THE DIGGING LEVIATHAN

James P. Blaylock

www.sfgateway.com

Enter the SF Gateway …

In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:

‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’

Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.

The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.

Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.

Welcome to the SF Gateway.

Contents

Title Page

Gateway Introduction

Contents

Book One

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Book Two

Prologue

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Book Three

Prologue

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Website

Also by James P. Blaylock

Dedication

Author Bio

Copyright

“—from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this volume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to considerably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains not a single reference to the imbecility of God’s universe, nor so much as a single hint that I could have made a better one myself. I really do not know where my head can have been. I seem to have forgotten all that makes it glorious to be man. ‘Tis an omission that renders the book philosophically unimportant; but I am in hopes the eccentricity may please in frivolous circles.”

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

An Inland Voyage

BOOK ONE

Home Is the Sailor

Man’s a strange animal, and makes strange use

Of his own nature, and the various arts,

And likes particularly to produce

Some new experiment to show his parts;

This is the age of oddities let loose,

Where different talents find their different marts;

You’d best begin with truth, and when you’ve lost your

Labour, there’s a sure market for imposture.

—LORD BYRON

Don Juan

Prologue

In the silver light of the midnight moon the mangroves looked animate. Twisted roots arched out into brackish water at the mouth of the Rio Jari, stretching away north in tangled profusion toward Surinam where pipid frogs chirped and paddled in slack water. South, not five miles distant, rolled the black silent expanse of the Amazon, nearly forty miles across. The night was warm, and the moon seemed to cover half the sky, bathing yellow mangrove blossoms in watery beams and playing across the mottled bark of an enormous orchid-hung trunk that lay half submerged in the river.

Basil Peach gripped the ragged end of a broken limb, steadied himself, and flung a weighted net into the river. A paraffin lantern burned on shore, but the dirty yellow glow was lost almost at once in the opalescent moonlight.

William Ashbless wrote poetry and watched Peach fish. Peach hadn’t said anything for three hours. Above, on a bit of sandy bank, slept Professor Russel Latzarel and the lepidopterist, Phillip Mays. It was nearing two in the morning. Ashbless would have been asleep himself, but the moonlight was conducive to poetry, and he had suspicions about Basil Peach.

A week past they’d fished the Peewatin River in French Guiana for cichlids, then had come south on a Coastline ferry bound for Belem and Recife. It was slow going. Basil Peach always had one eye on the jungle; it drew him as a fish is drawn to the shadows of a submarine cave. At Macapa he didn’t leave the ship, but lay in his cabin for three days, sweltering in air so humid that it threatened to melt into vapor.

Professor Latzarel hired a boat at Macapa and, to the astonishment of the fisherman who owned it, floated up and down the bank of the Amazon, sounding deep pools with a five-hundred-foot line hung with a lead weight the size of an orange. A week later at the mouth of the Rio Jari, he ran out of line. The weight plummeted down and down into the dark river, yanking out yards of rope until there wasn’t any more beyond the eight or ten inches tied to the peculiar little fiddlehead of his hired coracle. Professor Latzarel cursed himself for not having another five hundred feet—but it was an ambivalent sort of cursing, since he knew, or at least hoped, that a thousand feet wouldn’t have been enough. The pool, he was certain, was bottomless. In the following days he caught seventy-four tetras, each about as long as his thumb. The fish were an unusual luminescent blue—blue tinged with the springtime colors of salmon and pink and violet. Professor Latzarel was entirely satisfied.

But Basil Peach was restive. His fishing was pointless. His long, hairless face was still fleshy white despite the tropical sun. Day and night he wore a visored cap with a transparent green bill about a foot long, with a high-collared shirt, the flaps of the collar turned up to hide his neck and the two rows of crescent-shaped vestigial gills that rose to a point almost behind his ears. Basil Peach was peculiar, Ashbless had to admit. His father and grandfather had been peculiar, too. They could quite easily have been fish themselves, or pale anthropoid amphibians. Basil was certainly more at home in the mangrove swamps and the jungles of the Amazon Basin than in the streets of Los Angeles five thousand miles away.

Peach cast his net again, pulling on a leader line to bring it around through the current. Ashbless scribbled in his notebook and smoked his pipe. He considered titling his sequence of poems Amazon Moon in honor of his old friend Don Blanding. What he wanted more than anything else was a glass of Scotch and a bottle of beer to chase it with. In the corner of his right eye he could see the bottom arc of the moon, enormous in the sky. It seemed to Ashbless that he was sitting in a bowl formed of mangroves, and that the moon was a lid settling down over him. He could see shadows, perhaps of mountains, on its surface, and along the eastern hemisphere flowed what appeared to be winding swerves of an old dusty riverbed across dry plains, a shadow river that would have dwarfed the Amazon. The whole thing was a leering ivory face, an ancient Japanese netsuke that swallowed the stars. Basil Peach was oblivious to it. He stood among waterweeds cocking his head.

There was a tremendous splashing upriver. Peach dropped his seine, and it lay for a moment slack on the water before coining abruptly to life, wriggling and flopping and sweeping down over the submerged log, finally catching on a limb. Upriver the water was alive with silver fire. A million glints of reflected moonlight shone from the churning surface, spreading out across the dark river. Little arcing glimmers appeared and disappeared as if someone were casting out handfuls of blue diamonds. It was teeming with fish, thousands of blue tetras glowing in the phosphorescent light of the impossible moon.

A moaning filled the air as if the very atmosphere were being stretched by the pull of tides, and countless fish rose in a cloud of iridescence over the jungle, whirling into the moon as it fell back through the heavens. Silver stars blinked on around it, seeming for all the world to be the fish themselves, and the river was silent and dark except for the furtive splashing of the thing in the net.

When Ashbless left off watching the moon and picked up his pen, Basil Peach was twenty yards upriver, sloshing through shallows, bound, perhaps, for the moon himself. Ashbless watched him disappear, waited for an hour, then fell asleep in the sultry night, waking in the morning when the sun peeped up over the mangroves. Peach had not returned.

A splashing in the river reminded Ashbless of the fish in the net. He and Mays pulled it in and rolled it onto the shore grasses. To Latzarel’s wild surprise, it was a marine coelacanth, black and scaly and dying in the sun, some night creature having ripped into its underbelly in the early morning. Latzarel dissected the fish, bottling its organs, convinced, predictably, that it wasn’t a member of the living genus Latimeria. In its stomach he found shell and tentacle fragments of a straight-chambered cephalopod, possibly a late Devonian squid.

Basil Peach never returned. Four months later Latzarel received a postcard mailed from Lake Windermere in central England.

Chapter 1

Hot winds had blown down out of the Santa Ana Canyon for three days, charging the air with static electricity and the smell of the desert. The Hollywood Hills and San Gabriel Mountains were full of fire. It seemed likely that before the first of November the entirety of the Los Angeles basin would be burned to cinder. Plumes of black smoke clouded the horizon, and fine black ash and soot drizzled like dead rain when the winds fell and left off blowing the smoke away to the northwest. The evening hills flickered with patches of orange flame, and the night air was full of sirens screaming away up the boulevard. Serious reporters chattered from the car radio, mouthing suspicions of arson. But to Jim Hastings, who rode along in his Uncle Edward’s Hudson Wasp bound for the ocean, speculations about arson seemed immaterial. He was fairly sure that even if all arsonists suddenly disappeared from the earth, the scrub-covered foothills, feeling the sweep of hot autumn winds, would set themselves ablaze in the tradition of Mr. Krook of the rag and bottle shop.

There was a stupendous low tide, a negative eight feet. The rock reefs along the shores of the Palos Verdes Peninsula were exposed two hundred yards seaward at three o’clock in the afternoon. Onshore breezes that had sprung up in late morning kept the skies above the shoreline clear as rainwater. The sun shone on little wavelets in sharp glints, and from the top of the cliffs Jim Hastings and his best friend Giles Peach could see Catalina Island floating mythically. It seemed as if every bit of chaparral and gnarled oak on the distant island were visible and that the Santa Barbara Channel had, mysteriously, awakened to find itself a part of the Aegean Sea. The two scrambled down a steep dirt trail to the beach, leaving the unloading of the old Hudson to Jim’s uncle, Edward St. Ives. Jim, a romantic, claimed to have heard that wild peccary and cyclops lived in caves in the cliffs and wandered out onto the beaches on deserted winter days. Gill, a pragmatist, said he supposed that was a lie.

The two of them wandered from one long shelf of rock to another, finding successively larger tidepools that contained successively stranger fish. Tiny octopi and violet nudibranchs hovered in the shadows of eel grass and blue-green algae. Little schools of silver opaleye perch darted across the expanse of larger pools, and in one, guarded by two lumpy-looking orange parents, hovered ten thousand baby garibaldi, shining like blue fire when they darted out of the shadows of rocks and into the sunlight.

Uncle Edward caught up with them, carrying the wooden bucket that he called Momus’ glass. The bottom had been carefully sawed out and a round piece of double strength window glass caulked in. When the glass-bottomed bucket was partially submerged in the rippling water of a pool, the land beneath sprang into sharp clarity as if beyond the wall of an aquarium.

Such were the depths of the pools, however, that in some of them there was nothing but shadow below. The reds and blues and greens of the algae faded in the depths, and the pools fell away finally into darkness. It was impossible to say whether a crab scuttling over a bed of sea lettuce was ten feet beneath the surface or twenty, or whether the seeming depth was a trick of refraction and the crab only a foot below them.

Jim broke mussels to bits, smashing them against rocks and dropping pieces of slippery orange flesh into the pool, watching them disappear between the clutching fingers of anemones. Once, just for the slip of an instant, he fancied he saw a great luminous eye peer up at him from a swaying shadow deep below—the eye of a fish who had wandered up out of a deep ocean trench.

Jim had the idea that the pools were somehow prodigiously deep. He had read, in fact, that the entirety of Los Angeles lay on what amounted to a floating bed of rock. A deep enough hole would sooner or later find the ocean. Uncle Edward insisted that at any particular moment, while you sat in your armchair smoking your pipe and reading your book, a submarine might well be cruising a mile beneath you, its running lights startling schools of giant squid. These tidepools, then, might go anywhere they pleased. That was pretty much the way Jim saw it. And Giles was in no hurry to disagree, as he had in the matter of the cyclops. He had a strange affinity for the ocean, for the idea of ancient, Paleozoic seas and the monsters that crept—and might still creep—across dim ocean floors.

Giles had been born, like his father, with a neat set of vestigial gills along either side of his neck. Coincidentally, the index and middle fingers of each of his hands were partially webbed. Doctors had suggested operating on the baby, but Basil Peach had been dead against it, owing, perhaps, to being the obvious progenitor of the deformities. To alter them would be to admit to them, and in those days Basil Peach would admit no such thing. Jim hadn’t thought much about Gill’s deformities, such as they were, until he met Oscar Pallcheck. He had assumed that any number of people had such ornamentation. Oscar, however, had immediately seen the humor in Giles’ nickname. It still made him laugh; he could stretch a joke out over years. Giles, however, was above it, or seemed to be.

So Jim didn’t expect Giles to refute his theory of bottomless pools. He assumed that if Giles had sported a single eye in the center of his forehead, then he would have been more amenable to the idea of cyclops. Giles borrowed the bucket, lay across a dry expanse of rock, and gazed entranced into the pool, watching for the leviathan.

About then there was a shout from Uncle Edward. Jim hurried across from one rock to another, plunging up to his knees in a tidepool on the way to where his uncle was thrusting his hand and arm into the depths. Jim looked sharply in the pool for some treasure, for a wonderful seashell or a pearl or a Spanish coin. But the surface of the water was rippled with wind and rising tide, and churned by the repeated dunkings of Edward’s arm. Abruptly, his uncle gasped in a deep breath, plunged his head and shoulders into the cold water rand came up holding what at first appeared to be a white murex or a pelican’s foot shell. But on closer examination it wasn’t either one. It was the tiny bleached skeleton of a human hand.

The discovery, although strange and magical enough to Jim, seemed to suggest immense mysteries to Uncle Edward, who slogged off across the reefs through the rising tide, muttering about diving bells. The tide was quickly coming in, and all of them were wet to the waist before they clambered up the steep cliffs to the car. No cyclops peered out at them.

On the return trip Giles Peach was still under the sway of the deep pools, for he took only a half-hearted interest in the little hand. It occurred to Jim, as the Hudson rounded a curve in the Coast Highway and the green ocean disappeared to westward, that it was a pity he hadn’t some sort of tens—some facsimile of the glass-bottomed bucket, of Momus’ glass—to shove up against Giles’ head in order to see what was inside. It wouldn’t at all have surprised him if the view were one of gently waving eel grass and sea lettuce and wandering chitons and limpets.

It was about then that Giles Peach was put in the way of the novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Edward St. Ives was a collector of books, especially of fantasy and science fiction, the older and tawdrier the better. Plots and cover illustrations that smacked of authenticity didn’t interest him. It was sea monsters; cigar-shaped, crenelated rockets; and unmistakable flying saucers that attracted him. There was something in the appearance of such things that appealed to that part of him that appreciated the old Hudson Wasp. And beyond that, he loved the idea of owning great quantities of things. He wasn’t in the habit of reading the books, since the texts so rarely made good on the promise of the illustrations. Once a month or so, after a particularly satisfactory trip to Acres of Books, he’d drag out the lot of his paperback Burroughs novels, lining up Tarzan books here and Martian books there and Pellucidar books somewhere else. The Roy Krenkel covers were the most amazing, with their startling slashes and dabs of impressionist color and their distant spired cities half in ruin and shadow beneath a purple sky.

“Look at this machine, Jim,” Uncle Edward would say, pointing at the weird, suspended apparatus operated by the Mastermind of Mars. There on the cover was a bluish-purple complex of metallic globes and rotors and suspended silver wires, and the goggle-eyed Mastermind waving an impossible syringe over the supine body of an orange-robed maiden.

“What do you suppose he does with this?” Uncle Edward would ask.

“Does he grow turnips?” Jim would ask.

After which Uncle Edward, pretending to take a really close look at it, would reply, “Why I believe he does. It’s a turnip transformer. That’s exactly what it is.”

So one Saturday when Burroughs was spread across the living room, Giles Peach wandered in and fell away into the covers of those books as he’d fallen into the depths of the tidepools. The illustrations were windows into alternate worlds, and he quickly saw a way to boost himself over the sill and clamber through. He fingered this volume and that, amazed at mastodons and sunlit jungle depths, and he traced with his finger the smoky line of cloud drift beyond the domes of the city of Opar.

“Why, look at this machine,” Uncle Edward cried, winking at Jim and pointing once again to the globular device. “What do you suppose he does with this?”

Jim was too well schooled in the game by then not to ask, “Does he grow turnips?” in a sincere enough tone to snatch Giles back into the living room.

“I doubt that he grows turnips,” said Giles, who had no humor in him. “At least he doesn’t grow them with this machine.” He peered at the cover, inspecting the ridiculous device, determining what manner of thing it was.

“Oh?” said Uncle Edward. “It looks altogether like a turnip transmutator. The sort that the Irish use to turn potatoes into other sorts of root crops.”

Giles gave him a look, a sort of pitying, condescending look, and pointed toward the recumbent maiden. “Do you mean to say they’re going to turn this woman into a turnip?” he asked, coming to the conclusion that the book quite possibly wasn’t the scientific treasure he had supposed it to be. “I’d say it has something to do with a dental drill,” Giles said, pointing toward what appeared to be a syringe. “This doctor is about to drill a hole in her skull and perform some sort of electronic lesion.”

“Giles!” cried Uncle Edward, surprised. “Where did you hear such a thing as that?”

“I read about it,” said Giles calmly, as if reading about lesions performed with dental drills and electricity was a common enough thing among fifteen-year-olds in the city of Eagle Rock. “There was a man,” continued Gill, “who could make rats dance by lesioning part of their brain—some little gland, I think.”

“Was there?” asked Edward, who favored the idea of dancing rats. “You like to read this stuff, do you, Giles?”

“Very much, sir. I’m studying to be a scientist, an inventor.”

“Well good for you, lad. That’s just the thing, science.” Uncle Edward picked up a handful of books and slid them in along the shelves. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Giles inspected the cover of At the Earth’s Core, the flower-hung jungle and the scantily clad pair of women astride blue dinosaurs in a sunlit clearing. He carefully opened the volume and thumbed past four pages until he arrived at the first chapter and read aloud two absolutely fateful sentences. “Then Perry interested me in his invention. He was an old fellow who had devoted the better part of a long life to the perfection of a mechanical, subterranean prospector.” He shut the book, looked hard at the cover again, and wandered out through the front door and down the street without saying another word. Giles didn’t mean to be impolite. He was simply lost in Perry’s invention—in the whole idea of inventions. Years later Edward St. Ives would say, on more than one occasion, to watch out for people who fancy inventions but who can see nothing in the notion of turnip transmogrifiers; they aren’t half frivolous enough and will cause trouble. In fact, the mechanical mole—the digging leviathan—was conceived that afternoon and was born in the following months.

If it had been the only thing Giles Peach had invented and built, the very idea of it would seem preposterous. But of course it wasn’t. Giles and Jim had been engaged for some years in building mechanical devices. On occasions Oscar Pall-check gave them a hand, illustrating, more often than not, the defects in their methods. In Giles’ garage was an oak barrel full of mechanical junk they had managed to collect: old electric motors, ruined clocks, nuts and bolts and bits of copper wire, a sprung umbrella, radio tubes, bottle caps and bicycle parts, a little leather bag full of droplets of solder. The two had pieced together a wonderful gadget around an old fan motor. The machine hadn’t any purpose, really, beyond gadgetry. They intended at first to make a spinning model of the solar system. So they attached straightened bits of wire of varying lengths to support the nine planets, which, when the motor was switched on, spun very quickly around the sun in tight little circles until it threw itself to bits.

Gill then rigged a belt and gear mechanism from wide rubber bands, wooden spools, and pieces of an old mechanical clock, extending the device so that it could contain any number of solar systems, all cranking roundabout at the same time. On the strength of his knowledge of astronomy, he determined that such a plethora of simultaneously whirring planets would be as unscientific as a turnip transmutator, and so set out to find a way to operate little white Christmas tree pin lights strung between the wires. He wanted to make a model of the Andromeda nebula, to suspend it from the rafters of the garage, and to shut off all the lights, close the doors, and watch it whirl there in space. The nebula, however, blew a succession of fuses when he plugged it in, managing to get underway for one mysterious, kaleidoscopic moment before blinking into darkness.

When the nebula failed, scientific pretense failed with it. They removed the stars and replaced them with all manner of things, notably the heads of several rubber apes and a collection of little plastic Japanese gods—gaudily painted objects with overhanging bellies and pendulous ears. They tore the base from a coin bank shaped like a globe and affixed the painted sphere to a long coathanger that thrust out from amid the various gods and ape heads. Finally, along the bent arm of another piece of wire Giles strapped a toothy little stuffed crocodile with a broken-off tail. It was a sorry-looking, bug-infested creature, but when the whirring Earth machine shot into life and the globe went spinning away among the ape heads pursued on its course by the open-mouthed crocodile, it seemed to the two of them to be a grand sight. Gill pointed out that it was archetypal, that the crocodile was leviathan and would someday consume the earth.

The two worked the device for an hour with great success until Oscar Pallcheck happened by and had a good laugh over the machine at the expense of the crocodile. Giles and Jim, of course, were obliged to laugh along and to admit that it would improve the thing greatly to shove one of the ape heads into the crocodile’s mouth so that the ape peered out at the continent of Africa. The experiment degenerated from there, and before he went his peculiar way that evening, Oscar found a baseball bat and whacked the globe as it wobbled past into the wall or Gill’s garage, crashing the side in and putting an end to the whirling earth machine.

That same fan motor, along with two others, became, in the Saturday afternoons following, a mechanical man. The thing’s legs were stacks of roped tin cans that flopped and jerked when the current was switched on. The mechanical man suffered more evolutionary changes than had the whirring earth machine and was declining just about as rapidly until, as a lark, Oscar Pallcheck dropped the creature out of the foliage of a Chinese elm on the parkway and into the path of Uncle Edward’s Hudson Wasp.

Giles became convinced as a result that inventions without purpose were doomed by physical law to degeneration in a manner analogous to the decline of human beings who hadn’t any aim or resolve. He singled out Oscar Pallcheck as a case in point.

What all of that inventing was leading up to, none of them knew. John Pinion, the polar explorer, had an inkling, and he encouraged Giles’ gadgeting, going so far as to buy him occasional tools and parts, and talking seriously about the diameter of the Earth. That turn left Jim behind. He didn’t care much for serious inventions, and didn’t half believe that Gill’s growing mechanical mole would dig at all, much less into the center of the Earth.

The one opportunity that he had to see the mole did nothing to change his mind. Jim and Uncle Edward had stopped at John Pinion’s ranch in the foothills of Eagle Rock at the request of Gill’s mother, to summon her son home. And there had sat the mole—the Digging Leviathan, as Uncle Edward liked to call it—twenty odd feet of riveted steel perched on a trestle built of railroad ties. All in all it was a sort of art deco wonder of crenelations and fins and thick ripply glass, as if it had been designed by a pulp magazine artist years before the dawn of the space age which would iron flat the wrinkles of imagination and wonder.

Jim was transfixed. Edward St. Ives was contemptuous. Pinion was a posturing fool, or so he pointed out as the Hudson roared away down Colorado Boulevard that afternoon, an oblivious Giles slouching quietly in the back seat. Pinion was developing the mole in the spirit of spite, not science. He wasn’t intent so much on getting to the Earth’s core as on getting there ahead of Russel Latzarel and Edward St. Ives. Jim nodded sagely and agreed with his uncle.

Gill continued to work away on bits and pieces of the machine, dabbling continually with it at his cluttered and ill-lit workbench in his own garage. He would disappear for hours at a time, tinkering with bits of mechanical debris, with gears and sprockets, wire and springs, machine screws and chunks of lucite rod. Once, when Gill abandoned him, Jim had an opportunity to take a quick glance at the journal that Gill kept hidden under his bed.

Everything went into the journal. It was wonderfully long. Gill egotistically called it the “Last History” and had been at it for years. It filled boxes. Jim didn’t have a chance to browse through more than six or eight pages, but what he read was unsettling, although it was difficult to say just why. There was something peculiar in it, as if what he was reading was linked somehow to the ebb and flow of time and space, and as if it was more than a casual diary, more than symbols scrawled on a page. Jim could sense straight off something waiting just under the surface, like the indistinct shadows that slide below rolling ocean swells—shadows cast, perhaps, by clouds, or then again by the silent passing of a great dark fish, navigating through the gray and shifting waters. Something was lurking among the words in Gill’s journal, swimming below them and around them but never quite surfacing. And once he started to think about it, it didn’t matter at all what it was—the shadows of cloud drift or of deep water monsters—it couldn’t be entirely ignored or forgotten.

He hadn’t made it through a half dozen pages before the garage door slammed and Gill tramped into the house, plaiting a bundle of thin copper wire. Jim had hastily shoved the journal back under the bed, and pretended to be reading a copy of Savage Pellucidar. He made the mistake some weeks later of mentioning the journal to Oscar Pallcheck, who promptly stole it.

Chapter 2

When William Hastings climbed over the wall into his own back yard, it occurred to him that one of his shoes was gone—probably lost among ivy roots. He teetered across the copings, struggling to hoist himself over, popping loose one of the buttons along the front of his coat and cursing under his breath. Absolute quiet was worth a fortune. Silence and speed, that was what he needed, but his arms didn’t seem to have quite the strength in them that they’d once had. It was a loss of elasticity, probably due to slow poisoning over the last two years.

He peered over his shoulder at the tree-shadowed patch of Stickley Avenue visible beyond the edge of the the empty house behind. There was no sign of pursuit, but he knew they were coming, or at least that Frosticos was. Vigilance was necessary here. It was worth twenty dollars a minute, fifty. Off to the right the Pembly house squatted in a weedy yard. He was sure, just for the instant it took for his button to pop off onto the lawn, that he was being watched from the Pembly window. The old lady, no doubt, observing him. He heaved himself up, thrashed wildly to steady himself, and toppled over onto the lawn and onto his back like a bug.

His heart raced. He lay there breathing. Had he shouted? He wiggled his toes and fingers to see if the spine had gone—snapped like a twig. But it hadn’t. When Edward St. Ives glanced up from his book and looked through the window, there was William, his brother-in-law, creeping across the lawn on his hands and knees. Edward threw the window open. “William,” he cried. “Fancy your being here!”

William waved his hand as if smashing invisible newspapers into a box, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, widening his eyes and shaking his head. A moment later he was in through the back door, an ivy-bedecked figure in a tattered coat, groping for a kitchen chair. Edward smoked his pipe.

“Come home, have you?” asked Edward. “Bit of a holiday?”

“That’s right.” William poked at the curtains across the little window of the back door, convinced, it seemed, that at any moment someone, or perhaps some thing—an enormous copper head or a grinning baby’s face, round as a child’s wading pool—would peer up over the fence, tracking him by way of lost buttons and abandoned shoes. No such things appeared.

Edward had been puffing like an engine on his pipe, and the tobacco glowed red beneath a cloud of whirling smoke. William was declining, he decided. It wasn’t just the flayed coat or the absent shoe. He had a pale, veined look about him and three inches or so too much hair that shot out over his ears in sparse tufts. And there was something else—a squint, the rigid line of his mouth—that hinted at conspiracies and betrayals. He seemed to sense something foreboding in the paint that peeled in little curled flakes off the eaves of the silent Pembly house next door, and in the deepening shadow of a half-leafless elm that stretched twisted limbs over the fence, dropping autumn leaves onto the lawn in the afternoon breeze. William watched, barely breathing, waiting, half understanding the hieroglyphic cawing of a pair of black crows in a distant walnut tree, who—he could see it even at that distance—were watching him, emissaries, perhaps, of Doctor Hilario Frosticos.

The silence of falling evening was full of suggestion, an enormous, descending pane of flattening glass. “What do you hear from Peach?” William asked abruptly, startling Edward who had been eyeing the phone.

“Nothing, actually. Got a card from Windermere a month ago. Two months.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing that signified.”

William let go the curtain and opened a cupboard door, pulling out a bottle of port. “Everything signifies,” he said. “I got a letter last week. Something’s afoot. I’m fairly sure it had been read—steamed open and then glued shut again with library paste. I could taste it.”

Edward nodded. Humoring him would accomplish little.

Silence was safest. Edward decided against calling the sanitarium. He could do that whenever he wished. And William had deteriorated. It couldn’t do him any harm to stay at home for a bit.

When Jim Hastings arrived home from school late that evening, he found his uncle and father slumped in armchairs in the living room. A collection of magazines, Scientific American and the Journal of Amphibian Evolution, lay scattered across the coffee table and onto the floor, and the little skeletal hand from the tidepool sat before his father atop a hardbound copy of Amazon Moon and an old devastated volume of Blake’s collected poetry. William Hastings was lost in speculations.

The following morning there was a fog off the ocean, swirling in across the dewy grass of the yard, dripping from the limbs of the elm. William stood at the window, idly rubbing his forehead and thinking of rivers of fog, of subterranean rivers, of rivers that fell away into the center of the Earth, into inland seas alive with the brief black flash of fins and the undulating bulk of toothed whales. The fog cleared just for an instant and William pressed his face almost into the window. “Edward!” he shouted.

“What is it?” St. Ives hurried into the room, rubbing his hands dry on a tea towel.

“Look at that.”

For a moment there was nothing but mist. Then the fog thinned and William pointed at the lawn beneath the overhanging elm. “What do you make of it?’

“I’d say a dog has found his way into our back yard,” said Edward skeptically. “I must have left the gate unlatched.”

William dashed from the room. The back door slammed, then slammed again, and, with his eyes lit like lamps, he dashed back in again. “The gate’s latched. Damn all gates. This isn’t a case of an open gate. This is what I’ve been telling you about.”

“Ah,” said Edward, afraid that it had come to that.

“The Pemblys, I’m certain of it, are playing their hand here. This abomination has their filthy fingerprints all over it.”

“It appears to me,” Edward said, mistaking his meaning, “that the stuff is globbed in what might be called its original resting place. I’m certain we shouldn’t accuse the Pemblys here. In fact, I’m not at all sure what you’re suggesting.”

‘They’ve thrown their dog over the fence to defecate on our lawn; that’s what I’m suggesting. There’s more to this than you know, Edward. I’ve given it a good deal of thought. I’ve thought of nothing else, if you want to know the truth, and I see patterns here. We will be as vigilant and deceptive as they are.

“Ah,” said Uncle Edward.

“We’ll start by trimming the top of that big hibiscus along the fence there. You see, if it were a foot or so shorter, I could stand here like so, against the line of the drape, and see quite neatly into their living room. They’d take me for a pole lamp. Absolutely innocent. I’m going to catch them at their little plots. Don’t mistake me here.”

For once Edward didn’t know whether to humor or reason with him. He made it a general rule to agree overwhelmingly with zealots, who, he was sure, all suffered varying degrees of lunacy. There was no profit in open discussion. He edged up along the drapes to have a peek himself. “What, exactly,” he asked William, “are they up to? They’re awfully good at it, aren’t they?”

“Good at it?” William snorted with quick laughter. “Not half as good as I am. I’ll teach the lot of them. You surprise me, Edward.”

William, apparently satisfied with his plan for trimming the hibiscus, sat down in a green, vastly overstuffed chair, and sipped his coffee, peering thoughtfully into the unlit grate. He looked up suddenly at his brother-in-law. “Do you mean to say that even with the skeleton hand and Professor Latzarel’s fish you don’t see the shape of things? And Peach’s letters from Windermere? What dark secrets …” He stopped and squinted over his coffee, groping around on the table for his pipe. “Do you recall,” he asked, “that second meeting of the Blake Society? The night when that idiot from the university lectured at us about fish imagery in Romantic literature. What was his name? Something preposterous. An obvious lie. Spanner, was it? Ashbless went mad that night. Remember?”

“Well,” Edward replied, “there was some debate. But he hardly went mad. And the gentleman’s name was Benner, Steerforth Benner. But he wasn’t the one who delivered the lecture. It was Brendan Doyle who spoke. Benner wasn’t any older than Giles and Jim.”

“Doyle was it? Cocky little twit. Expert on Romantic poets! Expert on any number of things I don’t doubt. I half suspect it was him who left that memento under the elm.” William gestured broadly at the back yard.

“He was windy,” Edward said, shrugging. “But he wasn’t all that bad. I rather liked him.”

William gave him a look that seemed to imply that in certain matters, Edward was a child. “Ashbless went for him that night, though. Blew his top. Told him he’d tweak his nose, do you remember? Just because of some historical discrepancy. Ashbless is the peculiar one. Believe anything you like about this Doyle, about the filthy Pemblys for that matter, but watch Ashbless. That’s my advice to you.” And William poked his pipestem in Edward’s direction as a gesture of finality.

“I’ve suspected Ashbless since I met him,” William continued, settling comfortably into his machinations. “Anyone who would purposely assume the name of a dead poet, just to add some sham value to his own scribbling, isn’t to be trusted. Not an inch. I won’t insist he’s not good. He’s certainly the best of the Cahuenga poets. But he’s fishy as a chowder. He reminds me of the King in Huckleberry Finn. I keep expecting him to take his hat off and announce, ‘I am the late dauphin.’”

Edward was heating up and about to set in to defend Ashbless when William leaped up and darted across to his post by the drapes. Beyond the fence, Mrs. Pembly, her hair in curlers and dressed in a half-wit’s idea of an Oriental robe, poked among the weeds of her back yard. A big, scabrous Doberman Pinscher trailed along behind her. “She’s up to something,” said William. “For my money she throws that beast over the wall after dark to defecate on our lawn. There’s villainy afoot here.”

Mrs. Pembly paused for a moment, peering up into the branches of the elm. “I’ve got it!” cried William, waving his left hand meaningfully. “It’s a simple business. Did they think they could fool me?”

Edward could see that things were going awry. “What have you got?” he asked.

“A block and tackle. They hoist that damned beast over the wall with a block and tackle, wait for him to commit his disgusting crimes, then jerk him back again like some sort of filthy marionette.”

Before Edward could respond, William was through the back door. He hauled out a shovel from the tool shed, scooped up the offending debris, and sent it soaring across the top of the fence into the Pembly weeds. Mrs. Pembly flattened herself against the garage wail, clasping the lapels of her nightgown together with both hands when she saw who it was that threatened her. She seemed unable to speak.

“Here are your cudgels!” cried William, flinging the spade to the ground triumphantly, and assuming, of course, that Mrs. Pembly had fully understood the transaction. He dusted his hands theatrically, turned, and strode into the house where Edward scratched his head, waiting for the storm to break. But nothing happened. William was apparently victorious. In the course of the morning he trimmed the obscuring hibiscus and spent a solid two hours arranging the drapes and the living room furniture in such a way that, when he stood at the window, a casual observer would take him for a floor lamp. He even went so far as to make Edward stroll back and forth across the rear yard with an air of affected nonchalance while he stood on one leg like a flamingo and perched a broad, conical, bamboo shade on his head in the fashion of a pole lamp or a coolie. Edward had known it would be bad from the moment he saw William creeping across the yard on all fours, but that it would escalate so quickly and thoroughly was a frightening surprise. What was of immediate necessity was to involve his poor brother in intellectual pursuits, to get his mind off imagined threats. There was Jim to think of. It was hard enough on him that his father had gone round the bend. He should be shielded from obvious lunacy. Somehow he’d have to talk William into removing the bottle caps he had clipped to his shirt with their own cork washers. That sort of thing was painful, to be sure. “There’s a meeting of the Society tomorrow night,” he said to William after the lampshade incident.

“The Blake Society?”

“The Newtonians,” said Edward. “Right here. Some of your old Mends will be here.”

“Squires?”

“Yes indeed. He’s working on modifications for the diving bell—something he calls an absolute gyro. It’s a steadying mechanism, I believe, although I’m not much of an engineer myself. Latzarel is planning a voyage into the pool off Palos Verdes sometime next month.”

“Good old Squires,” William said. “I’ve got some ideas I’d like to try out on him. I’ve been reading Einstein, and have a plot for a first-rate story. Hard science, too. Rock hard. That’s why I think Squires is the man to try it on.” William scratched the end of his nose. “Is the maze room intact?”

“Of course,” said Edward.

“Then I’ll just put in a few hours.” William shoved fresh tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and stood up puffing. “Mice all dead?”

“No,” said Edward. “I’ve got a new lot. All white. Absolutely innocent. And there’s three that just gave birth.”

“Grand!” cried William, elated. “I’m going to put some of the litter in with that big bufo morinus. If we keep him full of horsemeat maybe he’ll leave them alone long enough for them to imprint. We’ll be halfway home then.”

‘The bufo died two months ago. But there’s an axolotl as big as a rabbit out there that will work just as well.”

William nodded, caught up in the spirit of science. ‘That will do nicely,” he said. “Very nicely. External gills too. Very pretty items. How is Giles Peach these days, by the way?”

“Amazing. He’s onto something big, I think. John Pinion has an eye on him.”

But Edward was sorry he’d said it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Pinion!” William gasped. “Pinion can keep his filthy hands off Giles Peach! Peach is ours!”

“Of course,” said Edward. “Of course. I’ve said as much. Damn Pinion.” And finally William, wearing a leather apron, went out the back door, muttering to himself. He got about halfway to the maze shed, stopped, turned, shoved back in, and shouted something incoherent into the kitchen. All Edward could make out were the words “Pinion” and “travesty,” but he let the matter slide and didn’t ask for clarification.

Chapter 3

The Newtonian Society met every month, more often if an excuse could be found. Two years back it had been called the Blake Society and had met to discuss literary matters. William Hastings, at the time, hadn’t yet turned the corner; he was merely an eccentric professor of Romantic literature at Eagle Rock University who possessed an amazing library and who had, one Sunday afternoon, run out of shelf space in the living room, and so had pressed the refrigerator into use, shoving a copy of Herodotus and The White Oaks of Jalna, for some inexplicable reason, in among jars of salad peppers and pickle relish.

The Newtonian Society was formed after William Hastings’ disappearance into what Oscar Pallcheck cheerfully referred to as “the hatch.” Literature was abandoned for science—specifically for the investigation of Professor Latzarel’s theories. On the Saturday evening following William Hastings’ surprise arrival, then, Giles Peach and his friend Jim hurried down the sidewalk toward Jim’s home, anxious to attend the meeting and especially to hear Latzarel’s opinions on the little tidepool hand.

Professor Latzarel’s vehicle—Jim couldn’t think of a better word for it—ground to a halt at the curb just as the two of them drew up to the house. It was an old Land Rover station wagon, a tremendous square thing that appeared from almost every angle to be built entirely of wood—wood covered in a coat of gray dust like the sarcophagus of an Egyptian pharaoh that had sat in the desert for a dozen centuries until, perhaps by osmosis, the wood itself had begun to metamorphose into dust. A day would come, Jim was certain of it, when the machine, wheezing along one of the interlacing highways of the southwest desert, would complete the transmutation and crumble into a quick heap to be blown across the sands by a wind devil spawned by the sudden cessation of motion. The driver of a pursuing automobile, not quite believing in the existence of the unlikely machine in the first place, would see the distant shiver of its decay through the shimmering desert heat and would call it a mirage, not noticing the receding back of the pith-helmeted Professor Latzarel carrying a butterfly net, disappearing beyond a clump of Joshua trees. Jim would have given anything to own such a car.

Professor Latzarel, in fact, must have been packed for an outing, for there, strapped to the enormous rear bumper, was a quiver of old ghost-town picks and shovels, and one of those canvas water bags that perpetually leak and yet are never empty. Inside were a half dozen topographic maps and what must have been a mile of hemp cordage.

Latzarel himself was a fierce, weedy-looking man who took everything very seriously and who couldn’t be bothered to comb his hair. His coat complemented his car. He rushed past Jim, nodding obliquely, then caught sight of Giles Peach. He stopped and shook Giles’ hand, fabricating something to say. He clearly couldn’t keep his eyes off Giles’ gills, which were almost hidden by a turtleneck sweater. “Have you seen Dr. Pinion?” he asked suddenly, raising one eyebrow. Gill replied that he had, just yesterday.

“Ah,” replied Latzarel, nodding his head. “Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“No, sir. He wanted to know about the digging machine.”

“Ah,” said Latzarel again. “That would be the subterranean prospector? Edward has told me a good bit about it. I’d like to have a look at it myself, if I might.”

Giles didn’t reply. He half nodded, but showed no enthusiasm, a strange thing for Giles, who was normally full of his inventions. Jim could see that Professor Latzarel was disappointed, but that he hesitated to be obviously so. The three of them clumped up the steps and into the house, which by then was full of talk and tobacco smoke and glasses of port. Jim was relieved to see his father talking animatedly to Roycroft Squires. He half feared, as he always did, that just beyond the veil of the present some eccentricity lay waiting. That his father might at any moment slide off the thin edge of sanity, and that his uncle would dash for the telephone and a van would come screaming down the road. Oscar Pallcheck liked to call them the “white coat boys” and laughed at the idea of gigantic butterfly nets and shepherd’s crooks. Jim generally laughed along guiltily. But now that his father was home, he couldn’t see the joke. He couldn’t, in fact, develop any considered opinions about his father at all. His thoughts were limited by a misty wall beyond which his mind wouldn’t venture. He had determined that the same wall existed within the mind of his father, that they were products of the same foggy uncertainty. He wondered how often his father traveled back to the day Jim’s mother died in the autumn hills above Los Angeles.

They had gone picnicking in Griffith Park—Jim, his father and mother. Uncle Edward had elected to stay home and, as he put it, whack about in the garage. It was his mother’s idea that they pack a picnic lunch, hike around in the hills—green from early rains—and then catch the late afternoon program at the planetarium.

They found a grassy knoll beneath a clump of nearly leafless oaks and ate sandwiches. Jim’s mother talked about the kitchen curtains and about the attention Uncle Edward had been paying to Velma Peach, Giles’ mother. Jim could remember the conversation almost word for word, even though at the time he was indifferent to kitchen curtains and couldn’t at all see why anyone would develop an interest in Velma Peach, or in anybody’s mother, for that matter. Now, two years later, the faded kitchen curtains were tangled in his memory with his mother’s face, one of them calling up the other without fail.

After lunch he and his father trudged around through the chaparral and up this and that little trail, filling a paper bag with useable refuse. They hadn’t any notion of cleaning the place up, but were looking for treasures—for odds and ends of mechanical debris to add to the bucket in Gill’s garage. Nine-tenths of the collection that afternoon consisted of bottle caps of the sort lined with little cork washers that could be pried out and used for remarkable purposes. It was possible, for instance, to clamp a bottle cap to a shirt by separating the washer from the cap, then reinserting it with a layer of shirt in between. On that Saturday in the park William Hastings went wild for the idea, and by the time both of them had had enough treasure hunting each sported fifteen or twenty bottle cap insignias like campaigners at a political convention in support of soft drinks.

Jim’s mother would roll her eyes in feigned uncertainty, as if both of them might belong in a padded room for getting up to such tricks. She would agree after their continued insistence to wear one herself, at least until they arrived at the planetarium.

So Jim and his father, their collecting at an end, set out merrily down the trail toward where Jim’s mother, having complained of an unidentifiable ache, was resting and reading her book—Balzac, Jim recalled, which she read in French. The two came bursting up, emblazoned with bottle caps, and found her asleep. At least Jim supposed she was asleep. He set out to make a racket—whistling, shouting to his father who wasn’t ten feet behind, and commenting aloud about the outstanding collection in the sack. He rummaged in it and found the skeleton of a bladeless clasp knife, the bone shell of the handle having broken away from one rusty side.

For some reason his father never made the mistake of assuming her to be asleep. Perhaps it was the position in which she lay. The next half hour seemed to Jim a sort of numb stage play in which his father, for ten grim minutes, worked to revive her, then sat beside her for another twenty, staring blankly into the twisted branches of the leafless oak against which Jim stood.

Finally two rangers summoned from the Park Service by passing hikers carried his mother on a stretcher to-a waiting ambulance and away to Metropolitan Hospital where she was pronounced dead. Jim and his father were met there by Uncle Edward. Jim could picture every dreary, white and chromium moment of the two or three hours he spent at the hospital. Two years later they seemed to mean nothing at all to him, to be completely removed from any memories of his mother. He knew little of the workings of the human heart, and it was inexplicable that hers should have stopped like a clock that had wound down. When the three of them drove silently and wearily home that night, Jim and his father were still dotted with bottle caps. His uncle hadn’t enough sense of humor left in him to ask about them. Jim could see, two years later at the meeting of the Newtonians, that his father still wore two of the caps affixed to his shirt—a White Rock cream soda and a Nehi Orange. He wished guiltily and sadly that his father would button his coat.

But William Hastings was for once oblivious to that fateful afternoon in the park—something that had pursued him through the two years since—and was carrying on about a story he intended to write. Roycroft Squires nodded and squinted and messed with his pipe, shoving a big wad of curly black tobacco into the enormous bowl carved into the head of an armadillo, and tamped it down first with his thumb and then with the business end of a sixteen-penny nail.

“As I understand it,” said William, puffing on his own pipe, “relativity is a fairly simple business. But I have an angle on it that will knock you out.”

Squires nodded, ready to be knocked out.

“Now, as an object approaches the speed of light,” said William, hunching forward and poking his pipestem in Squires’ direction, “its mass increases proportionately, which is to say it simply gets bigger and bigger. Swells like a balloon, if you follow. And that’s what restricts one from traveling at light speed—there isn’t enough universe to hold us.”

Squires began to say something, to protest, perhaps, but hadn’t gotten two words out when William, swept away in a deluge of science and art, broke in on him with another revelation. “And as we approach light speed, mind you, we fall into what the physicists call a straight line loop. Everything in the end, you see, is circular—the passing of the seasons, the four ages of man, the transmutation of base metals into gold, the cycle of evolution, time and space. It’s all one; you’ve read Fibinocci’s discussion of the whorl of seeds in a sunflower and the circular spray of stars in revolving nebulae?”

The question was rhetorical. William didn’t wait for an answer. “Parallel lines,” he continued, “meet in space. A straight line leading out into the infinite catches its own tail like a mythological oceanic serpent. The mistake, you see, made by men of science, is to remain blind to certain mysteries, certain connections. They suppose that a forest glade illuminated by sunlight is the same forest glade at midnight, lit by moonbeams. You and I know they’re wrong.”

Squires could see his point. He nodded.

‘The rays of the moon, you see, are alive with reflected emanations that are absent in the light of day. All of this, I’m telling you, is of vast importance. In my story an astronaut launches out in his ship, bound for Alpha Centauri. He settles back, watching the approaching stars through a great circular convex window as if he sees the universe in globe, and the stars, as the poem has it, are herring fish. Or rather as if he himself is in a fishbowl and the stars and planets whirling in space are eyes watching him as he hurtles among them. His craft accelerates toward light speed. He swells, moderately at first, then preposterously. His ship becomes bulbous, voluminous. He’s a grinning moon man, a cloud being, but of course he’s oblivious to it. His ship fills the void. And there ahead, just as the ship closes in on the approaching stars and those behind are on the edge of winking out, of abandoning the race, there ahead of him he sees an unbelievable sight: a glowing ship sailing in through deep space, colossal, wide as half the sky, a carnival of glowing lights, inflated with speed. He draws up behind it, wondering, an odd chill in the recesses of his brain. And through the bowl of glass atop the wonderful ship ahead, he can see the head and shoulders of an inflated giant, a grotesque, puffy-cheeked god, soaring through the avenues of space along the of the Milky Way. And in one blind rush, one last moment of icy clarity, he knows who it is he pursues!”

William slumped back into the green armchair, sweating and pale. Squires was overcome. Professor Latzarel, surprised at seeing William there in the first place, was dumbfounded.

“A masterpiece!” said Ashbless, white-haired and wild and leaning against the mantel, a bottle of beer in his hand.

“I haven’t written it yet,” said William. “But when I can get the damned keys of my typewriter cleaned out, I’m going to start in. What do you think, Roy? Will it hold up? The science is sound; I’m certain of that, and it will be a long necessary collision of art and natural law. You’ve read C.P. Snow’s Two Cultures?”

“No,” Squires put in. “But I’ve just finished Bertrand Russell’s book on relativity theory. I’ll recommend it to you ….”

But he hadn’t a chance to finish before William slammed his hand onto the arm of the chair enthusiastically and leaped up to open a fresh bottle of port. In celebration, he said. He’d try the story on Analog, who would, he insisted, appreciate the scientific accuracy. And off he dashed to the pantry for a corkscrew.

Roycroft Squires looked up at Edward St. Ives, who shrugged. “I’m certain,” said Squires, “that William is years ahead of his time.”

Ashbless said there was little doubt of it, and Squires glanced at Edward again and winked. Ashbless was lost in thought.

“See here,” said Professor Latzarel after clearing his throat monumentally. “All this literary talk is very fine, but the Newtonians are a scientific discussion group, and I for one am anxious for Mr. Ashbless to give us the account of the polar expedition for the benefit of Mr. Spekowsky here from the Times and Dr. Orville Lassen from the Journal of Amphibiana.” Two men, one in glasses and a string tie—Mr. Spekowsky, apparently a reporter—and another in an enormous orange sweater and khaki pants—Dr. Lassen from the University. Both men nodded. Spekowsky, frowning, said, “I believe that the gentleman who has just left knew little about physics. Mass, if I’m not very much mistaken …” William Ashbless interrupted him saying, “No, but he knows about the mysteries. Everything he says is accurate. The world doesn’t care about your watery little definitions.” Spekowsky fell silent. William wandered back in, just then, filling glasses with newly opened port and giving Jim and Giles, who sat respectfully and silently in the corner on a pair of kitchen chairs, a little liqueur glass each, half full of the purple wine.

“I’m given to understand,” said Spekowsky in a voice full of doubt, “that you gentlemen made something of a discovery some years ago which is suddenly newsworthy. I can’t at all follow it.”

Ashbless snorted contemptuously.

Conversation settled. William collapsed into his green chair, still lost in the fever of inspiration, and puffed steadily on his pipe. Ashbless, who was the only one among them beside Latzarel who had been at the pole, swirled the liquid in his glass in a tight little circle, watching it race around the inside. Edward understood that he was summoning his powers of memory and art in order to give string-tied Spekowsky his money’s worth.

