Prisoners of Tomorrow (43 page)

“Paula, this is Eban,” Olga said. “You’ve probably seen him around. I think Eban can help you with regard to the other American you’ve been asking about.”

“Lewis Earnshaw? You know where he is?”

“Hmm, I’ve possibly heard tell of him,” Eban said noncommittally. “Describe him to me.”

“Oh, about six feet in height, I’d guess. One-eighty-pounds, probably—solid, lean kind of build. Black, wavy hair. It used to be short, parted on the left. Brown eyes, alert, taking things in all the time. Clean-shaven face.”

“Why is he here?”

“He came here with me on May first, as a journalist for Pacific News Services of California. We were arrested on charges of espionage.”

“Why did he really come here?”

“I’ve given you my answer.”

Eban sniffed and looked at Olga questioningly. “She’s reliable,” Olga said. “I’ve worked with her for a long time now. Have you ever regretted trusting my judgment?”

“I don’t like the part about showing her the Crypt and the way into it,” Eban said, speaking as if Paula wasn’t there. “It’s not necessary for her to know of it at this stage. Why can’t we bring him up here instead?”

“There are reasons, as you know,” Olga replied.

“Hmm.” Eban reflected for a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well. But I will need to make arrangements. Come by the hut at the same time tomorrow. Knock if a pot with yellow primroses has been put in the window by the door. Otherwise don’t bother—it will mean the hut is being watched.”

The next day, Olga visited the library and brought Paula the transcript of a reply from “Tycoon/Golic,” addressed to “Pangolin/Hot.” “Tycoon” was Foleda’s code name, while “Golic” completed the compound “Hypergolic,” the first half of which Paula had supplied in her transmission. It acknowledged receipt of Paula’s message, asked a few specific questions, and expressed interest in the list of inmates’ names that Paula had referred to. She decided to put off responding until she’d allowed some time for the promised contact with Earnshaw—which with luck might be imminent.

That evening, the flowers had been placed in the window by the door of Hut 8 when Olga and Paula approached. Paula hadn’t asked how Eban knew whether or not the place was under observation. It was the kind of thing that could happen at any time for no particular reason in Zamork. Olga was carrying a book. They went up to the door and knocked, and Eban let them in. Inside was another man, late thirties or thereabouts, with flat, sandy-colored hair and a ragged mustache. He was wearing the gray uniform of regular-category inmates from the subsurface levels. Paula’s first thought was to wonder how he had gotten into the hut, almost in the center of the surface level compound, without being seen. Before Paula could say anything, Eban touched his lips with a finger and shook his head as a signal for her to remain quiet.

“I’ve brought your book back, Eban,” Olga said. “Most of it was good, but I didn’t agree with the last part. Do you really go along with that?”

“Yes, but I’m not in a mood to argue about it now. Oh, did you want to hear that tape I was telling you about?”

“The American one?”

“They call it piano blues. I wonder why we never invented anything like it.” Eban started a player on a shelf in one corner, and twangy music turned to high volume filled the room. Silently the mustached man handed Paula a flashlight, and then he and Eban went through to the small bathroom and shower closet at the rear of the hut, motioning for Paula to follow. Olga came after them.

The mustached man knelt down by the shower and felt with his fingertips under the edge of the lip enclosing the cubicle floor. The click of a catch sounded, and the whole square of tiling surrounding the drain hinged upward. A section of pipe below the drain had been replaced by a loop of flexible tubing to allow the trapdoor to swing free. Below was a vertical shaft, shored with strips of metal and plastic panels. It was lit by a small bulb fixed in one of the corners a short distance down. The mustached man swung his legs into the shaft and climbed down out of sight. Eban nodded for Paula to follow. She crouched down and sat on the edge of the opening. Below, the head and shoulders of the mustached man were silhouetted dimly against the light. She turned and braced her arms on the edge, and a hand from below guided her foot toward a rung fastened to the shaft wall. Paula felt with her other foot, found the next rung, and began climbing carefully down. Above her head, the trapdoor swung back over the top of the shaft and clicked shut.

