were no footprints, no marks that told him anything.
Redfern, wearing a buckskin jacket and heavy boots, came into the dome. He spoke briefly with George and the two policemen before he saw Max. “They’re going to organize a search party,” he said.
“Good,” said Max.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed. “George told me she left a note for you. Max, where is she?”
“My guess is she’s dead,” said Max. Saying what he had been thinking ever since he’d heard about the note somehow made it less real.
Redfern’s jaw tightened. “How?” he asked.
Max thought about doing a demonstration, but since each of the icons seemed to work only once, he hesitated. Instead he simply pointed out the grid and the set of triggers, and explained what had happened. “This,” he said, directing the lawyer’s attention to the symbol at the top of the second column, “is the arrow.”
“You’re telling me there’s a device here that anni-hilates things, and you think she used it on herself?”
“That’s what I think,” said Max.
“Son of a
bitch,” he said. “Don’t you people have any sense at all?”
“Hey, I didn’t know anything like this was going to happen.”
“Yeah. Well, maybe you should’ve been watching a little closer.”
Max started to protest, but Arky waved it aside. “We can figure out who to blame later. She thought she was going somewhere. How did she expect to get back?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t exactly talk this over with me. But I assume she hoped there’d be a similar device at the other end. If there is an other end.”
Arky turned to George, who had joined them. “How long ago, did you say?”
“She came through the gate at twelve-thirty.”
Arky looked at his watch. Ten after four. “I guess we can assume she isn’t coming back on her own.” He folded his arms. “So where,” he asked accusingly, “do we go from here?”
Max felt like an idiot. Damn you, Cannon.
Arky’s face was dark. The shadows of an internal struggle played at the corners of his mouth and in his eyes. “Maybe it would be best,” he said, “if the tribe did sell. People die a little too easily here.” He got up and headed toward the door. “We’ll let the police go ahead with their search. There is a chance she wandered off and got lost on the mountain.” He hesitated. “Max—”
“Yes?”
“I would like your word that you will not try to follow her.”
The demand embarrassed him. Max Collingwood would never try that kind of stunt. It was flat-out stupid. But in some dark corner of his mind it pleased him that Arky believed he might be capable of it. “No,” he said, meaning it. “I won’t.”
Emotion flickered across the lawyer’s features. “Good,” he said. “Let’s let the search run its course. Meantime, you should find out about her next of kin.”
Next of kin? Max knew very little about April Cannon. He would have to check with Colson Laboratories.
Arky paused at the door. “Max, is there anything else about this place I should know?”
“No,” said Max. “At least, not anything that I know about.”
Max listened to the negative reports coming in from the search parties while the first vague streaks of dawn crept into the sky. The little girl with the brown curls was looking at him again from the cabin window. It was a memory he had thought he’d shut away. Buried.
He liked April Cannon, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe she was gone, vanished into a dark never-never land. The image of the fading chair, the vertical lines just visible through its legs and seat, was paused on each of the monitor bank’s four screens.
The lines might have been anything—a defect in the film, a momentary reflection. Or they might have been a glimpse of another place. They looked vaguely like a column. He pictured the wooden chair set in the portico of a Greek temple.
If in fact it was a transportation system, it had to work in both directions. Why, then, had she not come back?
Because the system was old. After all, the smoke had not worked. Maybe she was simply stranded.
There was a test he could run.
Max installed a filter in his minicam, got a spade and collected a pile of snow, and went back to the Roundhouse. It was empty; the search was concentrated on the surrounding hillsides. His boots crunched on the dirt floor, and it occurred to him that it was the first time he’d been alone in here.
He made a little mound of snow in the center of the grid. Then he propped the camera on a chair, aimed it, and started it.
He pressed the wall over the arrow.
It lit up.
Max backed away, watching the pile of snow, counting down without meaning to.
Above the grid, the air ignited. It burned and expanded and threw off a golden cloud that shimmered and grew so bright he had to look away. Then it winked out.
The snow was gone. Not so much as a trickle of water remained.
Okay. He gathered up the camera, hurried back to the van, and loaded the videocassette into the VCR.
He played it through at normal speed first to be sure he had the entire sequence. And there was no doubt that the snow went transparent before vanishing altogether.
He rewound it and began again. When the effect started, he froze the frame and walked it through. The light brightened, grew misty, and expanded. Within the mist, stars ignited. The luminosity seemed almost to seek the pile of snow. Bright tendrils embraced the snow, and then it began to fade. Frame by frame it grew less distinct, without losing its definition. When it was almost gone, no more than a suggestion, another image appeared.