Chapter 4

“Peach was there,” Ashbless said as a sort of cryptic preface. “I’m not sure any of you know what that means yet. You will though.” Then his eye wandered past Giles, who had sunk into his corner in a drowsy reverie. It was impossible to say that he’d even heard the poet’s peculiar reference to his father. Ashbless frowned and continued:

‘This was in 1954, mind you. Ten years ago. The Pinion expedition to the South Pole. The frozen cave bear chipped out of a wall of ice six hundred miles below Tierra del Fuego by Pinion’s bearers made something of a sensation. It’s in a refrigerated vault beneath the Museum of Natural History in Los Angeles. Any of us can have a look at it. It’s fairly unremarkable except for its original location. Pinion’s bode, Hole in the Ground, and the entire revised hollow Earth theory trade on the discoveries of Admiral Byrd at the Pole and on the cave bear—circumstantial evidence and hearsay. Pinion is remarkably adept at passing off others’ discoveries as his own. He’s one of those self-important people who are always dredging up evidence to demonstrate their own cleverness.”

Ashbless rummaged in his coat pocket and hauled out a yellowed newspaper clipping from the Times. “Road to the Center of the Earth?” the heading read, “Cave Bear at South Pole.” The article reported other peculiarities found by the Pinion/Latzarel party: clumps of leafy twigs, a pale orange tulip suspended in a shard of ice, the tip of a stone spear imbedded in the frozen flesh of a prehistoric bird.

Ashbless cast the clipping onto the tabletop with a gesture of contempt, not stooping to pick it up when it slid across onto the floor. William picked it up and carried it across to Spekowsky who himself dropped the clipping onto the top of a smoking stand, not bothering to look at it.

“What can’t be shoved into a museum vault,” Ashbless continued, “was discovered by myself, Professor Latzarel, and Basil Peach while Pinion and his party were chasing down the rumored sighting by Indians of a live wooly mammoth some fifty miles to the east—a practical joke, I don’t doubt. We camped for the space of four nights on an ice field above a tiny warm water lake, steaming deep in a natural depression in the ice—a hot spring, believe it or not, on the Ellsworth Highland. There was a network of caverns and caves running off through the ice below us, little of which we had time to explore. One branch, however, which we followed, opened after some four hundred feet onto a little rocky bay on the shore of a subterranean lake. It was the only access. The walls of the tunnel were lit somehow, perhaps by sunlight glowing through the transparent ice above. And trapped within the ice, hundreds of feet beneath the surface, were the fossil remains of ancient beasts. We could just make out the ivory curve of what must have been an enormous ribcage—the skeleton of a mastodon—encased in clear ice a half mile away. And above the tunnel, just below the point where it led out onto the shore of the lake, were the wing and head of a perfectly preserved pterodactyl in frozen flight, peering down out of the blue crystal, the other half of him, like the dark side of the moon, lost forever in a swirl of opaque white.

“Pinion never saw a bit of this, mind you. The whole network of tunnels collapsed in an earthquake days before he and his fools returned from their goose chase with some faked up plaster-of-Paris casts of footprints.”

Spekowsky gave Lassen a meaningful look. Ashbless didn’t hesitate.

“Two of our party—Fuegan Indians—vanished one evening as they fished in the waters of that pool. Basil Peach was in the caves at the time and was surprised by a third Indian tearing up the tunnel screaming and gibbering about monsters—a great reptilian head that had lurched up out of the lake and swallowed his companions. Peach himself swore that beneath the ice of the tunnel floor he saw the flippered shadow of some great saurian, some Mesozoic amphibian, humping up toward the surface, then disappearing again into the shadowed depths, as if the ice tunnels ran along above a vast subterranean sea of which the little lake was only the tip. Nothing remained of the Fuegans but a smear of blood and one of their hats made of llama fur that floated on the surface of the water.

‘The following evening, Professor Latzarel and Basil Peach themselves witnessed the surfacing of a vast marine turtle, a beast the size of an automobile. It too slid away into the depths of the Earth.”

“Hocus pocus!” shouted Spekowsky, unable to contain himself any longer. His companion, however, was perched on the edge of his chair, his mouth open. Ashbless shrugged. The door opened and Phillip Mays, the aurelian, hunched in, weighted down with a cardboard carton full of liquor. A clove cigarette sputtered in his mouth.

Jim was relieved to see him. He was always relieved to see him if only because Mays seemed so predictable. The edge of impending doom and insanity which sharpened his dealings with everyone else, even his father—particularly his father—was absent in Mays. And at the same time he was undeniably eccentric, a trait which Jim held in high esteem. Mays was always off on adventures, although he didn’t at all look like the adventurous type, squinty as he was and with an overslept look about him. He was off to the Amazon after a rumored violet moth the size of a small bird one month, then scaling the Himalayas the next, scouring little clumps of high altitude tundra for tiny belemnite butterflies that could mimic in miniature perfection their resting place: a wild lilac, a granite slab on a hillside, a blade of grass, a human face. His house reeked of camphor, and on the wall of his study, pinned with an epee to green plaster, was a butterfly the size of a heron, netted in Colombia by Indians and worshipped before being traded to Mays for a five-dollar gold piece, a cigarette lighter, and a penlight with a miniature painting of the Santa Monica pier in the tip, which you could just make out by aiming the thing into the sun and screwing your eye, so to speak, into a little porthole in the end, then waiting for a moment to sort out palm trees from eyelashes. Mays had a case of the things. He never went into the jungle without a half dozen in his satchel and had given one to Jim at the second meeting of the Newtonians.

“Ah, Phil,” Uncle Edward cried when the door swung open.

“Let me introduce you to Mr. Spekowsky and Dr. Lassen.”

Spekowsky shook his hand with the air of a man suspicious of deviltry while Mays juggled his cardboard box between his free hand and his knee. Dr. Lassen scribbled notes into a little red spiral binder, oblivious to the proffered introduction.

“We’ve been discussing Professor Latzarel’s discoveries at the South Pole,” said Edward. “Perhaps you can acquaint Mr. Spekowsky here with the strange nature of the tropical fish that the two of you brought back.”

Mays said he was happy to. He had with him, in fact, not only photographs of the specimen in question, but an actual pickled fish, revolving slowly in a tiny formaldehyde sea held in a sealed glass jar. ‘The preserved fish, about two inches long, was a gray and pale shadow of the fish in the photograph, Latzarel’s Rio Jari tetra.

“So you’re telling me,” Spekowsky asked after Mays had carried on for a bit, “that specimens of this fish were caught both in the alleged South Pole pool and at the mouth of this South American river?”

‘That’s correct. A coincidence which is, on the face of it, impossible.”

“And this coincidence is supposed to convince me that the Earth is hollow. That wooly mammoths and Neanderthals and such are poking around beneath us at this moment?”

Giles Peach was transfixed, his eyes big as plates.

“We didn’t mention Neanderthal men,” said Professor Latzarel in the interest of scientific accuracy. “But, yes, we do consider this fairly substantial evidence.”

Spekowsky guffawed, but was quite obviously caught up in the game. “Sounds like evidence of continental drift.” He looked once again at the photograph of the fish. It had a splayed tail of iridescent pink that deepened to lavender and pale blue, then back to pink again round its gills. If its fins were clipped off it might quite easily be mistaken for an Easter egg by a far-sighted person.

“Look,” said William Ashbless, suddenly flaring up and running a huge hand through his white hair, “we’re wasting our time here. What do we care for the press? By God, we’ve seen things at the Pole that this—this—journalist can’t imagine. Are we asking the likes of him to authenticate our discoveries with an ill-written article on the last page of the Times? Far be it from me to applaud John Pinion, but by God, Pinion is a man of action. He’ll be there before us, gentlemen, mark me. All of this talk is getting us nothing but headaches!”

Spekowsky, feeling himself slandered, straightened his tie, threw his coat over his shoulder and marched out, laughing dramatically. Edward St. Ives, waving the skeleton hand from the tidepool, carried on vainly about recent discoveries and about their anticipated excursion in the diving bell, but Spekowsky had had enough. The door slammed, the room fell silent, and Jim waited for Professor Latzarel to explode, as he surely would, at William Ashbless.

“Sometimes,” Latzarel said, breaking the short silence, “I wonder whose side you’re on.”

“Russ!” cried Ashbless. “We need this Spekowsky like we need a leaky boat.”

“He was just coming round. We’d have had him. And now, of course, not only is he not for us, he’s against us. I can imagine the article he will write.”

“Speaking of articles,” said Dr. Lassen suddenly, coming up, as it were, out of his reverie. “I have this recent clipping from the Massachusetts Tribune that might interest you.” And he produced a square of cardboard with an L-shaped clipping glued to it. “Giant Squid Found on Massachusetts Shore!” shouted the caption. The article, some two hundred fifty words long, described the monster thus: “The giant squid, not unlike the one battled by Captain Nemo in Jules Verne’s classic, was forty-four feet long and had to be carried from the beach on a flatcar.” The creature had been dissected by scientists at Woods Hole, and in its stomach, along with the ancient, rotted figurehead from a long-ruined sailing ship, and a pair of brass pliers encased in verdigris and closed around a tooth, was the half-digested neck and torso of a human being. At least they thought it was a human being. They couldn’t be sure; digestive fluids had ruined it, and there was one strange, unaccountable confusion: the thing in the squid’s stomach appeared to have been gilled—amphibious. The article didn’t call it a merman, but the implication was obvious. The squid and its inhabitant were bound for Boston for further study.

Jim heard his uncle read the story through a growing mist, as if he were falling asleep with his eyes open. Giles Peach sat next to him, not apparently listening, but staring, his mouth half open, out the dark window at the branch of a low bush that thrashed against the glass in the wind. It seemed to Jim suddenly that for the past moments he’d been drifting, or perhaps sinking, into a watery sleep. And off in the periphery of his vision, where he could just see them, as if they were creeping up out of a dream, were waving tendrils of kelp floating lazily in the sunlit depths of a submarine grotto. The light was diminishing and the room falling into shadow. His uncle’s voice, droning on about the enormous squid and its merman, slipped I through obscurity toward silence, as if Jim were on the edge of I sleep, sailing across the threshold of dreams. Giles Peach sat still and silent, the line of gills along his neck undulating softly I and rhythmically. A seaweed curtain closed around Jim, a I green and lacy wonder of kelp snails and starfish and dark dens in rock reefs from which shone the luminous eyes of waiting fish.

He awoke with a sudden shout to find Giles Peach on his way out the door, Dr. Lassen pulling on an unlikely, floor-length overcoat, his father asleep in his chair, and Uncle Edward poking through a cigar box full of iridescent beetles with Squires and Phillip Mays. He could hear Ashbless and Professor Latzarel talking furiously in the kitchen. Jim lay in bed that night with the lingering suspicion that something peculiar had occurred, that he hadn’t merely drifted into a dream. But he fell asleep almost at once, and when he awoke in the morning it was to the earthbound smells of coffee and bacon and to the sound of a lawnmower. His father and uncle were in the kitchen.

“Peculiar business, wasn’t it, them finding the squid?” William asked, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Absolutely,” Edward responded.

“What do you make of the amphibian? He’s damned intriguing if you ask me. Worth pursuing. I’ll write Woods Hole today. Use Dr. Lassen’s name. He won’t mind. Damn that lawnmower!”

The roar of the mower drew up toward the kitchen window, grinding and growling louder until, smiling and nodding at the surprised William, an Oriental man in a snap-brim hat and loose white trousers sailed past, edging away around a rose bush.

“Who the devil is that?” William asked quietly, as if the man might overhear him. “The gardener. Yamoto. He’s been at it for six months now.

Absolutely dependable. Shows up like clockwork, rain or shine.”

William watched him disappear from the kitchen window, then hurried into the living room to see where he’d gone—what route he’d taken through the grass. He returned lost in thought. “I don’t like it,” he said.

Edward tried to change the subject. “I had the strangest feeling last night. Just for a moment. I believe it was when I was reading that business about the squid. It felt as if a wet tentacle slid across my cheek, or a strand of seaweed. It even smelled like it, just for an instant. I was just barely aware of it, you know, like when there’s a fly buzzing for minutes before you notice it. Then the droning sort of filters in and you look around. Try to spot him. But he stops, lands somewhere. There’s no more buzzing, no fly, and you can’t swear, finally, that there ever had been. Do you follow me?”

But William wasn’t ‘following anything but the advancing Yamoto, who had returned and angled in toward the window, grinning hugely and waving once again at William whose face hovered an inch from the glass. The roar of the mower crested and then fell away as Yamoto retreated, following the snaking path of the flowerbed toward the front of the house.

“What are this man’s credentials?” asked William suddenly.

“I haven’t any idea,” Edward replied. “He was recommended. All he does is cut the lawn. Say, I’ve got a fine idea .…”

But whether he had a fine idea or was frantically trying to dream one up to lure William away from the window was immaterial; William ignored him.

“I know this man.”

“I don’t believe so.”

“He was groundskeeper at the Manor. I’m certain of it.”

“Orientals,” said Edward with a placating wave of his hand.

“Don’t humor me!” cried William. “I won’t be humored. There’s trouble here. Frosticos is behind this. Things are becoming clear. Very clear. Who put you up to this?”

Before Edward could sort out an answer, here came Yamoto again, grinning around a night-blooming jasmine, leering in toward the kitchen window, the grinding of his mower seeming to take on a slow cadence like the distant marching step of an approaching but unseen army, or the convolutions of an immense, inexplicable, and possibly unnatural machine churning into the earth beyond a concrete wall in deadly, suggestive rhythms.

William was aghast. He could picture quite clearly an infinite succession of approaching Yamotos, peering in at him. Edging out of sight. Reappearing suddenly from beyond a bush or the trunk of a tree. Now drawing a bit closer, then, without William’s being aware of the exact moment, flickering away, receding again, shrinking to a speck like the fossils of Basil Peach, encased in blue ice.

The drone of the mower grew louder. William was certain that if he waited in the silent kitchen, it would not be Yamoto, finally, who would appear behind the machine. Perhaps not on this pass or on the next, but soon, very soon, the white-haired doctor would come smiling toward him, reaching out a gloved hand. He had only to wait. The white of billowing trousers appeared briefly beneath the limbs of a low tree, as Yamoto swung round toward them. Edward looked helplessly at Jim who stared at a plate of broken fried eggs. Yamoto slanted past. William, vexed into motion, stormed into the living room, out through the front door and onto the porch. Yamoto sailed across the grass, his trousers alive in the breeze, and mowed unhindered onto the lawn of the Pemblys, making a turn around the perimeter and heading back toward where William stood. Shaking. Unable to speak. Edward waved a coffee cup at him, but William was oblivious, collecting himself perhaps, or just the opposite.

“The Pembly lawn too?” he croaked.

“What?”

“He cuts the Pembly lawn too? He works for them?”

“Well, ‘works’ is hardly the word ….” Edward began. But at that moment Mrs. Pembly, a nightmare of pink plastic hair curlers and voluminous robe, wandered out onto the walk to have a word with Yamoto. The gardener nodded and very unfortunately pointed briefly toward William and Edward.

“By God!” shouted William, leaping off the porch. “We’ll see! We’ll filthy well see who it is this Yamoto works for. By God, he doesn’t work for me!” Mrs. Pembly threw one hand to her mouth, turned, hiked up the hem of her robe, and skipped into the house. Yamoto, who no doubt hadn’t heard William over the roar of the mower, made a little half bow, waiting politely.

“Who are you?” shouted William.

Yamoto shook his head, smiling.

“Damn you! Was it Frosticos that sent you? Where is he?” And William spun around, as if suspecting that the ubiquitous Frosticos was behind him, and took a swipe at Mrs. Pembly’s juniper bush. Poor Yamoto, not yet understanding that something had gone wrong, hastened to encourage William. He too took a swipe at the juniper. The horrified face of Mrs. Pembly, ringed by hair curlers, watched from the window. William, in a passion of suspicion, flailed away at the juniper for another moment with the flat of his hand, then turned on the hapless Yamoto. Mrs. Pembly was gone. Edward rushed across toward them, fearful of violence.

William began to kick at the still roaring machine, but effected nothing. Yamoto protested. William pushed him into the juniper, bent down, and grasped the spark plug wire, intending, doubtless, to pull it out. He yowled and stumbled away, waving his hand, and collided with his brother-in-law. William dodged past, mouth working, dashing for the Pembly garden hose that lay coiled like a serpent beneath an acacia. He twisted the crank atop the spigot and hauled away on the hose, spraying Yamoto, squirting Edward in the eye, training a blast against the window where Mrs. Pembly watched in renewed horror, then drowning the mower into blubbering silence. The hose, at that point, went almost dry, a kink having shut off the flow of water. William yanked at it, accomplishing nothing. Not a drop flowed from it. Edward prayed that the uncooperative hose would give William the time it would take him to collapse, but he wasn’t, apparently, in a collapsing mood. His loathing had merely been transferred to the garden hose, which leaped suddenly forward like one of those East Indian snakes, spraying a quick jet of water up and down William’s pant leg and shoe. Howling in surprise and chagrin, William cast the offending hose onto the lawn and ran toward the heap of Yamoto’s tools that lay on the parkway. He dashed back across the yard with a garden shears, and, to the startled amazement of a dozen neighbors, hacked the offending hose into damnation. He cast the shears into the juniper bush, then, very slowly and deliberately, hung a six-foot section of hose across the beaten top of the same bush—perhaps as a warning, just as the governor of Jamaica had left the heads of pirates impaled atop poles on the outskirts of the city of Port Royal.

He looked about him with his teeth set, and began to step across the ruined hose, as if toward home. But the wailing of a siren drowned his intentions, whatever for one brave moment they might have been, and he sat down woodenly in the little rivulet of water that played out of the end of the reduced hose and ran down the driveway into the gutter.

A van arrived in the wake of a police car. Dr. Hilario Frosticos stepped out, gathered William up, and with an arm around his shoulder as if to support him, led him away. Jim clumped down the two stairs from his front porch to the walk, watching the van turn the corner and disappear. On the lawn next to the defeated garden hose lay a thin cork washer, three quarters of an inch across. Jim bent over and picked it up along with a little crenelated bottle cap, the inside of which was flecked with rust.

Chapter 5

The maze shed, as Edward St. Ives had come to call it, was a clapboard lean-to, one of two sheds affixed to the back and side of the garage. The other was filled with musty, humming aquaria. It was in the maze shed that Edward and William had undertaken certain experiments to encourage aquatic habits in mice.

The maze itself was built of redwood painted over with asphaltic varnish. A series of locks allowed for the filling of one section or another while the rest remained dry, and there was a little avenue along which mice could be run from a succession of wire cages into the mouth of the maze. It had grown more grand and intricate over the years, like one of those toy train sets that starts out as a little oval track on a half sheet of plywood and develops itself a bit at a time into a multilevel expanse of railroad, running along through papier maché hillsides and past miniature farms alive with cardboard chickens and tin pigs.

Tilted bookshelves hung along one wall of the shed, stuffed with a ragtag and water-eaten collection of the Journal of Amphibiana and Aquatic Evolution and a forty volume set of the vivisectionist Dr. Ignacio Narbondo’s Illustrated Experiments With Gilled Beasts which William Hastings had found on a high shelf at Bertram Smith’s Acres of Books for twenty dollars. Open on the table was a recent Scientific American discussing the experimental injection of water into the lungs of rats and subsequent failure of the rats to exhale it, the whole crowd of them drowning, finally, out of their own stubbornness. Edward thumbed the pages idly, thinking about his brother-in-law.

There in a heap on an old mission oak desk lay twenty or thirty little plastic replicas of aquatic plants, thin strips of lead wrapped around the base of each to prevent their floating in the water of an aquarium. Cleverly carved pieces of driftwood and a half-dozen shards of petrified wood had been placed along the avenues of the maze in order to trick the mice into supposing that they’d gotten into a particularly pleasant and reasonable stream for a swim. William had gone to great trouble to tie the plastic waterweeds to the end of a piece of driftwood with fishing line before being interrupted in his endeavors the previous weekend. It was vital, he’d insisted, that the subjects suppose themselves to be paddling through an authentic river. The failure of the experiments reported on in Scientific American were due, he was sure of it, to the rats having been unprepared, psychologically speaking, for the devolutionary leap from land mammal to aquatic. They could hardly have been expected to do anything but drown, given the circumstances.

Edward was only about half convinced. He routed a speckled axolotl past a chunk of petrified wood, the lumpy beast paddling happily and displaying a perfect lack of interest in the mouse that swam with frantic little strokes ahead of it. Whether the litter of mice had developed a maternal regard for the amphibian was impossible to say, although Edward conceded that such a bond was unlikely. The mice and axolotl remained unfortunately aloof from each other. And there was the vague possibility, of course, that they would achieve results entirely opposite from those intended—that the axolotl would be tainted by fraternizing with the mice and would insist on sleeping in a bed of shredded newspaper and shavings of aromatic cedar. Edward admitted to himself that the experiment was a failure. In fact, their three years of mouse experiments had yielded nothing but failures.

Edward became aware, as he swept the plastic seaweed into the drawer of the desk, of a distant jingling bell playing a double-time version of “Baa Baa Black Sheep” over and over again. He watched through a dusty casement window as a white panel truck slowed almost to a stop in front of the house, the driver’s face lost in the shadow of the cab, then rumbled off again, jingling into the distance.

Edward didn’t half like the look of it. “Something’s up,” he said aloud, then stopped himself with the thought that he was beginning to sound overmuch like William. He plucked the Jell-o-y axolotl out of the maze and returned him to a big aquarium, then rescued the hapless mouse, dabbed at him with a tea towel, and ran him back up the corridor and into his cage,

A muffled snickering erupted into a snort of nasal laughter behind him, and Edward turned to find the meaty face of Oscar Pallcheck leering in through the open casement. Oscar’s eyes were too small. Pig eyes, it seemed to Edward, that were almost lost in the pudding of his cheeks. He wasn’t particularly fat, but was stupidly beefy and had a strange sort of Midas touch for breaking everything he handled. He couldn’t take his eyes off the half-filled maze.

“Jim out here?” he asked, forcing back a snicker.

“No.”

“What’re you doing to those mice?”

“Nothing,” said Edward. “Experiments.”

“What was that big turd thing with the feathers in his neck? Another experiment?”

“An axolotl,” said Edward. “If you must know, it’s a sort of salamander. A very pleasant creature, actually.”

“Sure it is,” said Oscar. “What did you do to him?”

“Do to him? I didn’t do anything to him. That’s the way God made him. Inside out. I can’t say why. There’s a lot of God’s inventions that I don’t half understand, and that axolotl not the least of them.”

But Edward’s irony was lost on Oscar who was far gone in his snickering, and who turned at the sound of Jim and Gill coming up behind him. The three of them wandered away talking among themselves, Oscar emitting a snorted guffaw and commenting aloud about a “turd thing” that Jim’s crazy uncle was chasing a mouse with. Edward sighed and mopped up, then pulled down the third volume of Narbondo’s Gilled Beasts and sat at the desk, thumbing through until he came to the lengthy section on mermen. He began to read, for the tenth time, the account of a gilled corpse taken in the seventeenth century from the Sargasso Sea, tangled among the rubbery purple stalks and bladders of floating kelp. There was an unlikely drawing of a peculiar toad man on an adjoining plate, no doubt long dead, but with a wistful and tragic look in his eye, as if he wondered how he’d fallen out of Paradise and in among monsters.

“Pay me for it,” Oscar Pallcheck said, waving a notebook full of looseleaf pages at a silent and saddened Giles Peach. Jim waited and didn’t say anything. He wondered, though, whether he’d have to take Gill’s side against Oscar. The thought terrified him. If he kept silent perhaps everything would work out. Oscar would tire of the game and give Giles his journal. Jim plucked a tuft of grass from Gill’s front lawn, affecting nonchalance, watching the man across the street—Mr. Hasbro—crawling around the ground on his hands and knees, peering beneath an old, orange Metropolitan at its ruined muffler. Beside him was a new muffler, a chrome wonder of tubes and rivets and obscure oval boxes.

“Listen to this,” said Oscar to Jim, involving him in the fun.

Giles snatched at the notebook, a wild grab that missed its mark by a foot when Oscar, with a burst of laughter, yanked it back out of reach. “Listen.” He cleared his throat theatrically and, waving his free hand at Giles as if to ward him off, read:” ‘My father has gone away. I think to the center of the Earth. Why didn’t he take me? Has he turned entirely into a fish?’ “ Oscar guffawed. “A fish! Your old man’s a fish gone off to the center of the earth! Kee-rist! Talk about nuts. Wait, wait.” He ducked around behind the curb tree as Gill grabbed again for the journal, tears leaking from his eyes. He swung wildly at Oscar, managing to hit him weakly in the shoulder, and for a few moments the two of them circled the tree, Oscar shouting with laughter and Giles sobbing and lunging, the gills along his neck flaring and collapsing, something Jim watched half fascinated, half in fear, but which Oscar, in his mirth, was blessedly oblivious to.

Mr. Hasbro tugged the new muffler toward his car. From the altered angle the thing appeared to have metamorphosed into something almost magical. It glowed silver in the sunlight which played in rays off a sequence of bright wires stretched between two curved porcelain masts like strings on a harp. The whole thing, impossibly, seemed to be hovering a few inches off the ground.

Jim couldn’t contain himself any longer, fear or no fear.

“Give it to him, Oscar,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to read this other part. I told you I’d show the whole thing to you anyway, didn’t I? Is that what your beef is? You’d have stole it first if you had any guts. Your uncle ought to swim Gill through his nut mazes. But listen to this.”

“I don’t want to,” said Jim, pushing himself to his knees and standing up. He hadn’t any idea what he was going to do, but the situation called for action. Giles stood shaking almost imperceptibly, having given up his pursuit and withdrawn. There was the clatter of tools across the street: the banging of a hammer, the crank of a ratchet, and a muffled curse as Mr. Hasbro yanked his hand out from beneath his car and shoved a finger into his mouth. Nothing could be seen of the wonderful device but two glowing pinpoints of light, one an emerald green and the other an indescribable arc of lavender and blue mixed together in a luminescent swirl. The emerald dot seemed to bleed out into the surrounding air, tinting the street and the trees and the sidewalk a pale and watery green, like sunlight leaking through the back of a breaking wave. And for one eerie moment Jim was sure he smelled salt on the air—the ocean and seaweed smell of barnacles and mussels clumped onto sea-washed rocks. But the air was still and silent. No breeze blew. Mr. Hasbro stood back, hands on his hips, gazing at his vehicle with obvious satisfaction. The old rusted muffler, pockmarked with nickel-sized holes, lay on the parkway beneath a camphor tree.

“ ‘I’ve developed anti-gravity today. I’m sure of it,’ “ Oscar I read, to himself now since Jim wasn’t a willing audience and Giles would no longer be baited. “ ‘It’s a simple business, actually. Far simpler than it seems. I came across a copper coil at Sprouse Reitz, and along with a box of a hundred large paper clips and a penlight …’ Kee-rist!” shouted Oscar again to emphasize his disbelief. ‘This is crazy. That’s what it is. Is this a joke or something?” But Giles didn’t respond even though the question was aimed at him. Jim was vaguely surprised to see Oscar so angry. Perhaps it was simply that he was playing to an unappreciative audience.

But he was even more surprised when Mr. Hasbro, wiping away at his hands with a blue rag, slid in behind the wheel of his Metropolitan, started it up, raced the weirdly humming engine for a moment, and sailed away into the sky, the little Metropolitan reflecting the rays of the noonday sun until, just for an instant as it angled away toward the Hollywood Hills, it looked like nothing more than a bulbous orange fish—an immense garibaldi, perhaps—darting toward the shadows of a submarine cave. Then it was just a speck in the blue-green of heaven.

Jim felt suddenly nauseated. He pointed a trembling finger at the disappearing automobile and croaked out the single word, “Look!” Oscar spun around, set off by the appearance of Jim’s face, and was treated to the sight of a rusty muffler on a half-brown lawn.

“You’re nuts,” Oscar proclaimed, spitting through the gap in his front teeth. “You’re as nuts as he is.” He slammed Gill’s journal shut, tossed it contemptuously into the street, and strode off down the sidewalk, shaking his head about twice as hard as was necessary. The notebook landed on edge, fell open, and a half-dozen loose pages blew out, breezing away merrily down the road as if chasing Oscar Pallcheck. Jim ran them down, retrieved the notebook from the street, and handed it to Giles. Giles, however, seemed almost catatonic—obviously unseeing. Jim was powerfully tempted to flip open the journal and read it—to stuff the loose pages into his shirt and go home. But he didn’t. He sat on the lawn with his friend, pretending that they were both being silent by choice, and watched a bank of dark, wildly roiling clouds come surging up over the San Gabriel Mountains.

Lightning flickered in the east—great long forks of it that touched the foothills like the tongues of electrical snakes. A black veil of rain approached in an even sheet, illuminated by the lightning flashes, and a scattering of hailstones clattered on the street even though the sky overhead was clear, as if they’d been cast from the distant storm by a great wind. And just before the rain began to fall, when the sharp and wonderful smell of ozone rose from the street and sidewalk, a man came riding over the housetops on a bicycle, pedaling like a whirligig, as if the very fury of the revolving wheels was keeping him aloft. Jim watched in silence as the flying bicycle and its surprisingly familiar rider drew toward and then past them, sailing above Hasbro’s chimney, beneath swaying telephone wires, and arcing skyward to disappear into the dark wall of rain that swept over them, almost obscuring the street, blotting out the rest of the world. Jim shoved Gill’s journal under his jacket, his mind racing, thinking of Hasbro’s impossible flight, thinking of Roycroft Squires pedaling past in defiance of gravity—in defiance of sanity. And why Roycroft Squires? He thought of the look in his father’s eyes as he had watched Yamoto through the window, of his obvious certainty that “things are becoming clear.” Were they? Or was the opposite true? Or was he infected by his father’s lunacy?

Giles seemed to wake up suddenly, as if he’d been startled out of sleep. The two of them bent toward the house through huge drops of rain. When Jim handed Giles the notebook, he put it away along with a dozen others without saying a word. Jim didn’t dare refer to it, although its contents were whirling in his mind like the pedals of Squire’s bicycle. It must have been a hallucination. Something he’d eaten. He remembered a story he’d read once in which a man had seen a luminous pig after eating three dozen raw oysters. But he hadn’t eaten any oysters.

The tinkle of a bell sounded faintly through the rain, and a white panel truck drew toward the house. Jim and Giles watched through the kitchen window as the bell fell silent and the truck wheezed to a stop.

John Pinion stepped out. He was dressed in the white duck pants and bluejacket of a Good Humor man, and he hoisted a foolishly small and ribby umbrella before setting out up the driveway. Jim supposed he’d be asked to leave, being associated, as he was, with the competition. He didn’t entirely like the looks of John Pinion, not so much because he was squat and pale, but because he was perpetually shaking your hand in a fishy sort of grip, as if he weren’t so much being pleasant or polite as obsequious—worse than that, as if he wanted to touch you, to feel your skin. Jim wasn’t fond of being touched. He determined to “freeze Pinion out” as Oscar would have put it.

Pinion rang the doorbell, looking furtively over his shoulder, then peering in at the window, shading his eyes, staring straight in at Giles and Jim for ten seconds before he made them out. Then he straightened up and smiled with an embarrassed look. Giles opened the door.

“Odd weather, what?” said Pinion, who sometimes affected a sort of comic book English accent and jargon. “Wet out here.” He pumped Gill’s hand, probably the only hand in miles as cold and fishy as his own. Then he went after Jim’s hand, but Jim, who was large for his age and who had learned a few hand-shaking tricks from Uncle Edward, was ready for him.

He got his in first and grasped the finger end of Pinion’s hand, so that Pinion couldn’t get anything more than a thumb on him. He gave it a hearty squeeze to show he meant business, then let it flop floorward. Pinion grinned foolishly. “Have you got a few moments?” he asked Giles in a plonking, final sort of tone, entirely avoiding looking at Jim.

Jim was damned if he’d leave. He was buoyed up by his run-in with Oscar Pallcheck, such as it was. There was no telling how valiant he might have been if it weren’t for the business with Mr. Hasbro. He was half inclined to suppose he’d imagined it. He must have. Oscar hadn’t seen a thing. Nor had Giles, apparently. But if there was one man who might have had something to do with it, Pinion was that man. In fact, Pinion’s timely arrival was packed with suspicion. Jim wasn’t about to leave. Things were afoot.

Pinion, however, was silent as a clam. He smiled at Jim, but it was a malevolent smile now. There was no mistaking it. He wasn’t about to reveal himself, not to the nephew of Edward St. Ives, Russel Latzarel’s associate. Pinion would wait him out.

Jim was struck with sudden inspiration. He mumbled a quick goodbye, ducked out through the rain, angled around the side of the house into the back yard, and slid silently through the back door, a thrill of fear and intrigue sweeping him toward the living room where Pinion’s voice muttered along. Jim collapsed to his hands and knees at the sound of a shout: the word “yes” exclaimed by Pinion as if in response to a question. Jim picked himself up, cursing himself for having reacted as if he’d be invisible on all fours. His blood rushed along in a fever behind his ears. He needed a plan. Sailing in like this wouldn’t do. He was certain that farther along the hallway was a door—a closet door. He edged up toward it, holding his breath, calculating the time that Velma Peach was likely to arrive home from the bakery where she worked on Saturdays until four—several hours away yet. Pinion laughed aloud and made a peculiar swatting sound, as if slapping his fist into his open palm to emphasize a point. What if Velma Peach drove home for lunch? It was almost noon. If Giles caught him crouched in a coat closet, Jim would simply shriek and leap out at him, like Oscar would do, and pretend it was a gag. But if Velma Peach opened the closet door to shove her raincoat in—he didn’t want to think of it. It would be the end of both of them. He eased into the closet, shoving past an immense fur coat—the skin of an ape, apparently, that smelled musty, like the blue fungus that grows on leather shoes that have sat too long in the dampness of a dark closet floor. He pressed his ear to the wall. There was silence. He couldn’t hear a thing above the sound of his own heart. The sudden sound of Pinion’s voice directly beyond the wall nearly pitched him into the hairy coat. He stood still, breathing through his mouth, listening.

“Naked Eskimos. That’s what I said. And the north wind: there’s no doubt at all it gets warmer in the Arctic as one sails north. Latzarel, remember, hasn’t been to the Arctic. He pretends to be an explorer. Pshaw! He’s a boy scout, a tiny tot, a back yard scrabbler. Have you considered this: If rivers don’t flow out of the center of the Earth—and I, for one, know they do—then why are icebergs made of fresh water? And why, for the love of God, does the musk ox migrate north? Where is he going? To spend the winter on an ice field? You tell me!”

Giles apparently didn’t know, or at least he didn’t answer. He mumbled something about gravity, however, concerned as he naturally would be with physics.

“Fascinating business,” Pinion said. “Perfectly fascinating. You see, gravitational pull is immense, relatively speaking, around the curve from the exterior to the interior of the Earth. We’d roughly double our weight when sailing in through the polar openings along one of the rivers. But inside! Inside we’d halve our weight. A one-hundred-fifty-pound man would weigh about seventy-five pounds. He’d have to—centrifugal force would require it. It doesn’t take much to hold a body to the inside of a hollow, rotating ball.

“But this is all stuff. You’ve heard the same from Latzarel. I know you have. I didn’t drive over here today in that storm to chat about common knowledge. There’s information Latzarel hasn’t got. Nor can he get it! He knows nothing of a race of people—very wonderful people—living at the Earth’s core. Has he mentioned them to you? I think not.”

Jim heard the sound of Pinion slapping something again—a tabletop or the arm of his chair. Pinion paused, cleared his throat, and let the last bit of information settle.

“I was contacted by an emissary of these people. An interesting gentleman, to be sure. He had—how shall I say it?—certain physiological qualities that put me in mind of you. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was gilled. A merman, if you will. And, if I’m not entirely amiss, one of your relatives. You and your family, I mean to say, are exiles from the land within the Earth. A paradise of natural beauty and riches. Gemstones for the plucking. Rivers running with gold. Vast subtropical forests ripe with fruit through the unvarying seasons. There’s no winter there, boy! Think of it. Only perpetual spring and summer.

“It’s a land out of mythology—Ultima Thule, Atlantis, Shamballa, Agharta, Pellucidar! All the ancient mysteries explained. And you, my boy, exiled from that land of eternal sun, you and your unfortunate father …. Alas!”

Jim could imagine Pinion shaking his head, perhaps fondling Giles’ shoulder—the lying old hypocrite. Approached by an emissary! Why would an emissary approach John Pinion? Why wouldn’t he approach Giles Peach? Why would he approach anyone at all? To encourage lunatics like Pinion to invade the land beyond the poles? Jim was aghast. Would Giles swallow all this? Of course he would. He was nine-tenths of the way there before Pinion’s arrival. Why shouldn’t he? Uncle Edward had. Professor Latzarel had. And when Jim considered it for a moment, he had too. He didn’t half believe in Pinion’s emissary, but Ashbless had been right at the Newtonian Society meeting. Pinion would outdistance them all. He hadn’t their honesty, their integrity. But he’d very soon have Giles’ machine.

The front door shut with a suddenness that nearly toppled Jim into the ape coat again. It was Velma Peach, home for lunch. He could hear her there, a foot away. Through the crack between the door and the jamb he could see a hand gripping a raincoat. Surely she wouldn’t hang it in the closet. She was only home to eat lunch. He shut his eyes, waiting, considering and discarding speeches. The closet was far too small to hide him.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Mrs. Peach. For one desperate moment Jim was sure she was talking to him. But then the hand and the coat disappeared. Jim could hear her feet scraping away toward the living room. It was John Pinion she confronted.

“My good woman …” he began.

“What do you want here?”

“I’m interested only in your son’s welfare.”

“You’re interested in some slimy business, I’d warrant. If you want to talk to Giles, ask me first. I know who you are. Giles has enough ideas in his head without your shoving in.”

“Giles, perhaps, is the best judge of that,” Pinion replied in an abruptly icy tone. “You’re about to be outvoted by history. Take my word for it, my good …”

But he hadn’t time to finish before Velma Peach began to shout that she would “good woman” him out the door; Jim, in a wild rush, slid out of the closet unseen and fled down the hall, out through the kitchen and into the back yard. The front door slammed, Pinion’s truck rumbled away, and Jim idled casually along toward home, looking over his shoulder twice, fearful of being caught out and thinking wildly about Pinion’s Atlanteans and Mr. Hasbro’s car and of stealing Gill’s journals. How much of the day’s events could he tell Uncle Edward? All of it might be of vast importance. He’d make up some story of overhearing Pinion. And if it seemed a good idea, he’d mention the Metropolitan incident. Uncle Edward had, after all, insisted he’d been lashed with an invisible wet tentacle at The Newtonian meeting. But he couldn’t mention having seen Roycroft Squires on the flying bicycle. They’d shove him into bed and call Dr. Frosticos. The thought sobered him, and once again he thought of his father’s fear of Yamoto, of everything new or unusual. It seemed to him that whatever else might be true, they were certainly rushing headlong toward some strange fate.

Chapter 6

There was nothing but bad weather for a month: rain and clouds and wind out of the northeast, high tides and storm surf on the south coast. Professor Latzarel haunted the coves along the Palos Verdes Peninsula, waiting for a low tide, plumbing the depths of big pools with a thousand-foot line. Word had come from Roycroft Squires. The launching of the diving bell was impossible. Not to be thought of. They’d have to postpone it.

In mid-December the Santa Ana winds began to blow again, the weather hotted up, and the sea calmed. Anticipating a three-day blow, Uncle Edward and Professor Latzarel decided to wait another few days to launch the diving bell, until Saturday, perhaps. If the wind lasted longer they’d launch on Sunday.

Early Thursday afternoon, Giles, Jim, and Oscar Pallcheck walked along Colorado Boulevard in the wind. An occasional tumbleweed, loosed from the foothills or from some vacant lot, came rolling across the road, mashing its way under the bumper of a moving car and disintegrating in a scattering of twigs. The air smelled hot and dry, like wind that had blown across a rocky desert floor. If it were three months earlier, the charged air and the blowing dust would have been a distraction, an irritation, but in early December the wind was an Indian summer, blown in late at night from the east, almost a holiday.

Gill and Jim were set on finding Christmas gifts. It was a perfect excuse to rout through the old bookstores and junky curiosity shops that fronted Colorado. Oscar hadn’t, it seemed, any concern for Christmas, or for bookstores or junk no matter how curious. He laughed into obscurity a series of stuffed salamanders that Jim considered buying for Uncle Edward. There were a dozen of the things pinned to a board and labeled. Aside from a couple of missing feet and a ball of wadding shoving through the ruined eye of a spotted newt, the collection was in tiptop shape. Oscar became fascinated with an unidentifiable metal contraption hung with flexible tubing that he insisted was a nasal irrigator. Then he insisted that a cream pitcher—a ceramic duck through whose beak would pour a river of milk—was also a nasal irrigator. Jim’s salamanders became nasal irrigators themselves very quickly, as did the owner of the shop, a pinched little man with two enormous hearing aids and assorted missing teeth, who not only wouldn’t sell the salamanders to Jim at any price, but who chased the three of them back out into the wind, shouting a final curse as Oscar performed what was meant to be a ridiculing dance on the sidewalk in front of the shop.

The incident primed Oscar up fairly thoroughly, and he announced that they’d spend the afternoon “playing for points,” a pastime in which one of them would challenge another to commit an act of daring in return for a specified number of points. It was a game that Oscar invariably won, unshackled as he was by any sense of morality or guilt:

‘He insisted that his performance at the curiosity shop was worth three points for openers, and neither Gill nor Jim complained. Jim netted two for himself by sliding in through the open door of the K-Y Pool Hall and shouting “Rack ‘em up” in an embarrassed voice before ducking back out onto the sidewalk. Oscar offered six points to Giles to simply walk into the Eagle Rock Public Library and flare his nostrils, very calmly and deliberately, for the space of a full minute in front of Mr. Robb, the feared and glowering reference librarian. He and Jim would keep time on the big wall clock over Mr. Robb’s head. Giles refused and wouldn’t be bullied into it. He earned a grudging point, however, by agreeing to buy Oscar a boysenberry milkshake at Pete’s Blue Chip hamburger stand, and it was then, as the three of them angled across the parking lot of a van and storage yard, that Jim became aware of the desultory jingling of a bell somewhere out on the boulevard.

John Pinion’s truck slowly turned the corner and hove to at the curb. Giles was impassive. Jim knew that whatever transpired, he wouldn’t leave Giles alone with Pinion—not this time; not if he could help it. Oscar assumed Pinion to be an authentic ice cream man as he climbed down out of the cab, and saw in Pinion’s pink face a naivete he could play on like a fiddle.

Chewing a monumental wad of gum, Oscar accosted Pinion with something that sounded like, “Watchasay?” Pinion laughed and smiled in a fatherly way, shoving out his ubiquitous hand. Oscar reached for it, then snatched his own away an instant before making contact. “I don’t connect with sewer pipes,” he announced, breaking into immediate laughter and winking at Jim, who hastened to wink back. Giles was silent. Pinion laughed to show he could take a joke. “Call that a shirt?” asked Oscar, nodding his head toward Pinion’s ice cream outfit.

Pinion couldn’t respond. He smiled more broadly and decided to take the offensive—an unfortunate decision, as it turned out. He sucked in his stomach, shoving vital organs and fat up toward his chest—to show fads physique off to better advantage perhaps—and affected an informal tone, entirely unlike his usual mock-English performance, no doubt supposing that Oscar would find him a sort of kindred spirit.

“How old do you think I am?” he asked, winking at Giles and Jim. “Come on now, an honest guess. What do you say, forty?”

He was nearer sixty; anyone could see that. But he astounded Jim by bending forward and launching himself into a spectacular handstand. Odd change and a penknife clattered out of his pockets onto the sidewalk. Jim could see, across the street, a line of half a dozen faces watching Pinion’s antics from within Pete’s Blue Chip.

Pinion stood just so for the space of thirty long seconds before reversing the process and leaping upright. His pink face had gone scarlet, and he puffed like a steam engine. Jim was struck with the uncanny certainty that the lot of them were being inescapably drawn into some criminal lunacy. Pinion plucked his knife from the sidewalk but let the scattered change lie. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Well what do you say,” he asked Oscar. “Have you ever seen anyone as fit as me? No you haven’t. I’m a polar explorer. The polar explorer. That’s who I am.”

Oscar leered at Jim, determined not to let Pinion out-wink him. He spat the great gob of wrinkled gum into the street and said, “What do you figure, boys, ninety or a hunnerd?” Oscar winked again at Jim to alert him that the situation was under control. With a growing sense of dread, Jim did his best to be in on the gag. He winked back. Pinion seemed to be fueled by the winks.

“Well, a hundred is it?” He began bouncing and jabbing out into the air as if punching phantoms. “Son,” he said impressively, puffing away there for Oscar’s benefit, “I was the champ of Arkansas. I used to fight ‘em all. It didn’t matter who they were.” He jabbed and ducked and feinted his way through the lie. Jim, anyway, was certain it was a lie. He’d never heard anything about Pinion’s being a boxer, even in his youth. He determined that it was simply Pinion’s monumental ego that wouldn’t allow him to be bested in an exchange with Oscar. He was using psychology, no doubt—appealing to Oscar’s obvious sense of brutality.

Oscar, in fine form, bounced once or twice in the style of the Champ of Arkansas, throwing an imaginary windmill punch and eyeballing Gill and Jim. It was just the sort of thing Oscar lived for and that Jim feared. Gill, Jim could see, was fading.

Pinion pressed the issue. “Ever hear of O’Riley the Irish Miller?”

“Sure,” Oscar lied, “who hasn’t?”

“Well it was me who taught him to fight. I was in the gym every day, over in east L.A. O’Riley went on to whip Stud Pritchard at the Olympic. Took him apart. I was in O’Riley’s corner, and it was just like I taught him. For three rounds it was N a little of this …” and Pinion threw three quick left jabs.

“And a little of this …” Pinion whirled his right around in a tight hook.

“And one of these,” said Oscar, hopping backward ridiculously on one foot and screwing up his face into an appropriate grimace.

“Then late in the third,” said Pinion, undaunted by Oscar’s performance, “Pritchard made what we fighters call the ‘fatal pause.’”

“Sure he did,” said Oscar, mimicking what seemed to him to constitute the fatal pause.

“And I jumped up and yelled, ‘Cut loose, Miller!’ and O’Riley cut loose!”

At the utterance of this revelation, Oscar could contain himself no longer, and he erupted in a wild howl of laughter, the term “cut loose” having certain slang connotations that Pinion didn’t intend. Oscar immediately acted out Stud Pritchard’s horror at Irish O’Riley’s cutting loose, and then went on to act out the cutting loose process itself with such grim majesty that Jim burst into uncontrollable laughter. Pinion wasn’t half so impressed.

He stepped back a pace, stiffened up as rigid as he could manage, and tapped himself on the stomach. “Punch me,” he gasped, squinting at Oscar. “Right there. Hard as nails.” And he thumped his stomach again, ready to weather the punch of O’Riley the swinging Irish Miller.

Oscar huffed himself up and let fly at Pinion’s abdomen, to the horror of both Jim and Gill. Pinion deflated like a sprung balloon. There was a shout from the direction of Pete’s Blue Chip. Pinion doubled over and whistled into the dirt, his lips turning a sudden shade of pale blue and his eyes rolling up into his head.

For the space of three seconds Jim stood transfixed with honor, but when Oscar, screaming with laughter, broke and ran down Hubbard Road, Jim snatched Giles’ arm and dragged him along in Oscar’s wake. Gill watched over his shoulder for some sign that Pinion wasn’t, as both of them feared, dead. When a half dozen cheeseburger-clutching bystanders emptied out of Pete’s into the street, Giles forgot about Pinion and ran along at Jim’s heels, both of them cutting away down the first available alley, losing Oscar in the process and leaping out onto Stickley Street where they forced themselves to slow up and walk along at a disinterested pace until they reached the safe port of Jim’s house. There they found Uncle Edward, Professor Latzarel, and Roycroft Squires messing with an unlikely looking diving bell perched on the back of a flatbed truck. Jim sailed past as if it weren’t there, still half expecting a mob, perhaps waving hayforks and lit torches, to round the corner with a shout. He worked at convincing himself that he and Gill had merely been bystanders and were in no way responsible for the crippling of Pinion. But then he pictured himself laughing aloud and cheering Oscar on an instant before Pinion’s collapse. They’d find him as guilty as Oscar. Giles they wouldn’t touch. Pinion, after all, wouldn’t press charges—not against Gill. He’d be full of fatherly concern—if he was still alive. But he’d chase Jim and Oscar down. There was no doubt about that. Pinion was vicious and obviously jealous of Professor Latzarel and Uncle Edward.