They had climbed down through no more than ten feet of the surrounding soil, or whatever else lay beneath the huts, when Paula felt herself stepping out of the shaft into thin air. The hand caught her foot again and moved it onto a solid surface. She ducked out of what turned out to be an opening in a roof, and found herself standing on a steel housing of some kind, partly visible in the feeble light from a second bulb at the bottom of the shaft they had emerged from. Machinery hummed in the space she could sense around her, and there was a current of warm air smelling of oil. Then even the light from the shaft vanished, plunging the place into complete darkness. A moment later a flashlight beam appeared, illuminating the hole in the roof above them. “Give me some light there with yours,” the mustached man hissed. Paula did so while he attached a panel over the opening. Then he turned back toward her.

Paula shone her lamp at his face. “We can’t go on meeting like this,” she said.

He grinned apologetically. “A dreadful way to introduce myself, I know.” He was obviously English. “Hello. My same is Sargent—Peter Sargent. I’m taking you to Lewis Earnshaw.”

“Paula Shelmer. How long has this tunnel been here?”

“Well, now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

They climbed down to the floor, and Sargent led the way through a fragmented world of machines, pipes, ducting, structural supports and cable runs glimpsed briefly in the dancing flashlight beams and made all the more unreal by the suddenness of the contrast with the world they had just left. A bridge of braced girders spanning a drop into black nothingness pointed to a wall reinforced with metal ribbing, which appeared to extend beyond the containing decks above and below. Heights had never been one of Paula’s strong pints, and she made the crossing with trembling legs and a dry mouth. At the far end, Sargent straddled the topmost girder and removed a section that had been cut out of the wall in front, then drew Paula close by him to look through.

She felt as if her heart had dropped down to somewhere in her stomach. The shaft she found herself staring down plunged away to lose itself in blackness beyond the range of the light from Sargent’s flashlight. It was like looking down a bottomless mine.

“Down there?” Paula croaked.

“It’s one of the main Core elevators,” Sargent replied cheerfully. “The problem is that we’re up at the top, and the place we want to get to is down near the bottom. The part that the car runs over is in between, which means we have to get underneath it.”

“Wonderful.”

“Nothing to worry about. First we have to get across to the other side, which we do by dropping down into that horizontal strip and following it around. There’s a space across there, behind the rails the car runs on, that we can use to get down. I’ll go first. If you’re not happy about the traverse, I can bring a line back to clip on you that’ll catch you if you slip.”

“No, I’ll make it. Let’s get it over with. But what happens if the car comes up while we’re only halfway over?”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t come up this high. But it causes quite a strong draft of air. Be ready for it.”

Sargent led off, and Paula tracked him with her light. He moved surely and unhurriedly, finding his holds and shifting position with effortless catlike grace. He reached the far side in no time and lodged himself in the recess behind the vertical rails. Moments later, the beam from his lamp came on to light up the first stretch immediately below Paula. She was already wishing she’d accepted the offer of a safety line, but a streak of pride prevented her from calling out after him now. She lowered herself from the hole to the level of the horizontal strut and edged sideways onto it, feeling ahead with a hand, finding a hold, and pulling herself another step toward the first corner.

“Great stuff!” Sargent’s voice called from across the shaft. “There’s a plate just above your head that you can hold onto there. The next bit’s a little tricky because there’s nothing for your hands. Take it slowly and press your palms flat against the wall for balance.” Paula looked sideways and down over her shoulder. A metal bracing strip about three inches wide ran along the wall, a short distance out from it, with nothing within reach above but smooth, featureless metal. She swallowed hard and gulped a breath. Flattening her chest and the side of her face against the wall, she moved out from the corner, her arm stretched to the side, fingertips inching their way along the surface, feeling for the first edge or crack. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. Sargent had made it look like a stroll. Probably one of those people who relaxed by walking up walls in Yosemite, she thought savagely.

It had to happen. Just as she reached the midpoint, the cables on the far side kicked into motion with a jolt that almost caused her to fall off there and then, and suddenly the whole shaft seemed to be filled with motor noise. Paula closed her eyes and pressed herself against the wall, feeling it throb with vibrations. Air surged around her, and her fingers clawed instinctively at the cold metal. The vibrations intensified, and the terror that is triggered only by the self-preservation instinct compelled her to open her eyes and look down. The roof of the car was rushing upward at her, into the part of the shaft illuminated by the flashlight. It wasn’t going to stop. She could see herself being smeared like . . .