It paralyzed him.
He was looking at her headless torso. She was crumpled, arms dangling.
A sense of loss engulfed him. And as tears of blind rage began to flow, he realized that it might be only her jacket.
Was only her jacket.
Minnesota Twins. He could read the logo. There was no question. But the front didn’t look right. An object, a cylinder, a tube, something, hung from it.
A flashlight. It was the barrel of a flashlight. Minus its cap.
The barrel looked crushed.
It was one of the standard-issue cheap plastic models they had used at the site. But what had happened to it?
He puzzled over it for several minutes. What would he have done if he were stranded over there, wherever there was? He would try to send a message.
I am here.
And…what?
The flashlight’s broken?
He took a deep breath.
Something’s broken.
The transportation system is broken.
He called Arky. “She made it,” he said. “The thing’s a doorway. A passage.”
“How do you know?”
“Her coat’s on the other side. I’ve got pictures.”
The lawyer seemed to have trouble speaking. Max could picture him shaking his head, trying to make sense of all this. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“So what do we do now?”
It was painfully obvious. “We need a hardware store.”
They got the proprietor out of bed and bought a generator, two gallons of gas, a voltage meter, a one-and-a-half-horsepower industrial-strength drill, and a few additional pieces of equipment and took it back to the Roundhouse. Max used the drill to cut through the rear wall.
The space behind the wall was occupied by a flat rectangular crystal mounted in a frame. It was roughly the dimensions of a sheet of standard-sized stationery and about a quarter-inch thick. It was translucent, and there were several small burn marks. The device was connected to the icons by color-coded cables. “It’s probably a circuit board,” said Max.
Arky looked horrified. “We can’t repair this kind of stuff,” he said.
“Depends what the problem is. If it’s something integral to the crystal, then probably not. But April might just be looking at a loose wire. Or a dead power source.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to build one of these, but it doesn’t look all that complicated.”
“I don’t think it could be the power supply,” Arky said. “If there were no power over there, she wouldn’t have arrived in the first place.”
“That’s probably true, Arky. But who knows? Let’s see what else is here.” He dug into the wall behind the crystal.
There were other cables in back, one running down into the floor, others curving into the overhead. One group was banded together. “One of these has to be the power source,” said Max. “And I’ll bet the cluster activates the transport mechanism itself. Whatever and wherever that is.”
“It’s going to take a while to figure out where these go,” said Arky.
“Maybe we can cut a few corners.” Max knelt on a rubber mat and took hold of the cable they thought might lead to the power source. He tugged on it, gently, and to his delight, it slipped off as easily as if the connection had been cleaned and oiled the day before, revealing a prong. “Okay,” he said. “Hand me the voltage meter.”
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It was difficult getting at the cable, and eventually he was forced to make a bigger hole. But he got his reading. “Direct current,” he said. “Eighty-two volts.”
“That’s an odd number,” said Arky.
“They don’t play by our rules, I guess.”
Arky poured gas into the generator tank. He used the regulator to adjust its flux and took a True Hardware cable connector apart and reconfigured it to clip to the back of the crystal. Max pressed the arrow, and the icon lit up.
“Okay,” he said. “I guess it’s time to bite the bullet.”
Max had almost hoped it wouldn’t work. Then he’d have been able to justify in his own mind that there was no point trying to follow. But he was cornered, and he wondered whether he could really bring himself to stand on the grid.
He disconnected the generator and replaced the original cable. Then he put the generator on the grid, plunked a toolbox down beside it, and picked up a legal pad.
“I’m not so sure about this,” said Arky. “If something goes wrong, I could lose my license.” He grinned at Max, and Max suddenly realized he had the lawyer’s respect. It was almost worth it. “What’s the paper for?”
“Communication.” Max held up a black marker. “If we get stuck over there, if this stuff doesn’t work, I’ll post a message.”
He climbed stiffly onto the grid and closed his eyes. Then, deliberately, he opened them again. “Okay, Arky,” he said. “Hit the button.”
20
Unpathed waters, undreamed shores…
—William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale
The world filled with light. The arching walls grew transparent and leaked blue-white sunlight. Violet hills swam in and out of focus. The floor fell away, and he was afloat, not falling, but drifting. A sudden vertigo washed through him. Then he sprawled forward on solid ground.
He was looking at the Minnesota Twins logo. The jacket was draped over a broken tree branch, which was propped against a glass wall.
He was inside a cupola, near the top of a low hill. Around him lay the forest he had glimpsed when the transition started. Except that it was solid now. And it did not look like any forest he had ever seen.
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