Jim peered out of the front window at the street. Mrs. Pembly skulked along on the sidewalk, pretending to inspect a little bed of begonias. She was obviously watching the house. Jim’s blood raced. Was she in league with Frosticos, with Pinion? She wandered along the sidewalk and peered down the driveway, oblivious to being spied on. It was the diving bell she was watching. Jim turned to Giles who sat silent as a heap of stones in the green chair, looking dismal.

“Well what about that,” said Jim, affecting a smirk. “That took care of old Pinion nut, didn’t it?”

He intended the remark to carry a tone of bravado, but he, was immediately sorry for it when he saw Giles’ reaction. He shook himself out of his heap, slammed a hand onto the arm of the chair, and tried to speak. “P … p … p … poor Pinion!” he stuttered out. Then he said, “Oscar!” with such a startling hiss that Jim spun around, expecting to see Oscar himself standing behind him. Giles shook his head. His mouth trembled. It seemed to Jim that Gill had something terrible to say, something horrific, something that, finally, couldn’t be uttered. Gill stood up abruptly, walked past Jim without a word, and slammed out the back door. The sight of the diving bell arrested him, however, and in seconds his anger appeared to have evaporated, replaced by scientific curiosity. He stood with his hands in his pockets gaping at the machine. Jim wandered out behind him.

The diving bell itself, borrowed by Professor Latzarel from the Gaviota Oceanographic Laboratory, was round as a ball. It was almost an antique. Hoses led away out of it into great coils, and in a ring around the bell, within the upper one third or so, were a line of portholes riveted shut. There was a hatch at the top, screwed down with what looked like an immense brass valve. The whole thing was etched with corrosion and flaked with blue-green verdigris. It looked to Jim like something out of Jules Verne.

Roycroft Squires fiddled with the air hoses, running down the length of them, inch by inch, looking for leaks, perhaps. He nodded at Jim, paused, and scratched at a little bump on the hose.

“Weak spot?” asked Jim.

“Not really,” said Squires, resuming his inspection. “Just a lump of rubber.” He glanced back up at Jim. “You look pale. Feeling okay?”

Jim wiped sweat off his nose, certain for one impossible moment that Squires had seen through him, had somehow worked out that he and Oscar had just beaten up John Pinion. “I’m fine,” Jim said. “Really. It’s this wind. Makes me feel sticky.”

“It’s positive ions that does it. Make people act crazy. The local Indians used to throw themselves into the sea when the Santa Ana blew.”

“With any luck we’ll do the same,” shouted Latzarel from within the bell. He grinned out at Jim. The inch-thick glass of the porthole blew his face up like a balloon.

“I’ve been thinking of buying a bicycle,” Jim said idly.

Squires took a pull at a half empty bottle of beer. “Mmmm?” he said.

“You know anything about bicycles?”

“Not a bit, actually. I’m not much on bicycles.”

“I could have sworn I saw you ride past not too long ago.” Jim pretended to rub at the brass wall of the diving bell.

“Not on a bicycle you didn’t. I haven’t ridden one in forty years. Treacherous things. The last one I had lost its chain every sixty or eighty feet.”

Jim said he must have been mistaken and let the matter chop. Squires’ assurance hadn’t done anything to solve the riddle.

Giles Peach had scrambled onto the bell and was peering in at Latzarel. “What is the purpose of these hoses?” asked Giles.

“Air and pressure,” said Latzarel. “Red one’s air; black one’s pressure.”

Gill nodded as if he’d known what they were all along, and then he sniffed and scratched his ear, screwing up his face a little with the look of someone at once condescending and a bit amazed at the inadequacy of the devices. “Fairly primitive,” he said—a statement which, under the circumstances, irritated Jim unspeakably.

“It gets the job done,” Latzarel assured him.

Giles squeezed at the air hose. “Wouldn’t an oxygenator be more efficient?” Then without waiting for an answer, he poked his head in to have a look at the controls. “No motivators?”

“None whatsoever.”

“You’re limited, then, by the length of the hoses?”

“That’s correct,” said Latzarel, humming to himself.

“How deep will she go?”

“Two hundred fifty feet, in a pinch. Deep enough to take some soundings. If I’m not mistaken, though, we shouldn’t have to go too deep on this run. The walls of the pool are probably littered with artifacts. I’d stake my reputation on it. John Pinion’s fishing in the wrong hole.” Latzarel laughed, satisfied with the pun.

At the mention of Pinion, Giles looked suddenly saddened. Jim couldn’t fathom it. Pinion was so slimy.

“Speaking of Pinion,” Latzarel continued, “how are you getting along with your device? Your subterranean prospector.”

Giles shrugged.

“Get that perpetual motion engine of yours working yet?” Latzarel winked through the porthole at Jim.

“I believe so,” said Giles. “I needed a part that I couldn’t find. But just this afternoon I saw one in a junk store up on Colorado.” He paused for a moment then said; “Oscar Pall-check thought it was a nasal irrigator.” He’d meant the remark as a comment on Oscar’s stupidity and coarseness, Jim was sure of that, but Gill turned immediately red, embarrassed at his own coarseness in simply having said it.

Professor Latzarel chuckled. “A nasal irrigator, eh? And you need this for your machine?” He laughed out loud.

“Well it wasn’t, really. It was a relay attached to a vapor box, but Oscar …”

“Vapor!” said Latzarel, punching at a brass toggle switch on the control panel. “A vaporizer, you mean. Your friend was right. It was a nasal irrigator.” Then Latzarel straightened up, held the index finger of his right hand in the air, and uttered profoundly, “A nose is a nose, is a nose, is a nose,” and then blew his own so monumentally into a checked handkerchief that the diving bell rang with the blast. Latzarel laughed hugely, beside himself. He shoved up through the hatch and repeated the gag for Edward’s benefit, telling him that if William were there, with his literature background and all, it would break him up.

It didn’t seem to break Gill up much at all. In fact he shook his head sadly and fell silent, staring toward the distant mountains outlined against a blue, late afternoon sky, the dying wind blowing his lank blond hair up out of his face. Five minutes later he had slipped away unseen without uttering another word. Jim had the illogical feeling that Professor Latzarel would do well to be less cavalier with Giles, who didn’t half understand humor. The idea of Oscar’s nasal irrigator being part of a perpetual motion engine was foolish enough, but Gill wasn’t foolish—crazy, perhaps, but not foolish. And there was the matter of Hasbro’s car, a phenomenon that Uncle Edward had written off as a figment. He’d been concerned, there was no doubting that, but his concern had the same worried look about it that surfaced when William Hastings made one of his intermittent visits home.

“Can you beat this?” cried Uncle Edward on Saturday morning, nearly choking on his coffee. Jim looked up from his bock: The Abominations of Fu Manchu. His mother had never allowed turn to read at the table, but Uncle Edward hadn’t any objections. Edward slapped his newspaper with the back of his hand. “John Pinion was accosted and beaten by a gang of toughs not three blocks from here Thursday afternoon! Hospitalized!”

Jim laid his book on the table and swallowed some milk. “Hurt bad?”

“No, more’s the pity,” said Uncle Edward, shaking his head. “Knocked the wind out of him, apparently. A bystander rushed him down to Glendale General but they let him go an hour later. Apparently he didn’t know his assailants.” Uncle Edward paused and raised his coffee cup, his eyes darting back and forth across the column. Jim sighed deeply and picked up Fu Manchu.

“Ha!” cried Edward. “Listen to this! No wonder he didn’t know his assailants! He was dressed as an ice cream vendor. And he had a tricked-up panel truck with a bell and speaker that played ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep.’ That’s who it is! By God!” Edward dropped the paper and lunged at the phone, dialing Professor Latzarel’s number. “Listen,” he said into the phone.

“Don’t talk, listen. Do you recall my mentioning an ice cream truck that hung about on the road? Yes. Well, you won’t believe this. Pinion’s up to some deviltry, and you can lay to it.”

And he read Latzarel the article from one end to the other. Witnesses, apparently, had seen Pinion attempting to lure three boys into his ice cream truck, performing some sort of song and dance for their amusement. But the boys wouldn’t have any of it, and one, a hulking fellow in a tiny red t-shirt, punched Pinion in the abdomen. The three youths fled west on Hubbard Street.

“They suspect Pinion of being a pervert! Can you imagine?” Edward paused, listened, and nodded grimly. “More than meets the eye. That’s just what I was saying to myself. Something’s up.” Then he looked across at Jim who was hiding behind his open book, the cover of which depicted a bearded Fu. Manchu, a pink mushroom, and a plump, alien-looking scorpion all caught up in a sort of wind devil. “I’ll call you back,” said Edward. ‘To heck with it; I’ll see you in an hour at the docks.”

Uncle Edward cleared his throat meaningfully. Jim looked up, knowing what was coming. “Doesn’t Oscar wear a red t-shirt?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“Didn’t he have one on Thursday afternoon?”

“I guess.”

Edward nodded. “Care to tell me about it? This may be important. It has to be. What’s Pinion up to? That’s what I want to know. He wasn’t trying to lure you into his truck, was he?”

“Not me, that’s for sure. I think he was after Giles ….” And with that, Jim related the whole incident—how he’d tried to call Oscar off, and how Pinion had seemed ready to kidnap Gill, and how Oscar, seeing Pinion go for Giles, had punched him one and the lot of them had run for it, knowing things would go hard for them, having assaulted a polar explorer and all. Already waist deep in his story, Jim went on to describe Pinion’s earlier conversation with Gill and the argument with Velma Peach. He stopped short of any mention of the flying bicycle, assuming that the story would throw a cloud of implausibility and doubt over the entire confession—perhaps deepen the suspicions that had been awakened in Uncle Edward by Jim’s recounting of the Hasbro’s Metropolitan incident.

Edward listened intently, but admitted, finally, to being every bit as confused as he had been before. That Pinion was planning some phenomenon there could be no doubt. But why he had such evident interest in Giles, beyond his scientific curiosity at Giles’ abnormalities, was a mystery. He was still pondering and speculating as they drove out the Harbor Freeway an hour later toward San Pedro.

Chapter 7

Except for the rhythmic heaving of the ground swell, the ocean was still. Six-inch wind waves lapped against the shore at low tide, and the faint remnants of the Santa Ana winds—little, willowy offshore breezes—mussed Jim’s hair, from time to time as he munched black licorice on the foredeck of the Gerhardi Roycroft Squires’ old fishing boat. The boat itself was of peculiar shape—vastly wider in the bow than in the stern, and Jim, understanding nothing of boats, could make little of the strange shape, although it appealed to him: It seemed to be a nautical cousin of his uncle’s Hudson Wasp. The cabin had a sort of humped and globular look to it which reminded him of the sweep of a tiny, almost round Airstream trailer. The boat seemed to have been built by someone with a lively imagination, and it was an altogether fitting companion to the diving bell perched in the stern.

In the sunlight glowing off the surface of the sea, the hull of the bell sparkled like an immense jewel—a running together of sapphire and emerald and gold. Rays of reflected light played off the polished glass ports, regularly bathing the lone watcher on the shore in bright sweeps of luminescence as the Gerhardi rose and sank on the swell.

William Ashbless sat on the beach. He shaded his eyes against the glare and tinkered with a little ship-to-shore radio seemingly charged with static. The voice of Professor Latzarel popped in and out: “Testing, testing, testing …” a half a dozen times at odd intervals. Then he counted a bit for good measure, never getting much past four. Latzarel was apparently happy with the results, however, for it occurred to him to tell a joke by way of further testing the apparatus. Ashbless had a contempt for jokes of all types, especially Latzarel’s. “It seems,” said Professor Latzarel launching out in one of the six standard introductory clauses, “there was an ape who ordered a beer in a pub off Pier Street in Long Beach. The ape handed the bartender a ten … “A burst of static flooded out of the radio. Ashbless cranked away at the volume dial, cutting both the static and Latzarel’s voice which was buried in it. Ashbless could just hear what sounded like “tub ubba hill,” but of course couldn’t be. The radio screed loudly, then fell silent. A burst of laughter leapt out. Ashbless cursed. He’d missed the punchline of Latzarel’s stupid damn joke, apparently. But then it became evident that he hadn’t. It had been anticipatory laughter instead.

“So the bartender, see, thinks to himself, ‘What do apes know about money?’” Unable to contain himself, Latzarel giggled into the radio, which abruptly went dead. Ashbless slammed a hand onto the top of his set. There was a static-laden pause of twenty or thirty seconds before Latzaiel’s voice poked in: ‘Testing,” he said. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Ashbless croaked into the machine. “What about the filthy ape?”

“Right,” said Latzarel, giggling. “I’ve got to ask Edward something about the punchline.” The radio fell silent.

Ashbless poked at a switch, twisted a dial, and whistled into the receiver, hoping to irritate Latzarel. He watched Roycroft Squires, who stood on the port bow idly smoking his pipe, gazing out to sea. Twenty miles out beyond the swaying Gerhardi rose the shadowy cliffs of Santa Catalina island, shrouded in sea mist. As the boat listed to starboard, Squires, puffing on his pipe, disappeared behind the bulk of the rising cabin while the southern tip of the distant island seemed to rise skyward behind him. Then as the boat rolled down the backside of the swell, Squires puffed himself up from beyond the cabin, little clouds of tobacco smoke rising over his head, and the tip of the island vanishing momentarily, then rising again almost hypnotically some few seconds later as Squires descended once again beyond the cabin. Ashbless was almost lulled to sleep in the warm air, suddenly free of radio noise and silent but for the cry of a wheeling gull. He could easily have convinced himself that the rocking boat, the puffing Squires, and the misty cliffs of the transmarine island were parts of a cyclical, fabulous machine laboring to an unheard rhythm carried on the late morning breeze.

The crackling of the radio shattered the slow cadence and startled Ashbless out of his daydream. It was Latzarel, testing again. Ashbless was tempted to turn it off. “So the bartender …” said Latzarel, “counts out forty cents change …” A chatter of static eradicated two or three seconds. “And the ape pockets the change and looks around, puzzled …” A great burst of it overwhelmed the ape’s puzzlement. There was a scrunch of gravel and the skid of a shoe on the cliffside scree behind him. Ashbless, fingering switches and dials, turned to find the journalist Spekowsky hastening up, clutching an immense box camera that hung around his neck and shoulder. He was puffing with exertion. The static cleared abruptly, and with a wild hoot of laughter Latzarel shouted, ‘To make small talk, the bartender says, ‘We don’t get many apes in here.’”

Spekowsky was momentarily dumbstruck. He shaded his eyes and peered out at the diving bell. Ashbless hoped that the last revelation concluded the joke, but once again he was mistaken. “And the ape says,” came Latzarel’s voice in a gasp of laughing effort cut short by a hiss of almost deafening static,” … at nine dollars and sixty cents a beer, I’m not surprised!” Ashbless shut the machine down and shook his head at the frowning Spekowsky with a gesture of resignation and blamelessness. Spekowsky hauled out a spiral binder and began jotting quick notes.

Jim had seen the approach of Spekowsky minutes earlier—had spotted the journalist rummaging along the tops of the cliffs, searching for the safest path. He was vaguely surprised to see him, given the recent Newtonian meeting, and was doubly surprised to see him apparently chatting agreeably with Ashbless. The phenomenon puzzled Uncle Edward as well when Jim called his attention to it. Spekowsky busied himself on shore, messing with his camera equipment.

In a little under twenty minutes, the tide dropping rapidly, Edward St. Ives and Professor Latzarel clanked shut the hatch, and with a hum and a splash, the diving bell was hoisted over the edge of the deck and slowly swallowed by the blue ocean.

Jim watched its descent. A rush of bubbles partly obscured the dark sphere that was ringed with a halo of light cast by six stationary lamps. The bell dropped to a depth of ten or twelve feet, dangled momentarily, then dropped again another ten. Jim busied himself with Momus’ glass, but after two minutes or so he could see nothing through it but empty water, for the bell dropped away into the shadows of the enormous pool until there was nothing left but dancing bubbles and a dim, distant submarine glow. Edward’s voice crackled out of the radio on deck as well as from Ashbless’ radio on the rocky shore where Spekowsky leaned forward listening, taking notes.

Inside the bell itself, Edward and Professor Latzarel sat on stools, cold and cramped for space. Little defrosters blew dry air at the ports, but Latzarel’s kept fogging over anyway. He wiped at it with a handkerchief, alternately complaining about the fog and expostulating about some oceanic wonder—a great pink octopus sliding into the shadows of a hollow in the rock wall, or a manta ray the size of the hood of a car, careering away in the distance, sailing among waving tendrils of kelp.

“Spit on it,” said Edward.

“What?”

“On the window. Spit on it and rub it around.”

“What do you see?”

“It’ll keep it from fogging up. By God, look at that!” Edward pointed out into the dark ocean and jammed his face against the cold, dewy port. Latzarel rose and bent across to have a look.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing, now. But there was something vast out there a moment ago.”

“How vast?”

“I don’t know.” Edward shook his head. ‘There was a great luminous eye. As big as a grapefruit. Bigger. It stared at us for a moment, then closed.”

“Closed! You mean it was lidded?”

‘That’s right.” Edward dabbed at a little trail of seawater that leaked in through the seal of one of the ports. He could see nothing beyond, only a family of wildly colored nudibranch messing about on a weedy rock.

A sudden clunking jar pitched Latzarel forward. He caught himself on a brace welded onto the wall of the bell beneath the hatch. “We’ve settled.”

Edward turned, peered out a port, and began to manipulate two little hinged arms, intending to push them off the rocks and into the chasm. The bell hopped forward six inches. Latzarel informed Squires of their dilemma. The bell hopped again with a scrape-clank, then listed abruptly, one of its feet having worked its way off the reef. The bell tottered there for a moment. Edward prodded it once more, it listed farther, and lost its grip on the rock shelf and kelp.

“Say!” shouted Latzarel just as the bell edged free. “Stop! Wait!” But it was too late. They were off. He bent over, craning his neck, peering up through the port. Beyond three feet or so of radiance there was a black wall of ocean.

“What was it?” asked Edward.

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“A piece of ivory about six feet long. Curved.”

“Whalebone,” said Edward, resuming his seat.

“Wooly mammoth tusk,” replied Latzarel. “I’m certain of it. We’ve got to hoist back up to that ledge and try to grapple it somehow.”

“On the return trip,” said Edward, “we’ll pass it again. We were lodged at almost exactly twenty fathoms, according to the gauge. A mammoth tusk, you say?”

“I’ll bet you a dinner. Better yet, a bottle of Laphroaig.” Latzarel hunkered down in his seat, spitting on his window and rubbing it with his index finger. The bell dropped and dropped. Latzarel felt both damp and elated. There was a sort of pervasive moisture in the bell. His hair hung limply across his forehead, one strand of it dangling over his left eye. And there was a musty, oceanic smell that reminded him of an unventilated room of rusted salt water aquaria. He pushed a button on the radio. “How deep are we?”

“One hundred-seventy-five feet,” came the response. Squires’ voice sounded weirdly distant to him—like it had come a long way down a speaking tube, perhaps through two hundred feet or so of plastic aquarium tubing. The idea of it struck him as wildly funny all of a sudden, and he turned to tell Edward about it, to let him in on the joke.

But Edward wasn’t interested. He was making hand signals at a squid who hovered beyond the glass, signaling back. Latzarel couldn’t see the squid, but he immediately caught the spirit of Edward’s histrionics and gestured widely, banging his left hand against a brass valve. A little stream of blood ran down the hand and into his shirt sleeve. “Can you beat that?” he said aloud. The blood in his sleeve reminded him of something he’d learned forty years earlier from his father. He fished in his pocket and hauled out a quarter. “Look here,” he said to Edward. “Lookee here.”

Edward grinned at him.

Latzarel waggled his hands, blood spraying off across the knee of his trousers. “Notice,” he said, “that my fingers do not leave my hands at any time.” And with an appropriate flourish, he held the quarter between the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, snapped his fingers, and cast Edward a satisfied smirk as the quarter shot up his coat sleeve, rolling out almost at once and clattering onto the deck.

Squires was saying something over the radio—mouthing some sort of warning. Latzarel interrupted him, shouting, “A nose by any other name!” then bursting into laughter. Edward went back to signaling the squid. He pointed out the wonderful signifying beast to Latzarel, who all of a sudden developed an inexplicable passion for dancing, such as it was, given the restrictions of the cramped bell.

William Ashbless hadn’t been paying any attention to the radio. His mind was on poetry. He wrestled with a complicated quatrain involving the sea, but the rhyme escaped him. He was vaguely irritated by the scratching of Spekowsky’s pen on paper, which, somehow, was about twice as maddening as was the voice of Russel Latzarel shouting his foolishness about noses. Of all the places to horse around. Whatever faith he’d had in Latzarel’s successfully penetrating the Earth was fast fading. He heard Spekowsky snicker. Over the radio came the words: “Blow ye hurricanoes! Blow-rowr-rowr! Yip and roar!” And there was the noise of someone—Latzarel likely—roaring and yipping. Then came a shout: “Smite flat the rotundity of my girth!” And a howl of laughter. “Singe my white head, all-shaking squid! Cast ye down ye poulpae, if ye will!”

Ashbless fiddled with the knobs. He looked across the hundred yards of ocean at the Gerhardi where Squires, hanging from a winch by his legs, wrenched at the workings of the hoses, both of which were stretched taut, apparently fully played out. Spekowsky had heard enough, or so he thought. A sudden gasp of surprise over the radio, however, surprised them both.

“I tell you I saw it again,” said Edward. A silence followed, echoing up out of the radio. Ashbless strained to hear. “What the devil was it? A cephalopod?” Latzarel laughed abruptly, then said, “Rumble thy bellyful, arquebus!”

“There!” shouted Edward. “There. Beyond that ledge!”

Latzarel began to sing foolishly, but abruptly shut it off. There was silence again. Ashbless could hear what sounded like the drip, drip, drip of water over the radio. Then Latzarel, in a stage whisper, said, “Plesiosaurus.”

‘Too big,” came the reply.

“Magnified by the water and window.”

“Still too big. It’s forty feet long.”

“Elasmosaurus. Erasmus, come from Baobel.” Latzarel snickered.

There was another long silence. “What’s he up to?” asked Edward.

“Studying us. By God! Why don’t we have cameras on this bell? Whoops! There he goes. Straight down.” Latzarel began to giggle, then sneezed voluminously.

A screech of steel followed, as if the diving bell were being dragged across a reef. “Hey!” someone shouted. There was another screech and a muffled, watery clang. “Christ!” Edward cried amid unidentifiable banging. “He’ll foul himself in the hoses! Haul away! Yank us up! Squires!” Then the radio, abruptly, went dead.

Ashbless was on his feet in an instant, hauling at a little wooden dingy that he’d dragged up the beach earlier. Spekowsky shook his head, as if to indicate that he, anyway, wasn’t being taken in by tomfoolery. Ashbless ignored him. He pushed the dingy out into the water, shoving it through a twelve-inch wave that broke across the prow when he was waist deep, and hauled himself into the precariously rocking boat, losing, his hat, fishing it out of the water, and rowing away finally in a mess of flailing oars toward the Gerhardi.

A humming and rumbling came from the listing boat. Cables scattering seawater wound up out of the ocean. Jim stood at the bulwark, watching the depths for some sign of the rising bell, but there was nothing but an eruption of bubbles.

Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw something approaching; it was Ashbless, hauling away on his oars. The little dingy scoured across the surface of the sea, Ashbless glancing now and again over his shoulder to correct his course. He was coming along quickly—so quickly that Jim looked around for something to prod the dingy away with when it came crunching in. Ashbless gave the oars one last heave, shipped them, and turned to find he’d given them one heave too many. He kneeled on the thwart, grappling with an oar in an attempt to yank it back out, dropped it, and thrust his foot out toward the Gerhardi across a rapidly diminishing few feet. Abruptly the ocean below glimmered into luminescence, and in a rush of bubbles and hissing there appeared the dark bulk of the diving bell, alien and cold, itself an opaque bubble ringed with feeble lamps. It rose right through Ashbless’ little dingy and out into the open air, streaming water like some impossible, globular, deep water monster. The cables squeaked through the winch behind Jim, howling with the effort it took to hoist the bell, free now of the ocean, up and onto the deck. It clanked down onto two of its feet and canted over toward the third, which had been bent and twisted back.

Ashbless splashed in the water. His dingy, a great chunk whacked out of the stern, floated an inch beneath the surface; Jim hung the portable ladder over the side and Ashbless clung to it for a moment before cursing his way up. Jim gave him a hasty hand over the side, then scrambled up to help Squires, yanking at the hatch. A moment later, Edward popped out, said something to Squires, and dropped again into the bell. Squires leaned in, got two hands under Latzarel’s armpits, and with Edward shoving from below, managed to haul Latzarel, bleeding from a long gash on his forehead, out onto the deck.

On the following afternoon the bell sat once again on its flatbed truck on the driveway. William Ashbless and Edward St. Ives watched Professor Latzarel tinker with it.

“Nitrogen narcosis,” said Edward after a long silence. “Or maybe oxygen poisoning, or exhaust in the air line.”

“It had to be something like that.” Ashbless ran a broad hand through his lank white hair. “I thought you’d gone haywire at first. All that business about squids. I thought it was one of Russel’s jokes.”

‘This was no joke,” Latzarel assured him, whacking away at the ruined foot of the bell with a lead hammer. “Hand me those pliers. The needlenose.”

Edward left off polishing the salt off the ports and handed the pliers across.

“Look at this!” cried Latzarel after a moment of prodding with the pliers. “Haywire is it? Nitrogen narcosis! Rapture of the bleeding deep! Call Spekowsky! Call the museum!” And amid his shouting he shoved out from under the bell, gripping in his pliers a white triangle that looked to Edward at first to be a chip of plastic.

“What do you make of that?” he asked triumphantly. And he held aloft a faintly curved, almost conical tooth, sheared off at a length of nearly two inches. “It was jammed into a crack behind the foot. I almost missed it. Rapture of the stinking deep!”

“Shark’s tooth?” Ashbless offered skeptically.

Latzarel gave him a dramatically tired and pitying look. “I don’t know anything about King Lear,” he said. “But I’ll take your word for it. I do know about that damned monster. Both of us saw it. It was no hallucination. This came from the mouth of a giant plesiosaur, and you can take my word for it. Damn!” he shouted, slamming his free hand against the hull of the bell.

“I wish to God we could have gone back after that tusk.”

Edward nodded, examining the piece of tooth. “We need a better craft. We’ll never get to where we’re bound in this. You don’t suppose that Giles Peach is onto something with all his talk about oxygenators and pressure regulators?”

“And anti-gravity? And perpetual motion? Giles Peach reads too many science fiction novels.” Latzarel shook his head. “No, I think we’ve got to get this tooth to the right people. We’ll outfit an expedition. A newer diving bell, a bathyscaphe. We’ll need funding, but this ought to do the trick.” He tossed the tooth into the air, flipping it like a coin and letting it drop back into his open palm.

Edward started to say something, but hadn’t gotten anything out when the whump of a newspaper hitting the driveway sounded behind him, and the newspaper itself skidded into his foot. He and Latzarel grabbed for it at the same moment, both of them anticipating a possible article by Spekowsky. Their attention, however, was arrested at the bottom of the front page. Oscar Pallcheck’s body had been hauled out of the La Brea tar pits.

What it was doing there, no one could say. It had sunk in particularly viscous tar, and if it weren’t for the single shoe lying atop the black ooze—a shoe that turned out to have a foot in it—the body would quite likely have remained entombed, sunk to some Mesozoic layer in the well of tar until future excavation uncovered it. It appeared at first as if he’d been the victim of some peculiar disease—his skin, particularly the skin on his head and neck, was scaled; he was almost entirely hairless, and his eyelids were oddly transparent. His incongruous resting place, however, argued foul play, unless he’d thrown himself in—an unlikely thing altogether. An autopsy revealed little. Some sort of investigation was in the offing. It had been discovered that Oscar was one of the three boys accosted by John Pinion in the parking lot of the van and storage yard a few days earlier. Pinion, a renowned polar explorer and anthropologist, had been questioned regarding the tar pit incident and released on his own recognizance.

“Pinion is it!” gasped Edward. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing,” said Latzarel.

Ashbless snatched the dangling Times out of Edward’s hand and reread the article, squinting shrewdly. “I don’t believe Pinion has the first thing to do with this. He’s entirely innocent. I’ll bet on it. The truth here is a devil of a lot stranger than it appears.”

“It always is,” came a voice from behind them, and William Hastings, haggard and hunted and wearing an inconceivable mustache and Van Dyke beard, bent out of the shadows of the bushes at the corner of the back yard.

Chapter 8

“Did you get my letter?” William asked Edward, not stopping to shake hands first.

“Why no. No, Í didn’t. When did you mail it?”

“A week ago. Those bastards must have opened it.” He slumped against the truck frame and paused for a moment, catching his breath. He nodded to Ashbless and to Latzarel, who was jiggling his dinosaur tooth nervously in his cupped hands, his mind an arcade of spinning gears and flywheels and blinking lights. William’s sudden appearance hadn’t settled any issues.

“Why did they open it?” Edward asked in a tone he hoped would provide an element of rationality while obscuring doubt. It was best to be safe.

William shook his head a bit, as if asking for breathing space. Then very calmly and deliberately he said: “They’re going to destroy the world. Blow it up.”

“Whatever for?” cried Edward, genuinely aghast.

“Because they’re sons of bitches,” said William.

Ashbless handed Edward his newspapers with a barely disguised rolling of his eyes. “Good to see you, old man,” he said to William, nodding. “Keep your pecker up. We won’t let them explode the world. Leastways not until I’ve had a drink. See you all later.” And he touched a finger to his forehead as a parting gesture and strode away down the driveway. His car engine started up and roared off.

“Condescending twit,” muttered William, pulling off his mustache and beard. “I half believe he’s one of them. Hurried away because he didn’t want to be found out.”

William, about then, realized what he was leaning against and caught sight of the diving bell. His face fell. “You’ve gone without me,” he said despondently, as if he had known all along it would come to that.

“The tide,” said Edward weakly. “And it was only a preliminary run. We’ve got evidence that will rock the scientific world.”

Latzarel handed William the tooth and related the elasmosaurus business in detail, coloring it with the wooly mammoth tusk. William squinted and nodded, absently poking the false little pointy beard back onto his chin, then forgetting about it and leaving it dangling sideways while he had a look at the newspaper account of Oscar’s demise. Edward couldn’t keep his eyes off the beard. It was like a crooked picture, and he itched to be at it. “Uh, the beard, William,” he said finally, emboldened by his suspicion that the canted disguise would appear to the casual passerby to be evidence of eccentricity.

“What? Oh, yes,” said William, and he pulled the thing off again, pressing it onto his coat pocket for safekeeping.

“Spekowsky!” shouted Latzarel. “We’ve forgotten Spekowsky.” And he yanked out the science page, finding, almost at once, half a column regarding the voyage of the diving bell. “Journey to the Center of the Earth,” the caption read, and there followed an article describing a “preposterous tidepool excursion by Russel Latzarel” that was launched with an eye toward reaching the Earth’s core in a leaky diving bell on the end of a two hundred foot line. Reports of sea serpents and elephants were later attributed to nitrogen narcosis, the article read, and then apologized for having reported on the incident at all, claiming to have done so only out of scientific curiosity and thoroughness.

Latzarel was livid. Edward wasn’t much surprised. “We’ll see!” shouted the professor. “I’ll just use your phone for a moment!”

“Certainly,” said William, assuming that the statement was addressed to him.

But Latzarel returned five minutes later in a doubly bad humor, red enough to explode, cursing science in general as well as the director of the museum of natural history, who had, it seemed, read Spekowsky’s article. He had no faith whatsoever in dinosaur teeth and was indifferent to lands within the Earth—with “scientific quackery,” as he put it. Latzarel could barely speak.

“He’s with them!” cried William, screwing up one eye and glaring at Latzarel through the other.

“I’m half inclined to agree with you,” Latzarel said. He studied his tooth once more and shoved it into his pocket.

“Tomorrow morning then. We’ll get this craft back up to Gaviota. They might be amenable to financing another expedition.” He shook his head grimly, thinking about scientific quackery. Still worked up, he stormed away toward the Land Rover and whirled off in a dust cloud.

William, with a suddenness that astonished his brother-in-law, dropped to his knees behind the truck and scuttled toward the bushes like a crab, smashing his way in among shrimp plants and begonias and heavenly bamboo, then peering out toward the driveway. “I’m not here,” he hissed at Edward.

“Haven’t been for weeks.”

Edward’s puzzlement was quickly gone, for there on the street, moving along slowly and deliberately, was a familiar white van. Edward’s heart sank. He was determined to protect William—at least for the moment. Had Mrs. Pembly seen him? The false mustache wasn’t worth a farthing. It was a beacon, if anything. Edward would tell Frosticos a thing or two. No he wouldn’t. It would give him away, would gain him nothing.

But the van wasn’t stopping. It pulled up to the curb at the Peach house. Edward climbed onto the truck bed and crouched behind the hull of the bell, looking out over the hatchcover.

“They’re not coming here,” he whispered, although he didn’t, strictly speaking, have to, since Frosticos was stepping out of the van along with a white-suited attendant—an Oriental, Edward noticed—a half block away. For one wild moment Edward was certain the attendant was Yamoto, the ex-gardener. But it couldn’t be. This man was too short by far. He’d let himself get carried away. He’d have to watch that. But what in God’s name was Frosticos doing at the Peach house? That certainly wasn’t a matter of paranoia. There was a scrabbling in the bushes behind him as William worked his way down toward the front yard to get a view of the street.

Something dreadfully strange was afoot. William could sense it. He only half understood Edward’s whispered assurances. In fact, his brother-in-law’s whispering sounded to him like so much static lost in a sea of sudden afternoon emptiness. He scraped between a shrimp plant and the wall of the house, breaking off brittle stalks dangling with salmon-colored, vaguely fishy blooms. A dead, curved branch yanked his falser beard from his coat pocket, snapping up and waggling there with the little triangular goatee perched atop it like a toupee on a stick. William watched it bob momentarily, then edged his way along until he could peer out past a stand of orange and green bamboo.

There was an abrupt change of atmosphere. Clouds, unseen in the heavens overhead, passed across the face of the sun, throwing the street into sudden shadow. The breeze fell. Nothing stirred. He heard nothing at all but the dry crackle of leaves and twigs beneath him and the distant droning of a fly. But he felt as if he could hear a voice in the dead air—as if he were breathing the voice, or rather as if his breathing were part of a vast and rhythmic breathing, the ebbing and flowing of an unimagined tide on a sea that was one great sibilant whispering, the combined stirrings of countless tiny voices murmuring together. He strained to hear them, to fathom it, but it was ink, like the ocean at midnight, a vast and watery dark.

The black asphalt street undulated as if it were a river coming to slow life. Dark swirls rippled in its surface. Something lurked below, just brushing up toward shadowed daylight. What was it? William wasn’t sure, but he knew it was there. Leviathan. Dr. Frosticos’ van sat like a white whale atop the river of asphalt, floating there, staring down toward him, watching. What was it waiting for? What were they all waiting for? The street was a river flowing into the east, and below it waited beasts—unidentifiable beasts, nosing up out of subterranean caverns. It seemed to William that the river ran through him, and there trickled into his mind unbidden the words: “Let those curse it who curse the day, who are skilled to rouse up Leviathan. Let the stars of its dawn be dark; let it hope for light but have none, nor see the eyelids of the morning.”

He felt the ground heave beneath him, and he clutched at a stalk of bamboo, snapping it off at a joint. In his hand was a tendril of kelp, limp and wet. He dropped it, fighting for breath. All round him were waterweeds, waving in the currents of a submarine garden: delicate fans of blue-green and purple algae, undulating clumps of eel grass, brown kelp fronds among which grazed limpets and chitons. Crabs scuttled past. Violet tube worms and hydra flowered from the walls of the house.

William was suffocating, drowning. He clutched at the base of a sea fan, tearing it away from its holdfast, the lacy organism disintegrating into pink dust that glinted in the watery rays of the sun and drifted in a cloud, dispersing on the current. William thrashed and kicked, smashing his hand against the house, sweeping brittle sea life adrift. Then, as if in a dream, it occurred to him that he could breathe if he wanted to—that unlike a foolish rat who hadn’t sense enough to exhale a lungful of water, he was entirely capable of it. He relaxed, floating, clutching at seaweed, breathing altogether easily. His exhalations rose above him toward some distant surface, slow wobbling bubbles.

The whole thing struck him as strange, especially the bubbles. And almost as soon as he considered them, they began to burst in little crystal explosions, shattering the sea life around him. Moon snails and blennies, anemones and hermit crabs, periwinkles and starfish—all of them popped out of existence in a rush, and William, loosed from his hold, rose through the water toward sunlight. He blinked awake on the couch in the living room. Edward stood over him, smoking a furious pipe.

William, vaguely surprised to find his trousers dry, sat up. He ran his hands through his hair. “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“It’s four, You’ve been out about a quarter of an hour. Frosticos is gone. I’m certain he didn’t take Giles with him.”

“I’ve had the most amazing dream,” said William. “I believe it was prophetic.” He held up his hand as if anticipating an argument from Edward, who wasn’t much on prophecy or mysticism of any sort. But Edward, apparently, wasn’t in an arguing mood. ‘This digging machine. What does Giles Peach call it?”

“The Digging Leviathan, if I’m not mistaken. It does somewhat resemble a crocodile. But the whole thing’s a lark as far as I can see. Pinion seems to set some store in it, but the whole idea is an impossibility from first to last: perpetual motion, anti-matter, anti-gravity. It’s a fabrication. Utter lunacy. On Pinion’s part that is. Giles can’t be blamed; he’s only a lad. But Pinion’s gone round the bend. Latzarel thinks so too.”

William eyed his brother-in-law. “You look grim,” he said. “What have you seen?”

“Seen?” asked Edward in mock surprise. “Nothing. I hauled you out of the bushes. To be absolutely truthful, you seem to have suffered some sort of collapse. It was touch and go there for a moment. Put the fear right into me.”

“Something put the fear right into you, all right, but it wasn’t any fit of mine. Did you see what I saw?”

“No,” said Edward.

“How do you know? You haven’t any idea what in the devil I saw. I remember more than you suppose. Do you recall your squid tentacle at the Newtonians? Of course you do. You suppose I was too occupied with that false gardener to remember your mentioning it. But that’s not my way. Did you see more tentacles today? Is that it?”

“Of a sort,” said Edward, attempting to tamp his pipe with his finger. He jerked his hand back and shouted with surprise and pain, looking accusingly at his finger. “It seemed to me for a moment, since you press me, that the landscape had become …” His voice trailed off.

“Aquatic,” William said.

‘That’s right. In a nut. I don’t understand it at all.”

“Neither do I.” William fumbled in his pocket for his own tobacco pouch. “I’ll just have a dab of port with this pipe. Join me?”

“Please,” said Edward.

“I’m beginning to see things clearly,” said William when both of them had settled into their chairs and were sipping at their port. Edward grimaced inwardly, as he did whenever William made such pronouncements. This time it was a halfhearted grimace, however, a grimace tempered by his own remembrance of Frosticos’ van, admittedly glimpsed through the distorting arc of one of the porthole windows after Edward had climbed into the diving bell so as to spy more securely on the doctor. It had, for an imponderable second, seemed to him to be a great fish, or the ghost of a great fish, lazing on the surface of a dark sea. He hadn’t been able to shake the vision out of his eyes. And for a long moment he was certain that the diving bell was settling into the blackness of a great oceanic trench, sounding toward unfathomable depths. But the hallucination passed, and there was William, tossing himself through the shrimp plants, hashing up bamboo, flailing against the wall of the house.

“You know I’ve an interest in physics,” said William, breaking into Edward’s reverie.

“What?” said Edward, startled. “Oh, quite. The fat man in the rocket and all. Did you write the story yet?”

“Yes, in fact I did. I sent it off to Analog. It’s just their meat, I believe. But that’s immaterial. What I’m talking about here isn’t fiction.” William shook his head in quick little jerks to emphasize his point. He peered into the bowl of his pipe, then jabbed the stem in Edward’s direction. “This leviathan. I don’t like it. Not a bit. I’m half convinced it will be the end of everything. Can you imagine the pressures built up within the interior of the Earth?”

Edward widened his eyes appropriately, but admitted to himself that he couldn’t. “Pressures? How about the polar openings?”

“What polar openings? Have you seen them? Has Pinion? For my money the polar openings are suboceanic, like your tidepool. No, sir. There’s pressure enough in there to blow this planet to kingdom come. I’m certain of it.” He tamped for a bit at his pipe, then inspected the sediment on the bottom of his glass. “I had a very strange dream not a week back. A dream, I say. Not like what happened this afternoon. That was no dream. I’m sure of it now. But as I say, a week ago I had an odd one. Giles Peach figured in it, as did his machine—his mechanical mole. It burrowed into the Earth—I haven’t any idea who drove it; it wasn’t Peach—somewhere in the desert. Near Palm Springs, I believe it was. Any number of people on hand. It was like a circus. Banners waving, trumpets blowing—like the grand opening of the Tower of Babel. That’s how it struck me. Giles Peach stood on a sort of platform above the hole, watching his device eat its way into the Earth, straight down toward the hollow core. He had the most amazing suit on. A clatch of dignitaries, mostly fat ones, clustered around him waving ribbons and clamoring to make speeches. But the lot of them fell silent when the mole approached its destination.

“The Earth heaved and there was a distant muffled explosion somewhere far below. Giles Peach peeked over the railing, staring into the open shaft. He dropped a stone the size of an egg into it like a boy might drop a rock into a well to judge its depth. A blast of wind whooshed out, carrying on it the very stone Giles had let fall, and the stone struck him in the forehead ….”

“It did?” asked Edward incredulously. “You dreamed this?”

“Yes,” William uttered, half put out at the interruption. “But that’s the least of it. There followed on the wind, on this vast exhalation of pressure, a rush of extinct beasts—mastodons, stegasauri, triceratops—that rained down onto the desert floor as if they’d come back to the surface to claim a lost land.”

“What happened to Peach?” asked Edward.

“Dead as a mackerel,” said William. “It was the stone that did it. What do you think?”

“I suppose the stone could have killed him,” said Edward, pondering. “If it hit him hard enough, anyway.”

“Not that. What do you think about the dream. I’m certain it’s prophetic.”

Edward blinked at him. “Undeniably. At least it seems so to me. I’m not much on prophecy, of course. But this has that sort of ring to it. There’s no getting round it. Yes.” He fiddled with his port glass, spilling a purple dollop down his shirt front. “Damn it,” he cried, jumping up. The damage was done, however, so he sat back down. “Sounds like the core of a fairly substantial story to me, eh? A hollow Earth story.”!

‘This is no story. That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve been convinced that Peach is the key here. Ashbless is convinced too. You mark my words. And then that dream. It haunts me. I’d have written it off, but here comes Frosticos, messing about at the Peach house. What was he up to? We must know.”

“I intend to find out. I’ll drop in on Velma Peach tomorrow morning. If nothing else, I’m going to warn her against Frosticos. He’s up to no good.” Edward was struck immediately by the peculiarity of his last statement, by the certainty that some time in the future, the near future, Frosticos would set out to i round up William. He’d do something about it this time. He wondered idly at William’s several escapes, at Frosticos’ am-I bivalent attitude toward them. It was a confusing business and it grew more curious by the day.

“I’ll just pop into the study and write some of this down,” I said William, standing up. “Perhaps you’re right about the short story. There’s too much in the dream not to use it.”

Edward agreed with him, deciding as he did so that he was ravenously hungry and would waste no time in lighting the barbecue. But he sat in his chair, lost in thought, for a half hour or so before finally getting up to have a go at dinner. He determined to talk to Velma Peach. He had to know what had gone wrong with Giles.

Chapter 9

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Edward and Professor Latzarel returned from Gaviota. William was busy in the maze _ shed, working with renewed vigor—with a freshened sense of the importance of his mission. The problem with science, he hadn’t any doubt, was its lack of imagination. It chased rats back and forth with a pair of calipers—shoved hoses down their mouths and filled their lungs with water. Science hadn’t any patience. Domesticity, that was the answer. The act of domestication is the act of civilizing. If he were to write a thesis he’d call it “Civilization Theory.” It would supplant Darwin. All beasts lean toward civility. Evolutionary development edged in that direction. Man pursued it. Dogs and cats sought it out. Even rats preferred life in the neighborhood to life in the wild. There was a great truth in it—one he intended to reveal. He yanked the sleeve of a little doll’s vest over the tiny arm of a mouse. The beast gave it an approving look, sniffing at it. Trousers would be difficult—impossible, perhaps, without alterations. Custom tailoring was necessary to do the job right. But the vest, for openers at least, would accomplish a great deal. William whistled a tune. He hadn’t been so happy in months. There was nothing like a man’s work.

The axolotl was a horse of a different color. It was almost too mucky to mess about with, and it had an antipathy toward hats and coats and only a grudging acceptance of a pair of pants that fit like shorts after a broad hiatus was made in the seat to accommodate the amphibian’s tail. William emptied a little cardboard box full of doll clothes onto the desk top, searching for a hat. But all he could find was a little beret of sorts, the type of thing a Frenchman might wear. Better to do without entirely.

The sight of the clothed beasts slowed Edward down considerably when he pushed in through the door, but he was struck with the impossibility of the whole thing and decided to take the long view. He smiled at William. “What ho?”

“Hah!” said William, adjusting a mouse coat. Take a look at this. I’m onto something new. There’s no doubt about it. Our problem all along is that we assumed we were moving backward from the mammalian to the amphibian ages. Devolution. Well it’s not as simple as that. Even the most mundane of the beasts are complex affairs. There’s nothing simple about a mouse. It has certain tendencies that we’ve failed to take into account; and one, the way I see it, is its natural tendency toward civilization—gentility. On a reduced scale, of course. This isn’t all my grand idea, mind you. I’ve been reading Shakespeare. The Elizabethans were aware of the innate ability of animals to sense impending chaos. The Chinese, as I understand it, use pigs and cows to sniff out earthquakes—they’re unaccountably perturbed by anything that threatens their sense of order, their natural inclination toward domesticity and civilized behavior. So what do we do, I asked myself. We hasten the process, that’s what. Civilize the things. And I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts we see some advances. Some cooperation. Help me pull this coat onto the axolotl, will you? I can’t get a grip on him with one hand.”

Edward waylaid the axolotl, pinning him down while William worked at the coat. “What about the water?” Edward asked. “I don’t mean to question your theory—in fact it’s perfectly sound as far as I can see—but won’t all of this finery lose some of its civilizing effect when it’s water-soaked?”

William gave his brother-in-law a look that seemed to imply that Edward was a child when it came to understanding civilization theory. He shook his head. “You overestimate the beasts, Edward. You’ve interpreted the theory too broadly. Science often falls into such a trap—finding a single nugget and anticipating an entire vein. The tendency toward civilization in these beasts doesn’t stretch so far as that. Although I’m certain they’ll respond to the influences of proper dress, I doubt entirely that they’ll understand the difference in correctness of fashion. Do you follow me?”

“Yes,” said Edward, “I believe I do. You’ve certainly thought this through.” He cleared his throat, then noticed that within the cages, the door to which stood ajar, were half a dozen mice in various states of dress, milling around and eyeing each other. One was reducing his topcoat to shreds and making a bed out of it in the corner. Edward had never seen William so serious or so elated. There was nothing wrong with elation, he told himself.

A slamming car door out on the street heralded the arrival of William Ashbless, his white hair awry about his ears. His shin cracked into the bumper of his car as he edged around it on his way toward the driveway, and he shouted at the bumper, kicking it for good measure before hastening toward the garage, waving what appeared to be a photograph.

William glanced up at the banging and shouting, was unimpressed, and went back to manipulating his clothed beasts. Ashbless burst in, jabbering excitedly, then abruptly fell mute when he saw the objects of William’s attention. He was silent for only a few seconds, however, before it dawned on him that there was nothing particularly surprising in William’s behavior. He waved his photograph at Edward.

“Benner,” he said. “You remember young Steerforth Benner. Self-satisfied little snake, but useful. Well, I found out he’s working part-time for the county coroner, mucking out the crematorium or something. So I gave him a call, and look what he came up with.”

