Novel 1987 - The Haunted Mesa (v5.0) (35 page)

Below him, in the wall, there was another opening. He went swiftly down, working his way through the shelves. Here and there were piled stacks of books, and some flat stones covered with writing. He found a door and stepped in front of it to feel for a handle or latch. Instead, the door began to swing away from him, and beyond lay a lighted passage.

Behind him, among the shelves, he heard a scurrying movement, then a sharp command. Tucking the map into his shirt front, he ducked through the door, turning left into the maze.

Quickly, he ducked into the first opening and waited, flattened against the wall, listening. His hand went to his gun, but even as it did so, he withdrew it. This was no place for a gun. The report of a heavy-caliber pistol would reverberate through all these corridors, alerting everyone. What he needed here was a knife, or simply his bare hands.

The light was vague, but there was light, although he could not determine the source. This had been true in the Hall of Archives as well, he now remembered, but he had given no thought to it.

He waited, listening.

Yet as he listened his mind was searching out the maze about him. He had turned left and suddenly. From here on, every turn must be carefully chosen. In such a labyrinth as this a man could lose himself forever. Even at Hampton Court in England, a much smaller maze, people often had to be escorted out.

He glanced at his watch and his stomach went sick and empty.

So much to do, and so little time!

He started forward, then shrank back. Someone was coming! Along the hall before him, someone was walking, drawing nearer with each step.

He backed into the shadows of the alcove. He had no friends here, and death lay all about him.

Yet if death was to come now, it must be a silent death, quick, with no warning. By now the Varanel would be searching. By now they would expect an interloper.

He waited, poised and ready.

Chapter 37

A
FAINT PERFUME, an essence he could not identify, a light step, and a rustle of garments.

She was slender, graceful, rather taller than he expected. In the vague light her features could not be clearly seen, but she stopped suddenly, turning her face toward the dark alcove in which he stood.

“If you will come with me?”

His left hand went into his pocket, feeling for the chalk he had put there. “At some other time,” he suggested, listening to see if others followed her, but hearing no sound.

“But I can take you where you wish to go.” Her tone was persuasive. “It will be easier if you are guided.” She put out a hand toward him. “I wish to help.”

“No doubt, but I shall do better alone.”

She shook her head. “Alone, you can do nothing. There are people here who would like to help.”

He had stepped closer. A quick glance showed him she could be carrying no other weapons than those she was born with, which were potent indeed.

“Where would you take me?”

“To Erik. That is what you want, is it not? He is not far from here, and waiting.”

“I'd be delighted to see him.” With the chalk held behind him he made a scratch on the corner of the recess. “With such a lovely guide, it would be a pleasure.”

She started off, and he spoke again, lying to her. “You must not walk too fast. I have a foot that is hurt.”

“Oh? I am sorry.”

At each turn he made a mark upon the wall until she stopped suddenly before a door. She pressed a wooden block set into the rock wall, and a door swung slowly outward. Stepping back, she smiled and gestured for him to proceed.

He smiled. “You do not know our ways. In our country the lady always goes first.” He stepped back and indicated that she should precede him.

The door gaped open. She gestured toward it. He bowed, smiling. “Please?” She started toward the opening, and as her foot touched the threshold the door started to close behind her. Raglan caught her sleeve and pulled her quickly back.

She turned on him sharply, pulling her arm free. “Why? Why you do that?”

“I feared you would be crushed in the door.” Should he have let her die? It was one of the trapped rooms, he was sure. “If you can take me to him, do so. If you cannot, return to those who sent you and tell them I am coming. Tell them also, if they wish people to believe the Varanel are invulnerable, not to send them against me.”

“You are a fool!” she said contemptuously. “A poor fool!”

“But one who saved you from death. Do you think they would open that door for you? Have they ever opened one for anyone?”

She stared at him. “Why you do this?”

“It is a custom of my people, often called ‘chivalry.' Perhaps it is a foolish custom, but it is ours. I would not like to think of you slowly dying in there, beating upon the walls with those small fists, then adding your bones to those already there.”

“You are a fool.” She said it but her tone was no longer so positive.

“Of course,” he added, “I expect you planned on escaping after I was safely inside. I would be trapped. You would slip out before the door closed. Maybe they suggested that, but you see, they know. It cannot be done. That huge door is too heavy and there is no foothold, and no time. They were prepared for you to die with me.”

She drew back from him. “It is not true.”

“You know your people better than I. Possibly I am mistaken, but the impression I have is that everyone is expendable in your society. That is why it is dying.”

“Dying?” Her contempt was obvious.

“Walking through your city I passed many empty buildings, many unused. Obviously the population was once greater than it is today.

“I have seen no signs of recent building. Your structures are all very old. Your world is static, and when a culture ceases to grow, it begins to decay. You could learn from the people in the mountains.”

“There are no people in the mountains.”

“You have been there to see?”

She shrugged. “Who wishes to go there? It is nothing but a place of barren hills.”

“You are not curious?”

“What is ‘curious'? I do not know it. The mountains are a bore.”

“And beyond them? Beyond the desert out there?”

She shrugged again. “Why you speak of nothing? It is nothing out there.”

“And the ruins?”

“Ruins? I know of no ruins. This where we are is Shibalba. Shibalba is all.”

“And what of me? Where do I come from?”

She stared at him, disturbed and irritated. “It does not matter. You are wrong. You must not be. You do not belong among us. You do not belong anywhere.”

He chuckled. “No doubt there are a lot of people who would agree with you.” He was wasting time. “I am going now. Follow, if you wish. If you doubt that your people care nothing for you, enter that room again. I promise you will never come out. Or go back and tell them you have failed. That I would not follow you.”