Everything had gone quiet. She looked down and saw the top of the car just a few feet below, stationary. Then her hand gave way suddenly as the palm slipped on its own perspiration. A hand gripped her elbow and steadied her as she tottered. Sargent had moved back out of the recess and was bridging the gap that remained between her and the final corner, one hand steadying her and the other anchored on a firm hold. He drew firmly before she could panic, and seconds later she was perched next to him on a section of supporting frame, safely inside the recess.

“All right?” he asked.

Paula nodded, although she was breathing shakily. “I haven’t had so much fun since my draft physical.”

To get them down, Sargent produced a line that had been hidden behind a girder and uncoiled it, letting the free end drop into the darkness below. He showed her how to run it around her back and thigh to regulate her speed by friction, and then he went first again. A short while afterward, Paula felt two sharp tugs on the line to signal that the way was clear for her to follow. After her experience at the top of the main shaft, the descent seemed uneventful.

They left the elevator shaft through a maintenance hatch which Sargent replaced behind them, and came out onto a narrow steel-floored walkway leading between rows of large tanks and piping. After a short distance Sargent held a hand up for Paula to stop. “We’ve installed our own intruder alarms,” he explained. “There’s an infrared beam right here. Step over it carefully. It saves them having heart attacks in the Crypt every time someone goes down there.”

“What is this Crypt? Eban mentioned it to Olga yesterday.”

“You’ll see.”

They turned off to the side and passed by a series of bays containing transformers and power-distribution equipment. Beyond, light showed from a space underneath an intermediate-level deck. It was so obscured by the forest of support works and engineering that Paula didn’t realize its extent until they were almost on top of it. As they stepped down inside, she saw that the space had been improvised into a workshop-laboratory, with a couple of large benches, tool racks, a table covered with drawings, and all manner of components, assemblies, and devices in various stages of construction. Three figures were waiting, presumably alerted to their approach by the flashlights. The youngest was swarthy-skinned, with black hair and alert, lively eyes. The man next to him was lean in build, with sparse hair, hollowed cheeks, and protruding eyes, giving Paula an instant impression of a human weasel. The third stepped forward and stood looking her up and down for a few seconds, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he grasped her by the shoulders with both hands and stared at her face. “Hi,” Earnshaw said.

“Hi.” She returned his gaze for a moment, then reached up and squeezed his forearms affectionately. “So, you are here. The Russians wouldn’t tell me.”

“They’re like that.” Earnshaw looked down at her green tunic. “What’s this—a priv? You’re doing okay. And I was worried that you were getting a hard time.”

“I was at first, but it changed. It’s a long story. I have news, too. A lot’s been happening.” Paula waved an arm at the surroundings. “But it looks as if you haven’t been exactly idle either. What’s this all about?”

“Another long story. One part of it is we’re fixing a laser. But we need help with the electronics.”

“So that’s why you finally brought me down here?”

“Of course. What else did you think?”

“Lew, you never change. You’re hateful.”

“A much better relationship for business,” Earnshaw said. He motioned with his head to the other two men waiting behind. “This is Paula, my partner that I told you about. Paula, meet Razz and Kev, two more of the crew.”

CHAPTER FORTY

McCain’s brow knotted in open disbelief. “Tycoon?” he repeated. “You’re in touch with Tycoon? How could you be?” They were sitting on a couple of boxes off to one side at the edge of the lighted work area and speaking in lowered voices out of earshot of the others, who were carrying on with their work. This was company business.

“It’s a complicated story,” Paula replied. She had anticipated problems in convincing him. “Basically it works like this. I’ve gotten to know a Russian woman up on the priv level called Olga. She’s a scientist, too—in the nuclear field—but also a human-rights dissident. That’s why she’s here.” McCain nodded and listened intently. Paula went on, “The point is that a colleague of hers—one of her dissident colleagues, that is—who’s also one of her long-standing personal friends, happens to hold a high position in the communications groundstation in Siberia that handles the main link up to here. To cut a long story short, they found a way of sending messages to each other by concealing them in the regular traffic in a way that’s transparent to the standard handling system.”