He handled Edward a black and white photo of a corpse—the corpse of Oscar Pallcheck, dredged out of the tar pits. Edward was astonished. The photo was unbelievable. He turned it over and glanced at the back side as if expecting to find a disclaimer, then peered closely at the front, holding it in the sunlight that slanted in through the window. It was apparent that something had been done to Oscar’s neck. At first it seemed as if there were the indentations of fingers—as if he’d been strangled very neatly and symmetrically. Edward hauled out a magnifying glass. The marks were open—bloodless slits. And Oscar’s head, as the Times had promised, was hairless and had an odd, triangular shape. His eyes, surprisingly, were open. The expression in them was peculiarly familiar.

“William!” Edward cried, poking his brother-in-law in the small of the back. William looked up, feigning surprise, as if he’d been so lost in his work that he was unaware of the poet’s arrival. “Look closely at this. Do you know him?”

William fingered the photo, blinked, and sat down hard into the swivel chair at the desk. He took his pipe out of his pocket with a shaking hand. “Of course,” he said. “It’s Narbondo’s merman.”

‘It’s Oscar Pallcheck,” said Edward.

“Which Narbondo?” asked Ashbless, puzzled.

“There’s only one that amounts to anything among the scientific arts,” Edward said, pulling down the correct volume of Narbondo’s Gilled Beasts. He flipped to the drawing of the Sargasso Sea merman, and there, staring up out of the page, was an amphibian caricature of the dead Oscar Pallcheck, a sort of toad man in trousers.

No one spoke. Edward laid the photo alongside the drawing. The likeness was astonishing. “Narbondo, is it?” asked Ashbless.

‘That’s right,” Edward responded.

Ashbless pulled down the first volume of the work, opened it to the frontispiece, and studied a detailed woodcut of the face of Dr. Narbondo. “He was a son of a bitch. A megalomaniac. He lived at Windermere for years. Did some foul things to sheep. He hated everyone. Threatened at one time to poison the oceans and kill the entire Earth just to get revenge on the scientists in the Academy.”

“Did he?” said William facetiously. “Relative of yours?”

“He was a distant cousin of Wordsworth. Almost no one knows that though. He couldn’t abide Wordsworth’s friends. All too fey for his tastes. He was an explorer. An adventurer. Disappeared into Borneo on some hair-brained adventure involving orangutans. He had certain serums which he claimed allowed for the breeding of unlike beasts—hippos and serpents, fish and birds—and was harried out of England, finally, as a vivisectionist. He was the basis for Dr. Moreau in Wells’ novel. Supposedly he surfaced in China years later searching for a fabled longevity serum involving fish, but that was close to a hundred years ago.” Ashbless fell suddenly silent, as if he’d said more than he’d wanted to and men caught himself.

William hated it when Ashbless carried on so—as if he had knowledge of certain arcana, known, perhaps, only to the cognoscenti. He’d reveal a tidbit or two, just enough to inflate himself for a moment, then clam up, allowing the silence that followed—the promise of strange things unspoken—to inflate him even more.

William watched him squint away at the Narbondo picture, and tried to guess his age. It was impossible to say. In a dimly lit room Ashbless could pass for seventy. His wild, voluminous hair, although snow white, gave him a hearty and slightly youthful and fit look. But in the sunlight, when the cracks of his face weren’t obscured by vague and timid illumination, he looked older, peculiarly older. He could have been ninety. A monumental ninety, to be sure. William was reminded of Tennyson, who, supposedly, carried horses around on his back to demonstrate his might. Aware of the stigma of being a poet, perhaps. And that bothered him about Ashbless too. Poets always struck William as being close cousins to actors, strutting about, immersed in themselves, in their own pretensions to seriousness and insight.

There was more to Ashbless than that, but William couldn’t quite pin it down. He decided to bait him, just for sport. “I’ve been reading some of the poetry of your ancestor,” he said, knowing that any hint at the falsity or assumption of Ashbless’ name would mortify the poet.

Ashbless didn’t respond.

“Very good stuff,” William continued, happy with himself. “It’s not at all difficult to see his influence on your own poetry. Clear as a bell, I’d say. You’ve done some elegant things with his themes.”

“I feel a spiritual affinity to him,” Ashbless murmured, pretending to be more concerned with Narbondo’s Gilled Beasts than with discussions of his poetry.

William nodded grandly, as if he understood clearly what Ashbless meant, “like spirit writing?” he asked. “Automatic writing? That sort of thing? No wonder you’ve got such a vivid understanding of the Romantic age.”

“I don’t believe in spirit writing. My knowledge of the Romantic age is a product of unbelievably intense study. Do either of you know how long the Peach family has lived in the manor at Windermere?”

He’s showing off, thought William. “I haven’t a clue.

Didn’t Basil Peach’s father buy it after the war when money went to bits there? Some old family was taxed out of it, I don’t doubt.”

“Actually,” said Ashbless, acting genuinely puzzled, as if he were beginning to grasp the tangled threads of a dark and webby secret, “they’ve been there for ten centuries, maybe longer. And if my memory serves me well, Peach and Narbondo—Ignacio Narbondo, that is—were acquaintances. The doctor had a scientific interest in Peach—you follow my meaning here?”

“Oh quite, quite.” William put down his pipe and stood up. “Your knowledge is astonishingly vast.”

“Not half vast enough,” said Ashbless cryptically, shoving the photo into his coat pocket.

William turned to his brother-in-law who had lost himself in the Sargasso Sea account. “By the way, Edward, speaking of Giles Peach, what news on your conversation with Velma?”

Edward livened up instantly. Ashbless picked up the abandoned volume and thumbed through it. “I spoke to her early this morning,” said Edward. “She was leaving for the bakery just as Russel and I were pulling out for Gaviota. I had a good talk with her. Warned her against Frosticos. It seems that Giles was taken with some sort of fit. Respiratory trouble, from the sound of it. That and dehydration. It was nip and tuck, apparently. Basil used to have the same problem. And get this: Frosticos was his doctor twenty years ago. So Velma called Frosticos. She doesn’t like him a bit, she said, but he came to mind right off. That poor woman has had her share of troubles. There’s no denying that.”

William eyed Ashbless, fairly sure that the poet was only pretending interest in his volume—that he was watching Edward out of the corner of his eye.

Edward continued: “She seemed to think that Frosticos first appeared back in the pre-Arctic days, when Basil and Pinion were thick. So I managed to suggest that Pinion and Frosticos were quite likely fast friends. That set her off. She apparently can’t abide Pinion, who she says had been hounding Giles to help him in some crackpot scheme, to develop the digger, actually. She’s afraid Giles has been influenced. Anyway, she called Frosticos this morning and wrote him off. Told him to send his bill, that Giles had recovered. So that’s that.”

The multiple mentions of Frosticos had a dampening effect on William’s enthusiasm. He thought darkly about the suggested Frosticos-Pinion connection, about the dead Oscar Pall-check, about the mysterious Dr. Narbondo, the grinning Yamoto, the pall of dim and threatening mystery that was settling around all of them. Edward continued to speak, but his words were lost on William, who stared at a dusty, torn, and out-of-date tide chart stuck to the wall with thumb tacks, depicting, below the monthly tide tables, an obese and comic octopus who winked out of the chart from beneath a sort of billed captain’s hat that said “Len’s Baithouse” across it in faintly arabesque letters.

Jim stood up abruptly, tossing The Bride of Fu Manchu onto the coffee table and hurrying out the front door. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it earlier. It might hot tell him a thing. But then again … On the surface of it, Oscar’s death was utter nonsense. But somewhere beneath the surface, in some dark and subterranean cavern, lurked the pale thought that the explanation was clear as crystal—simple, in a hugely strange way.

He strode along down toward Mr. Hasbro’s house, toward the little orange Metropolitan docked at the curbside. No one was about. Jim threw himself down onto the grass and peered under the car, half suspecting some sort of phenomenon, perhaps Hasbro himself, to peer back out at him. There was nothing but an entirely ordinary muffler. The words “Ajax Muffler—Whisper Quiet” were stamped into the steel shell of the thing, which had already begun to discolor from heat. There were no silver wires, no lavender and green lights, nothing at all other-worldly or fantastic about it.

Jim stood up, thinking. Velma Peach’s car was parked in the driveway across the street. He walked toward it, mulling over the idea of confronting Gill about Oscar’s death, of simply insisting that he had certain knowledge of Gill’s complicity, and then watch, like Nayland Smith, the subtle changes of expression on Gill’s face that would give him away—the brief picture that was worth, in the Oriental cliches of Fu Manchu, a thousand words.

Velma Peach dashed out of the house right then and interrupted his musings. She had a worried and wild look about her, and clutched in her hand a scrap of lined notebook paper.

“Have you seen Giles?” she asked Jim frantically.

“Not today. Yesterday morning I did.”

“He was here when I left at eight. I mean since then. Today.”

“Not me,” Jim said. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s your uncle?” she asked, then hurried away up the street without waiting for an answer.

She rushed into the maze shed waving her shred of paper. Giles had disappeared—was kidnapped possibly. But there was a note in his handwriting. He’d gone away. His mother wasn’t to worry. He had important things to do. Vital things. He was a burden, and he was sorry. It was time for him to act. A new age was upon them. And on it went, rambling for a paragraph about the vague and unlikely grandeur that he’d gone off to seek, possibly to effect.

“He’ll be back,” said Edward.

“Give him till nightfall,” said Ashbless, laughing weakly.

But William noticed that Ashbless looked peculiar, as if something had been revealed, something he was trying desperately to hide but was about to burst with.

“Well,” said the poet. “I’m in the way here. I’ll just skip along. Don’t worry, my dear,” he said to Velma Peach, patting her hand placatingly and smiling as if he’d said something sensible and heartfelt. Then he brushed past Jim on his way to his car. He stopped, however, turned, and motioned to Jim to have a look at a photograph that he had in his pocket. Edward and William comforted Velma Peach.

“Steel yourself, lad,” said Ashbless, draping an arm around Jim’s shoulder and angling across the lawn toward the curb. “Have you seen a picture like this before?”

The whole incident struck Jim as peculiar, perhaps worse, and he feared for a moment that the old poet had hauled out some sort of disgusting photo, that he was performing a familiarity. But it wasn’t that sort of photo at all. It was a photo of Oscar Pallcheck, dead, on his way, it appeared, toward becoming a fish.

Jim hesitated. It was a startling thing. “Yes,” he said, unsure exactly what Ashbless was driving at. “In one of the books in the shed—the old set by Dr. Narbondo.” He looked at Ash-bless, trying to read his face, but it was almost impassive, merely satisfied.

“Is there a chance,” asked the poet, “that Giles Peach had a look at those books? I understand the fascination such things must engender in boys. Do you suppose he might have seen the drawing?”

“I know he did,” said Jim truthfully. “He looked at it dozens of times. He even wrote out the story, word for word, in his journal.”

Ashbless nodded, pocketed his photo, squeezed Jim’s arm, and hurried away toward his car.

BOOK TWO

Civilization Theory

Robinson Crusoe presents us with a touching instance of the hankering after umbrellas in the civilized and educated mind … the memory of a vanished respectability called for some outward manifestation, and the result was—an umbrella. A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and solaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe was rather a moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine an example of the civilized mind striving to express itself under adverse circumstances as we have ever met with.

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

“The Philosophy of Umbrellas”

Prologue

The air was utterly still and carried the salty smell of seawater and the musty smell of an enclosed place. William Ashbless sat on the ground with his back against the outer wall of what had once been a ship’s cabin, quite likely the cabin of a fishing boat, with glass almost all the way round. Most of the panes were broken long since—in fact, it was a miracle that two were still whole—but all the shards of glass had been carefully removed by whoever it was who’d set up housekeeping in the thing years before.

Above him on a little rise burned a vast and smoldering fire, the smoke from which rose straight up into the vaulted darkness above. A rowboat was hauled up onto the shore twenty feet below the strange hovel, and in the bow, dangling from a flimsy bamboo pole, burned an oil lamp that threw puzzling, angular shadows out over a little slice of rock-tumbled island.

Ashbless felt inconceivably weary. He’d been at it a long time, and had met all sorts. But he had vague suspicions that something new was afoot. There was a sort of electricity in the air, a magic. He’d felt it years before on the Rio Jari when Basil Peach had called up the millions of tetras and fetched the moon down from the sky. It was as if a ship were setting sail, drawn by a tide down an obscure and alien river that would open out one day onto a vast antediluvian ocean, alive with mystery. Ashbless meant to be aboard when that ship sailed.

But things weren’t running as smoothly as they might. It was by no means clear who it was held the tickets. Pinion had offered to sponsor him, to support him financially. The idea of it. Ashbless snorted derisively. Pinion was an egomaniac who wanted to own a poet to sing his praises. Of course there was good money in it. But what did he care for money? It wasn’t the money anyway. It was the chance—the growing chance—that it would be Pinion’s ship that first sailed those strange seas.

Moored along a ramshackle dock a hundred yards below him were three Chinese junks, two of them dark and quiet, one of them lit from end to end, a bobbing island of brightness on the dark sea. Ashbless stood up, dusted off the seat of his pants, and picked his way down a twisty little path through the rocks. He walked out onto the crumbling pier, stepping along as quietly as he could. Through the cabin window of the lighted junk, Ashbless could see the head of Hilario Frosticos, wagging over his work—something foul, Ashbless assumed, something with which to subdue yet another member of the Peach family.

He peered in at the window, looking around first to see that he was alone. In front of the doctor, pinned to a dissecting board with long, T-shaped pins, was a carp, sliced neatly from gill slit to tail, and laid open to expose its internal organs. Frosticos fiddled with its faintly beating heart, severing thin layers of tissue with a scalpel. The carp stared toward the window through terrified eyes. A little, rotating device bathed the gasping fish with mist, keeping it from drying out and dying. Frosticos nipped out an organ the size of a lima bean and dropped it into a specimen bottle half filled with liquid. He picked it up and held it to the light. For a moment Ashbless was sure he would toss it off like a martini, but he simply corked it and reached for the pull on a cabinet door.

He stopped abruptly, seemed to choke, and staggered a step backward. He coughed and gasped and reached for his throat, the look on his face identical to that of the fish on the dissecting board—the look of something or someone who has opened a door and found death grinning without. Frosticos’ chest heaved as he lurched across the floor of the cabin. His arm thrashed out involuntarily, sweeping a scattering of surgical instruments onto the floor. He grasped his black bag, tore at it, fumbling with the clasps, and spilled the contents onto the tabletop. Jars and vials rolled out among unidentifiable medical debris. Frosticos reached for a green bottle, his fingers clutching, and managed to twist off the cap and gulp down the contents, staggering back against a bookcase, green fluid running down his chin and shirt.

His face was haggard—drawn so tightly that he appeared skeletal, an animated corpse. The skin below his cheekbones quivered slowly in and out, as if it were a tissue-thin layer of flesh drawn across suddenly pulsating gills. Frosticos collapsed into a chair, his head in his hands, and sat just so for minutes, breathing heavily, before he rose, straightened his coat, and very methodically packed his jars and vials back into the bag. He plucked up his tumbled instruments and dumped them into a shallow pan, then switched off the sprayer and unpinned the dead carp, holding it by the tail in his left hand and licking the fingers of his right. Ashbless cringed at the strange behavior, then ducked off into the shadows as Frosticos abruptly turned and started for the window.

Ashbless watched as a white-sleeved arm and hand holding the carp reached out and flipped the fish into the sea alongside the dock. As soon as the arm disappeared, Ashbless slouched along back to the window. He found Frosticos slumped in a chair, his face composed, no longer haggard. The doctor appeared to have fallen asleep, as if the bizarre ordeal had exhausted him to the point of collapse.

The dissected carp had caught on a shard of wood projecting from a tilted piling, and although he knew the fish could tell him little, Ashbless decided to have a look at it. He lay down and bent over the edge of the pier, shimmied farther out, dangled his arm over and stretched as far as he could, almost overbalancing, holding on with his left hand. He just managed to slap its nose, but couldn’t get a grip on the slippery thing. Instead, he knocked it loose, and he watched in the yellow light of the cabin as the big fish sank, tail first.

A shadow grew below it in the water, and just as the carp was on the edge of darkness, the toothed jaws of an immense fish rose out of the depths, closed over it, and it was gone. With exaggerated care, Ashbless pulled himself up onto the pier, glanced in one last time at the sleeping Frosticos, and made his way back along the rocky shore to where his oil lamp still burned on the the end of its bamboo pole. He pushed off, stepped into the boat, and rowed quietly out to sea, the orange light of the island bonfire shrinking behind him in the darkness.

Chapter 10

Jim was standing on the curb watching Ashbless disappear around the corner when he heard Velma Peach scream—a shrill ululation, as if she’d seen something unbelievably ghastly. She bolted out of the door of the maze shed, a look of horror and astonishment on her face. Behind her scurried a pair of mice, oddly clothed, as if setting out for town. His father followed, net in hand, pursuing the mice, Uncle Edward at his heels.

It was a tricky business. One of the mice sailed straight into the bushes; the other scampered across the back lawn, leaping and jumping, giddy with liberty. “The axolotl!” William shouted. “Find the axolotl! Never mind the rest of the mice!”

Velma Peach screamed again and staggered against the front fender of the Hudson, her hand at her throat. A door slammed. Mrs. Pembly stepped down her walk, affecting a casual glance at Jim, stiffening at the sight of the trembling Velma Peach who looked about with loathing, anticipating some new clothed horror.

William raced streetward, having pursued the mouse that had taken to the bushes. He hove in sight of Mrs. Pembly, waving his net before him like a curb feeler, then spun round and headed for the back yard once again, perhaps to avoid their odious and dangerous neighbor, perhaps to search out the axolotl. Mice were a dime a dozen, after all. But a good axolotl. … A shout from Edward set William to flight. Jim dashed along behind. Velma Peach climbed into the Hudson and shut the door.

“There they are!” cried Edward, hoisting himself, like Kilroy, onto the fence and gaping into the Pembly yard. The axolotl, somehow, had crept through, pursued by two mice, one of them wearing the disintegrated topcoat. The lot of them were sniffing their way along, unaware of the Pembly dog, which was lumbering toward them, attracted by Edward’s shouting.

“Christ!” cried William, far more horrified by the potential tragedy than was Edward. He threw his useless net at the dog, cursing as it sailed past him into the wall of the house. “I’ll get them,” said Jim, instantly aware that things had crept along dangerously close to the edge. But William, lost in his fear for the safety of his beasts, for the future of civilization theory, was over the fence before him, grappling with the puzzled dog, clutching at the precious axolotl.

Mrs. Pembly sailed out her back door, carrying, for some unfathomable reason, a pressure cooker, and advanced toward William, menacing him. He, of course, assumed it was his animals she threatened, and he warned her off, plucking up his fallen net and pointing it at her. She was shocked to abrupt and stony silence, however, by the vision of the axolotl, lumpy and weird, padding through the high grass in knee breeches. She dropped her pressure cooker, shrieked, and launched herself toward the back door, smashing past it into her kitchen. Chain locks and dead-bolts rattled into place.

William scooped up the befuddled axolotl, handed it across to Edward, and tried to clamber back over the fence. He was suddenly tired. Achingly so. He couldn’t begin to generate the strength required to climb the fence. He stumbled out through the gate instead, leaving his net behind. Jim felt helpless. He waited for the inevitable sound of the approaching siren, for the appearance of the white van. He flushed with embarrassment and anger—at his father, at Mrs. Pembly, at himself. His father was walking frightfully slowly, like a man without a destination.

William wandered into the back yard, stopped, looked around idly, lay down on the lawn, and wiggled under the house, pulling himself through a crawlspace after yanking off the little wood-framed screen. Edward remonstrated with him vainly, still clutching the amphibian. William’s feet stuck out for a minute from beneath the house like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East. Then they were gone, dragged in just as the first distant moaning of the siren reached them on the wind.

The soft silt beneath the house was cool. It had lain there undisturbed for almost fifty years. It knew nothing of the turmoil that flapped on great bird wings out on the evening air. It was indifferent to the course of history, to civilization theory, to human suffering. William lay on his side, his ear pressed against the palm of his hand, which was sunk into the powdery dirt. He could hear something rushing in the Earth—right through his hand he could hear it. He thought about the plains Indians pressing an ear to the prairie to listen for the rumbling of buffalo herds, and about himself, forty years past, listening to the hot steel of a railroad track, imagining that he could hear the thunder of a far-off train, catapulting furiously toward unknown and exotic destinations.

Now he seemed to hear a muffled laboring roar far beneath him—the sound of an immense cataract racing through subterranean chambers, or perhaps the rotating mandibles of the digging leviathan, grinding away somewhere far below, miles deep in the crust of the Earth.

William was sleepy. It had been a long day, a day that had seen the inspiration of civilization theory. William had great faith in the philosophy that bits and pieces often added up to something greater than their simple sum. A coat for a mouse, a vest for an axolotl, a pair of trousers for a mole—bit by bit science would creak along toward a brighter day, an end to incivility and brutality. But why was it that the plots he struggled to reveal, the villains he sought to unmask, became more puzzling as fragments of the truth were unveiled? To learn the truth was to make things fall apart. Knowledge wasn’t a cement, a wall of order against chaos; it was an infinitude of little cracks, running out in a thousand directions, threatening to crumble into fragments our firmest convictions. He couldn’t fathom it. It was too deep for him. “If you think you understand it,” he said aloud, “I congratulate you.”

“Understand what?” asked a voice a few inches from his ear. There was a tugging on his pantleg. “Come along then.” William opened one eye and saw nothing but a humped shadow—a shade from some nether region come round to torment him. The air had grown remarkably dark and cold. His right leg was numb. ‘There’s a good lad,” said the shadow, trying to rouse him. William went back to sleep.

He was half conscious of sliding along on his side like a serpent through the dust. The sliding became part of a very wonderful dream that went on and on and on for a lifetime, a dream of murmuring voices, of slamming doors, of utter removal from the distant machinations of the world.

Edward was puzzled. Somehow he’d been wandering along in perfect innocence, minding his own business, doodling with mice, messing with tropical fish, setting up Newtonian meetings in order to smoke a pipe over the idea of journeying to the center of the Earth. And somewhere along the line, he couldn’t say exactly when, he’d stumbled into a morass of confusions. That’s how it went, he supposed. Nothing Was as simple as it seemed. William was right.

And poor William. Hauled away again. It was all very tiresome—past time to put an end to the entire business. It would be a complicated matter, but he’d have William out of there. Everything had suddenly begun to race along. Plots that had been invisible, unhatched probably only days before, were whirling toward frightful solidity. He’d begun to peer over his shoulder, suspicious of perfectly innocent strangers who, perhaps, had smiled at him in passing, or who hadn’t smiled, or who wore a peculiar pair of dark glasses. He’d been walking along Long Beach Boulevard toward Acres of Books two days earlier when he’d passed a woman with a paper carton on her head, a Butterfingers candy bar carton, sufficient to hold a dozen or so bars. A little elastic string kept the ludicrous cap jammed into her tousled hair. So she hadn’t just clapped it on randomly, the thing having caught her fancy as it blew past in the wind. She’d worked at—stabbed little holes in it, snipped off a foot or so of elastic string and wiggled the frayed ends through the holes, knotting them for security. He’d become immediately and inexplicably suspicious. But almost at once he had wondered which of the two of them was madder. He calmed down by assuring himself that a madman doesn’t understand his own madness, doesn’t know he’s gone round the bend. He wakes up one day and there he is—across the borderland, into an adjacent world. He puts a carton on his head and goes downtown as if nothing is wrong.

But for what capering reason, wondered Edward, does he settle on a cardboard carton? Why not a hubcap? Why not an immense shoe? And which—he began to wonder again, piling doubt upon doubt, suspicion upon suspicion—which was madder the lunatic, innocent of design, content to go about town in a cardboard carton, or the man, like himself, who has begun to develop peculiar suspicions, understands their peculiarity, and pursues them anyway? It was too much for him. He admitted it. There was no profit in worrying about madness. It was like fate and would search you out if it chose to. Sanity was a shell which might one day—for a lark, probably—crumble, leaving you picking straws from your hair, wearing candy cartons for hats.

Edward had fired Yamoto on the pretext that he had developed a passion for yardwork. Then he had immediately hired a new gardener, a Dutchman named Teeslink, who hacked the foliage in the front yard into ruin, satisfied with his pruning only when each bush had been reduced to a couple of ribby twigs. Edward lived in fear that Yamoto would show up to clip the Pembly lawn while Teeslink was underway on his own. Or even worse, that William would appear, phenomenally, from down the chimney or through an open manhole, and would recognize Teeslink, too, as a threat, in league with Hilario Frosticos. Damn all threats. Edward was tempted to wash his hands of the entire affair. But he knew he couldn’t.

Professor Latzarel arrived, slamming to such a stop at the curb that his Land Rover shuddered and lurched. He was in a state. There’d been a monumental discovery. The newspapers would be full of it. Mermen, it seemed, had been popping up like wildflowers, like sand fleas.

“Mermen!” cried Edward, forgetting all recent doubts. “How many of them?”

Latzarel calmed down. “Well, it’s not certain. Two at least.”

“Oh,” said Edward.

“But two might just as well be an army. And on opposite sides of the world. Listen to this; I got it from Lassen a half hour ago on the phone. A gilled man washed ashore on Madagascar. He lay on a beach on the west coast for a week before he was found. Sea birds had worked him over, but there wasn’t any doubt. He’s being shipped east to Los Angeles.”

Edward frowned.

“I know. That was my response entirely. Why Los Angeles? It had to have something to do with Oscar Pallcheck. So I set out across town on my way here, and look what I find in the Times.” Latzarel produced a newspaper and flopped it open. There in the bottom corner of the front page was an article captioned “Catalina Merman,” and a short, vaguely ridiculing article concerning yet another supposedly gilled human, far gone in decay, discovered by hikers on Catalina Island. “There’s the connection! I said to myself.” Latzarel tossed the newspaper onto the couch.

“You and I both know where that creature came from,” he continued. “Right out of the pool at Palos Verdes, that’s where. And he floated to Catalina on a current. Either that, or the seabed out there is peppered with tunnels. I half suppose that’s the case.”

The telephone rang. It was Ashbless. Yes, they’d seen the paper. Things were certainly afoot. He’d see them in a half hour. Edward hung up the phone, unaccountably and vaguely disturbed—suspicious of Ashbless for the same reason he’d fired Yamoto. It was William’s doing. Professor Latzarel, however, was enthusiastic. They’d need all the help they could muster, he said.

He pulled out a pocket calendar and began ticking off days. “How long until Jim goes back to school?”

“Almost a week,” said Edward. “The second of January.”

“Good. We’ll pack tonight. Call Squires; we’ll need his boat.”

“Where shall I tell him we’re going?” asked Edward.

“Catalina Island! I have the sneaking suspicion that we’re closing in on something here. That the pieces are falling into place. We’re closer to our goal than you suppose. Things are hotting up, and if you think Pinion isn’t going to be there to step in when we’re slack, you’re sadly mistaken. We’ve got to get the jump on him.”

When Jim wandered in that afternoon, he found the front porch heaped with camping gear and topographic maps, jackets and camera equipment, boxes of food and green steel canisters of drinking water. They spent the night aboard the Gerhardi, rolling on the swell. It was fearfully cold. Professor Latzarel and William Ashbless, hearty as a pair of geese, spent the better part of the evening on deck, talking and smoking in the wind, reminiscing about travels, about expeditions. A man hasn’t been cold, said Latzarel, until he’s been to the Pole. Jim swore he’d never go near the Pole. The deck of the Gerhardi was cold enough for him, and after half an hour there, attempting to maintain some semblance of spirit, he’d given up. It was impossible to imagine being colder. His fingers might as well have been wood, and the stocking cap did nothing to prevent the dull headache that seemed to be driven by the wind. So he spent most of the night in the cabin reading, knowing from experience that he wouldn’t get seasick unless he thought about it. At around midnight he decided to venture topside again.

A gray fog had misted in, thick and drizzly and dead still. Ashbless and Latzarel stood aft talking, but their voices were muted by the fog, and it sounded to Jim as if the voices wafted toward him from another realm, another dimension perhaps—as if he’d eaten one of Fu Manchu’s mushrooms and had receded into some murky closet of reality. He felt that he could push the fog out of his way with his hands, perhaps swim through it. Once his mind went to work, in fact, all sorts of possibilities filtered in, and he was possessed by the uncanny certainty that at any moment the bottle-eyed face of a vast airborne fish would materialize, mottled and dripping, searching for a door back into the sea.

Jim squinted, as if it had become suddenly dark, hoping that by squinting into the gloom he could somehow pierce it. There was, of course, nothing to be seen—nothing separated the Gerhardi from Catalina Island but the silent sea, slack and oily, pressed beneath the blanket of fog. It suddenly, occurred to him that the island might just as easily lie off the port side as off the starboard. He might be staring out toward nothing, toward the open sea. But it was all one. The night around him was a pale gray impenetrable wall.

There was a whisper of wind, and the swirling fog wisped away briefly; a corridor of deep night air opened for one moment of amazing clarity, revealing the ghostly shadow of a strange, pale craft, half submerged, lying in wait out there on the sea. It looked like a white submarine, ancient and finned, a submarine from Atlantis, perhaps, lost in the fog. In an instant it vanished as a swirl of mist rose from the ocean. Jim couldn’t say whether the odd craft had simply slipped into the depths or if the depths had slipped over it, but a moment later, when the fog cleared again briefly, there was no submarine to be seen, nothing but the black, undulating surface of the ocean.

Latzarel didn’t like the sound of it when Jim related the incident. Ashbless wrote it off to imagination—the fog and the silence, he said, could get hold of a man’s mind. Fog hallucinations were common on the sea: ghost ships, mermen, impossible sea creatures, faces among the dark floating gardens of kelp—all of them fog figments. Edward, who’d joined them on deck, pulled his peacoat around himself and lit his pipe. It was equally possible, he said, that sea monsters and ghost ships ventured out in the fog by choice, that fog was a cloak of invisibility, or perhaps the atmosphere of their phantom world, leaking into our own, carrying with it no end of night shades and mist creatures.

Jim insisted that he’d seen what he’d seen. Whether it was a phantom he couldn’t say, but there it was. He suddenly thought to himself that if his father were there, he’d find a more rational explanation. Then the thought struck him as peculiar, not because of his father’s inflation of almost every innocuous event, but because that very inflation had come to seem to Jim to be rational. He peered out into the foggy ocean, watching for something, he didn’t know what: the reappearance of the shadowy submarine, or the floating, ghostly, weed-hung skeletons of a crew of dead mariners wandering just below the surface of the gray ocean.

Latzarel said that he’d turn in, and Edward decided to do the same. Jim followed them, suddenly preferring the contrived and unlikely plots of Fu Manchu to the strange things that might—who could say?—be drifting toward them on the tide. And beyond that, he could smell the thick musty aroma of Roycroft Squires’ amazing coffee wafting through the galley vent, the antithesis of phantoms, of obscuring mists. William Ashbless decided to stay on deck, drawn, as he was, to the atmosphere. He’d “keep watch,” he said, yanking on a stocking cap and producing pen and paper from beneath his coat. When Jim drifted toward sleep forty-five minutes later, it was to the sound of the murmuring conversation of Uncle Edward and Professor Latzarel. The words submarine and Pinion and mermen floated past his ear, but he fell away into sleep, the objects of the conversation metamorphosing into the murky figures of a dream.

When he awoke, the sun shone. Remnants of fog lay on the horizon, dissipating in the light of day. Catalina Island, rocky and green, thrust up out of the sea amazingly close to them, and Jim wondered whether it had been there all night long, or had risen with the sun. Ashbless had spent the night on deck, wrestling with poetry, and had fallen asleep before dawn, having seen nothing of phantom submarines. He made a point of laughing the whole thing off, perhaps to allay Jim’s suspicions of deviltry. They rowed ashore after breakfast, hauling along cans of water and boxes of food. There was nothing but a handful of surprised goats on shore to greet them. Roycroft Squires waved farewell late in the afternoon and motored noisily toward the distant mainland, promising to return in four days.

So the adventurers found themselves abandoned on the rocky, chaparral-covered west shore of the island, and Jim for one had no idea on earth what it was they expected to find.

Professor Latzarel, however, hadn’t any doubts. He was off in the rowboat an hour after camp had been set up, unreeling his weighted rope into suspiciously deep pools. Uncle Edward, looking like a gaunt seal in a neoprene wetsuit, snorkeled atop the chilly waters, gazing down into the depths through forests of sun-dappled kelp until after a half hour or so he developed such a violent headache that he splashed ashore and fell asleep in his tent, having discovered nothing in the way of bottomless pits.

Latzarel rowed seaward some hundred yards or so into deeper water, plunking out his line, hauling it in, and plunking it out once again, drifting out of sight around a little headland in the current.

Jim climbed the steep hills behind the camp, skirting thick stands of scrub oak and prickly pear and pushing along through knee-high grasses. The perfume of broken sage rose around him on the still, warm air, and once he routed a peccary out of a thicket, the foolish beast snuffling away on its skinny little legs, grunting anxiously. He half expected to crest a hill and see below a farmhouse with a dark-haired woman tending pigs. If he did, he told himself, he’d venture in that direction just for the wonder of it, and see if he could resist her enchantment. But by the time he got to the summit, the sun was dropping toward the sea in the west. Below him stretched a valley, but there was no farmhouse there, only a half-dozen goats tripping away down the rocky hillside, frightened by his approach. He followed the crest of the hill, wrapping around toward the seaward side until he found himself on a precipice overlooking the thousands of miles of Pacific Ocean that separated him from the islands of Japan. Several hundred feet below he could see Professor Latzarel in his rowboat, pulling for home. He stayed in as close to shore as he could in order to keep out of the same current that had swept him round the headland two hours earlier. Jim decided to sit on the precipice and watch the sun go down, wondering if he could hike the mile or two he’d come in the half hour of twilight he’d have left. An approaching wall of fog, however, way off over the ocean, changed his mind abruptly, and he decided to forego the sunset.

He took one last look at Latzarel, who would, if he could maintain the pace, beat him back to camp. The water along the shoreline was remarkably clear and green, the rocks and kelp beds and shallows standing out as clearly as if he gazed at a watercolor painting and the rippling surface of the sea was brush strokes, hazing the absolute clarity of it. There seemed to him to be, almost exactly beneath Latzarel’s tiny craft, a patch of black water that contrasted utterly with the blue-green shallows that surrounded it. At first he thought it was a rock reef or a patch of dense kelp, but it had an odd regularity to it and such a black, nightlike color that he suspected it was a deep hole. He wondered if the professor had sounded it, perhaps on his voyage up the island. Jim picked up a rock and threw it out over the precipice. The rock seemed to fall into the island, dropping in among the brush of the hillside. The cliff face, apparently, looked far steeper than it was. He picked up a second rock and realized, just as he was drawing his arm back to let it go, that it was a curious looking rock altogether—that there seemed to be a picture painted on it. Before the thought could register, however, he’d let go of the stone, and it arced out toward the sea, plunging a hundred yards down the cliffside before disappearing silently into the weeds. More such rocks lay about—any number of them. The cliff seemed to be built of them, as if some fabulous giant stonemason had built it of slices of stone, each one containing the dark imprint of a fossil, a sort of prehistoric fish graveyard.

Jim began jamming them into his pockets, pulling them out and throwing them away almost immediately as he found better ones. He edged his way down a crack in the wall of the cliff, holding onto twisted branches of mesquite, chipping out fossilized seashells, conical homes of conchs and nautili, until finally, at the same instant he realized that the entire end of the island was bathed in orange fire from the enormous sun, half sunk in the sea, he yanked out a flat slab of stone in the middle of which was a perfect fossil trilobite, a creature out of time’s abyss. He emptied the fish out of his pockets and shoved the trilobite in, climbing back up to the summit as if he had a pocketful of eggs, and in the dwindling light set off down the crest. He could just see Professor Latzarel, a dot on the sea, pulling around the headland.

It was dark when Jim crashed into the glow of the campfire; Uncle Edward had been on the verge of setting out to search for him. Dinner had been held up. Edward still had a headache that tormented him. Latzarel hadn’t discovered a thing, and the first tendrils of fog had snaked in off the sea. The branches of the oak trees, in fact, were ghost branches, almost lost in the fog, which had settled in eerily some ten or twelve feet above the ground.

Jim produced his trilobite, smiling at Uncle Edward’s reaction. It seemed to eradicate the remnants of his headache. Professor Latzarel was even more dumbfounded, and when Jim told him of the cliff of fossils that rose above the pool on which Latzarel himself had been rowing not an hour and a half earlier, the startled scientist was for paddling back up the island immediately. He had to take a sounding, he said. But he was convinced, in the end, to wait for morning, especially when he saw William Ashbless dumping lobster tails into a great iron kettle of steaming gumbo. If Jim’s sea pit turned out to be genuine, he said, they’d shift camp around to the seaward side of the island the following afternoon.

The fog wasn’t as thick that night as it had been offshore the previous evening. It drifted past in cottony patches, now obscuring the oaks behind the camp, then melting away into them, leaving, perhaps, a scattering of twisted limbs framed in absolute clarity that faded into gray mist and shadow. A moment later all would be lost in fog, the campfire and its circle of explorers an island in a gray sea.

The effect of the patchy fog was even more disconcerting than had been the thicker, all-obscuring mists, for instead of imagined fog creatures appearing out of a wall of gray, the mists parted to reveal strange and unpredictable night shapes: a granite outcropping thrusting peculiarly forward like a rushing beast turned to stone in mid-flight or a wall of green foliage in two-dimensional illusion as if it were a painted screen draped across an avenue into wonderland.

There wasn’t a great deal of talk. Even William Ashbless was silent. He seemed restive, however, and drank in quick little sips from a silver flask full of Scotch, standing up and looking out to sea during moments of clarity, perhaps expecting something to appear. Everyone agreed that their expedition had only a single end—to find a merman, better alive than dead. It was a wild goose chase if ever there was one, but Latzarel was convinced that for some unfathomable reason the key to the mystery of the Earth’s core was on the edge of revelation. It was a matter of weeks, of days. He hadn’t spent his life searching for that key to be caught unprepared when the time came. Why that time was at hand he couldn’t say, but all signs forecast it. Something was in the air. And in the magic of the misty island night, with the sound of the ocean lapping on the shingles and the faint, low murmur of a distant foghorn somewhere out in the Santa Barbara Channel, Jim felt the same certainty. That he told himself the feeling was a product of night magic didn’t alter it, perhaps because he was certain that the enchantment itself was authentic. He was as certain of it as he had ever been certain of anything.

He suddenly wondered, for no good reason beyond the mystery of it, if the slope of the sea bottom as it dropped off into the depths was the same as the slope of the granite and chaparral hills rising beyond the camp. It was possible that the one was an inverted echo of the other—that the land beneath the sea was a dark counterpoint to the land above it, a mirror image disguised beneath algae and urchins and countless centuries of gathering polyps and barnacles, of decaying vegetation and the distortions of tree roots and scrub and the dusty, decayed and fossilized remains of innumerable generations of extinct beasts. How likely was it that anyone would have noticed?

In the heavy evening fog it was increasingly difficult to convince himself that the four of them weren’t sitting around a sputtering fire of broken kelp fronds on the floor of the sea. He thought suddenly about Giles Peach who, it was certain, would feel utterly at home venturing out through submarine gardens with a mad Captain Nemo, dwelling among octopi and starfish.

He became aware of the smell of seaweed—of brown kelp lying across exposed rocks. The fog on his tongue tasted salty and cold, like the flavor of a raw oyster. And as he sat, still and silent, nearly sleeping, it seemed as if the veil of fog that washed across them was thickening, and that floating upon it, bobbing on invisible currents, were odds and ends of sea life and oceanic flotsam: the papery shells of chambered nautili, painted and glowing like Japanese lanterns; slowly revolving nebulae of tiny purple urchins and dancing periwinkles; glittering grains of silica sand scattered in the current, blinking sidereally in the watery firelight like stars in a misty night sky. A glance at his companions suggested that they too were lost in sea dreams, had wandered into the Land of Nod. He seemed to hear something off toward the ocean—a brief splashing and a short cry, almost a mewling that sounded strangely human and pathetic.

The fog cleared. Jim stood up and picked his way down the dirt path toward the beach, his hands in his pockets, looking sharp for something—whatever it might be. He felt a familiar presence, as if he knew what it was, who it was, perhaps, that he’d find. A brief wash of moonbeams played across exposed tidepools dark and choked with waterweeds, all of it colorless in the pale, reflected light. Nothing stirred. A procession of exposed rocks ran out and disappeared into deep water on his right. On his left the shore swerved around into the headland, most of it invisible in the fog. There was nothing at all to be seen in the water but the shimmering circle of the moon, wavering there for a moment, then swallowed up by the fog. There was a splashing to the right, out beyond the last of the chain of rocks. Something rose unsteadily from the depths and then disappeared again beneath the surface. A bubbling and swirling arose along toward shore, as if the creature, whatever it was, were swimming up through the shallows toward him. Jim’s first impulse was to cry out, to shout for his uncle, to alert everyone to the possible approach of the expected merman, but somehow he feared that his shouting would break the spell, would burst the bubble of enchantment that enclosed the night, and that the fabulous approaching creature would sink away out of sight.

A head rose from the water, dripping, looking up at him, beseeching him somehow. Its mouth worked, and it shook its head slowly, as if it held some vast secret sorrow that it couldn’t begin to reveal. It was Giles Peach.

Jim shouted, and even as he did, he knew that he wasn’t surprised. He’d felt Gill’s presence all along. He’d wandered down to the beach in response to a silent beckoning. At the sound of his shout, Giles was gone—vanished beneath the swell. The fog parted briefly, and lying offshore, bathed in sudden moonlight, was the ghostly submarine, riding at anchor. There was a commotion behind him, the sound of running feet, and his three companions rushed toward him, just as the door in the fog slammed shut, obscuring the ocean entirely.

Latzarel was wet to his waist, sloshing out through the shallows, clambering from rock to rock, searching for mermen. Jim could tell in a moment that he hadn’t believed that it was Giles Peach who had crept up out of the sea. Mermen, Latzarel had insisted, all looked pretty much alike—one was drawn toward their similarities—gills, webbed fingers, that sort of thing. He edged around a monolithic, mussel-covered rock, grasped two handfuls of slimy waterweed in an effort to pull himself up to a higher vantage point, and yanked the weeds loose, slipping with a shout into a pool and disappearing beneath the surface. Edward, pants rolled uselessly to his knees, sloshed out after him, and the two staggered shoreward finally, soaked, having discovered nothing.

“Did you see him under there?” asked Ashbless, taking a nip from his flask. He offered it to Latzarel who waved him off, declining to respond to his question.

“I must communicate with him!” said Latzarel, comparatively dry and sucking down coffee a half hour later. Ashbless laughed and started to say something facetious regarding Latzarel’s plunge into the deep, but the professor cut him short with a look.

“But what’s the submarine doing out there?” asked Edward, poking at the fire with a stick. “What’s it hovering offshore for? How do we know this merman wasn’t off the submarine? Some sort of reconnaissance mission.”

“If they’ve got submarines,” asked Ashbless, “why bother bringing mermen? Seems redundant.” He smiled at Edward.

“I’m sure it was Giles,” Jim put in. “There was more than just my seeing him. I think he called my name.”

Professor Latzarel nodded theatrically. “I suppose it might have been,” he said. “But it’s far more likely a common merman, one of the crowd that’s been putting in an appearance. What sort of wild coincidence would it be if Giles had, somehow, slipped off into the sea—we know his father went in for it there toward the end—and, with a million square miles of ocean to swim in, he turned up here on the same weekend as us? It just won’t wash.”

“Unless he was aboard the submarine,” said Edward. “This is more than just casual mermen. I might have been carried away by the fog, but I distinctly felt that something strange was in the air tonight, something …” He paused and squinted at Latzarel as if hoping that his friend would supply the missing phrase as William had once before. Ashbless beat him to it.

“Something fishy,” he said.

“Well, yes, rather.” Edward packed tobacco into his pipe. “I’m not sure you’ve caught my meaning yet. For a moment there I could have sworn I was underwater myself. It was uncanny.”

“Hmm,” said Latzarel, staring at the fire. “I think I follow you …”

“It’s a matter of fog, gentlemen,” said Ashbless. “I’m telling you that it does things to a man. It’s like darkness—exactly like darkness. We’ve got to be able to see. That’s it in a nutshell. If we can’t see we’ll people the darkness with hobgoblins—dream things. It’s a simple business. We’re always twice as frightened of what might be there as of what is. Now a poet, mind you, has harnessed his imagination. He has to, if he wants it to work for him. Poetry isn’t a matter of letting go, it’s a matter of taking hold of the reins. What we have tonight, gentlemen, is an easily explained scientific phenomenon—a combination of warm air and cold ocean water. Fog. Humidity to such a degree that water precipitates out of the air. Simple business, really, that generates neither ghost ships nor lost friends.” He smiled at Jim in a fatherly way, as if to assure him that the seeming hallucinations were entirely normal, given his age and his not yet having reined in his imagination.

Jim was struck with distrust for him—a distrust that reminded him at once of John Pinion and that generated a sudden rush of suspicion, a certainty almost, that Ashbless was having them on, playing them false. Uncle Edward wasn’t satisfied either. He winked at Jim and shook his head minutely. Professor Latzarel, however, could see sense in the poet’s rationality. He far preferred the condensation of moisture to ghost ships. And the thought of a real submarine, floating off the tip of the island, watching them, complicated an already strange pursuit beyond his ability to deal with it so late on a cold night with his shirt scratchy from the dried salt on his skin and his hair seeming to grow wetter by the moment in the fog. Tomorrow would be time enough to think of ghost ships.

Chapter 11

The night passed without further adventure; and the morning dawned clear. By eight, Edward and Professor Latzarel were skimming round the headland in the rowboat while Jim clambered up into the hills again to explore. Ashbless stayed in camp to sleep, having been up all night pursuing the arts.

Winter rains had soaked the cliffside and tumbled rock and brush down toward the ocean, piling it up like a little vertical delta above the high-tide line. The jagged ends of rocks jutted out into the air, threatening to crumble and slide, cascading no end of Paleozoic cephalopods and fossilized seaweeds into a dusty heap. Edward searched the face of the cliff with binoculars, while Professor Latzarel played out rope tied to a lead ball that sank deeper and deeper and deeper into the abyss.

Edward swept the binoculars along, peering past long shadows thrown by the morning sun that lay out over the sea. What he expected to find, he couldn’t say. Perhaps nothing. It reminded him of a time when he was a lad of thirteen and had gone out searching for stones in the desert—rubies, emeralds, he didn’t know what—and found among a tumble of black and gray rock a clump of quartz crystals as big as his hand.

He began to fancy that he could see, among the shadows of ridges of the hillside, shapes that suggested the bones of prehistoric beasts—the cocked hat of a peering tricerotops, the shark-toothed back of a stegosaurus—but it was likely that he was merely being tricked by shadows cast by a scattering of clouds that drifted across the sun, deepening the patches of dark, suddenly veiling formations that had stood out clearly moments before in the long lines of strata.

It occurred to him that the cliff face, falling away into the sea to unguessed depths, might well be a sort of vertical road that wound into the earth on the one hand and angled into the stars on the other, along which he could descend into the past, wandering past a fragile layer of Cenozoic debris and into the Mesozoic, an age of winged reptiles and vast cycad jungles that had sprung from 300 million years of fern marshes and misty Paleozoic seas teeming with fish lizards and toothed whales. Deeper into the earth, well along toward the hollow core, would come the age of fishes, of weird, jawless, armored creatures that crept sluggishly along the weedy bottoms of Silurian seas, disappearing into the Cambrian age of algae and trilobites and brachiopods, scurrying pointlessly, like bugs, for a hundred million years that followed a billion years of nothing at all, of black ooze and unicellular plants, traces of which lie buried deep beneath the seas, lost in geologic antiquity.

Edward realized that he was staring at nothing through his binoculars. He focused on a wave-washed grotto at the base of the cliff, hung with rubbery seaweed that would be under three or four feet of water in an hour’s time. It reminded him immediately of the grotto at Lourdes, and he half expected to see the Virgin appear in a halo of sea mist. What he saw instead was a corpse—pale and bent double at the waist, deposited on the rocks by the previous tide. He nudged Latzarel, who was ecstatic over just having played out the last of a thousand feet of line.