Leaving her, he walked swiftly away. He would try the left-hand rule. It worked in many mazes. If it worked here, well and good. If not, he must begin over again. Regardless, he must beware of a loop that would bring him back where he began.

Once, before making the next turn, he glanced back. She was still standing there, looking after him.

Keeping his left hand on the wall, he followed it into a niche and out again. As he emerged, he made a chalk mark, then hurried on, keeping in mind the map taken from the Archives. He had but one wish now: to find Erik and get out of here, to get back to his own world—preferably with Kawasi beside him.

What was it about her? Why should she, more than any girl he could remember, capture his attention? So little had passed between them; almost nothing had been said, and he had spent so little time in her company. Yet he could think of no one else. He wanted to think of no one else.

The long halls were empty. At intervals there were closed doors, opening to what he could not guess. To traps? To living quarters? To storage rooms? Shrines? Each turn he marked with chalk so he would know where he had been.

Unless someone realized what he was doing and followed, wiping out his marks.

The place had a dank, musty odor that he did not like. The light, powered by some means he could not guess, was dim, so that objects could be seen but few details were visible.

He slowed his pace. After leaving the girl who had tried to entrap him, he had seen no one. How far had he traveled, and how many turns? A dozen? Twenty? He had forgotten. His hand felt for his weapons. All were in place, and he had a feeling he would need them. His left hand on the wall, he turned again. The passage grew suddenly lighter, but here the reason was obvious. Near the top of the wall there were long, narrow windows. This then, must be an outside wall.

Those openings to the outside were at least twelve feet above his head, impossible to reach because of the sheer wall, and what lay outside one could only guess.

Pausing suddenly, he looked at the floor. Hurrying as he was, he had scarcely noticed the change in the footing, but he walked now on native rock, a dull, red rock not unlike that near the place he had come to think of as the Haunted Mesa.

Suppose, in his own world, that this was actually Erik's mesa, or close to it? Suppose there was an opening from inside here? Was that not one of the stories he had heard? That such an opening existed?

If such there was, and he could find it, what a short-cut to escape when he had found Erik! No retracing his steps, but simply to plunge through, perhaps into the kiva itself!

He paused to listen. Had he heard something? Some distant sound? Some still far-off pursuit?

He hurried on, following every twisting turn of the labyrinth, always keeping his hand on the left wall. He turned suddenly to find himself in a hall of glass! Everywhere his eyes turned there was glass. There were glass walls, mirrors, walls he could see through to other glass walls beyond them. Now he must remember not to think he saw an opening, but always to keep his hand on that glass wall.

His sense of direction, if he possessed such a thing, was completely gone. The convoluted twistings and turnings of the maze had taken care of that, and now all he had about him was glass. He remembered that when he was a boy working with the carnivals, there had often been sideshows with glass houses, and he had had to learn the way of getting in and out. Was this the same?

He moved on, keeping his hand on the glass wall. He started forward and immediately smashed hard into glass. Keeping his hand on the glass, he turned more to the right. Again he smashed into glass.

How could that be? He stood still and let his left hand follow the glass around. Finally, he found the opening and moved cautiously forward. He managed only a few feet and came up against glass again. Frustrated, he started to turn sharply away and for a moment lifted his left hand.

Quickly, he put it back. In the same place? How could he know? And supposing some of these glass walls revolved? Suppose it was so arranged that the pressure of his step would make a sheet of plate glass swing around to cut him off?

Cautiously, he moved on, slowly feeling his way along. At times he closed his eyes, and it was easier that way, for whatever he saw was deceptive.

Was he going in a circle? There was nothing with which to mark his progress, as the chalk did not seem to work on the glass. Whether it was something to do with the chalk itself or the way the glass had been treated, the chalk would leave no mark.

He turned and turned again, his fingers following the wall, and suddenly it came to an edge. He felt around it. There was a mirror opposite him in which he could see himself and all the glass behind him, but on his left there was an opening back into the maze.

Pausing in the shadows of the door he consulted the old map. The blank wall before him should be the place of The Hand. To his right and some thirty feet away was another passage, and the doors to the six cells, if they were such, opened off that passage. There, too, was the guardroom.

He had until now been impossibly lucky. His quick study of the map and some slight knowledge of mazes had helped. The maze, after all, seemed quite simple. Yet what if he had not seen the map beforehand, and had not held to the left-hand rule?

He could easily have spent days wandering in the glass maze alone, to say nothing of what had gone before. There were, he recalled, several trapped rooms in this area, and although there had been no such indications on any one of the cells, a trap might exist there, also.

Suddenly, he tilted the old map, squinting his eyes to see. There, just around the corner and inside The Hand's quarters, there was something. The drawing had grown almost illegible in places and he could not quite make out what was indicated. Some sort of passage or tunnel, or at least a door.

He folded the map, touched his tongue to dry lips, and stepped into the open.

Nothing…

He glanced both ways again, then turned to the right and walked to the corner.

He turned, and found himself facing a Varanel! The guard saw him at the same instant and opened his mouth to shout. Mike Raglan had no time to think, to plan, to consider. He lowered the boom.

He struck, straight from the shoulder with his weight behind it. The Varanel had automatically stepped toward him and caught the punch coming in. It landed right on the side of his chin, with his mouth open, and the jaw crumpled under Raglan's fist.

The Varanel went down hard, dropping his wand or whatever it was. Raglan stepped over him, his foot coming down hard on the tube, for such it seemed to be. Something in it broke and crumpled under his foot, and then Raglan was crossing the space to the doors of the cells. He was running when he reached the door. He grasped the handle to open the door but nothing happened. He spoke Erik's name, listening for a response.

There was none. He turned and jerked open the next door and was staring into the eyes of four Varanel grouped around a table.