“What is it?” asked Latzarel. “This is monumental. We’ll need the bell. We’ve got … “

But Edward shut him up, handed him the glasses, and pointed toward the grotto. Latzarel took a quick look, shouted, and scrambled for the oars. A moment later their little rowboat bobbed in among the rocks, rising and falling on the swell. Edward clung to heavy stalks of seaweed, trying to steady the boat. The air smelled of salt spray and barnacles and of a deep putrescent odor that rose off the pale body. It looked as if ocean water had filtered in between layers of skin, separating them and swelling them out until the thing was puffy and bloated and threatened to bubble apart. Edward half expected it simply to disintegrate in a swirl of rotted bits. He was indifferent to it as a scientific discovery; it was as a signpost that the decayed merman interested him most, an indicator that the dark ocean water heaving beneath them was the mouth of a river to Pellucidar.

Professor Latzarel, however, was set on tugging the corpse into the boat. The thing had webbed fingers and toes, and although the fleshy parts of its head and neck had been nibbled away by fish and crabs, the gill slits were apparent. The body was entirely hairless and was covered with scales the size of a thumbnail that caught the rays of the suddenly appearing sun and shone for a moment as a scattering of tiny pastel rainbows, the beauty of which was utterly at odds with the choking scent of decay.

“Give me a hand with this, will you?” Latzarel puffed, irritated at Edward’s hesitation.

“You won’t budge him,” said Edward, holding an ineffective hand over his face. “He’ll fall apart. You need a snow shovel.”

“Nonsense. He’s entirely firm. Hasn’t been dead a week yet. Jump out and steady the boat against the rock. When the surge lifts it, I’ll lever this fellow in between the thwarts.”

For the sake of science, Edward dropped over the side into a sandy tidepool that was two or three feet deeper than it appeared. Chill seawater swirled up around his chest. He gasped for shallow little breaths and hooted in spite of himself.

Latzarel watched the sea for the hump of an approaching swell. “Quit singing and steady this thing,” he said. “Here we go!” And a moment later Edward’s feet were swept out from under him in a rush of ocean that whirled in around the rocks, lifting the rowboat and tossing it seaward. Edward tumbled beneath the surface, found the bottom, thrust himself upward, and rose with a bang into the underside of the rowboat, his eyes jammed shut. He thrashed and kicked himself into a tangle of kelp tendrils, sputtering out of the water seconds later, hung with brown leaves. The rowboat had swung around and floated seaward ten yards or so. Latzarel crouched with his merman on the rock, wet to the knees, with an irritated look about him that seemed to imply that Edward could have picked a better time to take a dip. “Get the boat, old man,” he said, nodding at their bobbing craft. “One more good surge will wash him off the rocks. We’ll have a devil of a time fishing him out of the water without a net.”

Edward splashed out after the boat, which obliged him by rushing in again, quartering down the face of a swell that broke across an exposed reef. Edward kicked to stay afloat, grappling with the boat, managing finally to grab the punter and wait for the surge to wash back out. He pulled and pushed the boat back in toward the rock, realizing as he did so that he was grievously cold.

“Here she comes!” shouted Latzarel, scrambling for a footing behind the merman.

Edward braced himself against a rock, shoved the boat forward, and held his breath as the ocean rose around him once again. The boat was abruptly jarred out of his hands. He fell forward, swam a stroke, and righted himself, scrambling up onto the big rock beside Latzarel who beamed with success. The merman, twisted into an impossible pretzel, lay in the boat, his head thrown back and eyesockets staring sightlessly at the sun. One of his hands had fallen across Edward’s binoculars, as if he intended to have a look at the cliff face himself.

“Success, my boy,” said Latzarel. “We’ll see what the Times has to say about this!” He turned and surveyed the cliffside. “I believe the best route for you lies west of us there. About fifty yards down. There’s a cut, it appears, in the precipice. There where that oak tree almost touches the water.”

Edward could easily see the oak tree and the rocky canyon that led away above it. But he didn’t, at first, grasp his friend’s meaning. “Route?” he said, pulling off a shoe and pouring out a stream of water.

“Back to camp,” said Latzarel. “All of us won’t fit into the boat. So I’m suggesting that you hike back. It’s far warmer on the island than on the ocean, and we’ll both make it into camp at about the same time.”

Edward started to protest, but Latzarel was likely correct. The thought of rowing slowly back against the current in the company of a long-dead merman settled the issue for him. He held the boat as steady as he could while Latzarel climbed aboard, taking off his cloth jacket and draping it over the grisly face of his new crew member. Latzarel dipped the oars into the sea, edging out around shallow pools. “I’ll see you in an hour!” he shouted, bending to his work. Edward set out to the west, picking his way from rock to rock, disappearing beneath the bows of the oak and plunging into the dry foliage of the steep canyon.

* * *

“We can’t keep him anywhere near camp,” Ashbless insisted, looking skeptically at Latzarel’s prize. “Not for the next two days. Lord knows what the sun will do to him by the time Squires arrives. He’s ripe enough now to satisfy me. I say we cram him into a dufflebag and bury him. Then we can dig him up day after tomorrow and carry him home in the bag.”

“How do we cram him into the bag?” asked Edward practically. “He’ll go to bits.”

Latzarel nodded his head. “He damn near lost an arm coming around the point there when I shipped the oars for a moment. I won’t shove him into any bags. What we need is refrigeration. It might be wisest to leave him in ocean water. Just weight him down with rocks and fill the rowboat. Let him sit here.”

“Here!” shouted Ashbless. “I won’t tolerate it. We’ll sail him downwind a hundred yards—into the next cove. But your boatful of water will heat up in a couple of hours with this sun. There’s no way to keep it cold without continually bailing and refilling. You can count me out for that job.”

“And how are we going to use the boat if he’s in it?” asked Edward. “We’ve got to roll him out of there and into something we can haul around.”

“A sleeping bag,” Jim suggested. “There’s enough extra blankets to use, and it hasn’t gotten cold enough at night to worry about anyway. We can unzip the bag, roll him into it, and zip him up.”

“He’ll broil,” Ashbless objected. “I can’t imagine what kind of muck we’d find in the bag when we got it home.”

“No he wouldn’t,” said Latzarel. “Not if we pulled all the down out of the bag first. I think it’s a capital idea. We’ll tie off the mouth of the bag with rope and float the whole thing in a tidepool down the beach.”

“Like a string of trout,” said Ashbless helpfully.

“Exactly.” Latzarel was already on his way toward the tent. Jim’s sleeping bag, the only one that unzipped entirely, was soon empty of feathers. They laid the open bag out flat, picked up the rowboat, and tumbled the corpse onto the bag, casting the boat down immediately onto the sand and fleeing upwind. Professor Latzarel, breathing through a handkerchief soaked in kerosene, worked at zipping the bag shut and tying it off. Then he and Edward dragged it along toward the tiny cove to the east, bumping it across clumps of shore grass and small rocks, Professor Latzarel cursing and wincing, fearing that he was reducing the thing to a gumbo of ill-connected parts. Finally, however, it was safely afloat in its pool. Once in the water it no longer smelled quite so overwhelmingly. Dozens of little tidepool sculpin and opaleye perch darted out of the shadows to investigate, pecking at the blue nylon bag. Latzarel regarded them suspiciously.

“Well keep watch tonight,” he said.

Edward agreed, although he wasn’t sure what they were watching for. He knew only that when it was his turn to watch, he’d do so from a distance. As it turned out, Ashbless volunteered for the job, since he rarely slept at night anyway.

It was clear that night—not much fog at all, only an occasional lost patch that drifted through morosely, wandering into the hills and disappearing. An enormous moon floated in the sky, throwing a broad silver avenue of doubly reflected light across the sea. Professor Latzarel and Uncle Edward were off standing watch in the merman’s cove, keeping an eye on their prize. Ashbless, looking tired and ancient, sat across the fire from Jim, telling fabricated tales of nineteenth century London, full of anecdotes and inside jokes and impossible minutiae concerning the lives of Wordsworth and Byron, whom he insisted on calling Bill and Noel. Jim wasn’t taken in by it. In fact it was a sad business to think of the old poet mugging up arcane pieces of literary gossip to flavor his tall tides. Jim couldn’t imagine what gain there was in carrying on so, or what Ashbless expected to effect by narrating his lies in the first person.

At midnight Ashbless rose, filled his flask from a bottle in his dufflebag, then shoved both the flask and his bottle into the coat. He turned and took a quick peek at Jim who, wrapped in a wool blanket, had nearly nodded off in front of the fire. He rifled his bag, pulling out odds and ends and slipping them into his long coat. Then he dropped two shirts and a pair of trousers onto his sleeping bag along with several books and some loose papers, and rolled the bag up, tying the unwieldy result with nylon cord. He left, finally, to relieve Edward and Professor Latzarel. Jim watched him go, half puzzled and half asleep.

He awoke an hour later, cold and stiff, the fire having burned down to nothing. He decided to stay out in the open, the night being clear, so he rose and went across toward the tent for a second blanket. The foot of Uncle Edward’s sleeping bag shoved out through the net door of the big canvas cabin tent. Professor Latzarel snored on his cot. The sight of Ashbless’ dufflebag, lying limp and deflated on the ground, awakened the suspicions Jim had felt an hour earlier. He looked around to make sure he was unseen, then Upended the bag. There was nothing in it at all.

Jim pulled off his jacket, pulled on a sweater, then put his jacket back on over it. He followed the trail west toward the cove to have a look at Ashbless. He wouldn’t be half surprised, he told himself, to find no one at all on watch. He was mistaken though. Before he’d come within sight of the cove he heard voices, two of which he recognized. He crept along in the shadow of a granite outcropping, peering down toward the cove finally at Ashbless, John Pinion, and Dr. Hilario Frosticos.

His mined sleeping bag with its weird inhabitant still floated in the pool, moored with three separate lines to surrounding rocks. The night was so clearly lit by moonlight that murky waterweeds and submerged rocks were visible beneath the quiet waters of the merman’s tidepool. The two men arguing on the beach cast long night shadows across the sand. Standing out to sea was the tiny, white submarine that had appeared twice out of the fog.

“They don’t know a thing more than they did last month,” said Ashbless contemptuously.

“Of course not,” Pinion stated flatly, as if Ashbless’ statement was dead obvious. “But what if they did? What if they’d discovered some way of making use of these pools, what would you do? Would you throw in with the likes of them?”

Ashbless didn’t answer.

“My offer still stands,” Pinion continued. “I need a memoirist, one with your—how shall I put it?—longevity. That’s the word. Watch this.”

Pinion pulled a flashlight from, under his coat and signaled the submarine, blinking his light off and on four times. Ashbless tipped his flask up and took a long swallow, but choked and dropped it into the sand as the submarine, dripping rivulets of seawater, rose vertically skyward, humming and bathed in lavender and emerald light that emanated from some unseen source, from the moon itself, it seemed. The submarine sailed overhead like a blimp, like Hasbro’s Metropolitan. Jim knew for certain that it had been Giles in the tidepool the previous evening. The flying submarine settled the issue.

Ashbless stood open-mouthed, staring at the craft’s propeller spinning lazily in the moonlight. “Anti-gravity?” he croaked.

“Of course,” said Pinion. “Child’s play. This isn’t the half of it. We’ll be in the interior by the first of April. The digger is almost complete. This Peach lad is a genius. There’s nothing he can’t do—perpetual motion, anti-matter, you name it. Most of it’s quite simple, actually. And what do these shysters have to show for themselves? A corpse in a sack. What will they do with it, ask it for directions to El Dorado?” Pinion snickered. Ashbless stroked his beard. He looked back over his shoulder toward camp—guiltily, it seemed to Jim. The meeting, Jim was certain, had been pre-arranged. Ashbless was ready to go. They would have awakened to find him gone along with the merman.

The submarine descended, a rope ladder dropped and dangled, the end of it dragging on the ground at the poet’s feet. One by one the three men climbed into the ship silhouetted against the moon. The ladder was drawn up, and the submarine drifted seaward once more, bearing away the turncoat Ashbless. It paused immediately over the merman. The thing in the bag flopped once or twice like a gaffed fish. Jim shouted. The three ropes that moored it stretched tight and snapped, and the merman, sleeping bag and all, levitated, spinning slowly end over end, shedding a hailstorm of flailing crabs, and was tossed into the ocean a hundred yards offshore.

Jim roused Uncle Edward and Professor Latzarel, but by the time they jogged to the cove, the submarine was only a haze of lights in the distant sky, dropping slowly toward the sea. For a few moments it seemed to be sailing north toward the coast; then it sank beneath the swell and disappeared.

“Frosticos?” asked Uncle Edward beside a relit fire.

“Yes,” said Jim. “It was him. His hair is the same color as his submarine. Ashbless went off to the cove anticipating them. He must have. He had emptied his pack. He’s known about them all along. That’s why he worked so hard at laughing them away.”

“The traitor!” cried Latzarel, enraged far more by the disposal of his merman than by the poet’s going over to the enemy. He lapsed into silence, however, thinking about the notion of a flying submarine. “Can we be sure it was Peach?” he asked suddenly. “Christ! Remember that damned nasal irrigator he was gabbling about that day in the driveway? What was he going to do with it? Harness the tides or something?”

“Build an anti-gravity engine,” said Jim.

“Anti-gravity!” Latzarel shook his head. “What good will anti-gravity do them on a journey to the Earth’s core? They’ll end up on the moon. Correct me if I’m wrong, Edward, but isn’t anti-gravity utterly contrary to every conceivable fragment of relativity theory?”

“Absolutely.”

Latzarel sighed. Edward made Jim tell him the story of Hasbro’s anti-gravity muffler. And Jim, for the sake of thoroughness and in light of the fact that he could hardly be thought mad anymore, described the rainy rooftop ride of Roycroft Squires—a phenomenon which Squires himself was apparently unaware of.

“We’ve been going at this all wrong,” said Edward. “We’ve supposed that Giles’ inventions were a product of scientific method—that they were inventions in a strict, mechanical sense. But they can’t be. We all know that. There is no anti-gravity. Yet tonight we witness a flying submarine and the levitation of a corpse. We’re certain that the proximity of Giles Peach can either cause mass hallucination or, mote startling, can alter the environment. And remember Ashbless’ story about Basil Peach on the Rio Jari. Impossible on the face of it. What I’m trying to say is that something is going on here that’s simply not apparent on the face of it—something far more strange and dangerous than we’ve understood up until now, but which Pinion has manipulated to his own ends. And do you know what the strangest part of all is?”

Latzarel looked at him vacantly and shook his head.

“The strangest part of all is that William knew. All along he knew. But what in God’s name is the purpose of the song and dance business involving William’s escapes and retrievals? What gain is there?”

“Infiltration,” said Latzarel. “That has to be it. Stage William’s escapes. Phony up a lot of suggestive threats. Promote paranoia. Steam open his mail. Hint that he’s being served poisoned food. Hire that Japanese gardener to follow him around, to appear in unlikely places. William develops the fear that he’s central to some vast plot—that his life and sanity are at stake. So he flees, thereby committing a crime of sorts that will more solidly bring about his permanent confinement. And when they recover him, days later, they drain him of all the information he’s gotten out of us, out of fraternizing with the enemy, as it were. He’s their link to us.”

Edward nodded and scowled darkly.

Jim, scared witless by the new machinations, especially since they surfaced at such a strange, late hour of a night full of flying submarines and levitated mermen, saw in Latzarel’s explanation the hope that his father was as sane as the rest of them. He wondered fitfully just how sane that was. In fact, when he considered it, almost no one he knew could qualify as entirely sane if it came to a contest. All of them seemed to be chasing down—or being chased by—some sort of lunatic notion. What, he asked himself, did that suggest? What if all of them had crossed the borderland? To what extent were they manipulated by Giles Peach, and to what extent were they products of Giles Peach? It was a disturbing question. In fact, it seemed impossible that the tenuous threads that bound the world together—the opposing forces of the tides, polar magnetism, the cosmic dance, whatever it was that preserved order—wouldn’t stand the strain of such unrelieved peculiarity. Supposed order would lose its credibility in a rush. Things would fall apart.

“I can see a problem,” said Edward.

“Hah!” snorted Latzarel.

“Listen to this. If you’re right about this business of infiltration. If William, somehow, has been the most perceptive of us all while being the most—how shall I put it?—accessible, then he’s quite likely in trouble. Now that Pinion and Frosticos have Giles’ cooperation, they don’t need us. We’re minor leaguers, messing about with our diving bell. Pinion will have his digging machine operable when we’re still arguing with the museum about dinosaur teeth. Frosticos won’t need any infiltration then, will he? My money says that William won’t reappear. He’s in trouble or I’m an idiot. Giles Peach was the wild card, and he was dealt to Pinion. William’s a discard now.”

Latzarel frowned and poked at the fire with a stick until the end blazed. He swirled it in the air, making little orange figure eights against the night. “We’re in it too deeply, that’s what I say. Our mistake was to put faith in the Marquis of Queensbury, but there’s too much at stake for that now. I say we get Giles back. Kidnap him if we have to. How in the world did Pinion appeal to him? Of all the slimy …”

“He promised to take him to the center of the Earth, apparently,” said Edward, nodding at Jim, who told the story of the overheard conversation.

“Take him to the center of the Earth!” shouted Latzarel. “Giles Peach needs Pinion like he needs a third foot. It sounds to me as if he could ride there on a shoebox.”

“Giles, if I’m not mistaken, believes in his own inventions,” said Edward, lighting his pipe. “He understands that Pinion has the resources to finance an elaborate machine. He has faith in the substance of the machine, in his understanding of science. If he knew he was making it all up, there’s no telling what he would do.”

Latzarel blinked in surprise. “How much of it do you suppose he is making up?”

Edward shrugged.

“How do you know he’s making up any of it?” asked Jim.

Edward shrugged again. “I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t understand the first thing about it. But I still say that William is in as much trouble as he always insisted he was in. And I agree about getting Giles back. We’ve got to do it for the sake of the boy. Pinion and Frosticos are as crooked as corkscrews, and they’ve lured him away from his poor mother. We owe Giles a debt and we owe William another.”

“And Squires is two days away,” said Jim practically, thinking of the debt he owed his father.

In the end there was nothing to do but wait. Hiking the length of the island to radio Squires wouldn’t hasten his arrival by enough to make it worth the effort. So they spent the next day waiting for the time to pass, pretending to search for mermen, while understanding that a raftload of mermen would be insufficient to propel them a quarter mile closer to the center of the Earth. Nor would a grant from the museum or from the oceanographic institute. They could go nowhere in their diving bell. Certain knowledge of the existence of the interior world wasn’t worth a fig. The future lay in Giles Peach. Ashbless had known as much.

Chapter 12

A week later a letter arrived from William, who had been hard at work on scientific pursuits. Accompanying several pages of ornate, theoretical discussion that Edward could make little sense of were a dozen line drawings of mechanical apparatus, all of which had something to do with gravity; which, William insisted, was “all wrong.” How gravity could be all wrong Edward couldn’t fathom, but there was some indication that William’s concern was with gravity at the Earth’s hollow core. Gravity, insisted William, was a matter of waves, spiral waves that closely resembled the whorl of seeds in a sunflower. They had an eddying effect on a body, a whirlpool attraction not unlike the little twister that sucks water down a drain.

Maintaining his faith in the sensibilities of “animalia,” as he put it, he had run up drawings for the construction of a device he referred to as a “squid sensor,” involving the construction of aluminum cylinders for the purpose of maintaining sea beasts—squids and octopods in general—at temperatures low enough to diminish their sensitivity to physical stimuli—including, William insisted, gravity. Edward could make nothing of it. It was unclear in the end whether the squids were the sensing mechanism or whether they themselves were the objects of the sensing. And what was Edward to do with it? Build such a device? The plans were monumental. Great technical skill would be required. And smack in the center of a complex of ovals and rectangles and wavy lines—meant, apparently, either as wires or as gravity waves or, it was just barely conceivable, as both—were printed in mirror writing the words:

“Find the Sewer Dwellers of Los Angeles—Captain H. Frank Pince Nez.” There was no further discussion of it.

Edward was puzzled. Final instructions suggested that, in a pinch, Edward must send the plans on to Cal Tech, to a certain Professor Fairfax whose knowledge of the magic of gravity was unsurpassed, and who would have access, through his association with the oceanarium, to the ungodly number of squid it would take to develop the apparatus.

Edward made a photocopy and mailed the packet that same afternoon. Then he summoned Professor Latzarel, who had no knowledge whatsoever of sewer dwellers. “Do you suppose,” asked Latzarel, “that he’s making a reference to those stupendous crocodiles and blind pigs that supposedly inhabit the sewers?”

“I guess it’s possible,” said Edward doubtfully. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“Perhaps he’s convinced that they have something to do with his device. His squid sensor. They might, you know. His instructions don’t absolutely exclude them.”

“No,” said Edward, “but they don’t include them either. The one’s not the same as the other. And why, if he meant blind pigs, wouldn’t he refer to them absolutely? No, I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

“Perhaps this Fairfax would know. We could call him. William seems to have great faith in him.”

“I called him straightaway, actually. He’s out of town. In Berlin at a conference on gravity. He’s apparently the authority William claims he is.”

“Out of town,” mused Latzarel. “Just as well, I suppose. The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe that we’re looking at this thing all wrong. Listen to this. What if the squid sensing device were just flummery—a complete phony, or something William mugged up out of a scientific journal. Maybe he referred to your man Fairfax to lend it an air of authenticity, to satisfy whoever it is who steams open this week’s mail. Hold the thing up to the mirror, and what do you have? Ten pages of nonsense and one line of sense. I think William has teen cagey here—has lost the message among pages of drivel, knowing you well enough to assume you’d wade through and find it.”

Edward sat lost in thought. Latzarel’s theory made vast sense—twenty times as much sense as did all the squid business. “Sewer dwellers,” he said, puffing at his pipe. “Are there any?’

“Sounds vaguely Indian,” Latzarel said, lost in his own thoughts.

“Indian?”

“This fellow Pince Nez. From the Owen’s Valley I take it.”

“You’re thinking of the Nez Perce,” said Edward. “Different crowd entirely.”

Latzarel nodded. Then he squinted and jumped to his feet. “ It’s a book! This Pince Nez is an author. Must be a pen name. That’s got to be it. William wants us to find a book. Call the library! Talk to Robb at the reference desk. The man’s an oracle. Brilliant. There’s not a question he can’t answer. He’ll have heard of it.” Latzarel sprang for the telephone himself and dialed away in a state. The book, whatever in the world it was about, must be monumental. It had taken William ten pages of squid sensing to disguise it.

Edward watched anxiously as Latzarel questioned Mr. Robb, the reference librarian, nodding and uttering exclamatory monosyllables. It was indeed a book, written by a sea captain from Boston who claimed to have frequented the sewers beneath Los Angeles and had been the first to navigate and chart what he referred to as the subterranean seas. Like Wilhelm Reich and the orgone box, Pince Nez had been hushed up. They were intent on keeping certain secrets, said Robb.

“Who was?” asked Latzarel, widening his eyes at Edward and shaking his head slowly.

The phone abruptly went dead. Latzarel tapped the button and got a dial tone. “We were cut off. Ominous. Very ominous.” He told Edward of their conversation.

“When was this book published?” asked Edward.

“A small private printing in 1947, according to Robb. What do you suppose happened to him?”

“Pince Nez? I don’t know. …”

“Robb, I mean. You don’t suppose …”

Edward looked grim. He shrugged. “1947, you say? Why don’t we have a look at a telephone directory?” He went into the kitchen and hauled one out, flipping it open to the P’s. “Here it is. By golly! H. F. Pince Nez in Long Beach. 815 Fourth Street. That’s Forth and Ximeno,” said Edward. “Right near Egg Heaven. Let’s go.”

But even before he said it, Latzarel was pulling on his coat. The two piled into the Hudson and roared off toward the Santa Ana Freeway, happy to be “chasing down a lead,” as Edward put it, both of them having accepted the notion that William, somehow, had become their general, and that he was directing operations from the confines of the hospital.

Captain H. Frank Pince Nez, it turned out, was “ninety and two year old,” as he put it a half hour later over a glass of whisky in a cramped apartment that was a wonderland of nautical apparatus. “I’m stone deaf,” said Pince Nez, with a peculiar emphasis on the word “stone.” He held a monumental but utterly worthless speaking trumpet to his ear. He was tall and gaunt, barely stooped with age, and was wrinkled like an apple-faced doll. His white hair was closely cropped, giving him a no-nonsense air—the air of a man used to giving commands and seeing them carried out.

“Captain Pince Nez … “ began Latzarel, who intended to broach the subject of sewer travel straightaway.

“What?” shouted the Captain.

“I say, Captain Pince Nez!” cried Latzarel.

“That’s right,” said Pince Nez, eyeing Latzarel strangely. He rose, left the room, and came back in hauling an ancient electric fan on wheels. “Can you fix it?” he shouted.

Latzarel was taken aback. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked in a normal voice. He might as well have remained silent.

“What … is … wrong … with … the … fen!” hollered Edward, pausing between each word and mouthing the syllables widely, hoping facial contortions would aid communication.

“Sings,” said Pince Nez instantly.

Edward looked at Latzarel. “Sings?”

“Sings! Damn … it!” cried Pince Nez. “All … all … bloody hell! When is it?’

“He can’t think of the word,” whispered Latzarel to Edward. “He’s lost some of his nouns. When do you suppose it sings?”

“At night!” Edward shouted.

Pince Nez lit up. He poured Edward an impossible tumbler of whisky. “Sings all the damn night! They do it to me,” he said. “Always have. Rays is what it is, out of the back of it.”

“Throw it out!” shouted Latzarel unsuccessfully.

“Spout?” asked Pince Nez, half convinced that Latzarel was an idiot. He turned to Edward. “Can you fix it?”

“I believe so,” said Edward, hustling out the door and downstairs to the car. He returned in a moment with a screwdriver and a little chromium-plated pachenko ball with Chinese ideographs on it that he kept in his pocket for good luck. He pulled the back off the fan, rummaged around inside for a moment, and pretended to find the pachenko ball. He held it up in front of Captain Pince Nez, who fell back in horror, clapping his hands over his ears. Edward pulled out his handkerchief and rolled the ball up in it, knotting the end, then shoved it into his pocket. He screwed the back of the fan on and dusted his hands.

It was then that he noticed Latzarel twisting up his face at him from the corner of the room. On a little table beneath a litter of pipes and ashes and spent matches was a battered, dark blue volume. The words on the cloth cover had been worn so dim that from where Edward stood it seemed to be blank. He knew from Latzarel’s expression, however, which book it was. Pince Nez plugged the fan in and cocked an ear toward it. He seemed satisfied. He looked up suddenly at Latzarel, startled by the look on his face.

Latzarel grinned. “May I?” he shouted, waving at the table.

Pince Nez assumed that he was motioning at the pipes. His look suggested that he had doubts about the desire to smoke another man’s pipe.

Latzarel couldn’t help himself. He brushed the debris off and plucked up the book, nodding and smiling at the captain. He whistled. “We’ve got to have this,” he murmured.

Edward couldn’t make it out. “Speak up,” he said, “the old man’s deaf as a post.”

“What!” cried Pince Nez, spinning around. “Coast to coast! I can’t swear to it, but damn near!”

“Of course,” said Edward, grinning and nodding.

Latzarel staggered over and collapsed into a chair. “Offer him money,” he said to Edward. “As much as he wants.”

Edward was unconvinced, but he pulled his wallet out anyway. He extracted a twenty and waved it at Pince Nez. The old man shook his head and warded Edward off with the palm of his hand. Then he plucked the bill from between Edward’s fingers and shoved it into his pocket with a dissatisfied look, a look which implied that Edward’s twenty was nothing.

“I can’t have you here hounding me!” he shouted, picking up his ear trumpet.

“Certainly!” cried Latzarel, standing up.

Captain Pince Nez menaced him with the trumpet, giving him a sidewise look.

“Another twenty!” Latzarel hissed, sitting back down. “This is no time to be thrifty.”

Edward waved a second twenty. Pince Nez, momentarily placated, snatched it out of his hand. The telephone rang. The captain ignored it until Edward, unable to stand its ringing, pointed at and raised his eyebrows.

‘It’ll cost you another twenty,” said Pince Nez.

“Give it to him,” said Latzarel, not looking up from his book.

Edward handed over another twenty, his last. The phone abruptly stopped ringing. Captain Pince Nez reached into his pocket and came up with the other two bills. Hugely surprised, he chewed the corner of one as if checking to see if it was authentic. “Damnation,” he said, impressed. “Who are you boys with?”

“With?” asked Edward weakly.

“Are you for him of against him?” Pince Nez looked up sharply.

“Against him,” shouted Edward, wisely assuming that after ninety-two years Captain Pince Nez must be against almost everyone.

“The bastard,” said the captain, shaking his head tiredly. “But I’ve got this money.” He waved the three twenties. “Payola. He’s afraid of me. I know too much.” He grinned slyly, then looked across at Latzarel, who was turning the pages of his book, profound amazement crossing his brow in waves.

“Who is he?” shouted Edward, as casually and nonchalantly as the circumstances would allow.

“What do you know about him?” Pince Nez shouted back, squinting hard at Edward and draining his tumbler. He pinged his finger against a brass cylinder that sat in the corner of the room, an unidentifiable maritime remnant.

Edward shook his head darkly, trying to phrase a question with which to respond to the captain’s question. He couldn’t think of one, so he said, “Who?” hoping it wouldn’t sound suspicious to the old man.

“Ignatz,” said Pince Nez, “de Winter.”

“That’s the one!” Edward shouted, knowing nothing more than he had a moment before. “What do you know about him?” The conversation seemed to Edward to be growing oddly circular.

“Carp don’t die,” said Pince Nez. “I know that much. Yes-sir.”

Edward nodded, baffled. Then, almost without meaning to, he leaned toward Captain Pince Nez and cried, “What do you make of Ashbless?”

Latzarel jerked up from his reading at the sound of the name. Pince Nez sat back in his chair and waved his hand tiredly, as if to say that he was fed up with the likes of Ashbless—that he’d had enough of him. Edward widened his eyes at Latzarel and made a similar tired gesture at Pince Nez to encourage him.

“The old poet?” asked the captain, smiling vaguely as if reminiscing about some event in the distant past.

Latzarel closed his book. Edward blinked back his surprise. Pince Nez shook his head. “I met him and Blanding out in Pedro,” he said, pronouncing the word with a long “e.” “Blanding was good, but Ashbless, he was old. Tired I guess. Crazy as a loon is what I think.”

“Blanding?” asked Latzarel into the captain’s ear trumpet.

“The other poet.” Pince Nez gave Latzarel an appraising look, then raised himself out of his chair in order to have a better look at his pipe table. Edward was afraid that Latzarel would insist that Pince Nez be given more money, but the crisis passed and the captain relaxed. He looked momentarily puzzled, then tapped against the brass cylinder again, slowly shutting his eyes.

Edward, supposing that the old man was falling asleep, shouted, “Hello!” then grinned immediately as Knee Nez lurched awake. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the three crumpled bills, licked his fingers, and counted through them twice.

“How much do you figure I owe you?” he asked Edward, who said immediately, “Forty ought to do it,” but was drowned out halfway through by Latzarel who yelled, “Nothing. Nothing at all! What about Ashbless? The poet?”

“Hired me to sail him to the Berdoo Straits.”

“To San Bernardino?” Edward asked.

“Pretty much.”

“When?” Latzarel gave Edward a look, nodding and pointing to the book, as if implying that within it lay an explanation of the phenomenon of sailing to San Bernardino, which lay, of course, some fifty miles inland from the coast and utterly distant from any sizeable river.

Edward nodded at Pince Nez and shouted, “When?’

“Thirty-six,” said Pince Nez without hesitation. “Two years before the damned earthquake closed off the inland passage. Too damn bad, too.”

Edward nodded in commiseration. “That would have made you sixty-five or sixty-six.” Pince Nez squinted and counted the fingers of one hand laboriously, then left off and shrugged. “How old was Ashbless when you took him out to Berdoo?”

“Hard to say. He might’ve been a hundred. Easy that. Only I didn’t take him to Berdoo. Never got that far. I ferried him up toward Pasadena and some damn creature capsized us. I never seen the like. Ship went down. We both come out into the L. A. River and got drunk as lords off Los Feliz at a spot called Tommy’s Little Oasis. I remember that like yesterday.”

“Creature?” asked Latzarel.

Pince Nez stared at him.

“What creature?’

“Now I don’t know, do I?” said Pince Nez. “There was all sorts down there, wasn’t there?”

“Of course there were,” said Edward. “This was a big one though?”

The captain nodded. The telephone rang again, shooting Edward out of his chair like a comet. Pince Nez made no move to pick it up. Edward, finally, reached across and answered it. There was silence at the other end, perhaps breathing, then a long ululating laugh—the laugh of a complete and far-flung lunatic that sounded weirdly distant, as if the source were far from the phone, as if the caller had dialed the number, set the phone down, ran off down a long hallway and through a couple of closed-off rooms and laughed wildly. A click and a dial tone followed the laugh. The whole thing was a mystery to Edward, and, of course, was none of his business. But it was unsettling even so. In fact, he was suddenly struck with the certainty that it was his business, that the caller had expected him to answer the phone, would have understood the futility of calling to talk to Pince Nez.

“Wrong number,” said Edward, hanging up. Captain Pince Nez was asleep in his chair. Latzarel stood up, tiptoeing toward the door, carrying his precious book. Edward hesitated, fairly certain that Pince Nez had never understood that he was selling the volume. He was half tempted to wake the old man up and explain it through the ear trumpet until he saw, supporting the bottom shelf of a ruined bookcase, a half dozen more worn copies of the book stacked atop one another. More lay in a heap in a cardboard box, shoved half in behind the same bookcase. The top copy was missing a cover and had obviously been used for years as a coaster. Edward looked at the three twenties lying atop the table in front of Pince Nez and shook his head. He didn’t regret the captain’s keeping them; he regretted only that they had been his twenties and not Latzarel’s. His friend gestured at him from the open front door, and Edward hurried down the steps after him, filling him in on the strange phone call.

“Tomfoolery,” said Latzarel, waving his book. “Kids.”

“It didn’t sound like kids.”

“Why would someone call up and laugh? It must be kids.”

“He didn’t laugh. The laughter came from the background somewhere. And it wasn’t that kind of laughter. …”

“Look at this!” Latzarel interrupted as the Hudson angled up Fourth Street toward downtown. “‘The ship docked in the Sea of the Arroyo Seco where two men came aboard, one with a steamer trunk, and one tall and thin and pale with terrible scars on his neck. In the trunk, I was told, was the body of a boy with the head of a fish.’”

“What?” said Edward, half shocked and half unbelieving. “What does that mean, ‘with the head of a fish’? Was it a fish-headed boy or was there simply a fish head in with him? What is this anyway, a novel?”

“A ship’s log,” Latzarel said flatly. “Mostly charts and maps. There’s a navigable subterranean sea, according to this, that stretches from the Pacific to beyond the San Gabriel mountains. I’m not sure about the notations here, but it looks as if most of it is navigable only by submarine.”

Edward jerked around in his seat to stare at Latzarel who nodded slowly at him, puzzled. “And it’s not at all clear that the boy wore the head of the fish. Listen. ‘I ferried the doctor to Venice …”

“What doctor?” Edward asked.

“The man with the steamer trunk, apparently,” said Latzarel, starting over. “‘I ferried the doctor to Venice where, late in the evening of the 26th he delivered the chest to a Chinese in exchange for three plugs of black opium knotted together with rawhide. The Chinese was referred to as Han Koi, and the doctor, who I knew as de Winter, was addressed as Dr. Frost by the Chinese, who was apparently in grave fear of him.’” Latzarel waved Edward to silence without looking up, and went on. “‘I myself shared his fear, having through the mate heard that the supposed corpse in the trunk had been the victim of one of de Winter’s experiments. A violent thrashing and gasping started within the trunk, which toppled over onto its side and broke open. Within, lying in a pool of green bile, was the live body of a youth with the head of a great fish, suffocating terribly, its eyes jerking to and fro in stark terror. Han Koi shouted and a dozen pig-tailed Chinese, half of them with knives drawn, swarmed out and dragged the trunk away into the depths of an abandoned cannery beneath the docks. I was given a two-inch knob of raw opium as payment and was glad to be quit of de Winter.’ That’s it,” said Latzarel.

“Just like that?” cried Edward. “Nothing more about the thing in the trunk?”

“Not a bit. This is a ship’s log, I’m telling you. That’s the last Pince Nez knew of it, apparently, unless there’s references to it later in the book.”

“There can’t be any doubt about the identity of this de Winter.”

“Not a bit.”

“No wonder William was in such a sweat to hide the message away.” The two rode along for a moment in silence, tooling up the on-ramp onto the Harbor Freeway. “It’s got to be lies,” mused Edward finally.

“It doesn’t look like lies to me,” answered Latzarel. “What conceivable reason would he have for fabrications? There isn’t enough here to develop a good fiction. Half of the volume is appended matter—charts and such. And you’re the one who said that de Winter’s identity is obvious.”

“Who was the fish-boy?” asked Edward abruptly.

“Some poor devil of a lost youth, I don’t wonder. Snatched possibly, like a stray dog.”

Edward nodded, but was unconvinced. “When did Reginald Peach disappear? He was younger than Basil, wasn’t he?”

“By ten years,” said Latzarel. “It was in the late thirties, I think. I remember it was then that Basil was institutionalized for the first time. We both know who his doctor was.”

“This thin man aboard the ferry,” Edward said, “what if that was Basil Peach?”

“Then we’re living in a strange world,” Latzarel said, closing the book and staring out of the window.

“Pince Nez assumed that de Winter was a vivisectionist. He had to. It was the only rational explanation. He wouldn’t have suspected that the thing in the trunk was a product of nature.”

“Maybe,” said Latzarel, “except that he was uncommonly familiar with the inhabitants of the subterranean sea. Lord knows what he understood about the products of nature.”

Edward agreed. And the more he thought about it, the more he agreed. He accelerated into the right lane and coasted down the off-ramp and onto Carson Street, turning right into the traffic of Figueroa and right again onto Sepulveda, pulling back onto the Harbor Freeway, westbound now, back the way they’d come. Latzarel knew immediately the reason for the change of direction. They hadn’t learned half enough from Captain Pince Nez. They couldn’t have. Neither one of them had known what to expect. They had been too easily tired by ear trumpets and senility.

It seemed to take hours to plod along down the Pacific Coast Highway from traffic light to weary traffic light. They rolled across Alameda and over the Dominguez Channel, then made the light at Santa Fe and angled over the Long Beach Freeway, dropping onto the bridge that spanned the Los Angeles River, the thin channel of dark water murky as tea and hinting at strange and unimagined sources. Iron doors led away into the concrete walls of the riverbank and, perhaps, into a dark chasm world lit by the glowing lights of gliding submarines and by the occasional lamps of the sewer dwellers, little stars that glinted on distant islands, goblin fires in the black void, miles below the concrete and asphalt lace of surface streets.

There was an ambulance and a police car in front of the building on Fourth and Ximeno. Edward drove past, turned up Ximeno, and parked on Broadway. Both men leaped out of the car, a thrill of fear catapulting them along the sidewalk. They forced themselves to slow when they reached the corner. It was Captain Pince Nez—dead—being loaded into the back of the ambulance which motored casually away past a half dozen lackluster onlookers. There was nothing particularly exciting in the death of a man ninety-two years old; at least there was nothing exciting in it for anyone but Edward and Professor Latzarel—them and a fat, balding man with a stick and a cigar who turned out to be the landlord. He seemed half irritated that Pince Nez had chosen to die in his apartment building. “Crazy old fool,” the landlord said, whacking his stick against a little flagstone planter that sheltered a crop of weeds.

“Heart attack was it?” asked Edward, affecting a tourist’s concern.

“I suppose so,” said the fat mail, chewing his cigar. “Went straight to hell. You could see it in his face. What a look. I hope to never see what it was he saw. Devil finally came for him, I suppose. It was me who found him. Screamed he did—uncanny damn scream. I broke in, and there he was, face down on the floor. Had a dead fish in his hand. Can you beat that? Some sort of codfish. Was eating it, I guess. Him and his damned Oriental ways.”

Edward was trying to think of an excuse to look through the empty apartment. The dead fish business was troublesome. It would look suspicious, though, if he and Latzarel just nosed in. There was no telling what brought about the old man’s death, although Edward hadn’t any doubt that it wasn’t any simple heart attack. He’d seen something, like the landlord said. Only it wasn’t any spirit sent out from hell; it was a flesh and blood devil.

The landlord, about then, produced a wad of money from the pocket of his soiled khaki work pants. Edward guessed the denomination of the bills as well as the number—twenties, three of them. The landlord counted them with a satisfied look. Edward glanced at Latzarel who shook his head. “Water under the bridge,” he said. “Spilt milk.”

“We’re from the Fair Housing Council,” said Edward to the landlord. “This place is a menace—men dying of unknown causes. Dead fish everywhere. Look at this!” And he pointed toward a half-brown juniper in the flagstone planter, beneath which lay the stiff body of a rat, dead for weeks, a rare piece of serendipity. Edward strode down and flicked it out into the open with a stick. The rat was about a half inch thick—nothing but a leathery slab. Edward shook his head sadly. “We’ll see you Wednesday,” he said. “We’re giving you a chance.” With that he motioned to Latzarel and the two disappeared around the corner, leaving the stupefied landlord stammering on the sidewalk. They hurried to the car and drove away, Edward suddenly possessed by the possibility that they were being watched—followed. That whoever had gotten Pince Nez would still be linking about. But the circuitous route they took through Long Beach revealed nothing suspicious, and they arrived home an hour later befuddled by the myriad loose ends of what might be coincidence and what might be portent. “Everything signifies,” William had said long weeks past.

Chapter 13

Still there was no sign of Giles Peach. His mother received a postcard full of vague ambiguities, insisting that he was getting on well, hinting that he’d thought about traveling, perhaps to Windermere to see his father. The card was postmarked in Los Angeles. They could tell nothing from it.

Proceedings to gain William’s release from the sanitarium were frustrating. William Hastings was a dangerous maniac. That was the consensus. He was undergoing therapy. Dr. Hilario Frosticos insisted that the therapy be continued. He had the support of the courts. Edward wondered what the courts would say about Frosticos having been seen with a steamer trunk containing the body of a monster. Nothing, of course. It was preposterous. There wasn’t a single bit of evidence to implicate Frosticos in any illegal machinations. But it was past time to take steps. If they remained idle, they’d be defeated.

Edward received a letter from Dr. Fairfax at Cal Tech, thanking him for the interesting, package. His brother-in-law, said Fairfax, had an “astonishing but strangely misinformed mind.” It could quite conceivably take years to fathom the mathematic and physical arcana discussed in the charts and diagrams, but it was apparent straightaway that the use of squids, of poulpae generally, to sense gravitational abnormalities had been brilliant. It was William’s deductions that were impossible, unless, of course, modern physics was monumentally mistaken.

Edward said to himself as he read the letter that just about anything was likely to be monumentally mistaken. He’d arrived at that as a sort of maxim—that in the astonished eyes of eternity there must seem to be no end to the foolishness of humankind, dressing proudly in cardboard hats and wearing armadillo shoes, storming around day to day, chattering like zoo apes in pursuit of vagaries as consequential as a fiddlestick’s end, then, bang! knocked dead at some senseless moment in mid-flight only to be found clutching a codfish by an indifferent landlord who shakes his head.

It’s best, thought Edward, shaking his own head, not to put on airs.

The night was black beyond the window. It was nearly three in the morning. William Hastings lay in bed waiting, listening to the beating of his heart and to the occasional screaming laughter of a lunatic somewhere off across the grounds, in X-Ward probably, beyond the chain link fence. A light stabbed up through the window, swept across six feet of ceiling, and disappeared—the headlights of a car motoring up the hill and swinging left onto the grounds. The clump, clump, clump of rubber-soled shoes approached on the tiled corridor. The door swung open. William drooped into feigned sleep, fully dressed beneath the bedcovers. The door shut softly and the shoes clumped away, pausing a moment later, then fading down the hallway.

William edged out of bed, tiptoeing along in his rumpled tweed coat toward the door just shut by the attendant. He carried his shoes in his right hand, and with his left he patted the lapel of his coat to check for the twentieth time that he had the folded page he’d ripped from the ship’s log of Captain H. Frank Pince Nez, uncovered in Frosticos’ office. He’d have them yet, the villains. He’d expose their filthy plots. He reached for the handle of the door and slammed his toe into the caster of the bed adjacent to his, where senile old Warner slept uneasily. There was a moan and a snort. “What?” said a startled voice. “Six o’clock.” William froze, half bent at the waist, listening. He could feel blood oozing into his sock from the end of his toe. “Kits, cats, sacks, and knives,” said the old man, lost somewhere in a peculiar dream. “Out of the mouths of babes rode the six hundred!” William considered going back to bed. Old Warner snorted again and clamped his teeth together a dozen times in rapid succession like a pair of spring-driven chattering teeth from a joke store. William opened the door, peeked out into the hall, and slid through, catching one of the two remaining bottle cap medals on the door edge and popping it off. It bounced on the floor with a clatter. William cursed himself, cursed old Warner, cursed his toe, and was possessed by a frightful need to go to the bathroom. He retrieved the cap and the cork washer and shoved them into his pocket along with the two powdery red Nembutal capsules that he had secreted under his tongue several hours earlier.

Twenty feet down the corridor was a utility closet, its door slightly ajar. William was relieved. He’d half expected to find it locked, and wasn’t at all sure he was capable of carrying out his plan in the darkness.

Then a tide of horror washed through him at the thought of the unlocked door. Someone, he told himself frantically, was hidden there. They’d discovered his plan, found the page missing from the book. It had all been arranged from the start—two weeks ago when by sheer luck he’d found Frosticos’ office empty and unlocked. They’d set him up. One unlocked room was simply sloppiness, a mistake, but two were an impossible coincidence. What might be lurking inside that closet? Frosticos himself? Some white-coated devil with a syringe? A coven of doctors and a steel tray of lobotomy instruments? William reached for the door handle, determined to pitch his shoes into the face of whatever it was that lay in wait there. But there was nothing. A beaten mop stood in a galvanized bucket beside a plastic garbage can filled with trash. Three long, four-battery flashlights sat on a shelf behind, along with a can of cleanser and a bottle of Lysol.

William pulled out one of the flashlights, shined it into the dark recesses of a corner, and began to ease the door shut. The clump of shoes coming along a perpendicular corridor brought him up short. He slipped into the closet and almost shut the door, leaving it open just a slit. He lifted the heavy flashlight to shoulder height, determined not to sell himself cheaply. The clumping of shoes stopped. There was a grunting outside the door. William was frozen with fear. Lord knew what sort of thing it was that would confront him. A foot slid in, pulling the door open. Standing in the hallway was a beast with the body of a man and the head of a cardboard box. It bent toward him, unseeing. William raised his flashlight. He recognized the curly red hair of the stooped handyman who was endeavoring to lay the heavy box on the floor of the closet. He wasn’t a bad sort. William regretted that it couldn’t have been one of the others. With his teeth set in a rictus of determination, he smashed the business end of the flashlight into the back of the man’s head, catching him on the neck—too low to accomplish anything but to send his victim sprawling forward onto his box. The box shoved into William’s ankles and William collapsed backward into the shelves. The can of scouring powder clumped onto the back of the groaning handyman, scattering a cloud of white and blue dust.

William shoved against the wall, scrambling to get his feet set. With a sideways swing he slammed the flashlight squarely into the back and side of the man’s head, knocking him senseless, chin-down into his box. William pulled himself free, crawling across the back of the unconscious handyman. His flashlight was ruined, the broken lens of the thing chinking down onto the tiles. He pitched it into the closet, shoved the cardboard box as far back in as he could, and crammed the limp body into it, grabbing another flashlight off the shelf and shoving the door closed.

Then, thinking a bit, he reopened the door, pulled up the face of the unconscious attendant, and pried open his mouth, dumping in the remains of the two nembutal capsules. One drooled out immediately onto the floor and the other glued itself to the man’s tongue. William cursed. Ten minutes had passed and he wasn’t twenty feet from the door of his room. The escape was going fearsomely slowly. He’d managed to do nothing but bash in the head of some poor, half-wit handyman who in all likelihood was about to revive and begin to shout. William pulled a rag off the shelf, thinking to shove it into the man’s mouth as a gag. He’d tape the mouth shut with masking tape. But that meant he’d have to tie him up too, which would require pulling him into the hallway. What would he do for rope, tape the man’s hands together? The handyman twitched. William raised his flashlight, but the thought of hitting him again was sickening, as if he were lost in some nightmare and had spent an eternity in that hallway, clubbing an innocent man while sweating for fear of discovery. Speed was his only hope.

He shut the door once again and fled, ducking into the pantry and through a door that led into an enormous kitchen. He pulled a laminated cardboard pocket calendar from his coat pocket, slid it in between the striker plate and the latch and swung open the door that led out onto a loading dock and into the night. Beyond a strip of asphalt were a lawn and trees, and beyond that the curved road that led out through a wrought-iron gate to freedom.

Pale beams from a canted crescent moon played down upon the lawn so faintly that the occasional bushes were indistinguishable from the dark grass. The sky was startlingly clear and thick with stars. An enormous Venus, big as a grapefruit, sailed toward the lower tip of the moon, close enough to throw a stone from one to the other. A rabbit darted from the shadow of a bush into the weak moonlight, racing away toward the road, quickly lost again in the night. William followed it, hunching and running, waving his flashlight out to the side, waiting in fear for lights to click on in the dark wards behind him, for the battered handyman to come to and bang his way out of the closet, for the cry to go round that a dangerous inmate was loose on the grounds, hammering people into pudding. But nothing stirred.

A hedge of hibiscus fronted the road. William ran along beside it, bent almost double, safe in the shadows, his tweed coat and trousers blending with the dark wall of shrubbery. He knew exactly where he was going. Farther along, some thirty yards from the black gate, a round iron manhole cover lay exactly in the center of the road, big as a truck tire. If it was too heavy to move, William would go for the gate. He’d scaled it once before and could do it again in a pinch, if the guard was asleep.

If he weren’t, William would have to bash him. He determined, as he jolted along beside the hedge, to send a letter of apology and explanation to the poor handyman at first opportunity. Such things were required of a gentleman.

He paused beside a gap in the boxwood, peered up over the hedge toward the distant guardhouse, and could make out, just above the sill of a little window, the back of the guard’s head. He was reading a book. William crept through the hole, stumbling out onto the road, then dropping to all fours back against the darkness of the hedge. He wrenched at his coat, producing a small black prybar, pilfered from the groundskeeper’s toolbox. He crept out onto the road, scuttling like a crab, and without hesitation slipped the bent end of the prybar into the quarter-sized hole in the iron disc and gave it a pull.

Nothing happened. He might as well have been yanking on the street itself. He pulled out the prybar and slid the straight end in between the cover and the steel perimeter, levering the heavy disc free from its seat and raising it a half inch or more. He slipped his fingers in under it, then wisely slipped them out again. He eased the lid back down, jerking out the prybar just before the lid trapped it.

There was a silence-shattering clank from the lid that seemed to echo beneath the street. William dashed for the cover of the hedge, creeping into the hole and crouching there. He peeped out, to see the gate guard standing outside his little shack, playing his own flashlight along the road. The guard stood so for a full minute, watching, before giving up and going back in to his book. William crept out. He wondered how long he’d been on the loose. Twenty minutes? He was sure that in the east, low on the horizon, the orange-gray glow of dawn paled the stars.

He crept back onto the road, set his feet, shoved his prybar into the hole and heaved. He held his breath. A sharp pain raced across his shoulder and up his neck. The lid raised slowly, almost out of its hole, then dropped back in, settling there maddeningly. William rested, realizing that he was sweating. He’d wait just a moment, then give it another heave-ho. He watched the back of the guard’s head for some sign of movement, then bent to it once again, just as an eternity of lights blinked on behind him. Shouting erupted from the direction of the kitchen. A window slammed open, and an air-driven siren blasted out three staccato spurts. Raucous laughter sounded from X-Ward, and the guard, his flashlight on, crouched out of his shack and doubled around the hedge toward the shouting. William grabbed his prybar and tore at the manhole cover, ripping skin from the palms of his hands against the hexagonal shaft of the steel bar, knowing that he should have taken advantage of the guard’s running off and headed for the gate. But it was too late for that now. More shouts sang out. “There he is!” cried a voice. “Stop!” “Get the net on him!”

“The bastards!” cried William aloud, and with one great sobbing heave, he yanked the cover free and half off the hole, dragging it back a few more inches, grabbing his flashlight and pouring light into the shaft. He dropped in, grasping iron rungs and disappearing into the hole, laughing wildly, shouting foolish obscenities at his pursuers, who stormed up, still yelling idiotically for him to halt. A white-trousered leg dangled in above him. William whacked the foot on the end of it with his flashlight, shouting, “I’m armed!” in such wild and perilous tones that the leg was abruptly withdrawn.

William cried out a parting curse and ran east down the sewer, planting each foot on either side of the little rivulet of water that lapped along the trough of the concrete pipe. Fifty yards down he cut abruptly right, then right again almost immediately into a pipe of about half the diameter of the first. He was forced to slide along at a crouch, kicking through the water, scraping his back against the hard surface of the pipe with each step. It opened out shortly into a cavernous cylindrical tunnel, and William was racing along, wheezing for heavy lungfuls of air, shining his flashlight ahead of him. He’d lose them easily now, thanks to Captain H. Frank Pince Nez and his sewer charts.

A quick glance over his shoulder betrayed no following light. They’d given up on him, the wimps. William chuckled and slowed up. He was a fairly desperate lad—overpowering a burly handyman, yanking the impossible lid off a manhole that spanned half the street. “I’m the terrible Toad!” he shouted, feeling a giddy affinity to his favorite literary hero. The concrete walls shouted it back at him in triplicate, a deep and sonorous chorus of assent.

William skipped along, splashing water up his pantlegs, singing foolish songs that he made up on the spot, filling in gaps in the meter with “ho-ho, ho-ho,” when words failed him. “Oh the bastards lay all smug in their beds, ho-ho, when William Hastings took flight, and beat the handyman senseless, ho-ho, with a whacking great flashlight!” he sang, swinging his weapon in a broad arc, the light surging wildly up and down the walls of the pipe.

But then, just as the last echoes died out, he became aware of the sound of the clattering of about a million footsteps behind him in the darkness, and the murmuring of pursuing voices. He doubled his pace, heaving for breath, a fire in the base of his lungs. “What a conceited Toad I am,” he gasped, giggling, and he shut off his light, angling away down a big tunnel that sloped wildly as if following the descent of a hill. He slowed, clicking on his light, and saw some fifty feet ahead another iron ladder, leading up to a shaft in the ceiling of the pipe. He shoved the flashlight into his belt, pulled himself up the ladder and through a crawlspace into what was either a natural cavern or a cavern hewn out of stone. His light stabbed out through the darkness, and he followed it, slumping along now toward a distant tunnel that led to yet another corridor, dropping at a slope of twenty or thirty degrees.

He tripped, rolled onto the seat of his trousers, and skidded along in an increasing rush, sliding to a stop finally against a pile of scree, his flashlight undamaged. From his coat pocket, torn in the fall, he yanked the page from the log of Pince Nez, following the trail of purple ink with which he’d marked his route a Week before, and popped immediately into a junction of pipe that led off to the east, foregoing another that angled away north. He paused after a hundred yards or so, far too tired to sing foolish songs, and listened over the shouting of his breath for the sounds of pursuit. There were none. He smiled and patted his map. After five minutes he was up and limping toward Glendale, bound for freedom.

There wasn’t a jury alive that would condemn him. They’d take a single look at Frosticos and another at the paper written in Frosticos’ hand ordering a full frontal lobotomy for the patient William Hastings—the paper he’d found atop Frosticos’ desk and which at the moment rode safely in his inside coat pocket along with his vital map. No one could fault a man for choosing freedom over permanent vegetablehood. He’d have the support of the scientific community. Fairfax would rally round; he’d have the data on the squid sensor by now. And Professor Ryan at Binghamton—she’d have read his proposal for a treatise on civilization theory and have recognized its affinity to her own brilliant work. It would be a court case to end all court cases. The Scopes monkey trials would pale. Frosticos would go down in a rattle of ice. All would be exposed—vivisection, the digging leviathan, the plot to shatter the Earth. William smiled to think of it—vindication and victory. He could taste it. They’d try to stop him but he’d outwit them, the slimy bunch of worms. He laughed aloud and tried to think of mote verses for his song, but what he came up with was mostly ho-ho-ho’s, so he left off in order to save his strength.

He paused, finally, to rest. He rummaged in his pants pocket, pulling out his bottle cap. It was a White Rock cream soda cap. He could picture the winged woman crouching on her rock on the label of the bottle. The cork washer was delicate, torn at one edge, but with the end of his thumb he managed to shove it firmly in behind the cap, pressing the two together. He flicked at the cap once or twice with his fingertip, and it stayed put on his shirt. Hugely satisfied with himself, he set out once again, limping along at an even pace down the concrete tunnel that narrowed in the distance, its concave walls spiraling downward into abrupt darkness.

Roycroft Squires read a collapsed copy of Doom for the sixth time. He was coming up to his favorite chapter, the one in which Lord Ottercove’s car sprouts wings and clears the roofs of Fleet Street houses, “flying Piccadillyward.” There was just enough science in the novel to satisfy him. He took a reflective sip at a cup of coffee, grown half cold from neglect, and jotted a note concerning mortality in the margin, shaking his head in contemplation. There was a knock at the door. Squires frowned. No one with any sense knocked at his door before noon. It was probably Jehovah’s Witnesses, come round to insist that he was all wet regarding Christmas. He’d be firm with them. Perhaps they’d take a dime for their magazine and leave him alone.

But it wasn’t Witnesses at the door, it was the eight-year-old neighbor boy, clutching a twisted paper in his hand. “Please, sir,” he said apologetically, frightened, no doubt, at Squires’ furrowed brow, “this is for you.”

“For me is it?” said Squires, nodding seriously. “What is it?”

“It came up out of the street, sir,” said the boy. “There were no end to them.” He emptied out a pocketful of notes, each one twisted into a little cylinder as if they had been shoved through a hole. Squires was puzzled, but was sure that the notes had something to do with Edward St. Ives and his strange affairs. He gave the boy a fifty-cent piece and sent him off overwhelmed, then spread the notes out over his coffee table. There were eight in all.

Written on each were the words, “Take this message to the home of Roycroft Squires, 210 East Rexroth.” One of them followed the request with the word “please,” another with “immediately,” another with “for the love of God!” as if having been written in states of increasing desperation. On the other side of each was the puzzling sentence, “Be on hand at six p.m. beneath the carob tree. Look sharp. W.H.”

“W.H.?” asked Squires aloud. He puzzled over it for a moment, wondering if he was the intended victim of some childhood prank, if a gang of neighborhood boys was setting him up. W.H.? William Hastings! Of course. Who else? But what did it mean, wondered Squires, that the notes had come out of the street? That didn’t sound entirely likely. He drew the blinds in the big arched window in the front wall of his house, looking out past the carob tree under which he’d been asked to stand. To his amazement a little cylinder of paper appeared through the manhole cover in the center of the street and blew merrily away in the breeze. The boy from next door charged after the wonderful missive.

It was puzzling. William Hastings—for it had to be he—was hiding in the sewer. There was no getting round it. Why he didn’t just shove his way out into daylight was worth speculating on, but Squires couldn’t think of a suitable answer. He took out a pen and paper and wrote, “I’m ready to look sharp at once, but if six o’clock is preferable, knock twice. You can count on me then. R.S.”

He rolled it up like a cigarette, wandered outside, and took a quick look up and down the street. There was no one in sight. Even the neighbor boy had disappeared. He strolled out to the manhole and poked his message through it. It was immediately pulled from his hand. A moment later there were two dull thuds on the cover. Squires shrugged and walked back into his house, Seven hours to go. It was vaguely irritating. He hated waiting. Reading was impossible: The thought of William in the sewer kept insinuating itself between him and the novel. He went into the study and began wrapping books for mailing. He’d sold his entire Manly Wade Wellman collection to a woman in New York for a small fortune. But concentrating even on such a task as that was maddening. He peered out the window, smoking countless pipes, watching the manhole cover which he’d ignored for the past twenty-five years.

The afternoon dragged on, the sun set, and six o’clock crept near, minute by minute. He walked out onto the dark lawn, and at six sharp the iron lid creaked up, pushed outward by a dark bulk that turned out to be the tweed-coated back of William Hastings. Squires hurried into the street, hauled the cover clear, and William, dead tired, his trousers splashed with sewer mud, his hair on end, pulled himself out without a word and hurried toward the house.

Chapter 14

It was late in the evening, almost ten o’clock, when Edward and Professor Latzarel parked the Hudson Wasp at Rusty’s Cantina some six blocks off Western Avenue and walked up the hill toward Patchen Street. A Hudson Wasp, both of them agreed, is not the car to drive when it’s secrecy a man wants. It was damp and cold, the weather having taken a turn toward winter, and there was a breeze that must have been blowing straight onshore across the South Bay beaches. Edward could smell just a hint of sea salt on it. He pulled his corduroy coat tighter and lit his pipe. A slice of moon like a section of a luminous orange hung over low foothills in the east.

The shaded residential streets were deserted and noiseless, and it seemed to Edward that their footfalls must carry for miles—that four blocks up in the shingled house of Dr. Hilario Frosticos, the doctor himself was cocking an ear, sensing their vibrations on the sea wind, listening for the clack, clack, clack of their approach on the sidewalk. The shadows of bushes and sighing, leafless trees stretched away in the lamplight, shifting and waving. Edward started at the sudden blinking on of a light beyond a window, knowing as he did that Latzarel would hiss at him under his breath to stop being so remarkably obvious. The air of a nonchalant stroller was called for.

If questioned by a suspicious policeman they’d say they were in the neighborhood to visit Roycroft Squires on Rexroth. Wiry hadn’t they driven there? They’d had car trouble and had been forced to leave the car at Rusty’s Cantina. Damn those old cars. Nothing but headaches. Edward went over the lie in his mind, watching in fear the headlights of an approaching car, a rattling old junker that passed and disappeared. They crossed Rexroth with two blocks to go. The turret on the front of Squires’ house was visible halfway down the street. Edward could see that there was a light on behind the drawn Venetian blind. He thought about Squires’ refrigerator, a paradise of beer, rows and rows of it, and determined to have a look at the lot of it before the night was through.

They turned right onto Patchen, keeping to the far side of the street, slowing down. Frosticos’ house sat on a double size lot. The front yard was green, even in midwinter, and was cropped so closely and evenly that it might have been a rug. The house itself was a shingled bungalow, sitting dark and silent, almost black beneath a pair of monumental camphor trees. Edward could imagine Yamoto the gardener zooming around them in little circles, flying at the rear of his mower.

There was a light on in the second story and another in the cellar, which appeared from a distance to be the flickering glow of candlelight. Professor Latzarel, punching Edward on the shoulder, dashed across the street, melting into a wall of juniper bushes along the side of the house.

The two men crackled and smashed in the bushes for what seemed an age; then everything was silent again. No new lights popped on. No one shouted. Dogs remained silent. They tiptoed along the edge of the house, crouching through the shadows until they reached the cellar window behind which burned the light. It wasn’t a candle after all; it was a single dim bulb covered by a blown-glass tulip shade. So feeble was the light that Edward could at first see almost nothing. The floor was either packed earth or concrete. An old spindle-sided Morris chair with leather upholstery sat directly beneath the lamp, as if somebody had dragged it there to take advantage of the light. Beyond were shadows.

A faint gurgling noise sounded from the room. Edward squinted, trying to peer through the gloom. He could see the edge of some sort of circular structure, unidentifiable in the darkness. As the moments passed it grew more clearly defined—a raised concrete pool or a circle of cut stone. Trailing over the rock edges were strands of what must have been waterweeds, elodea from the look of it. Edward could just make out something—someone—in the pool. Water splashed and gurgled. A stream of it ran down along the strands of weed and pooled up on the floor, reflecting the dim yellow light. Someone was bathing in a pool full of water plants. The shape of a head was visible. An arm rose to scratch it, a webbed finger doodling with an ear. Edward was aghast, even though he knew he’d found what he sought.

He heaved on the sill, thrusting his knee out toward a utility meter that sat beneath the window between him and Latzarel. He had to edge across and get a better look—just one good glimpse. With his knee anchored securely against a pipe, he pushed himself across toward the edge of the window where Latzarel stood, his face pressed against the glass, watching as the person in the pool slipped beneath the surface. Edward pulled himself up onto the meter box, feeling the pipe give way beneath him almost at once. The iron broke with a wild hiss. Edward toppled forward, banging against the window with his head, shattering the glass.

There was a fearful splashing within. A light blinked on in the house next to them. A door slammed. There was shouting from the house behind. Edward suddenly became aware of three things: a trickle of blood that ran down along his nose from a cut on his forehead, the smell of escaping gas, and the sight of Professor Latzarel, hunched and running across the lawn in the thin moonlight, up Patchen Road. Edward was after him like a shot.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see someone—an alerted neighbor probably—poking around on a front porch. He told himself that Latzarel had been a fool to run, that they could have brassed it out, made up a lie. Frosticos would be the last one to give them away, what with a seemingly kidnapped Giles Peach afloat in his cellar. But it was too late now—there was nothing for it but to follow Latzarel, who was running wonderfully fast for his size, his hair awash above his head in a frenzy of excitement. The two of them rounded the corner, dashed the two blocks to Rexroth without looking back, then cut across a lawn and up Rexroth to Squires’ house. Latzarel rang the bell at the same time he pushed open the door and stumbled through, puffing and red faced, Edward on his heels.

“Shut the door, old man,” Latzarel wheezed, and not waiting even a moment for a response, threw the door shut himself, catching it just before it slammed and easing it home with a trembling hand. “They’ll be after us.”

“Who will?” asked Squires, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

“Your ghastly neighbors.”

“My ghastly neighbors have been chasing you up the road?”

“Yes,” said Edward, catching his breath. “For an easily explained reason.”

“St. Ives!” Latzarel shouted, taking a good look at his friend’s face.

“Were you attacked?” asked Squires, hauling Edward into the kitchen. He soaked a tea towel in water and wiped at the cut on Edward’s forehead.

“No, no,” Latzarel assured him. “We were two streets up. Frosticos lives up on Patchen …” But he was interrupted by a pounding on the door. He grabbed Edward by the shoulder and shoved him toward the library, yanking what he thought was a beer out of the refrigerator as he pushed the library door closed. Edward shouted something in a surprised voice, but Latzarel didn’t wait to hear it. He pulled the cap off his drink, poured half of it down the sink, nodded to Squires, and sat down on a chair in the breakfast nook, affecting the attitude of a man who’d been discussing philosophy for an hour or two. Squires opened the front door and stood back, pushing curly black tobacco into his pipe. A man in a t-shirt stood on the porch, looking in suspiciously.

“Did two men run in here?” he asked, giving Squires an appraising look. “A fat man with wild hair and a tall one in a brown coat? One of them might have been hurt.”

Out of the corner of his eye Squires could see Latzarel working away at his hair with a pocket comb. “No, I can’t say that they did. Were they friends of yours?”

“Not very likely,” he said, peering past Squires into the room.

Latzarel appeared from the kitchen, his hair preposterously parted in the center. His coat was gone and his sleeves were rolled up. He waved his bottle cheerfully at the frowning man who stood in the doorway. “I can’t at all decide what to offer you for this first edition of The Polyglots. It’s been read pretty thoroughly.”

The statement meant nothing to Squires. In fact, it meant nothing to Latzarel. Only the man on the doorstep supposed it had any meaning, and after getting a good look at Latzarel, even he wasn’t sure. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“It’s none of your business,” said Squires evenly. “Who are you, and what the devil do you mean, banging on the door at this hour?”

The man looked surprised at being asked such a question. Latzarel smiled at him and took a first, long pull at his bottle, gasping and gagging in spite of himself when the liquid within gurgled across his tongue. He coughed, pretending to have choked. “Who do you think I am, my dear fellow?” he asked, taking a quick look at the label on his bottle and finding that he’d stumbled by accident onto one of Dr. Brown’s Cel Rey elixirs instead of beer.

“He believes you’re an escaped fat man, apparently,” said Squires, giving the man a look.

“Now, now,” said the man, shaking his head and holding up a hand. “I accused no one. There’s been a break-in up on Patchen, and a couple of men, as I say, ran in this direction. But I can see they’re not here.”

“Well too bad,” Latzarel said. “Just when you thought you had them corraled. They must be desperate men.” Then to Squires he said, “Maybe we’d better bolt the door. There may be a siege.”

The man stood on the porch for another few moments as if trying to find the words necessary to break off the conversation. A shout from the road, however, and a quick succession of footsteps on the sidewalk made him turn and dash away, shouting something over his shoulder about “rough customers.” Squires shut the door behind him and drew the Venetian blinds tighter over the arched window.

Edward peered out of the library. “Is it safe?”

‘Tolerably,” said Latzarel, “but we’d better lie low for a while until the excitement dies down.”

Edward walked through the door, followed, to Latzarel’s immense surprise, by William Hastings. “What in the devil have you done to your hair?” asked William.”

Latzarel mussed the part out of it. “Nothing,” he said. “Where did you pop up from?”

“A manhole,” said William, smiling at the tale he was about to tell them. The four sat down into chairs around the electric fire.

“So,” said William two hours later, pouring down the last half inch of a bottle of beer, “I’ve done some studying. Made some connections. The physical universe, I’m convinced, is a far more puzzling place than we’ve given it credit for. Your information about Giles Peach bears me out. Science has taken a good crack at it, and can’t be faulted. But it wears blinders. It’s got to be made to yank them off. It’s time for a literary man to have at it.” William held his beer bottle up like a telescope and peered into it—a habit he unfailingly acquired after his third beer had disappeared. Edward wondered what it was that William saw in there, but had never thought of any way to ask him without sounding as if he thought the practice peculiar.

“And speaking of literary matters,” William continued, “I’ve landed the relativity story.”

“That would be the swelling man in the rocket?” asked Squires, putting a match to his pipe.

“That’s right. They sent me an appreciative letter—carried on a bit, in fact.”

“Who did?” asked Squires.

“Analog,” said William.

Squires dropped his pipe onto his chair at that revelation, a wad of flaming tobacco rolling out and sliding down between his leg and the chair arm. He leaped up, swatting at it, and managed to knock it onto the rug and then onto the tile hearth. He went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of fresh beer. “Let’s drink to the relativity story” he said, passing the beers around. And William, smiling broadly, assented. In the roseate glow of the beer, things seemed to be going well indeed for him. The muddy splashes on his trousers and the torn sleeve of his coat had already become souvenirs. He’d given the bastards the slip for well and good. But they hadn’t heard the last of William Hastings, not by a long sea mile. He grinned at the thought of coming battles.

“Roy,” he said suddenly, looking up at his friend who was tamping new tobacco into a fresh pipe, “I’ve been reading up on relativity again—light cones to be more specific. What do you know about them?”

Squires hesitated for a moment, wondering, perhaps, at the futility of the conversation that was almost certainly forthcoming. “The term light cone,” he said evenly, “has to do with the charting of the three dimensions of space and the single dimension of time on a cubical graph, the vertical axis being a person’s position in time, the horizontal being his movement in space. …”

“But as I understand it,” interrupted William, hunching forward in his chair in mounting excitement, “the cone itself is a product of a sphere of light expanding roundabout it like a vast, evenly inflating balloon. I mean to say that all of us are at the center of an infinitely expanding series of photon circles, rushing at light speed through the stars—ripples on the otherwise placid lake of the universe. Auras, if you will. Halos, if you look at it from another angle—an angle most of us have ignored. Up until now, that is. It’s profitable to turn to mythology once again.” He peered at Squires, squinting through one eye. Squires nodded broadly.

“Man, then, if I understand light cones aright, is the omphalos of an expanding photon halo—an almost infinite succession of such halos which, when charted, form a cyclone of emanations, whirling into the stars.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Squires, giving Latzarel a look. Latzarel said quickly that he couldn’t argue with it either.

“Our lives, gentlemen, are summed up in spatial and temporal terms by the light cones on the highway—symbols of man’s trials, of his voyage through space and time.”

“By the which?” asked Latzarel. “You’ve thrown me there with that last bit about the highway.”

“Those red cones. The clown caps with lamps inside that they use to cordon off lanes on a highway. Inverted light cones is what they are, figuratively speaking. Concrete representations of our earthbound existence, of our literally being bound to the earth in the infinite eyes of those fleeing halos of light.” William paused and thought about it for a moment. He picked up a pen and a scrap of paper and jotted quick notes, lost for the moment in his musings. He paused, grinned, scribbled a bit more, and sat back, wholly pleased with himself. “Can you find fault with it?” he asked, looking up.

“Not with anything I can put my finger on,” said Squires, shaking his head. “It has all the earmarks of your work.”

“Thank you,” said William, understanding that last to be a compliment. He worked his hands together like a spider on a mirror, squinting shrewdly, then left off his puzzling and took a congratulatory swig of beer. “Let a literary man loose on science,” he said triumphantly, “and you’ll go somewhere.”

“There’s truth to that,” Squires assented. “I sense the ripplings of a short story here.”

William nodded. “It’s almost written itself, hasn’t it? Muck up a character or two to flesh it out with, and …” William made a squiggly flourish with his hand to illustrate what would come of mucking up a character or two.

After a short pause, Edward said, “So what do we do about Peach?”

“You’re certain it’s him?” asked William.

“I saw him face-on when he turned toward the window. It was him—the spitting image of his father, too.”

“Then get a warrant,” said William. “There’s probable cause to believe Giles was kidnapped. Either that or he’s ran away. And if he’s ran away and Frosticos is harboring him, then a crime’s been committed just the same.”

“How do we persuade the D.A. to write out a warrant, tell him we were out doing a bit of peeping torn work in the neighborhood and happened to see Giles splashing in a pool in the basement of Frosticos’ house?” Edward shook his head. “And how do we account for the smashed window? Looks like an attempted burglary or something.”

“We don’t mention any of it,” said William. “We work up a letter. Type it. Forge Giles’ signature. One that swears he’s being kepi there against his will—that the doctor is practicing vivisection, is going to cut him up. What do you think they’ll find when they go down into the cellar? Nothing but evidence to confirm their suspicions. And so what if Giles contradicts the lot of it? All signs will point to his being manipulated. And him only fifteen to boot. It’s foolproof. Velma Peach will back us up all the way.”

Latzarel nodded slowly. “It might work,” he said to Edward.

“Tomorrow it might work,” Edward said tiredly. “Right now it’s almost two in the morning. Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, after walking back to Rusty’s Cantina, Edward, William, and Professor Latzarel drove north on Western Avenue, slumped silently in their seats. William was the first to speak. “Actually,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair, “it probably won’t work at all. For my money they’ve already flown. Dirty shame you had to smash out the window.”

Edward nodded. There was truth to that. If be hadn’t slipped and broken the window, Frosticos would be none the wiser. They could have waited until the moment was ripe and gone in after Giles—hauled him out of there. They’d have had the support of Velma Peach. But by now Frosticos would be on his guard. William was right. They’d probably already flown.

“Well,” said Latzarel, thumping his hand down onto the seat of the car, “I’m for wading in. The authorities can’t be depended upon here. They’ll poke around, ask questions. And what will they hear? That Giles Peach is a merman? That we’re bound for the Earth’s core? That Frosticos and Pinion were sighted off Catalina Island in a flying submarine? It’s all preposterous. Nuts. They’ll laugh us down. No one with a bit of sense would find that credible, unless, of course, they’d had the right son of scientific training. No, gentlemen, what I’m suggesting here is that we go into the breach.”

“In what way?” asked Edward, skeptical of going into the breach and of wading in. Latzarel was always making him wade in.

“We go in after him. We haven’t any idea whether they’ve routed Giles out of there or not. Why should they have? They’re not afraid of us. They don’t even know that it was you and I who were messing around the house tonight. And where would they take Giles? To Pinion’s? That’s too obvious. There’d be no profit in it. I say we use the charts of Pince Nez. Take a tip from the French Resistance. Wage our escapade from the sewers.”

“Pince Nez!” cried William, sitting up. “You’ve found the book then?”

“We found the captain,” Edward said darkly. “Frosticos got to him right after we did. Or so we think.” Edward repeated their conversation with Pince Nez, supplying as much of the dialogue as he could, hoping that with his unique insight William could make some sense out of the captain’s cryptic comments, about Ignatz de Winter and the immortality of carp.

But William just shook his head. “You got the book though?”

Edward nodded. “Yes. It cost me sixty bucks and cost Pince Nez his life.”

“So we’ve got to use it!” Latzarel said. “We’ve got to go in after him. We’ll snatch him out of there, slip into the nearest manhole and have him home in half an hour.”

There was silence in the car. Edward hesitated at the desperation of it. Breaking Frosticos’ window seemed reckless enough; Latzarel’s own logic argued against such rash action. What would they tell the authorities when they were caught, when the bullets were flying, when they were asked why they’d found it necessary to break into the home of a doctor of such high repute? Edward couldn’t generate any enthusiasm.

In the light of his own recent victory, however, William was a different case. “We’ll move quickly,” he said, warming to Latzarel’s plan. “Tomorrow. Even if they’ve got plans to fish him out of there, they won’t move so fast as that. They’ll assume I’ll head home and smash up your plans. You’ll have your hands full with me. And anyway, they won’t half believe we’re a desperate enough bunch to mount such an attack as that. That was their mistake in the sanitarium. They thought I was weak. Demented. Milquetoast. They supposed they’d broken my spirit. The scum. But I was too many for them. A man has to strike, by God, and damn the consequences!”

William leaned forward, caught up in the spirit of the thing. “Now I might not amount to such a lot myself, but I gave them the slip, didn’t I? I walked into Frosticos’ office barefoot and rifled the desk, fingered his books, and slipped out scot free. And if that wasn’t enough, I slid out under their noses and disappeared beneath the street, and led them all on a chase through the sewers. Think what we can do together! All of us. Who are they with their foolish plots? One old sod who chases after boys in an ice cream truck and a white devil megalomaniac intent on blowing us all to kingdom come. If we can’t take them apart, then we’re a sad case. And that’s my opinion.

“And mine too!” cried Latzarel. “We move on this tomorrow. What do you say, Edward?”

Edward, caught up in the current of enthusiasm, nodded assent. This was no time to be the weak link.

The next morning about nine o’clock, Edward called the sanitarium. Yes, the doctor was in. He’d be happy to speak to Mr. St. Ives. Had Edward heard from William by any chance? No, he hadn’t. William, Edward sensed, had flown. Perhaps to San Francisco. Maybe farther north—to Humboldt County where he’d lived for a short time when he was first married. He’d talked about returning. Something about the green of the countryside. Like emeralds, he always said, like the walls of Oz. It was nostalgia, to be sure. But if Edward were looking for William, he’d send to Eureka for him.

Dr. Frosticos wasn’t much interested in what Edward would do. His brother-in-law, said the doctor, was a danger to himself and to everyone else. He’d severely beaten an innocent man and broken the toe of another. The authorities had been notified.

“It would be best,” said Edward, “to un-notify the authorities.”

“That can’t be done,” said Frosticos flatly.

“It’s quite possible, then, that the authorities ought to be more thoroughly notified. They might be vastly interested in a certain steamer trunk and a Chinese man by the name of Han Koi.” Edward paused to let his words take effect. There was silence on the other end. “They also might have some interest in the death of Captain H. Frank Pince Nez. We know a good bit about that. A good bit.”

There was more silence on the other end. Edward became instantaneously suspicious. He strained to hear something but could detect nothing but faint breathing. Then, suddenly, shattering the airy silence was a mad and capering laugh, weirdly distant, howling through the ominous breathing. All was silent again.

“If you have any idea who I am,” said Frosticos slowly, “you’ll be on your way north yourself.”

Edward attempted a feeble laugh—a ha, ha, ha that amounted to nothing at all. Less than nothing. He began to suggest that Frosticos leave town himself, but was cut off.

“The boy in the steamer trunk was an unfortunate bungling. An assistant of mine, no longer with me, wasn’t as handy with a scalpel as he might have been. Giles won’t be as unfortunate as was his uncle. He’s just as promising. Reginald wasn’t a complete failure, however; he’s alive today, in fact, living in an aquarium. People who have seen him are certain he’s a fake. The impossibility of him confounds them. They can’t imagine anything quite so—how shall I put it—grotesque. Han Koi has an interest in breeding him with giant tri-colored carp. The offspring would be remarkable, don’t you agree?”

Edward couldn’t speak. Reason had flown. He wanted to shout something, to infuriate Frosticos, to confound him, to set him off, but nothing came.

“My advice to you,” said Frosticos evenly, “is to not allow Mr. Hastings to be taken alive.” And with that he hung up.

“Did you get to him?” asked William.

“Not entirely.” Edward picked up a half-filled coffee cup and dumped it onto the kitchen counter, rattling the empty cup down onto the pool that flooded along into the sink in a little rush.

“He has that effect,” said William, sitting down tiredly. “What did he say about the Humboldt County nonsense?”

“Saw through it right off. There wasn’t a bit of hesitation. For all I know he understood that you were standing at my elbow.”

“Did he mention last night’s broken window?”

“No,” said Edward, “he didn’t.”

“Hah!” William struck his open palm with his fist. “We’ve got him there. The Reginald Peach case is too old now to do him any damage. But Giles is different. He’s worried, all right. We’ll move today. He’s at the sanitarium now; let’s strike.”

“What?” said Edward. “Now?”

“Of course now. Jim’s in school, so he won’t be fighting to come along. We can pick up Russel and be in the sewers in half an hour. We’ll stop at the army surplus on Brand and pick up three of those miner’s helmets with head lamps.”

“I don’t know,” said Edward, shaking his head. “I think you’d better lie low for a couple of days until some of this blows over.”

William gave him an incredulous look. “Lie low? To what end? They’ll be here with a van before the afternoon’s out. Where do you expect me to do this lying low? In a hotel somewhere? A man can’t lie any lower than in a sewer. That’s my motto. I’m going in after Giles. Are you coming with me, or not?”

“I’m coming,” said Edward resignedly. “Phone Latzarel Tell him we’ll pick him up in ten minutes. He won’t have to be persuaded.”

“That’s the ticket,” cried William ecstatically. “We’ll rip their lungs out. Dig up Pince Nez. I’ll lay out a route.”

And with that they were off and running, grinding away toward Professor Latzarel’s house in Pasadena, sitting desperate and stony-faced in the Wasp, both of them feeling conspicuous—William proudly so and Edward utterly certain that his eyes would betray his criminal intent. No one, however, threatened to stop them. No accusatory fingers were pointed. Nobody at the army surplus store intimated that the three miner’s helmets were intended to light the sewers for the purpose of carrying off an illegal venture, for smashing into a man’s house and kidnapping a merman out of the clutches of a mad doctor. And when, shortly before noon, the three of them slid down the concrete slope of the Los Angeles River near Los Feliz, opened a great circular metal door painted like the face of a grinning cat, and slipped into a descending tunnel, no one saw them except a half dozen carloads of freeway travelers, bound for Bakersfield and Saugus and San Fernando, who took the helmeted trio for county workmen.

Chapter 15

“Why in the devil did we start out so far from our damned destination, that’s what I want to know. Economy of movement, that’s always been my way, and here we are God knows where. We’d have saved money parking at Rusty’s again.” Latzarel pushed at his miner’s helmet, which had slid down over his eyes. There was a fearful stench in the sewers, but fortunately the corridor they traveled was broad enough so dial they could keep up out of the muck.

“If I’m not mistaken,” said William, striding along purposefully ahead of them, “this tunnel runs smack up to the foothills, straight as a die. There must be a hundred exits. And down toward Brand there’s a passage or two that I can’t make out from the map. Little notched lines like an intermittent stream on a topographic map, leading in a curious direction. Very puzzling. I thought we’d have a look at it.”

“We haven’t the time to have a look at anything,” said Latzarel angrily. “It’s time to strike, not sightsee.” He started to say more, but the light in his helmet went out, tossing him into darkness. William and Edward were at the perimeter of two moving pools of light ahead. “Wait!” hissed Latzarel, pulling off his helmet. He messed with the two wires up under the crown. The thing blinked on and then went dead. It revealed, briefly, a perpendicular corridor that angled off dark and enormous into the earth. And dragging along it, slowly, in a long triple S of luminous green and pink, was an immense serpent, bound for deeper levels. No one stirred. The creature disappeared into shadow as if it were passing through a veil.

Latzarel’s lamp blinked on again of its own accord just as the beast’s tail flicked into obscurity.

“By God,” said William, letting out a whoosh of suspended breath. “I’ve half a mind to follow it. I’ll bet it’s making for the realm of Pince of Nez and the subterranean sea.”

“Some other time,” said Edward, who’d never seen much in snakes. He pushed ahead and hastened on, leaving his two companions to follow.

“Here we are in front of Squires’ house,” said William some time later, pointing up at a black circle of iron through which shone two little cylinders of sunshine. “I spent a good long time here, writing notes. When the level of water rose late in the afternoon, I made a paper sailboat and sent it off northeast. Sometime, if we pull through all of this, I’m going to make an enormous origami clipper ship and pilot it into the setting sun. I have this feeling—a certainty—that when it finally sinks I’ll find myself somewhere …” William paused, not knowing, apparently, exactly where he’d find himself.

“Where?” asked Edward.

“Wet,” said Latzarel, who wasn’t concerned with the mystery of paper boats. “In a state of watery decline. That’s what my father would have said. ‘Where were you born?’ they’d ask him. ‘In the state of nakedness,’ he’d say. Hah! I’ll never forget that. It still cracks me up.” William shined his headlamp at Latzarel, chagrined at his friend’s spirited reminiscence that had so quickly scuttled his origami boat.

“Somewhere in the midst of a cottage garden,” William said to Edward. “Only beneath the sea—all blue and aquamarine. The sort of thing that comes to mind when you read The Water Babies, and with maybe an octopus and a seahorse playing a cello and a flute with bubbles just pouring out and my paper boat listed over on its side, propped against a reef of pink coral.”

Edward nodded. “I believe I know the place.”

“Listen,” said Latzarel, who’d been fiddling with his helmet and was still caught up in his father’s wit. “He had another one. Pulled it off every day almost. ‘Have some mo-lasses,’ he’d say, into the air, you know, not at anyone in particular. Then, in a different voice, he’d say, ‘Mo-lasses, I ain’t had no lasses yet!’ and laugh and laugh and laugh.” Latzarel smiled, remembering it. “Of course we never actually ate molasses. I didn’t even know what it was. But he’d point at something—a salt shaker, a milk glass; it didn’t much matter what. It was hysterical.” He chuckled to himself and shook his head. His lamp abruptly went out again. “Damn!” he said in a low voice. It blinked on and off as he toyed with it.

“It’s about time,” said Edward, whose interest in the entire kidnap affair was rapidly playing out. “We’re as rested as we’ll ever be. Let’s move on up to Patchen and see this thing through.”

William hauled out the charts of Pince Nez and pointed toward the thin blue line that represented their path. They trudged along, each of them calculating the distance in his head, until, five minutes later, they stopped once again beneath the street to reconnoiter.

“How do I look?” asked Latzarel, dusting at the insignia on his khaki shirt. “Southern California Gas Company,” it read. He pulled off his helmet and handed it to Edward. “I’ll scout this out and either give you the all clear or the danger signal. Be ready to act. Timing here is everything.”

“I’m still a little leery,” said Edward, “about the gas company costume. It’s a fine thing to wear when you’re pretending to be messing with a broken gas line, but what’s a gas company man doing popping up out of the sewers?”

“Nobody cares,” said Latzarel, waving his hand to illustrate no one’s caring. “It’s the uniform that does it. That and the key ring on the belt. Give me a clipboard and I could conquer the world.”

Edward shrugged, still skeptical. They listened for a moment for cars approaching up Patchen, but heard nothing but children, involved, perhaps, in a game of ball in the street. They heaved the lid off the manhole, and Latzarel climbed out into the day, flooding the tunnel with eye-searing sunlight. The lid clanked down, leaving them in blackness, pierced by the suddenly ineffective lamps,

The two of them stood without speaking, waiting for the signal from Latzarel. Slowly the darkness paled again. William crouched abruptly, aiming his headlamp down the tunnel. He pointed toward the ceiling. “Look there.”

Edward looked but saw nothing.

“There. About ten yards down.” William set out in that direction. Edward followed, still not certain about their destination. But there, not quite in the ceiling of the vaultlike pipe, was a trapdoor. Another was set dead opposite in the wall.

William pulled himself up the iron rungs and wrenched at an iron latch. The trap dropped inward, nearly knocking him loose. The bottom of an Oriental carpet sagged into the hole, and William ducked, reacting to its suddenly pushing in at him. He poked at the carpet tentatively, then, throwing caution out the window, pulled himself up, pushing up the edge and peering beneath it. He dropped it again almost at once. ‘This is it” he whispered over his shoulder.

“What?” asked Edward.

But William was already shoving farther up under the rug, yanking the thing aside finally and hoisting himself through the trap. Edward followed, finding himself in a basement room, musty and wet and smelling of damp vegetation. A circular pool built of cast concrete took up most of the dim room. A spindle-sided Morris chair sat beyond, beneath a tulip shade hung from a copper sconce.

When Professor Latzarel poked his head out he fully expected to see a surprised motorist bearing down, threatening to squash him. But the afternoon street was deserted except for three children who were busy knocking a ball back and forth with sticks as if it were a hockey puck. All three dashed toward him shouting, astounded at the marvel of his appearing, as it were, from out of the street. In a rush Latzarel hauled the lid across the hole, fearful that they’d get a glimpse of William and Edward below. They couldn’t afford publicity.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he said to them, at a loss, really, for conversation. Children had always been a mystery to him; they seemed incapable of speech. He pointed at his insignia to authenticate himself. He regretted almost at once that he hadn’t undertaken a more threatening demeanor, that he hadn’t attempted to put them off, but it was too late. One of them, a boy it seemed, whacked at the manhole cover with his stick, to show it he meant business, possibly.

Latzarel, in a sudden sweat, waved him off, fearing that his friends would understand the whacking to be some sort of signal. “No sticks now,” he said, feeling immediately foolish and hoping that children of such a tender age would simply react to his intent and not give much thought to the words.

“Why not?” asked the boy, angling in at it again with his stick upraised. The other two—a startlingly thin boy with almost no hair and wearing a shirt that read, inexplicably, “Meet me in Pizza Italy,” and a moony-eyed girl of two or three—went for the lid themselves, seeing that Latzarel’s emergence had become a sort of game. Latzarel took a swipe on the shin before waving his hands and stomping and chasing them off. They regrouped near the curb.

He smiled cautiously, fearful that his smile would be taken for enthusiasm, and wondered suddenly if the man in the t-shirt who had chased them to Squires’ house might be lurking somewhere, still caught up in the past night’s doings.

Surely the man was at work. But what if he wasn’t? How good a look had he gotten at Latzarel there in Squires’ dim living room?

The boy in the Pizza Italy shirt took a tentative swipe at the ball, sending it rolling toward Latzarel—quite likely as an excuse to rush at the manhole cover again. Latzarel scooped it up and tossed it back. “Very delicate equipment down there,” he said, advancing on the three, hoping that they could imagine equipment as delicate as that. The older of the two boys stepped in front of the little girl who promptly began to cry. The boy menaced Latzarel with his stick. “You old fatso,” he sneered.

The girl peeked out from behind, echoing the boy’s witticism. “You owd fatty,” she said.

Latzarel was getting nowhere fast, but the more time that passed, the more likely it was that any banging on the manhole cover would be taken as a sign. He held out three dimes on his flat palm, grinning—stupidly he thought—in their direction. It wouldn’t do to have an altercation. Better to let them beat the devil out of the lid. But they weren’t interested in his three dimes. They’d heard about that sort of thing. The boy with the enigmatic shirt howled, then broke and ran for it, disappearing into the door of a house some ways down the street.

“Christ,” said Latzarel aloud. He’d be taken for another Pinion, masquerading his advances to children with a false uniform. He tossed the dimes onto an adjacent lawn, turned, and hurried toward Frosticos’ house, straightening his uniform. The children, seeing him retreat, went for the coins, and were fighting like mad things over them when Latzarel disappeared into the bushes.

As far as he could tell, there was no one home. All blinds woe drawn, upstairs and down. The house was utterly silent. Ahead of him was the broken window and the meter box, the gas pipe newly repaired. He bent over in front of the window and pretended to inspect it, looking first back over his shoulder toward the street where some sort of commotion was progressing. “Damn all children,” he said to himself, and peered in through the window. Inside it was even darker than it had been the night before, now that the lamp was switched off. There wasn’t enough sunlight filtering through the dirty window to do anything but gray a little patch of floor.

Latzarel squinted, then jerked back, sure that he’d seen movement in the room. It’s Peach, he thought, holding his breath. His quarry hadn’t flown! He was just vaguely conscious of voices on the street, of a child’s crying. He peered in again, screwing up his face for the sake of penetration. Three inches away, just beyond the cracked window, another face peered back at him, eyes crossed impossibly, tongue lolling out, a blinding light erupting without warning from the thing’s forehead.

Latzarel shouted and tumbled over backward into the bushes, kicking and flailing. Stifled laughter moomphed out from the cellar. The broken window slid open, and William Hastings, unable to contain himself, shoved out through it, gasping with laughter, contorting his face.

“Damn it!” cried Latzarel. “My heart! I could have dropped dead on the spot! I …” Then it occurred to him that Edward and William were both inside and he fell silent, scrambling to his feet.

Someone whistled on the street. There was another shout. “He went through there!” cried a man’s voice.

“Christ!” shouted Latzarel, understanding suddenly the nature of the commotion on the road. “They’re after me!” He shoved his head and arms in through the window. It would be tight. Edward jumped across, and he and William each got hold of an arm, hauling away on Latzarel who wriggled at the window like a snake. William burst into another fit of laughter.

“Hurry, damn it!” shouted Latzarel, infuriated. ‘They’ve got my leg! Let go of me there!” And with that admonition, he shot into the room as if he were spring driven, sprawling onto the floor, taking Edward down with him. William slid the window shut and snapped the catch, waggling his fingers off the end of his nose at the crowd outside, one of whom, in a fit of rage and bravado, smashed in the window with the heel of Latzarel’s shoe, which he held in his hand like a club.

William yowled and sprinted toward the trapdoor at the heels of his two companions. In a moment the room was empty. William began to haul the Oriental rug back into place, giving up when he realized it wouldn’t fool anyone anyway, and slammed the trapdoor shut. Latzarel retrieved his hat, limping along on one shoe, huffing for breath.

“That was close,” he said.

“Too close,” said Edward. “Let’s go. They’ll be through the trap in a minute.”

But he was wrong—it didn’t take as long as that. Almost as soon as he said it, there was a grinding at the manhole cover in the street. They weren’t fooling with trapdoors; they were taking a more obvious route. A shaft of sunlight poured through it—a golden halo around the dark shadow of a head. William, schooled in such pursuits, loped off down the tunnel, shouting at his companions to follow him. They had an edge, after all. The hounds would have to find a flashlight. They’d never set out after such a desperate gang in a dark sewer. But if they did … William thought about it.

There was almost nothing for three-quarters of a mile but the tunnel they were in. They couldn’t lose their pursuers; they’d have to outrun them. As hardy as Latzarel was, three-quarters of a mile would take it out of him—a hundred yards would probably cook his goose, and him with only a single shoe. They couldn’t afford to fight with anyone; that would be spectacularly foolish, the end, certainly, of their bid to beat Pinion to the center of the Earth. They’d read about his triumphs from a jail cell. William could already hear Latzarel laboring for breath behind him. He turned to look.

Someone stood a couple of hundred feet back, bathed in the circle of sunlight, watching them make away. A bold neighbor, no doubt, waiting for the arrival of a flashlight. Or a gun. William pressed on. Every yard increased their chances. If only they could make it as far as the warren of tunnels off Brand.

Latzarel was falling behind, despite Edward’s attempts to hurry him on. There wasn’t a ghost of a chance that he’d make it, not if he had to run all the way. So William pulled up short. Latzarel puffed gratefully to a halt, bending at the waist, grasping his knees, breath whooshing in and out like a bellows. “I’m going back,” said William, “I’ll put them off the scent. Put the fear into them.” Edward shook his head. “Yes, I am. You two go along. If they get me, I’m just an escaped lunatic, tormenting the good doctor.”

Edward began to complain.

‘There’s no time,” said William, looking back down the tunnel. Another stalwart neighbor was halfway down the rungs. William jogged back the way he’d come, wondering exactly what it was he was going to do. There was a shout from the man on the ground, who, apparently, assumed he was being attacked. The second pursuer shot out of the manhole like a shell out of a mortar, and the first launched himself up the ladder, hollering incoherently. William chuckled.

“I’m the trouble you’ve been looking for!” he shouted, raising both hands above his head for effect. He howled like a demon, blubbering at the end of it and bursting into laughter, swept away once again by his bravado. Let them mess with him! He was partly surprised at himself for carrying on so. Even at thirteen he’d been far more cautious. It was combat that did it, yesterday’s baptism of fire. He’d found his natural calling, his forte. Let the whole filthy streetload of them come wheezing into the pipe. He was the man to meet them! A head thrust in and peered down at him, so William cut a quick caper to demonstrate his spirit and searched his mind hurriedly for an appropriate snatch of verse to shout. The only thing he could come up with was a line from Ashbless: “Heavy on my brow sits the cold dog of the snows.” But that wouldn’t do at all, beyond puzzling the devil out of them. It had always puzzled him, anyway.

He glanced over his shoulder. Edward and Latzarel were disappearing in the distance. They’d make it. William shouted at the head that was shoved into the pipe. Then he switched off his lamp and stomped along as hard as he could in the darkness, knowing that whoever was keeping an eye on him wouldn’t be able to stand the idea of a gibbering madman rushing up out of a dark tunnel at him, appearing suddenly out of the substreet nightland, yammering and murderous. He was right. The head vanished and the lid of the manhole was thrust almost into place, a little crescent of sunlight shining in around it.

William was off and running toward the receding figures of his two companions, half disappointed that it hadn’t come to blows, and wondering at the sequence of events that had led him, in the past thirty-odd hours, to have fallen out with such a diversity of perfectly innocent people. Lord knows what Latzarel had done to enrage the mob so. Told them one of his father’s jokes, probably.

It was dark when the door pushed open over the Los Angeles River and the three men, tired and having accomplished nothing, bent through it and scrunched up through the river-rock and weeds to the hole in the chainlink fence that led out toward Los Feliz. Professor Latzarel walked like an East Indian jug dancer, cursing his way half shoeless back to the car where he slumped into the back seat, nodding off into a fatigued sleep by the time they were halfway home.

William lurched awake in the middle of the night, his eyes driven open, a dry scream choking him. He pushed his covers onto the floor with a wide sweep of his arm, convinced, for one hag-ridden moment, that some great bug, a beetle the size of a plate, was scrambling around his feet, tickling the soft flesh between his toes with probing antennae. He gasped for breath. His heart labored like an engine. There was no bug. Of course there was no bug. Such bugs didn’t exist—not in civilized lands.

He remembered scraps of a dream. He’d been in a bookstore, one of the several that were figments of his dream landscapes, that were always operated by the same scowling proprietor, a gaunt man with dark, unkempt hair and a look of suspicion on lids face—perhaps that William was going to steal a book, or bend the pages back and ruin the spine, or was simply not the sort of client that the shop preferred. Perhaps the man wondered vaguely, a dream-wondering, why it was that he was summoned like a genie into existence night after weary night and expected to operate yet another dusty and amorphous shop into which, as surely as clockwork, would stroll the same tweed-jacketed browser, himself both the product and the inspiration of the dream, who would poke around through the books, dissatisfied with titles and prices until, inexplicably, he’d try on a volume as if it were a pair of pants. That was it, William remembered. His bookstore dreams invariably ended the same way. He’d manage, through some trick of dream physics, to pull a book on like trousers over his shoes. He remembered being satisfied with the fit. The price hadn’t been exorbitant. But there was something peculiar about the book, about the trousers. Something awful. A face, an etching on the frontispiece—a mass of little undulating lines like waving fronds of delicate algae that had crept together into a face, a still and cold face, utterly blank and reptilian. Who was it?

William sat on the side of his bed, his eyes half closed. He didn’t dare shut them entirely, for fear that something would appear, that there lurked deep within him a black marble of chaos and darkness, waiting for an ancient door to open onto a shadow path along which it would roll up into his throat. But he had to know whose face it was. The bits and pieces of decaying dream flitted across the stage before his eyes. Dark lines danced and fluttered and froze for an instant, first into the leggy shape of a beetle, then into the face of Dr. Ignacio Narbondo, which hung there like the negative afterimage of a lighted window on the back of his eyelids, like the floating, manufactured head of the great and terrible Oz. The face paled, shifting, the black lines metamorphosing into the grays of a winter ocean and then into the white of fish skin or tainted snow, and just for a moment, before it winked out utterly, there floated before him the visage of Hilario Frosticos, impassive, almost asleep, but with the faint trace of a leer weighting the corners of his mouth.

William shuddered. He ran his hand through his hair. It was unimaginably cold. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and lit a pipe with trembling fingers. His bare feet looked as if they were made of pale, wet clay, and his calves seemed to be almost fleshless. It was impossible that they’d support his weight.

He stood up to test them, feeling rubbery. His toes were enormous, and for a moment seemed to have too many joints. He counted to make sure, shaking his head at the little useless tufts of hair that sprouted atop than. Toes were ugly things—like ears and noses. One couldn’t afford to pay any attention to them or they’d call into question the entirety of human self-importance and dignity.

The thought occurred to him suddenly that he’d write a short story. It would be about a poet who was given over to fits of inspiration. Like certain drags, though, such fits would have unfortunate side effects. They’d swell his sense of self worth shamelessly. He’d become a conceited buffoon. And somehow, midway through a particularly inflating verse, he’d catch sight of himself in a mirror or a shaded window or the polished metal swerve of a sauce pan, and with a wild, puncturing shock, realize that he had the face of an ape.

William routed out a stack of lined paper and a pen, waiting for the first droplets of what would become a flood of words. The late hour had lent a seriousness of purpose to the endeavor. He’d rarely been so inspired—seen things so clearly. Nothing, however, happened. He started a paragraph, then lined it out. It was foolish. He began another, paused, relit his pipe, then abruptly stood up and looked into the little framed mirror that hung over the dresser. Relieved, he put the pen and paper on the nightstand, promising himself he’d have another go at it in the sober light of morning. He pulled his blanket around him, shoved his pipe into his mouth, and trudged down the dark hallway. He could hear Edward turning fitfully in his room as he passed it. He opened the half-closed door of Jim’s bedroom and sidled in, clutching the blanket closed at his neck.

His son lay asleep, his mouth slightly open on the pillow. William envied him his dreams, which, from the look on his face, had little to do with horrors. William had long harbored suspicions that children were somehow more closely attuned to the vagaries and marvels of creation than were their elders, that age was like some airy bleach fading and paling those sensations that in childhood matter most, but that in later years we’re indifferent to, or have simply forgotten.

The smell of the thin night air leaking beneath the window was cool and sweet, carrying on it just the slightest odor of fog on concrete, of musty, late winter vegetation. William breathed deeply, trying to surprise it before it evaporated, to catch it and savor it. But almost as soon as he did, the smell disappeared, and empty, mundane air filled the room. Jim, William knew, was still washed in the swirl of the fragrant night air, which he didn’t have to hurry after as if it were the last train leaving an empty station. William had read only the past week that mere were not nearly so many visible stars in the heavens as one might think, that they were easily countable, a mere sprinkling, a handful tossed out into a far-flung corner of the void in a prodigiously distant age. He wondered how old the astronomer was who’d said such a thing. The number of stars in the heavens quite likely diminished with an observer’s increasing age.

His pipe was smoldering out. He’d been ignoring it. He sucked sharply on the stem until the tobacco in the bowl glowed like a little beacon in the dark room. Gray smoke curled toward the ceiling. The night breeze ruffled the curtains, blowing them in for a moment, then falling off, the curtains collapsing abruptly. Jim stirred and rolled over onto his back before settling once again into his pillow.

On the low oak dresser, dark brown with age, was a clutter of stuff, some of it commonplace—loose change, a penknife, a rumpled handkerchief, a torn theater ticket—and some of it almost magical—a rainbow colored aquatic moon garden in a corked jar; a little cluster of pastel fishbowl castles; a carved wooden pirate that propped an illustrated copy of Treasure Island; a Japanese lantern with paper walls, across each of which was painted a single delicate shoot of apple blossom; and a handful of bottle caps arranged in a neat circle.

William stood up and walked to the dresser, bending to have a closer look at the bottle caps. He was certain he knew where they’d come from, that he understood most of their strange odyssey which had begun in Griffith Park years before. And one, he knew, had been lost two months past during his unfortunate war with the neighbor’s garden hose.

He picked it up and turned it over. There was the cork washer, plucked out of the grass, pushed carefully inside. The cap seemed to him to be warm, almost alive, as if it had been recently clutched in someone’s hand. He closed his fist over it, seeing the bottle cap in his mind as if it were a little circular window that opened onto a sunlit garden, or a tiny green landscape glimpsed distantly through the wrong end of a telescope.

There was a stirring behind him. He turned to find Jim propped on his elbows, regarding him sleepily. William grinned, at a momentary loss for words. He puffed on his pipe to fill the void, but it had gone cold. He pulled it out of his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. “You’ve kept them too?”

Jim nodded, sitting up. “I had another one that I wore on my jacket, but I lost it when it fell off. So now I keep them on the dresser.”

“Wise move,” said his father. “I’ve lost more than I care to think about. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I wouldn’t be better off losing them all.”

Jim shook his head. He was certain they were both wiser keeping them—wiser by far, but he couldn’t say so. He suddenly couldn’t say anything at all.

“You’re right,” said his father, poking at the half dozen caps on the dresser, arranging and rearranging them. “I think I’ll put mine atop my dresser. They’re safer there, like you say.”

“You can have the one back that you lost,” said Jim, suddenly finding words. “I’ve been saving it for you.”

“Have you? I’ve got a better idea. I’ll make you a trade. You keep the Nehi orange and I’ll take this grape Crash. I’ll keep it in my pocket. A sort of good-luck token. Agreed?”

“Sure,” said Jim.

William picked out the chipped purple bottle cap and closed it into his fist until it bit into the palm of his hand. He was abruptly aware of the night breeze, of the smell of cool, wet air that washed through the room. “Time to sleep,” he said, pulling his blanket around him and heading toward the door. “See you in the morning?”

“Right.” Jim watched his father leave, wondering if he too was aware of the crumbling of an old, imaginary wall. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out into the night. Somewhere far off was the sound of traffic, muted by distance. A lonesome cricket chirruped out in the yard, and the man in the moon peeped out from behind an illuminated cloud, keeping a vigilant eye on the sleeping Earth.

BOOK THREE

Journey to the Center of the Earth

We sail in leaky bottoms and on great and perilous waters; and to take a cue from the dolorous old naval ballad, we have heard the mermaids singing, and know that we shall never see dry land any more. Old and young, we are all on our last cruise. If there is a fill of tobacco among the crew, for God’s sake pass it round, and let us have a pipe before we go!

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

“Crabbed Age and Youth”

Prologue

William Ashbless sat in a long rowboat, hidden in a forest of willows mat sprouted from the weedy bottom of Lake Windermere, flooded with the runoff of spring rain. The hillsides rising in the distance were unnaturally green—the green of opaque emeralds, broken only by rock ridges that seemed to have ripped up from the earth in antiquity and then, surprised at themselves, begun to settle back in, sinking slowly into the high grass.

There was almost no breeze. The lake was quiet as the surface of a reflecting pool, and in the water that surrounded the jutting willows were the reflections of voluminous clouds, slate gray in the low heavens. The air smelled of impending rain. Sheep on the hillsides, shaggy and furtive, chewed moodily and glanced round about, expecting something. Every few minutes one would break and run, darting away a few yards as if having been tapped on the shoulder by a ghost, then stopping abruptly, seeing mat his companions chewed on undisturbed. Spooked by the pending storm, Ashbless thought. He drew his coat closer around him, pulling its hood up over his long white hair. An enormous fish lazed up out of the shadows of the lake, seemed to watch the cloudy sky for a moment inches below the surface, then sank slowly out of sight. In the stern of the rowboat lay another—a strange, dead fish.

It seemed to have half exploded, as if it had risen from prodigious depths, and it looked like an archaic, toothy torpedo with an arrow-shaped tail and limblike fins. Ashbless supposed it was a ganoid. His knowledge of paleontology wasn’t as broad as it might have been, but it was sufficient to make him speculate on the presence of such a beast in Lake Windermere. Perhaps it was on holiday, like he was.

Ashbless raised his binoculars and scanned the shore some two hundred yards down. Basil Peach walked down a cobbled path to the boathouse with his hands in his pockets. He unlocked the door, entered, and came out almost at once carrying a long-handled net, striding off purposefully toward the shore. Behind him rose Peach Hall, stony and cold. Green and brown moss grew from chinks between enormous hewn stones, and most of the west wall was covered with creeping vines, leafless but in such profusion that they obscured the wall and windows. Beneath the wall ran a broad canal, its banks covered with a forest of horsetail and bracken. Dead in the center of the wall, just above the waterline, was an arched doorway of old, age-blackened oak, the only bit of wall cleared of vines. Ashbless was curious to see if the door would open. He was sure that at dawn, just as he had rowed into the little stand of willows, the door had creaked inward and something had peered out, a dark shadow against a briefly lit background—the shadow of a hunched figure with a broad toadlike head, in an overcoat and leaning on a stick.

Basil Peach poked his net into the weeds, wrestled it around, and hoisted something out—something dead. Ashbless couldn’t see what it was. It had been years since he’d seen Peach disappearing up the Rio Jari, and three times as long since he’d been boating on Lake Windermere. Neither had changed much. Peach, perhaps, was a bit more stooped. And his face was broader, his eyes wider, as if stretched and staring. His skin, Ashbless would have said, appeared vaguely mottled from that distance—doubtless a trick of cloud shadow. Peach peered into his net, then climbed back up to the boathouse, opened the door, shoved in the net, and heaved out its occupant.

Ashbless wondered what weird routine Basil Peach followed from day to day, how like it was to that of his father and grandfather and—who could say?—countless Peaches before them, and how it became less human and more like that of a toad or an eft as the long damp years passed until one day Basil would slip out through that arched door and return to dry land no more, summoned by amphibian pipes, muted and watery, the notes darting among seaweeds like fishes. It would have been an enviable passing, thought Ashbless, if it weren’t such a wet one.

John Pinion, it occurred to him, understood nothing of Basil Peach, and even less of Giles. They were beyond his grasp. Pinion knew little beyond scientific greed; but he was essentially innocent. Giles Peach was a means to an end. Hilario Frosticos, though, what ends did he pursue? His greed wasn’t wholly monetary; it was one of decay and ruination, and, like that of his grandfather Ignacio Narbondo, one of perversion. What about himself? What greed was his? Literary greed? Chasing after posterity? Immortality? The thought amused him. He had ample greed. He’d learned, after all, to follow fashion over the long years. And to what purpose beyond vanity?

Only Edward St. Ives seemed motivated by something else, he and William Hastings. But what exactly it was that drove William was impossible to fathom. Edward seemed to be continually clambering along rainbows, pursuing falling stars, suspecting that some monumental wonder was pending, riding in on the tide, obscured, perhaps, by a sketch of thin cloud drift. He was the most foolish of the lot, but Ashbless had always liked him. He’d far rather throw in with Edward and William, even if he’d have to suffer Latzarel’s asinine jokes, than with Pinion and Frosticos. Pinion was an inflated fool. But Pinion had the mechanical mole, and Edward and William only their sadly laughable diving bell. Basil Peach, however, was another alternative.

Ashbless could easily have gone to sleep. Basil Peach had returned to the manor, and there was nothing stirring, nothing to break the silence but the rare chirping of a passing bird and the bleating of an occasional sheep. He began to hum quietly, watching the slow clouds creep across the sky. He wasn’t sure what it was he was waiting for, only that he had all the time in the world.

He stopped humming when the door in the west wall pushed inward. The cloaked thing with the walking stick stood as before, a lamp burning behind him. Then he propped the stick against the wall, shrugged out of his cloak, and slipped into the green waters of the canal, disappearing beneath the surface. Ashbless rowed toward the mouth of the canal, watching the dark green water. Down in the depths he could see the trailing ends of waterweeds and the tips of rocks that seemed to rise toward him, growing suddenly more distinct in shallow water, then disappearing in a blink of deep green when it fell away again into depths. He squinted his eyes, as if straining to see through the darkness of an unlighted room, but the deep water was impenetrable, or seemed so until, drawing toward him like a slowly deepening shadow at some unguessed depth, appeared a slowly swimming creature as big as a man, angling out of the canal into the broad expanse of the lake, submerging slowly and disappearing utterly into shadow directly beneath the boat.

Ashbless pulled his flask from beneath his coat, unscrewed the stopper, and poured a couple of ounces of amber liquid onto the water. That’s as close as we’ll come now to having a drink together, Squire, he thought to himself, as he tipped the bottle back. He shoved it away, picked up his oars, and rowed in toward the dock where he tied up. He peered into the dirty leaded window of the boathouse on his way toward Peach Hall.

An awful stench filtered through a gap in a broken pane, the stink of rotting flesh, of a close cousin to the dead merman on Catalina Island. He pushed open a rickety door and stepped through, holding his breath. Along the far side were four rowboats, hung on the wall in little suspended stalls. A heap of oars and oarlocks, broken and rusted, lay on the wooden floorboards beneath, a home for mice and spiders. Beside them sat a pile of disintegrating carrion, white beneath a layer of quicklime. Perched rigidly atop the muck in a bloated caricature of alertness was the thing Basil Peach had fished dead out of the rushes an hour earlier a toothy little fish lizard, thought Ashbless, of Jurassic persuasion. He gasped out a lungful of used air and escaped through the door of the boathouse, leaving the heap of unlikely creatures to disintegrate in peace.

Ashbless speculated about them, not so much wondering at their presence—he understood where they had come from—as at Basil Peach’s keeping the shore weeds clear of them. It was entirely conceivable that they floated in only along the shores of Peach Hall, that the deepwater tunnel connecting Winder-more to Pellucidarian oceans lay offshore, perhaps at the mouth of the little weedy canal which was nothing more than a private watery bypath traveled in secret by generations of Peaches. Ashbless would be astonished if the door to the center of the Earth were anyplace else, since it had become increasingly clear that the Peach family, somehow, were the guardians of that door. And it was unlikely that the local appearance of strange creatures out of antiquity would enhance the peculiar reputation of the Squires Peach.

A gravel path led around the manor through an avenue of arched linden trees. A hedgehog wandered aimlessly out of the shadow of a bush, looking inquiringly at Ashbless as if waiting to be put into a pocket and taken along. Ashbless spoke to it civilly, but didn’t oblige it. On ahead was the high wall of a boxwood hedge, and from somewhere beyond it came what sounded like low murmuring voices. Ashbless paused to consult his flask, then plunged into a gap in the hedge, up a little leafy avenue at the perimeter of a rectilinear maze. He turned left and right, then left again, running smack into a dead end. He retraced his steps and tried again. The murmuring got louder—the sound, certainly, of a pair of voices talking through the splash of falling water. He turned a corner, expecting to see more hedge, but with a suddenness that surprised him he found himself in a broad grassy clearing in the center of which was an ancient circular pool. Water bubbled up out of the center of it, splashing merrily around the head and shoulders of—Ashbless was sure of it—the thing from the doorway, the swimmer in the canal: old Cardigan Peach, Basil’s father. In an instant he was gone.

Basil looked up in surprise, squinted in the direction of the approaching poet, and rose to meet him with an outstretched hand but without any trace of a smile on his face.

Chapter 16

The morning after his father’s visit, Jim awoke to the sound of thunder, low, distant rumbles that rolled across miles and miles of rooftops. The wind blew in fits, now slacking off, now Mowing raindrops against the window in a rhythmic patter, stray drops plunking down onto the quilt. Jim turned the pages of Huckleberry Finn, rereading the first chapters—perfect rainy weather reading, it seemed to him. There was no pressing reason to get up. With luck he could idle away two or three hours before boredom got the best of him.

He could almost taste the rainy air, and could hear it gurgling through the gutters, rushing out onto the lawn and pooling up on the grass. It was just the right sort of day to set up aquaria. He’d talk his father and uncle into driving him down to the tropical fish store, or he’d ride down on his bicycle if the rain let off, and spend his money on a pair of buffalo-head cichlids. For the moment, though, there was nothing that appealed to him more than simply staring out the window, glancing from time to time at a particularly evocative paragraph, savoring the sounds of the words and the pictures they called up against a background of raindrops.

He clambered out of bed abruptly and stepped across to his dresser. Atop it lay the half dozen bottle caps. He arranged them in a neat hexagon, then in a circle, then, dissatisfied, scrambled them randomly. That still wasn’t quite right. He shifted them around until they were positioned with just the right quality of randomness—no two colors together, none touching nor yet too far removed from the rest—a sort of little circus of bottle caps. Then he plucked the Nehi orange out of the lot and shoved it into his pants pocket, a good luck piece, his father had said. That suited Jim perfectly. The vacant spot in the midst of the remaining caps would remind him of it, and of his father’s appearance at midnight.

Once out of bed, Jim itched to be out and about. It was just the sort of day that Giles Peach fancied, the sort of day to tinker in the garage, to be embroiled in useless projects. He wondered where his friend was and what strange company he was keeping. Wondering about it led from one thing to another, and, in a shot, he knew what he had to do. Everyone else had been off chasing through sewers, having adventures, and he’d been sitting around the house reading a book. It was time to act. In ten minutes he slid out the front door unseen. He could hear his father shuffling around up the hall, and his uncle talking on the phone, to Professor Latzarel probably.

Jim set off down the street toward Gill’s house. Velma Peach would have gone to work almost an hour ago; on Saturdays she left at seven. He had all day long. He would slip into the back yard and go in through the dining room window. He and Gill had done it a dozen times, usually in the middle of the night. Just to be safe, though, he knocked on the front door, feigning nonchalance, and very nearly screamed aloud when the door swung open to reveal Velma Peach in a housecoat. She had a soupy look about her and she sniffled into a handkerchief. She hadn’t gone to work, but had stayed home sick.

Jim was flustered. He hadn’t thought of an excuse, so busy was he with his plan for crawling in the window. “I came for some books,” he said truthfully, “but I don’t want to bother you, your being sick and all. I can come some other time.”

Velma Peach shoved the door open and nodded him in. “You’ll have to get them. There’s thousands of them in there. Lord knows how he keeps track of them. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea which are his and which aren’t.”

Jim smiled. “I can tell,” he said, sliding past her down the hall toward Gill’s room, praying that she wouldn’t follow him. But Velma Peach had little interest in books. She went off toward the kitchen, blowing her nose voluminously, chattering about cold capsules. Jim strode across to where Gill’s journals sat tilted together against a glass brick. There were only three of them. There would be another box full somewhere—probably under the bed. And Gill would have taken a volume with him. That much was certain. But he couldn’t go heaving off down the hallway and out the door with an entire carton of three-ring binders. So he shoved the most recent under his jacket, pushing his hands into his pockets and holding onto the spine. He was bulky and pointy-looking when he hastened back out into the hall, but it didn’t matter, his friend’s mother was rattling in the sink. “Did you find them?” she called.

“Yes,” shouted Jim, “thanks.” And he banged out the front door before he was forced to carry on any more conversation. A minute and half later he was in his own living room, heart pounding, opening the heavy volume.

“There’s something screwy here with the dates,” said William, taking a sip of coffee. “That’s apparent at a glance. Most of this would be inconsiderable except for that.”

“They could be faked,” said Edward.

“Of course they are,” Latzarel put in, slathering butter and jam across a piece of toast. “Imagination is what it is. Exaggeration.”

“Look here.” William pointed at something in the journal, which, of course, none of the rest of them could actually see. “Here on the tenth of November. I’ll read it: ‘There were the bones of a child sprouting from the rocks like fan coral, waving in the green water when the waves washed across. It was very lonely and was picked apart by cuttlefish and carried away to build nests of human bones. Only a hand remained, and the fish wouldn’t approach for fear it would clutch at them.’”

Edward sat open-mouthed. “Where’s a calendar?” he said thickly.

William pulled his pocket calendar from his wallet.

“What was the date of the entry?” asked Edward.

“The tenth.”

“That’s a Saturday?”

“No,” said William. “It’s a Wednesday. Saturday’s the thirteenth.”

Edward pushed himself up from his chair and dashed from the room. “I’ve got to check the tide chart,” he shouted, slamming the kitchen door behind him. Outside in the maze shed, the Len’s Baithouse octopus leered out from the chart on the wall, wearing his foolish cap. Edward walked back into the house.

“Let me guess,” said Professor Latzarel, poking a scrap of toast in Edward’s direction. “You found the tidepool hand three days after the supposed date of the notation.”

“I found it wrapped around the skeleton of a fish—a tidepool sculpin from the look of it.” Edward rubbed his forehead. The whole idea of it was preposterous, outlandish. “You don’t suppose, do you …” he began, but Professor Latzarel, a rationalist, cut him off.

“Of course not. None of us supposes that for a moment. He was careless with dates. More likely, it’s a matter of self-grandeur—making up for obvious inadequacies, or so he would think. He manipulated the dates in a little game with himself—probably persuaded himself too. It’s a simple matter. Entirely a simple matter, like his nasal irrigator.”

“His nasal irrigator powered an airborne submarine,” Edward pointed out practically.

William nodded and sipped at his coffee. “I tend to fall in with Edward on this for reasons of my own. But look here, just for the sake of logic. Giles referred to the fish avoiding this thing, this hand, but they very obviously didn’t. Not all of them anyway. The hand got one of them. …”

“Got one!” Latzarel exploded. ‘That’s the screwiest part of the whole business. Prescience is one thing, but that sort of fabulous prediction is foolishness. It’s a matter of imagination, like I said. And damned peculiar imagination at that.”

William shook his head slowly. “Not a bit of it. We’ve come too far down the garden path to be frightened off now by an improbable spider. But this business becomes more and more strange, doesn’t it? We’ll agree for the sake of argument that he didn’t go home that Saturday afternoon and simply scribble in his diary alongside a phony date. He’d know, then, that the hand had managed to grab a fish. For what earthly reason would he pretend not to know? No, sir. I’m certain this was written days earlier. But is it a matter of prescience?”

“It must be,” said Edward, slapping the tabletop.

“Yes,” said William. “You see why too.”

“I don’t see a thing but foolery,” said Latzarel. “But explain it to me anyway.”

“Well suppose it’s not mere prescience,” said William. “It could only mean one thing—that Giles’ forecasts created the thing. That the tidepool hand was a product of his journal.”

Latzarel started to protest, but Edward leaped in before him. “But it can’t be,” he said. “Obviously. If it were, then the hand wouldn’t have caught a fish. The journal mandates against it. But if it were prescience, then we’d allow him the error. We can’t expect him to have had a vision of the entire future of that pool.”

“Of course not,” said William, happy that pieces were falling into place. He skimmed the rest of the entry, paused, and looked up. “Also,” he said, “if Giles were responsible for the existence of the hand, then squids would live in houses made of human bones. We can’t have one without the other.”

“True,” said Edward. “Look at the next page. We’re onto something here.”

On the next page, Thursday of the same week, was a single, short entry, “It caught its first fish, which was torn apart by crabs.” Following that was a name: “Oscar Pillbug.”

“Oscar Pillbug?” said Latzarel. ‘This is exceedingly strange. The lad’s demented.”

“Worse,” said William. “That hashes up the prescience theory.”

“Not necessarily,” said Edward. “It just allows for the possibility of the other. Of Giles the creator. Of squids in ribcages.”

“What in the world is Oscar Pillbug?” Latzarel asked.

“I think he meant Oscar Pallcheck,” said Jim. “He used to make up names like that, but they didn’t do any good. Oscar laughed at them.”

Latzarel nodded, easily satisfied. “Poor, tortured soul,” he said. “But look here. I don’t think this squid and bones business has any scientific basis. Surely by now someone would have documented the phenomenon. The oceans aren’t utterly unexplored, after all.”

“No,” said William. “But for my money, squids had no notion of living in skeletons before last November. That’s got to be the case, you see.”

“Unless Giles is simply prescient,” Edward put in.

“Of course,” said Latzarel, squinting into his coffee cup.

William whistled in surprise, pointing at the journal. There on November 13 was the name “Oscar Tarbaby.”

There was a silence round the table. “Ominous business, isn’t it?” said Edward

“Disturbing,” said William. “How much do you suppose he’s capable of?”

“You’re not suggesting,” said Latzarel, “that there’s some connection between this and the Pallcheck boy’s death in the tarpits?”

William shrugged. “I’m not suggesting anything. The journal suggests a bit, though. Here’s more. ‘The silver wires of anti-gravity devices could be woven into the spokes of bicycle wheels or attached to a car’s exhaust system, having a similar effect in either case on the physical properties of the aether.’ Look how he spells ether here. Where in the world did he come up with that? He must get his data out of Paracelsus.” William paused to dump sugar into his coffee. “‘It could similarly be directed at a human lung, since the effect is one of emanated rays traveling on gaseous molecular structures.’ The boy’s a genius!” cried William. “I’ve got to get this to Fairfax. It alters the sensor utterly.”

“I can see that it must,” said Edward quickly, fearing that William would sidetrack himself into scientific meditations, “but what does it say about directing an anti-gravity mechanism at someone’s lungs?”

“Oh, yes,” said William, peering once again at the page and reading. “‘It’s possible that a simple ray would be suitable to levitate a body if carefully directed, and I could throw Oscar Fat-face into the La Brea Tar Pits which is where he crawled out of anyway. I’m going to fix him first, though. He’ll be a sorry, ugly toad.’”

“That settles it!” cried Edward.

“How?” asked Latzarel.

“All of it! Everything’s true. Every fragment of it. And it might be our salvation as easily as our doom.”

“Of course it might,” William assented, standing up and striding back and forth across the kitchen floor. He opened the refrigerator door and looked inside, poking behind old half heads of lettuce and the remains of loaves of bread until he found a jar of kosher pickles. “Pinion’s a fool. My money on it, He’s got a mechanical mole that might as well be a park bench.” He paused for a moment thinking, and thrust the open pickle jar in the direction of the table. Latzarel waved him away, grimacing at the idea of an early morning pickle. William shoved two fingers into the jar and yanked out another, munching away at the thing heartily, then holding it aloft as a sort of indicator. “If we can find Giles,” he said, “and spirit him out of their reach, then Pinion and Frosticos may as well take a crosstown bus.”

“A tin wagon,” put in Edward.

“A motorized footstool,” said William, smiling at his brother-in-law.

Jim sat through the pickle conversation idly turning the pages of the journal, reading discoveries and inventions: of perpetual motion engines built of ball bearings and spools and empty oatmeal cartons; of anti-matter devices built of mirrors and old vacuum sweepers; of light-speed velocity boosters built of old lampshades, a glass bowl full of pink-tinted water, and a moon garden of charcoal clinkers and bluing. Toward the end of the volume, following a grisly account of the propulsion of Oscar Pallcheck, Jim found a long, hastily written entry. He interrupted his uncle’s musings about Giles’ possible improvement of the diving bell and read: “‘The voyage will be undertaken on March 21, the day of the vernal equinox, and will angle toward the equator at first, slowly righting itself until it achieves essential verticality somewhere under the southwest desert. Eighteen hours will suffice for the journey. The end of it is lost to me in fog. It’s possible that the fog veils Eden like Dr. Pinion says. But I can hear the far off sound of vast explosions and earthquakes, which might as easily be the roaring of the subterranean rivers through the polar openings. Either way, it doesn’t make much difference.’”

“What doesn’t?” asked Latzarel. “I wish he weren’t so damned weird! He sounds like a science fiction writer, for God’s sake.”

“He’s referring to the cataclysm,” said William. “Edward, you remember my dream? The death of Giles Peach in the desert? A rain of dinosaurs? Everything blowing to bits?”

Edward nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, he remembered the account of William’s dream very well. “I’m beginning to fear,” he said at last, poking at broken toast with the end of a fork, “that Giles is responsible for a great deal. Certainly for all the unaccountable phenomena. Maybe even for the merman …”

“Maybe,” said William, interrupting, “for the hollow Earth itself. It’s possible, you know. It could well be a product of Basil and Giles both. If we take a good look at the psychology of this thing. …”

“Oh come on,” cried Latzarel, pushed to the edge. “I haven’t been pursuing figments. I won’t have that. You’re both making a mountain out of a molehill here.”

“I’m afraid,” said William darkly, “that in this business there’s little possibility of exaggeration. “I’m beginning to be convinced that Giles’ meddling is going to crack the earth open like a melon unless we step in. Giles had better not be aboard that digger on the twenty-first.”

“Back to square one,” said Latzarel, referring to the search for Giles Peach. “Where do we look next?”

William shrugged. Edward poured himself a last cup of toffee and looked out of the kitchen window. A battered pickup truck rattled into view on the street, pulling up to the curb and scraping along until it came to a rest in front of the house. In the back was a lawnmower, an edger, and an assortment of brooms, rakes, clippers, gunny sacks, and shovels. It was Yamoto, the gardener, come round to attend to the Pembly lawn. Edward’s heart sank like a brick.

The threatened destruction of the Earth paled, as William, alert to the creaking drop and bang of Yamoto’s tailgate, lost interest in his pickle jar and hurried into the front room.

He crouched in front of the window, partially hidden by the drape, and peered out at the gardener. There could be little doubt as to his purpose, his motive. He didn’t care a rap about mowing lawns. He wore a pair of voluminous white trousers and a white cloth cap, both of which had been standard issue at the sanitarium several years past. William was almost sure of it. Why else would he wear such ridiculous clothes? He pretended to fiddle with his equipment: dumping gas into the mower, removing the spark plug from the edger and rubbing at it with a little piece of emery paper. William wasn’t fooled. He guessed Yamoto’s apprehension, saw the little glances of unease he cast around, feigning interest in hedges, in crabgrass, in sprinklerheads, but all the time watching, waiting, sniffing the air.

Clouds seemed to be gathering again. The street, which hadn’t been dry for an hour, was cast into sudden shadow. Distant thunder, faint and thin, almost like the tittering of laughter, blew along the street on the wind. William could just hear it through the cold window glass pressed against his ear. The sound of Edward and Professor Latzarel talking in the kitchen fell away into the murk, and every brittle clink and clank of Yamoto’s activity among the machines stood out clearly like a leafless tree on a barren winter hilltop.

The gardener yanked on the rope starter, animating the mower, and set off across the lawn, throwing the heavy grass into a steel catcher. He was within an ace of disappearing from view, of vanishing beyond the curve of a hibiscus, when he turned his head sharply, as if having heard something—the scraping of William’s fingernails along the sill, the tapping of his wedding ring against the glass, or the faint rhythmic exhalations of his breathing. Then he was gone.

“I say,” said Edward, materializing suddenly behind William, “there’s no need to bother with him now. He can’t hurt us, can he? Not as long as you stay out of sight. They’ve probably sent him around to smoke you out.”

“Of course they have. There’s not a bit of doubt.” William fell abruptly silent, staring out past the drape, ducking back in alarm when Yamoto sped into view, sailing at the rear of his flying mower as if hurrying to finish before the rain began afresh. William knew it was a ruse. Mowing the lawn wasn’t the issue. It had never been the issue. They were afraid of him, of his power. They locked him up in a prison masquerading as a hospital, hired burly guards to watch him, filled him with drugs to keep him docile, and he walked out under their noses. He slipped into the sewers and vanished, puffo, like a magician’s coin, reappearing where he chose, in the doctor’s very cellar, blinking away again in an instant, befuddling a host of pursuers.

Yamoto was afraid. That explained his peculiar behavior, his agitation. He’d been sent out on a mission against a phantom. William was an adversary whom Frosticos himself had failed to subdue. William would have a bit of fun with him. The worm had turned The proverbial shoe was on the other foot. He reached for the doorknob.

“Really,” said Edward, touching his shoulder, “leave the man alone. He’ll cut their foolish grass and go along. He does it every week. You’ve got no quarrel with him, not today.”

William brushed Edward aside. “They’re going to regret meddling with me. Starting now. This is no time to cower. They can smell it. Sniff it out like wolves, like carrion eaters. They feed on it, fear. A man has to act. Dignity is the word here. Self-respect. Damn him and his filthy machine, the scum-sucking pig. I’m going to make him a disappointed fellow. Mark my words.”

William started to go on, but the look on Edward’s face gave him pause.

“Think of Jim,” said Edward thickly.

“I rarely stop thinking of Jim,” said William. “I’m fairly sure he understands me. And besides, I’m not going to go raging out there; I’m only going to make it warm for him, play on his superstitions.”

A crack of thunder rattled the windows. There was a simultaneous wash of wind-carried rain thrown up under the gabled porch roof as the storm burst out afresh, driving rain and hail along the sidewalk in black showers. Water was running in the gutters almost at once, and Yamoto, his trousers glued to his legs, raced for his track, loading equipment into the back of it and fleeing before the storm, leaving the Pembly lawn half cut.

“There goes the scoundrel!” cried Edward, suddenly elated at the arrival of the propitious storm. The threat had passed, at least for the moment. Edward prayed silently that it would rain for the rest of the day, for a week. There was more at stake here than William’s liberty. Quite likely far more.

William looked saddened at Yamoto’s absconding. He hadn’t had a chance at him. He had half a mind to play his hand anyway—to go out and hash up Mrs. Pembly’s begonias, to do a wild dance in the rain in front of her kitchen window—to strike fear into her. But Edward wouldn’t go for it. He could see that. And her car was gone. She wasn’t home anyway. He’d end up dancing in the rain just to play the fool. But he’d fix her somehow. In the night. She’d rue the day she cast her hat into the ring with the evil gardener.

The whump of a newspaper against the front door burst the bubble of his reverie, and he looked out to see a newspaper boy, hunched over the handlebars of his bicycle, pedaling through the rain in a plastic overcoat.

“That would be the Times,” said Edward. “Lets have a look at Spekowsky’s column. I’m convinced now that Ashbless drove him off on purpose that night at the Newtonians, then sucked up to him later.” He opened the door, plucked up the paper, and handed it to William, hoping to sidetrack him. William, half attending, opened the paper and thumbed around in it. Professor Latzarel wandered in from the kitchen.

“There it is,” said Edward. “Page ten. Russ!” he shouted as William handed him the paper. Edward shook it straight, looking over the page. There was an article on a giant bullfrog—Bufo Morinus—that had been sighted chasing a stray dog, and another on new evidence for a tenth planet, which astronomers suggested might conceivably be flat like a disc, completely invisible when viewed from the side—a product of the fourth dimension. Another story, only a third of a column or so, concerned an uncanny discovery by commercial abalone fishermen of an entire latticework reef of human bones off the Palos Verdes Peninsula. It wasn’t known where the bones had come from, but it seemed likely that they’d drifted down on the longshore current into a declivity and had heaped up there into a strange and unlikely graveyard. Some were so utterly covered with polyps and hydras as to be unrecognizable, perhaps prodigiously old. A scattering of Spanish coins was found, leading oceanographers to speculate that among the skeletons lay mariners who’d met their fate on piratical voyages hundreds of years past There was the suspicion that Francis Drake had journeyed farther south than had previously been supposed. But what was baffling was the sheer number of bones—countless millions of them, heaped together in ivory spires in the midst of a forest of kelp. And in among them hovered thousands of squid, as if in a city of their own making.

“Imagine how surprised we would have been,” said William, “if we’d come across that article yesterday. It must be baffling the devil out of a number of people.”

Latzarel snorted in the middle of a swallow of coffee. He gasped violently, choking and sputtering. “It’s a commonplace to us,” he managed to say after his fit had passed. William nodded seriously, missing the irony in his friend’s statement.

“Here’s another,” said Edward, turning the page of the remarkable newspaper. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. ‘Professor John Pinion announced today the completion of his mechanical digging machine, a vehicle constructed for the purpose of exploring the interior of the Earth. The device, which is reported to be the product of several major discoveries in the area of physics and mathematics, will be launched in late March.’ “

“It’s finished then,” said William, frowning. “That’s news indeed.”

“I don’t see why it should be,” said Latzarel. “You don’t for a moment think that Pinion has made any sort of breakthroughs in physics and mathematics? This is all mummery.”

“No,” said Edward. “John Pinion hasn’t done anything at all, beyond financing the building of Giles’ machine. The problem here, if I understand William’s concern, is that if the machine is indeed done, then Giles Peach can be disposed of, at least kept under wraps. His immediate usefulness is past. They could put him on a bus to Arizona and he’d be as safe from us as if he were on the moon. We’d never find him.”

Latzarel was silent. William drummed his fingers on the aim of his chair. Edward squinted at his shoe. When you added it all up, they hadn’t played much of a hand; they’d only expended a great deal of energy, sailing across the channel to Catalina, running up and down sewers. Edward couldn’t help dwelling on the last pages of the journal, on the threatened cataclysm. It was small recompense to know that when the world burst open—probably on April Fool’s Day—and William’s wooly mammoths and Neanderthal men spewed out like popping coin, only the four of them would know why. They alone would have the answer to the last great scientific mystery, but it would avail them nothing.

Jim stood up and waved the journal at the front window, a look of grieved horror on his face. William, assuming at first that Yamoto had returned, was out of his chair and striding toward the door before he realized mat he was wrong—that two police cars were parked at the curb, and a pair of uniformed officers were putting on helmets and unhooking the straps on revolvers and nightsticks.

William fled toward the rear of the house. Jim dashed into his father’s room, stripped the blankets and sheets from the bed, and crammed the lot of it along with his father’s pajamas into the hamper in the bathroom. Professor Latzarel ran into the kitchen and jammed William’s plate, knife, fork, and coffee cup into the trashbag beneath the sink. Edward opened the door wearing a look of mock surprise, and met the two dripping policemen on the porch.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of William Hastings,” said one, pulling a paper from beneath his yellow raincoat.

Edward lurched inwardly even though he had known the blow was coming. He shook his head sadly. “I’ve heard about the altercation,” he said, giving them a chagrined look. “Dr. Frosticos informed me of it yesterday morning. There was a report that he was hiding in the sewers. Have you looked there?”

Neither of the two answered. One, however, stepped past Edward and peered into the living room. Professor Latzarel waved out at him. “We’re authorized to search your house,” said the other officer, a burly man with a nose like a golf ball. “This is the house belonging to the alleged suspect?”

“To Mr. Hastings?” Edward asked. “Yes, it is. I’m his brother-in-law.” He showed the two in. “Cup of coffee?”

“No,” said the one with the nose.

“What is it, exactly, that you were looking for?”

“Didn’t we just say?” said the other, scowling at Edward. “William Hastings.”

“Oh!” Edward said, feigning surprise. “Here?”

Both of them gave him a long tired look, as if to suggest that he’d best think twice about cracking wise.

Edward decided to brass it out. “I had no idea he’d headed this way. None at all.”

“Right,” said the burly one.

“In fact,” said Edward, following the two into the hallway, “I suggested to Dr. Frosticos that Mr. Hastings had fled north—to Humboldt County. He’s done it before. He’s not entirely well, if you catch my meaning, and he has the peculiar notion that northern California is a sort of magical place.”

“Do you have any knowledge of his actual whereabouts?”

“Actual knowledge of his actual whereabouts? No. Not actual knowledge. Just a hunch. He used to take a cabin every spring off Trinity Head. Last time he escaped they found him holed up there.”

“Take this down,” said the burly one to his partner, who hauled a little notebook out of his pocket and scribbled into it.

Professor Latzarel wandered in from the living room. “Can I be of any help?” he said.

“No.”

“I know a good bit about human psychology,” Latzarel said, as if that revelation would change things entirely.

“Me too,” said the one with the bulbous nose. “Piss-cology is what I call it.” He pushed open the door to Edward’s room, freezing at the sight of the mobile of stuffed bats that hung in the center of the room and at the mummified head and shoulders of a human being that sat in a glass case on the dresser. The floor around the bed was a whirlwind of books and papers.

Golf ball nose squinted at Edward, unsure, perhaps, whether he hadn’t ought simply to shoot him at once. “Take this down,” he said to his younger companion, waving generally at the room. Then under his breath he muttered, “Some people live like pigs,” and pushed down the hall past Edward and Latzarel who followed along, both of them wondering exactly how the bats and mummy contributed to Edward’s living like a Pig.

The rest of the house yielded nothing revealing. They tramped in a procession out the back door and into the maze shed, where the axolotl and the baithouse octopus drew more utterances of contempt. Finally, after glancing into the aquarium shed, they shined flashlights under the house, having heard, perhaps, that William had been known to hide there. They left without a word.

Five minutes passed before Edward dared give William the all clear. It was entirely possible that the two would simply circle the block and return, hoping to catch them out. But there was no further sign of them. The street was empty and the rain began to pour. Edward and Professor Latzarel hurried out into the back yard and around the maze shed, tapping three times on the side of a fifty gallon plastic trashcan. The lid tumbled off, followed by a cardboard carton of grass clippings that fit neatly into the can. William came smiling out from beneath it, his hair fall of cut grass.

Chapter 17

The weeks passed. William would have supposed they’d fly by, since time was so short and their efforts to locate Giles so entirely futile. But they didn’t. They crept along like bugs, peering at them day to day, crawling toward the end of March and—William was increasingly certain—an end to all things, to human dreams and illusions.

With the approach of the first day of spring—dismal, upended days that never really dawned but simply murked into a sort of gray drizzle that continued into the evening—came an ice cream truck. Whether it was Pinion’s truck, Edward couldn’t say. Neither he nor Jim had paid enough attention to it to identify it for certain. And anyway, Pinion wasn’t driving it. An Oriental man, not Yamoto, hunched behind the wheel, playing tinny jingles through a speaker perched on the top of the truck. He appeared from the mist, driving slowly but apparently pointlessly along the street. For when Edward, in a sudden fit of suspicion, hailed him through the drizzle waving a dollar bill, the truck rumbled away down the block unheeding. The same thing happened the following afternoon.

The two policemen returned twice, asking about the alleged suspect, but William was too quick for them, going to ground in his trashcan until the baying of the hounds faded. On their second visit they performed a cursory sort of search—a tired search, as if under orders. On the third visit they stood on the porch and threatened Edward with a jail term for harboring a criminal. Edward played the fool.

Mrs. Pembly, blessedly, was off visiting a sister for the first week, and so was unaware of William’s return. And later, when she spied him one afternoon through the window, it was possible that she had no way of knowing that he was a wanted man, that he hadn’t been released from the asylum. Edward made it a point to be obsequiously nice to her, giving her a bagful of avocados once and assuring her in heartfelt tones that William, finally, had come to his senses. Edward himself would guarantee his good behavior. Twice he had to talk William out of going for her when the mysterious and inexplicable globs of dog waste appeared under the elm. It was almost more than William could bear.

Professor Latzarel haunted the bluffs at Palos Verdes, standing on the cliffs like Moses, hoping that the seas would swirl and part to reveal a long straight corridor into the Earth, or that Giles Peach would rise out of the depths like an undernourished Neptune and give him a sign. But there was nothing but seagulls and wind and the sound of breaking waves until the end of the second week of William’s freedom.

Then a postcard arrived—from Giles. It had been mailed in Windermere a week earlier. He’d sent it to his mother who brought it along at once to Edward. Giles had gone off to find his father, and to “think things through.”

“Think things through?” said Professor Latzarel. “Why the devil would anyone go to England just to think things through? It’s a miserable place in March. Nothing but cold and rain. And why couldn’t he have stayed here and thought?”

“He wanted to confront his father, I suppose,” said Edward.

Latzarel shook his head as if he found the whole thing hard to believe. “I hope so. Because once Basil finds out that Frosticos has gotten hi? hands on Giles, he’ll take steps. How much do you think he knows about Reginald’s fate?”

Edward shrugged.

“I rather think,” said William, lighting his pipe, “that there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“Isn’t there always?” asked Latzarel.

“I mean to say that Giles didn’t come to this decision alone. He was sent to Windermere. Frosticos and Pinion were through with Giles, and they feared that we’d get hold of him. They’re more worried about us than we give them credit for. They’ve shipped him off.”

“But they need him,” Edward complained. “To run the machine. They wouldn’t dare take the chance of letting him roam so far. Not now.”

William shook his head, playing devil’s advocate. “How do you know they need him? That’s speculation. The digger is finished—all signs point that way. Perhaps whatever magic Giles put into it is there to stay.”

Latzarel wasn’t convinced. “I don’t think so. His devices are built of nasal irrigators and bundles of twine. They can’t work. It must be Giles himself that motivates them.”

“Take your blinders off, Russel!” William admonished, poking his pipe in Latzarel’s direction. “Assume nothing about the physical universe or you’ve boxed yourself in. I don’t know a thing about these nasal irrigators you keep referring to, but I’m very willing to believe in the magic of a bundle of twine. Have you really ever studied twine, after all?”

“No,” admitted Latzarel, “but …”

“No buts,” said William conclusively. “The bird has flown. And if we sit around here smug, assuming he’ll return for the launching on the twenty-first, our goose is cooked. Who says they’ll launch on the twenty-first anyway? The newspaper, quoting Pinion. What a combination. And the journal, of course. But how do we know it’s entirely accurate? How do we know Pinion and Frosticos won’t gum the whole thing up and launch early?”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” asked Edward. “What choice have we but to wait for his return?”

“We jolly well go after him. That’s what choice we have. What does it cost, a few hundred dollars? Fat lot of buying you’ll do with your money when the world is breaking up like a dirt clod.”

“The money’s not the issue,” said Latzarel, always willing to spend a few dollars for the sake of existence. “But let’s be practical for a minute. …”

William interrupted him by removing and waving his pocket watch. “You’ve got about sixty thousand left to be practical in. Then you’ll be scaling the stars with cave men.”

“Sixty thousand what?“ asked Latzarel, beginning to lose his temper.

“Minutes, man. We haven’t half enough time to be practical. We hate practicality. Practicality didn’t build Pinion’s leviathan. You’ve said as much yourself. Where’s the old sewer rat Latzarel who outfoxed that mob up on Patchen Street? Old one-shoe Latzarel, popping in at the window?”

Latzarel grumbled and slouched in his chair. Edward shrugged and raised his eyebrows. From the kitchen, Jim said, “You’re not going without me this time.”

“There’s a man for you!” cried William. “Damn the filthy torpedoes! They won’t be looking for us in Windermere. We’ll pop over there and snatch him. Basil will come in on our side. They’ve made a fatal error here, that’s what I think, and we’re going to trip them up. It’s that or we sit around here and mope. What do you say?”

“I say I go along,” Jim repeated. “You’ll need me when it comes to talking Gill into all this. He’ll listen to me.”

“He’s right,” said William. “By God if you two won’t come along, Jim and I will do the deed ourselves. It won’t take a week. We’ve already got the family passport. It’s good for seven years, isn’t it?”

“It’s good for nothing, as far as you’re concerned,” said Edward. “You’ll never get out of the airport. This whole thing might be a ruse to flush you out, you know. A set-up.”

“Pah!” cried William, who wasn’t about to be left behind. “It’s been two weeks now. They don’t stake out airports for two weeks looking for a man who bonked someone with a flashlight. And I’ll be entirely safe outside the country. A free man. It’s just the thing, as far as …”

The phone rang, interrupting William’s argument. It was Velma Peach, overwrought. Confused. She’d just that moment had a phone call from Giles. Edward covered the mouthpiece with his hand and told his friends. This was news indeed. He listened for a moment, his face growing more serious. It hadn’t been a long distance call. At least it hadn’t sounded like one. Giles wanted to come home. Everyone, he said, was in terrible danger. He had wanted so desperately to complete his journey. To pierce the hollow Earth, to return to the land of his ancestors—the Promised Land, he’d called it. But doing so, he feared, would burst it like a soap bubble on the winds of space. What, asked Velma Peach, did it all mean? What was the nonsense about ancestors? Her side of the family had come from Lithuania by boat with their money sewed inside their clothes; Basil’s from the Lake District. What promised land?

Edward made half an effort to explain Giles’ reference, careful to euphemize the entire account, but incapable of concentration. Could the phone call, he kept wondering, have come from Windermere? And if not, then what about the postcard? Had Giles hurried home so soon? And where was he now, kept, apparently, against his will? Edward hung up, puzzled.

They smoked a pipe over it for a moment. Then Professor Latzarel, his doubts vindicated in part by this new turn, said, “You’ve been hoaxed. That’s what the case is. Giles isn’t in Windermere. He’s never been. The postcard was a forgery, either to smoke William out of here or to send us all off on a goose chase—run us around pointlessly. We’d have gotten to London and found new evidence and gone racing off in some other direction. It’s slow and easy that we want here; that’s what I think. Sixty thousand minutes isn’t time enough as it is. You were right there. It doesn’t leave us any to waste, does it?” He looked at William triumphantly.

William nodded. The phone call put a new coat of paint on the horse. “I’ve got an idea,” said William, slapping his knee. “We call Basil. Easy as that. Either Giles is at Windermere or he’s not. Perhaps he’s been and gone already. Perhaps he never intended to go. It would be an easy enough thing for men with Pinion’s and Frosticos’ connections to have a forged postcard mailed. Easy as pie.”

It took an hour to get through to Basil Peach, and William, for the length of their discussion, fancied he heard voices in the background, lost among general noise, scratching along, now fading, now growing in volume until Basil’s voice began to sound almost as distant as it was. Once, in the midst of a discussion of strange local events, the ghostly insinuating voice disappeared utterly for the space of five seconds, then burst in with the words, “a two-penny head!” so loudly that William dropped the phone. It made no sense to him, and struck him as being all the more suggestive as a result—particularly as Basil couldn’t hear a bit of it.

Basil was unaccountably disturbed. There was a feeling, he said, in the air. An electricity. A desperation. Over the past week dead animals had bubbled up out of Lake Windermere, rising to the surface like released balloons and floating ashore in the willows below the hall. Basil spent his days collecting them. There were enough rumors afoot regarding the manor—rumors that hearkened back hundreds of years—without adding to them a boatload of decayed beasts.

“Beasts?” asked William. “From the lake? Do you mean fish?”

“No,” said Basil. “Animals. An odd tailless monkey with webbed feet and paws, and a thing that looked like an armadillo but without the pointed snout. Then, yesterday afternoon, a rush of little creatures—some sort of scaled hedgehog—beached themselves, all drowned.” Basil had a basket of them. He hadn’t any idea what to do with them. Burn them? The stink would attract the attention of everyone within miles. He was throwing quicklime on them until he could bury them. But in the future, years hence, they’d be dug up and would confirm Lord-knew-what sorts of local suspicions. And on top of it all, who should drop in but Ashbless with an utterly cockeyed scheme.

“Ashbless!” cried William. And to his suddenly alert companions he said, “There’s your postcard! What did he want? No, let me guess. He had a proposal for you. He wanted you to take him to the center of the Earth. He didn’t know how, but he was certain you could. Am I right?”

“Yes,” said Peach. “How did you know? Did he approach you too?”

“That’s right. In a nut. But he abandoned ship when he thought he saw us going down. He’s crafty. Not one to play second fiddle. He didn’t compel you then?”

“No, he didn’t. Although he had an awfully good argument.” Basil Peach fell silent, giving the phone up to the scratchy, spirit voices which carried on about ghost finances for a moment before abruptly disappearing, as if they had become suddenly aware of being overheard. Then Basil, haltingly, said, “He offered to deliver Giles ‘out of bondage.’ Those were his words. Do you know what he meant?”

“Yes,” said William.

“Then it’s true. I thought it was a lie.”

William hesitated, searching for direction. “No, it’s not a lie. But it’s likely not as bad as he made it out. He’s …”

“It’s far worse than you suppose. Unutterably worse.”

“Velma talked to him today on the telephone. He’s well. We’re on his trail. We’re going to scuttle their ship. In fact we’ve got certain knowledge of his whereabouts,” William lied. “We’re going to try to keep the authorities out of it.”

“For God’s sake,” said Basil, “don’t involve anyone but yourself. Notoriety would kill him. If he’s at all like I am, he hates himself as much as he hates me, and what he wants more than anything else is to find a hole in the shell of this world and climb through it. And if he can’t find one, he’ll make it. Mark my words. You don’t half understand it.”

“The interior world,” said William, changing the subject abruptly, “does it exist?”

“Oh, it exists,” said Basil cryptically. “But as I say, I have these fears. Giles and I are attuned, if that’s the word I want. I can feel certain emanations. I’m very much afraid that the destruction of the entire planet would satisfy him almost as much as would his escaping it. And that’s what bothers me about these damned beasts in the weeds. They must have felt the same thing.”

“Like pigs and cattle before an earthquake,” said William. ‘They’re fleeing something. I’ve written a treatise on that very subject.”

‘That’s it exactly,” Basil put in, not waiting to hear about the treatise. “Anyway, I couldn’t help old William. I’d have liked to, regardless of the extortion. But I don’t engage in that kind of thing anymore. I’ve settled into certain habits. And I have my father to look after. He’s … declined, I suppose, is the word for it. I’ll follow him down the path just as surely as the sun follows the moon.” Basil fell into a contemplative silence.

“Well,” said William, trying to leave off on a cheerful note, “we’ll keep you posted. We’ll have results in a day or two. You can count on it. End of the week at worst. Keep your chin up.

On the other end was nothing but a faint clicking and the sound of a chorus of ghostly murmuring, too far removed to be understood, just a babble of hushed voices jabbering in a void. William hung up.

Professor Latzarel listened to William’s recounting of the story with a look of incredulity on his face. “By God!” he cried, interrupting William. “I’d like to have a look at these animals. They’d substantiate a thing or two. And out of Windermere! Fancy a connection in a lake.”

“Interesting” said Edward, “that the connections are always in proximity to a Peach, if you follow my meaning.”

“Aye,” said William, arching his eyebrows. “Damned interesting. And what about Ashbless playing old Pinion false? Working one side against the other.” He shook his head.

There was a distant jingling of bells: ding-ding-ding, ding-ding-ding, a tired, unseasonable Jingle Bells, just audible through the window and the drizzle of rain. It drew closer. Edward stepped over to the window, and there, half a block down, rattled the mysterious ice cream truck, crawling inexorably along the empty, cold street. Edward pushed out the front door, drew a dollar bill out of his wallet, and waited for the truck.

He waved the bill at the driver, whistling. The track crept abreast of him, jingling maddeningly. For a moment he was certain it would stop. He’d be forced to buy a popsicle or a sidewalk sundae. It would likely turn into another Pince Nez business. He would stumble into the house having sacrificed a fortune on a box of webby ice cream bars.

The driver ignored him, slid past and pursued his way east, turning the corner and shutting off his foolish bells. Edward could hear him accelerating along the road, giving up his attempt—if there had ever been an attempt—at selling ice cream. Who the driver was, Edward couldn’t say. But he was certain that it was Pinion’s truck. He could feel it. He sprinted up to the house, stuck his head in the door, and shouted, “Let’s go!” then ducked back out, climbing into the Wasp and starting it up.

It was then, just as William was grabbing his coat, intent upon escaping for the moment the prison in which he’d been held a captive for weeks, that a black and white police car rounded the corner and approached up the street. William nearly pitched off the front porch, so sudden was his change of mind. Professor Latzarel stumbled past, almost knocking William into the yard, then saw the police car speeding up and simply continued on. The Wasp pulled away just as the police drew up to the curb. William had vanished. Jim sat nonchalantly on the front porch reading a book. Edward half expected the police to pursue him, an occurrence that would give William ample time to make away.

But they didn’t, perhaps for that very reason. Hard as it was to abandon poor William, Edward accelerated to the corner, jogged down and around onto Stickley Street, and sped out toward Colorado, where the ice cream truck was disappearing into a blur of drizzle and traffic, south toward Glendale. Edward followed a hundred yards back, confident that he had so far gone unnoticed. At Verdugo Road the truck pulled abruptly into the parking lot of Powers’ Tobacco and Bookshop, the rear door fell open, and William Ashbless climbed out, rubbing his hands together and hurrying in. Five minutes later he was crawling back into the truck carrying a stack of books. The door slammed shut, and the driver motored away down Colorado, turning up Brand onto Kenneth Road, then up Western to Patchen where it stopped just along enough in front of the house of Dr. Frosticos for Ashbless to clamber out. Edward threw caution into the dustheap and drove along up Patchen, sliding slowly past the shingled bungalow. Ashbless had pushed through the junipers into the back yard.

“Drive on up the road,” Edward ordered, shoving his door open and climbing out. He followed the poet’s trail into the bushes. He hadn’t any idea what he was going to do, but he was convinced that it was his turn to go spying, that it was high time he reciprocated for the daily visits of the ubiquitous ice cream truck.

He peered around the corner into the rear yard, half expecting to see any number of people staring back: Ashbless and Pinion, Frosticos and Yamoto, perhaps the mysterious Han Koi and his knife-wielding henchmen. What he saw was the yawning mouth of the cellar, the door thrown back on its hinge.

Edward crept across and peered in, listening. All was silent. He was certain that the cellar didn’t connect with the rest of the house. If Ashbless had entered the cellar then either he was still there or he’d gone through the trapdoor into the sewer. Edward went down two steps, crouching and squinting, ready to take to his heels. No one confronted him. Two steps farther down, he was able to see into the entire, empty cellar. The Oriental carpet was tossed aside in a heap. He hurried across, draped the carpet over his head so as to cut out as much of the feeble cellar illumination as possible, and released the trap, easing it inward.

Down below it was dark as ink. Edward listened for the ringing of shoes on concrete, but heard nothing, only the drip, drip, drip of water burbling in the distance. The sewer was empty.

Edward thought matters over as he hurried along Patchen toward where Latzarel sat in the parked Hudson. Of course Ashbless mightn’t have gone into the cellar at all. Edward hadn’t seen him do so. He might easily have entered the back door and poured himself a drink. He might be napping right at that moment, or reading a book over a glass of Scotch. But somehow Edward didn’t think so. Something nagged at his mind. Something about the sewer. He couldn’t quite grasp it.

When they got home the house was empty. There was a note from Jim saying that he’d gone out, and advising them, peculiarly, to pull down the window shade in the rear window of the living room twice. Edward did, supposing at, first that it had become broken, like all other spring-rolled shades, in spontaneous degeneration, and would hurtle off the wall in a rush of unrolling paper when he tugged on its ring. But there was nothing at all-wrong with the shade. He stood puzzling over it, reading the note, when Professor Latzarel remarked the odd blinking of a light from the dark window of the abandoned house behind. The light blinked on and off in little spurts, the same blink, blink, blink over and over. “Code,” said Latzarel, pointing it out.

“What does it say?” asked Edward, ignorant of that sort of secret language.

“W.H.,” answered Latzarel.

“He’s in the old Koontz house then,” said Edward, “hiding out.”

The two of them went out through the back door and peered around the side of the garage. William’s trash drum was overturned, and the side was trampled in. The clever box of clippings and leaves, fresh that morning, was dumped beside it. They’d conducted a more thorough search this time. Perhaps, thought Edward, Mrs. Pembly had tipped their hand. Perhaps she’d seen William pop out of the can like a jack-in-the-box after he’d last outwitted the police. One way or another, he’d clearly eluded them again.

An hour after darkness had fallen, a light flashed once in the window and a moment later a hunched shadow rose above the back fence, grappling with ivy, tumbling over into the yard. Edward sprang to the door, opening it as William rushed through, then closing it directly, after a glance at the Pembly house assured him that no one watched through the window.

William poured himself a glass of port without a word, staring through Edward as if he were transparent. In his hand he clutched a spiral notebook and a fresh copy of Analog.

“Your story!” cried Edward, reaching for the magazine.

William blinked at him. “What?” he said. “Yes.” He let go of the thing and it fell to the floor.

Edward was suddenly worried. “Sit down, old man,” he said, pulling out a kitchen chair. “You must be starved.” He rummaged in the cupboard and came up with a can of beef vegetable soup, waving it in William’s direction and arching his eyebrows. “Feeling okay? Jim tells us you went directly over the back wall. Didn’t give the beggars a chance. We discovered the most astonishing thing. Ashbless …”

“I think I’m on to something.”

“Oh,” said Edward, picking up the magazines from the floor, fearing that what William was onto was some new threat, some phantom taking shape in the mists, and that the phantom would turn out in the end to be authentic, just like the rest. “Onto what?”

“A device,” said William, staring again onto the wall. “A device for propelling the bell. I’m sure I could make it work. And I’ve been studying the Times’ article on the leviathan. I was wrong. It isn’t the release of pressure that would blow us to bits, it’s anti-matter.”

“Is that so,” said Edward, relieved. He stirred the orange broth on the stovetop with a wooden spoon and looked at the cover of William’s magazine. “Star Man,” read the appropriate caption, “by William Hastings.” ‘This is monumental,” Edward said, slapping it on his hand. “By golly! I’ve got to call Russel.”

William waved at him, as if to say that the story was nothing, that Latzarel needn’t be bothered. He looked at the steaming bowl of stuff that Edward stirred, widening his eyes in alarm. “None for me, thanks,” he said, staring at the little square bits of orange and green that floated on top. “I’ve got to think this out.”

“Another story?”

“No, a device, like I said. We can get to where we’re bound. I’m certain of it. If only …” He rapped his notebook on the kitchen counter in sudden inspiration. “I slipped out and ate at Pete’s,” he said, speaking to the soup. “See you in the morning.” He picked up his port glass and the half-full bottle and disappeared into the living room. A moment later Edward heard his bedroom door shut. He sniffed at the soup, grimaced, and poured it regretfully down the sink, sitting down at the kitchen table to have a closer look at William’s story. March twenty-first was fast approaching.

Chapter 18

William’s alarm rattled him awake before dawn. He groped out of bed, bounced once into the door frame on his way down the hall, and blinded himself with the bathroom light, cursing in half sleep and wondering why it was he’d set the alarm in the first place. He remembered—it was the device. Science called upon him to rise early. He intended to be at work in the maze shed before the sun rose—not so much in the interests of the work, but to avoid the prying eyes of Mrs. Pembly who, for hours in the morning, poked in the weeds of her yard in a housecoat, pretending not to be spying on him. William would like to have simply throttled her, clubbed her with an iron pipe and gone about his business with impunity.

What galled him was the unlikelihood she had any interest in the structure of the Earth. It was impossible. Every visible bit of her argued against it. William could understand the motivations, the rationale, behind a John Pinion, and even, in some dark part of him, the murderous curiosities of a Hilario Frosticos. But for what senseless reason had Mrs. Pembly thrown in with them? What profit was there? Money? Not at all likely. She seemed to hate him too spectacularly for that. She would have been more disinterested if money was her goal. How could he explain it—the dog debris under the elm? He wasn’t half surprised that it had reappeared. But he’d get to the bottom of it, he told himself as he turned on the tap.

He gave himself a sidewise look in the mirror. He was getting lean. His cheekbones were appearing, and it gave him a dashing air. Rough and ready. He could use some sun, though, and here he was a prisoner in his own home. How trite. He shook up the can of shaving cream, pressed the nozzle, and with a ppphhht of sudsy air, out came nothing at all but some sticky bits of petrified soap. He pitched it into the trash with a wide swing of his arm, overestimating the amount of swinging room the little bathroom allowed him, and cracking his knuckles onto the tile countertop.

He stood still for a moment, blood rushing in his ears, looking around for something to kill, to smash, to beat utterly to bits. He punched the door casing behind him with his elbow, pretending it was the face of someone he loathed; he hadn’t time to put a name on it. But he caught the edge of the casing on the crazy bone behind his elbow, and a shock of numbing pain shot up his arm, leaving it limp. He turned on it fiercely, his mouth working, ready to slam it and kick it.

But almost at once he caught himself. He remembered the fateful struggle with the garden hose, one of those cases in which he’d clearly won the battle but lost the war. Here was a danger signal, a warning. He was convinced that inanimate objects were half sentient. There were certain days, in fact, when they seemed to conspire against him—when chair legs crept out at odd angles to trip him up, when furniture reorganized of its own accord, when pencil leads snapped for the sake of driving him mad, when carpet tacks put themselves in his way, and the height of stairs increased imperceptibly—just enough so that his foot would hook on the nose of the step above and he’d pitch over forward. There was no arguing with it. It had to do with ions, perhaps, with the configuration of rays in the atmosphere.

What was generally unknown was that such objects could be dealt with—had to be dealt with. Like unruly servants, they had to be put promptly in their place, or the order of things would collapse. Chaos would reign.

But slamming the door frame wouldn’t accomplish it. He was upset, awash with anger. He’d cool down, move slowly. He turned on the hot water and worked up enough soap lather to shave with, very slowly and methodically, a step at a time, nodding at his razor, at his face, at the bar of soap to demonstrate his control. Shaving was a success. But there was a slit in the side of the toothpaste tube and blue paste squirted through it in a little ridge, smearing out over his finger. Nothing at all came out of the mouth of the tube. He laid it on the tiles and mashed it with the edge of his hand. Toothpaste shot out like a rubber snake. He picked up his brush, removed a predictable hair which seemed to be tied impossibly into the bristles, scooped up a wad of countertop toothpaste, and, taking his time over it, brushed his teeth one by one. He rinsed the brush, drank half a glass of water, and opened the door of the medicine cabinet into his eyebrow.

For a long moment he couldn’t breathe. His chest was constricted with fury and disbelief. The yawning mouth of the medicine cabinet mimicked his own open mouth, working toward a curse. “God damn!” he shouted, indifferent to the rest of the sleeping house. He slammed the door and chopped at the injured toothpaste tube, grabbing it finally and smashing the thing into a crimped ball. Then he twisted the ends back and forth, heaving and gasping and covering his hands with toothpaste until the tube was torn almost in two, the halves dangling by a little pressed seam at the bottom. He hurled the mined thing into the bathtub.

With a start he noticed that the first gray of daylight shone beneath the bathroom curtain. They’d conspired to rob him of his secrecy. They’d won. There was little satisfaction in having dealt so handily with the toothpaste tube, That was what came of a lack of self-control. The psychologists Were right. He washed the toothpaste from his hands and collected the ruined tube, debating for a moment the merits of pinning it to the wall with a thumbtack. But it would just make Edward roll his eyes. There would be no profit in it. Whatever irrational forces surfaced to animate inanimate things were already retreating. He could sense it. He hurried in to dress, collected a bag frill of food in the kitchen, and slipped out the back door, flinging the twisted remains of the toothpaste tube into the ivy along the rear fence before ducking into the maze shed. He peeked through into the aquarium room, toward the door, standing half open, that led to a little section of yard hidden entirely from view unless one stood within five or six feet of the rear wall. Beyond the door was an old stump, two feet high or so, positioned so that in an instant he could be out the back of the shed, onto the stump, and into the yard of the abandoned house. From there, if he were pursued, it was an easy matter to gain the street and the manhole cover that led to freedom.

He settled to it, taking time to light his pipe and put a pot of coffee on his hotplate. He chewed at yesterday’s glazed doughnut between pipes, letting his coffee grow cold, obsessed with the findings of T. G. Hieronymous, inventor of the Hieronymous machine, laughed into obscurity by the short-sighted. But the stone that the builder refused, thought William, squinting at the page, will be the cornerstone. There was truth in that observation. The machine made sense—and good sense, too—if one forgot preconceptions. Look at the phrenologists, considered a sort of joke by modern psychology and physiology for close to a hundred years, then vindicated in one monumental swoop by the investigations of Jones and Busacca into the life of the so-called “Bay Area Lump Man.” But this was, admittedly, complex. He grappled with it for three hours, trying to link, at least theoretically, the Hieronymous machine to the principle of Dean-drive.

He sketched a diagram of a modified Hieronymous box, a metal disc on top and a circuit inside. The box, Hieronymous had insisted, would work if there were simply the picture of a circuit inside. It was a matter of projection, after all, not of electricity. A person would rub the disc, round and round, sensing from the resistance of the surface the state of his health. But T. G. Hieronymous hadn’t gone far enough. He was a purist, it seemed to William, a scientist of the chart and caliper variety, undeniably accurate but perhaps short on imagination, on a sense of the mystical. A mandala is what the box wanted, a copper mandala, perhaps, something that would approximate the symbolic perpetual motion of an Indian prayer wheel.

If such a device could be built and could be harnessed to a Dean-drive system, turning the rotary motion into forward motion, it could propel their craft—the diving bell. It would pull energy out of the ether. In fact, there was no reason at all to suppose it wouldn’t be capable of separating oxygen out of seawater, serving as a self-propelled oxygenator and converting hydrogen atoms to fuel—a perpetual motion engine with a double function. William could see it in his mind. It was entirely feasible. If only he had Giles Peach to consult! If Edward hadn’t lost Ashbless in the sewer … but he had.

The whole thing would make a compelling short story, miles more substantial than the relativity story, at least in terms of its scientific basis. It was a sure-fire sale. A starship would be propelled by such a device, perhaps mounted externally to take complete advantage of the sun’s rays. An astronaut, ancient and bearded from eons of light speed travel, would lean out to rob the disc, throwing impossible sparks, propelling his ship through uncharted galaxies. There was no reason that the thing couldn’t be fitted with some sort of ratchet tongue and be made to speak, to moan out, over and over, some pressing question into the void. William could picture it. The illustration would be a blend of mysticism and science—the soaring ship, hurtling toward a pin wheel of stars, and the Hieronymous machine whirling on its rotor, itself a miniature replica of the distant nebula. And God Himself—why not?—leaning out of a cloud with a cupped hand to His mouth, shouting out an answer to the proffered question.

William snatched himself back to his sketch. There would be time enough for literature if the Earth held together in the coming weeks. It was the device that was consequential, not art. He looked at the mice, active in the cages before him, and at the bunch who had moved in with the axolotl. Only one wore a shred of clothing. But that was William’s fault, after all. They couldn’t be expected to have understood civility over-night. He’d have to keep after them.

How small, he wondered, could such a machine be built? If one applied Giles’ anti-gravity ideas to the Hieronymous machine, it might be entirely possible to equip, say, a mouse with such a device and obtain interesting results. Such was the nature of science—one thing led to another in an endless chain; links would break only to be forged anew by some intrepid pioneer, stamping in tin shoes toward the rising sun.

The door opened and Jim wandered in.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” asked William, looking at his watch.

“It’s Saturday.”

His father nodded. “Oh, so it is. Where’s Edward, still asleep?”

“No,” Jim replied, “he’s gone off to Gaviota with Professor Latzarel to work on the diving bell.”

“A waste of time. An utter waste of time without Giles. Your friend, I’m afraid, is crucial.”

Jim nodded. There was no denying that. Uncle Edward had been on the verge of remembering something vital ever since he’d chased down the ice cream truck. But nothing had surfaced.

William felt it too, as if the two of them shared some hiddenknowledge having to do with the disappearance of Ashbless into the sewer. William thought about their recent foray to kidnap Giles. He could see the bulky end of Russel Latzarel shoving out through the manhole into daylight and could hear the momentary clamor of surprised children. He could picture the look on Edward’s face as he pushed past the carpet into the cellar with the circular pool, and the rush to climb out again as the mob howled after them—to climb down three iron rings set in concrete directly opposite three others below the second trapdoor. William sat stock still for a moment, not daring to think, waiting to see if the sudden certainty that possessed him would evaporate. But it didn’t. That’s what Edward strove to remember—the second door in the wall of the pipe which they’d forgotten in their haste to escape. That explained the disappearance of Ashbless. Of course it did. And unless William was a complete codfish, it explained much more than that.

The tunnel led downward, spiraling into silent darkness. The light of their miner’s helmets shone out ahead, bathing the walls in a sickly yellow glow. William carried the big flashlight he’d liberated from the sanitarium, and he flipped it on from time to time to better illuminate the murky trail. An iron handrail affixed to the rock wall ran along beside them for several hundred yards, then disappeared, only to reappear farther on, rusted into a web of flaky brown metal.

It was impossible to say how deep they’d gone. In the dark silence it seemed to William that they’d been trudging along for hours. The tunnel opened out abruptly into a grotto, vast enough so that even the powerful flashlight was too feeble to illuminate the opposite side. The path narrowed, dropping off on their left into the abyss until they picked their way along what had become stone stairs, cut out of a steep rock ledge. Below could be heard the unmistakable sound of water—not of a rushing river, an underground current, but the lapping of shallow water on the stones of a beach.

William edged his way along the stairs. In his dreams he’d often found himself in just such a position—grappling to steady himself on a steep incline, starting to slide, suddenly losing all sense of balance, pitching forward and hurtling off into a chasm. Thinking about it made him sweat. Only the presence of Jim coming along behind steadied him. In his dreams he was invariably alone.

There was a foggy, musty odor in the air, the smell of stagnant seawater, of rotting kelp, of the subterranean sea of H. Frank Pince Nez. A sudden splash in the dark recesses below flattened William against the wall. “Turn off the lights,” he hissed to Jim, and without a further word all was suddenly dark. They stood still, barely breathing, and listened for anything at all.

Faintly, William could just make out the muted splash of dipping oars and the creaking of leather-banded oars in their locks. The sound grew less faint. There was the clack of wood against wood, the scrape of wood against rock, and a low curse. The prow of a little rowboat appeared magically from behind a vast, rocky outcropping that had been, until then, indistinguishable from the common darkness.

Arching out over the water was a slender bamboo pole, dangling on the end of which was a lantern that bobbed over the water and cast a light that flickered and rolled on the oily surface. A single person in a hat and coat rowed along. His destination was evident.

William was half surprised to see that it wasn’t as dark as he had supposed. Off in the distance—it was impossible to say how far—was a diffuse glow like the light of countless fireflies, quite possibly the lanterns of the sewer dwellers themselves. He and Jim hurried in dark silence down the last hundred yards of stairs as the rower in the boat disappeared behind another rock wall. The sound of his dipping oars, however, was clearly audible. In a moment the boat would slide out of the darkness, close enough so that the lamplight would illuminate the little crescent of sandy shoreline on which Jim and William found themselves.

William clicked on his flashlight for a tenth of a second, illuminating the sheer wall of dark granite that rose above them and a heap of fallen boulders that tumbled across the edge of the beach and into the water. Just as the first ripple of lantern light betrayed the arrival of the rowboat, both of them crept in behind the rocks and crouched there, watching to see who it was who was shipping the oars, humming to himself.

The boat slid into foil view, its bow scrunching up onto the sand. The lantern danced on its fragile mount, casting wild undulations of light up and down the rock walls, now illuminating the face of the cloaked rower, then throwing him into shadow. He turned half around, vanished, and was washed in full light once more. It was William Ashbless, out rowing on the subterranean sea.

William had half expected it. He was tempted to confront the old poet, to rail at him for his underhandedness, but he had a better idea. There was no place for Ashbless to go but up. He was obviously bound for Frosticos’ cellar. And he’d come from somewhere he frequented. They’d wait until he’d vanished and steal his boat. Ashbless extinguished the lantern, produced a flashlight from beneath his cloak, and climbed wearily away up the stone stairs.

Ten minutes later—long after Ashbless’ light disappeared from view and no sound could be heard but the soft gurgling of the inland sea—Jim and his father were rowing away in the borrowed boat. They dared not light the lamp, but ran along in darkness, Jim in the bow watching for jutting rocks. Once they scraped across a submerged reef with a tearing crunch, and the boat jammed to a stop, listing momentarily until William pushed them off with an oar.

The lake opened into a sea with a thousand rocky fjords leading away in either direction, perhaps the mouths of rivers that ran east and west, under Burbank and Hollywood, under stucco supermarkets where desultory shoppers cursed the wheels of uncooperative carts and hefted lettuces. Rock walls edged out in front of them as if the surface of the sea were a confusion of currents, or a tide were running and they were cutting across it, angling toward open water. Over his shoulder William could see the slowly broadening glow of distant light, and once, when he rowed around the tip of an angling rock hummock, a point of light could be seen somewhere ahead, as if someone were shining a penlight at them a stone’s throw away, or then again as if a bonfire burned on a distant island in the dark sea.

They passed through a succession of barely submerged reefs, bumping and scraping, both of them expecting to be tossed into the black water. Jim clicked on his light, holding his hand half over the lens. He saw the rock just as they hit it, and hadn’t time to shout. It wasn’t much of a jar, not enough to damage the boat, but Jim lurched forward, flung out his arm to catch himself, and dumped the lighted flashlight overboard.

The lens end sank first, spiraling slowly downward, the air trapped in the cylinder diminishing the speed of its descent. The light remained miraculously ablaze, illuminating the surprisingly clear water, and settled, finally, on a rock ledge well below the surface where it shone for a moment on the broken spars and decayed rigging of a sailing vessel, lying on its side on the reef. A jagged hole was torn in the hull, and great wooden shards jutted across the dark mouth of it like the teeth of a shark. There was the furtive movement of a shoal of fish escaping the light, and from the gap in the ship’s side, peering up with glaucous, protruding eyes, the eyes of a cave-dwelling fish, was the face of a man, hairless, mystified, joined by another fearful visage that peeked out for one strange moment before the flashlight failed and snapped them all into darkness.

William rowed away in silence, dipping along quietly but furiously toward the glow that promised some facsimile of civilization. They kept the lights out, trusting to fate not to send them to the bottom of that strangely populated sea. But apparently the shallow water was behind them. Rounding, a rock wall in almost complete darkness, they could see, dead ahead and not two hundred yards distant, a long, dim island, stretching away into nothing.

William rowed quickly back into the shadows, then sculled forward, just far enough beyond the wall of black granite to have a look ahead. Off a dock at the foot of the island were three vessels: what appeared to be Chinese junks but with four long oars dangling from either side. They rode low in the water and had a tremendously high stern with a wide rudder. On the side of each, visible even in the murky half light of the subterranean cavern, was an ornately painted goldfish, as if the three strange craft were part of a flotilla, a private navy. Two of the boats were dark and abandoned. One, right at the, tip of the dock, had a light aglow in the cabin, an oil lamp showing clearly in the window.

Fires burned on the island, throwing little domes of orange light into the vaulted darkness. Way off in the distance, far beyond the flow of the island fires, shone dozens of pinpoints of winking flame, like the eyes of night creatures in a dense forest or stars glimmering in a half clouded sky.

William wondered at first about the peculiarity of the island, its almost arctic barrenness, but quickly saw that there could be no vegetation on it, that nothing would grow in the lightless world. A scattering of billowy tents rose along a hill on the near shore. Beyond, some quarter mile farther down the rocky beach, stood a shantytown of strange buildings patched together from the wrecks of ships, complete with jutting masts and tangled rigging, and from debris hauled down, quite possibly, from the sewers. The kaleidoscopic hovels, all tilting against one another, seemed to leap and dance in the light of an immense fire burning on a hill above them. There wasn’t a person to be seen, either on the boats or on the island, and it occurred to William as he stared fascinated at the impossible scene, that for the sewer dwellers, distinctions between night and day would be perfunctory, purely practical. Perhaps whoever lived on the island—pirates, opium smugglers—were asleep. They certainly weren’t expecting him to come rowing up in a boat borrowed from William Ashbless.

To the right was nothing but more rock, more beetling cliffs rising into nothingness, the mottled stone just visible in the artificial twilight. If they rowed silently and slowly along the base of those cliffs, keeping out of rocky shallows, to a point beyond the glow of the bonfire that lit the strange shantytown, they could go ashore and slip back down the island unseen, keeping to the shadows, and search for Giles Peach. William hadn’t any doubt they’d find him there. Alt signs pointed that way: the proximity to Frosticos’ cellar, the presence of William Ashbless, the log of Captain Pince Nez that suggested Basil Peach’s familiarity with the subterranean ocean.

But there was more than that. There was something in the atmosphere, the thin mist of strange enchantment, the certainty that they rowed a boat along the edge of a dark and unfathomable mystery. Both of them could taste it on the silent air—the foggy lace veil of something impending, waiting.

Twenty minutes later the boat scrunched up onto a dark beach. They hauled it quickly up behind a hillock of stone. William wished he had his flashlight, not so much to see with as to club people insensible. They had no weapons at all beyond heaps and heaps of rock, two uselessly long oars, and William’s sharp but foolishly tiny penknife. They’d trust to stealth. Stealth and wits, those were the tickets. If Giles were there, as he surely must be, they’d bring him home alive or be taken in the attempt.

William was surprised at himself for not reacting in cowering horror at the idea of falling once again into the clutches of Hilario Frosticos. He smiled grimly at his change of heart, then thought at once of Jim falling into those same clutches. He pushed the thought out of his mind. He wouldn’t give a nickel for the future anyway if Pinion’s machine set out on its voyage with Giles at the helm.

They picked their way from rock to rock across the slowly brightening landscape until, some fifty feet from the edge of the closest of the hovels, they stopped. Nothing stirred. A thin white cloud of drifting smoke, lying in the slack air like a materializing genie, floated from a glassless window, and beyond, within the shadows of the room, the red coal of a lit pipe alternately glowed and dimmed. The idea of stumbling into every tent and hovel inquiring after Giles struck William as even more foolish than futile. If he were Frosticos, he’d keep Giles aboard ship, ready to cast loose at the first sign of trouble; although, fortunately, trouble would have to seem a distant and unlikely thing to them in such surroundings.

The log of Pince Nez, with its talk of opium smuggling, made the frozen languid smoke—still undisturbed, but joined by a second hovering ghost—suspicious. Opium couldn’t so soon have become one of Giles’ vices, though Frosticos could conceivably have begun to persuade him along those lines. More likely, the henchmen of Han Koi inhabited the shantytown, either asleep or practicing their excesses.

They’d take a chance, thought William, and make for the boats. They circled round the back of the fire, untended and burning low. The entire system of caverns had to have an opening on the ocean—perhaps beneath the honeycomb of docks and canneries that made up old Venice and were the destination of the mysterious steamer trunk, for the fire was a heap of driftwood—of the gray trunks of barkless trees; the broken, listing cabin of an old fishing boat; and the remains of weather-wrecked furniture: half an upside down table, an old stuffed chair reduced to a skeleton frame and a spiral of rusted springs. All of it, surely, couldn’t have been hauled through the sewers and pitched down the stone stairs.

The dock, no more than a collage of debris that had escaped the fires, had crumbled until it seemed to stagger and tilt into the water like a collapsing drunkard. Every third or forth board was broken and hanging, or had fallen altogether into the sea, doubtless hauled away by the water dwellers to shore up a submarine hovel. It was in the second of the three junks that they’d noticed the lamp. But in the first, William could see, burned another, low and orange. He pulled out his pocket knife, slipped his thumb lightly across the thin blade, signaled to Jim, and crept forward, ready to spring for a tethered rowboat and cut it loose at the sound of pursuit. He was as desperate as they come—not to be trifled with. Slippery as a squid, as Professor Latzarel would put it. If he was tested, he damn well wouldn’t be found wanting. Once on the water and skimming toward the stairs, he could easily outdistance the junks. He’d be halfway to safety by the time they could summon enough opium-laced thugs to man the oars. And with a bit of wit, it would be easier than that.

The first of the junks floated evenly, tied with slack line fore and aft. Close on, it was oddly and ornately carved, the bulwark wrapping round the stern in a succession of humped, gilt fish, each biting the tail of the one before it an unbroken circle around the low deck. The square sail canted obliquely across slanted bamboo, and was tattooed, again with the figure of a fish, a tri-colored koi, bent at the middle, impossibly lacy dorsal and tail fins floating over and beyond it as if buoyed up by the still waters of an aquarium.

It struck William suddenly that the sail would look startling hanging from the living room wall. Perhaps if all went well, if he were as furtive and quick as the William Hastings who’d slipped from the grasp of the mob in the sewers, he’d cut the tiling loose, roll it along its yardarm and take it along. He’d spring from the manhole on Stickley Street with the sail and Giles both. Edward’s eyes would shoot open.

Here was another window to peer through. There was a certain excitement in peeking in windows, a feeling of immediate and ruinous folly independent of whatever lay on the other side, an urge to shriek through the window and rap on the glass, leaving some shambling, terror-bitten wreck beyond, wondering at the sudden collapse of the universe.

The scene before him, however, didn’t much encourage that sort of thing. An immense aquarium, easily a thousand gallons, stretched across the wall—was the wall—of a cabin that was a wonder of carved rosewood. Lamps burned over the glass-lidded surface, copper shades casting most of the soft yellow light downward, illuminating the weedy depths of the tank in a mottled, shifting dance of shadow and light. Bursting bubbles rose from the sand in a fine rush, disturbing the surface of the aquarium, generated by clear tubing that coiled away into a Mack rubber bladder the size of a small mattress.

An old man, desperately thin and with white silky hair, sat before the aquarium, watching the creatures within as if mesmerized. He was Oriental, Chinese probably, and dressed in a silk robe. A looped earring with a dangling goldfish hung from one ear; the other ear was turned away. An opium pipe, some wooden kitchen matches, a brass coaster, and other odd debris were scattered over the top of a steamer trunk on the floor beside his chair—a steamer trunk banded with two green copper belts, each studded with an emerald fish. And before him, swimming through the bubbling waters as if searching for some lost thing—a jewel dropped from the worn prongs of an old ring or the missing key to a locked house—were a half dozen peculiar fish.

Their eyes were like green glass. And there was something wrong with their expression. It was a combination of sadness and terror that wasn’t a consequence of the peculiarity of nature. With an abrupt mental lurch that constricted his throat, William saw that one of the fish—all of the fish—had what appeared to be fleshy little appendages, fingers, five of them, at the ends of their pectoral fins, and just the faint trace of a nose protruding above their toothed mouths. It wasn’t the foolish trunk nose of a tang or the flat pig nose of a puffer; it was human—clearly so—a vestigial nose and fingers that turned the beasts into something more than fish, into the haunting, impossible offspring of Reginald Peach. The man in the chair was Han Koi.

Chapter 19

William signaled to Jim again, crept along the dock, and severed the two lines that moored the junk. The bow swung round into the slow current as the boat eased away. With any luck, Han Koi and his finny menagerie would be bumping into the rocks on the far side of the cavern before he was aware of being adrift. William and Jim moved off along the dock.

The second junk contained Giles Peach. It was as simple as that. He was apparently unattended—something that William had ambiguous feelings about. Although it would obviously make it easier to spirit him away unseen, it meant, quite clearly, that his remaining aboard the junk was at least partly—largely, perhaps—voluntary. He sat in a wooden chair reading a magazine. A heap of books lay on the floor roundabout. William recognized the covers of Burroughs’ Pellucidar books and the Heritage Press printing of Journey to the Center of the Earth. It was the magazine in Giles’ hand, however, that struck William most forcibly—a copy of the recent Analogy William’s Analog. Giles peered intently at the page from a distance of two or three inches, out of excitement, it seemed, rather than near-sightedness, for every couple of moments he paused to jot notes into the margins and onto a stack of paper napkins.

He hadn’t changed so awfully much. William didn’t know what, exactly, he had expected. He half feared that Giles would have become something like the thing in the steamer trunk, that he’d shared the fate of Reginald Peach, perhaps with a bit of help from Han Koi and Hilario Frosticos. But there hadn’t been that sort of apparent change—just a vague sensation, a watery electrical charge in the air, that suggested a kinship, perhaps literally, between Giles Peach and the melancholy inhabitants of Han Koi’s aquaria.

William tapped on the edge of the cabin window and hissed. Giles lurched upright, stuffing his magazine between the cushion and the arm of his chair, a look of wild fear in his eyes. His head swiveled toward the door, since he assumed, obviously, that someone approached—an ally, William would have assumed. William tapped again. Giles jerked around toward the window, grasped the shade of his reading lamp, and directed the light in William’s direction, his eyes widening in surprise to see both William and Jim peering in at him out of the darkness.

Gill stammered, looking quickly again at the door. Whether he intended to shout, run, or barricade himself in was, for a split second, unclear. But after that second of confusion, he simply sat still, befuddled. William could detect, he was sure of it, faint lines of hope curling the edges of his mouth and eyes.

“Is there anyone else aboard?” William whispered.

Giles shook his head.

William debated the usefulness of cutting loose the third junk, which, from its dark, silent demeanor, appeared to be empty. He decided against it. Haste was the word, now that they’d found Giles. The two of them slipped aboard, treading as lightly as possible, looking back over their shoulder toward where the vast driftwood fire burned on its little rocky hill.

Han Koi’s boat had floated twenty or thirty yards from shore, but seemed to be lying still in the water. William was suddenly struck with regret at having cut it loose. If the junk were docked, there was the bare possibility that he and Jim would remain unseen, even if the old man decided to take a stroll ashore. But now, unless the boat drifted safely away … William and Jim hurried into the cabin.

Jim nodded at Giles, as if not knowing entirely what to say. Giles nodded back and grinned, embarrassed, perhaps, to be found under such peculiar conditions.

“We’ve missed you,” said William. “Getting on well?”

Giles shrugged.

“Your mother is a bit worried.”

Giles shrugged again guiltily.

“Work going along?’

Giles nodded. William crossed to the window on the dock side and closed the shutters. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Time was passing. He caught sight of a copy of The ABC’s of Relativity lying on the floor amid the other books. “Been reading about relativity?” asked William. “What do you think of this?”

“Well,” said Giles. “I remembered Mr. Squires recommending it that night at the Newtonians. So I bought it. But there are certain problems with it.”

“Ah,” said Edward. “Problems?”

“Yes. I’ve built an anti-gravity unit, you know, that works on the principle of sky tides. The idea came to me while I was reading the book. I thought about building it into a bicycle as a present for Mr. Squires whose car was broken down that night, but then things happened, and …” Giles trailed off into silence.

William, listening for threatening sounds, wasn’t about to let the conversation slacken. “You’ve read my own relativity story in Analog?” William motioned toward the chair with his head.

“Yes, sir,” said Giles, brightening. “It was very impressive. Convincing too. I’m sure they’ve only begun to understand physics. Your story will turn things around. That’s why I’ve been working on the digger for Mr. Pinion. I’m certain we can get to the Earth’s core. Think of what we’ll find there …” And once again Giles fell silent, thinking of what he’d find there.

‘That’s rather why we’ve come,” said William. He looked at Jim, and Jim nodded. “I think there’s a problem with your plan to use anti-matter. I understand the need to dispose of dirt and debris, but what in the world are you going to do with the energy? Have you read P. A.M. Dirac?”

“Yes.”

‘Then you know the danger of shuffling matter And antimatter together as if they were playing cards. There’s a theory I favor that postulates an entire anti-matter universe at the far end of our own—all the anti-matter particles that came out of the big bang. There’s a mirror-image Earth there. All of us, battling the same demons. But we’ve got our clothes on inside out. Do you follow me?”

“Yes,” said Giles, “but …”

“But that’s where they must be,” said William. “There can be no other explanation. Anti-stars, anti-planets, anti-hamburgers, anti-Pinions.” William grinned at Giles. “But you can’t just stir it up in a soup along with matter. You suspect that, don’t you? Your father does. We’ve spoken to him. He sees trouble—a cataclysm. Creatures from Pellucidar are beginning to flee. Are you aware of that? And the communist Chinese have reported desperate anxieties in laboratory pigs. They blame it on CIA weather manipulation, but I think it’s something else.”

“I don’t anticipate a problem any longer,” said Giles. “I obviously couldn’t put the anti-matter into a container, since the container itself would be converted. But there’s such a thing as a magnetic bottle …”

“Yes,” said William, “I’ve read about it.”

“So I built one. I found a bag full of magnets from old cars—it was in the same junk store we were in the day of the wind,” he said, looking at Jim. “I built a polarity reversal bottle.” Giles poked around in a desk drawer for a moment, hauling out a line drawing of something that looked like a rectilinear amphora. Equations peppered the drawing along with arrows and spirals and little, hastily drawn graphs.

William inspected it. It might work. There were parts of it that he couldn’t fathom, equations that meant nothing at all to him. He supposed that Squires could make them out. But Squires wasn’t there. He was a half mile above them in his house on Rexroth Road. And if the three of them weren’t headed in that general direction fairly quickly themselves, there would quite likely be trouble. William was determined not to leave without Giles. But if they had to, if staying too long meant giving Jim up to Frosticos or Han Koi, then they’d flee instead. They’d all rest easier, though, knowing that Giles’ magnetic bottle would do the trick.

It would be a dirty shame if Pinion beat them to the center of the Earth, but their pride could take the blow. It was the blow to the Earth that concerned them. And if Giles had that threat ironed out. … There was something in William that didn’t trust the whole idea of the magnetic bottle. It was sound scientifically. He was sure of that. But there was something else. Instinct? That was it. Civilization theory. Pigs couldn’t be argued with. They had a nose for impending doom. And the dream—the death of Giles Peach. What of that? He didn’t require accuracy of dreams, but it had had an unmistakably premonitory ring to it that sounded in the same key of fear that had inhabited the voice of Basil Peach.

“It won’t work,” said William, grasping at straws.

Giles was silent. He sensed it too.

There was a noise from outside, like the scrape of something along the bulwark. Silence followed. Jim looked out through a crack in the slats of the shutters. Nothing moved. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Giles. “Come on.”

Giles sat staring.

“Powers is having a sale. Burroughs’ novels are twenty-five cents each with every fifth one free.”

“Really?” asked William.

‘That’s right. It just started today. I saw the ad in the window of the store.”

“Martian books?” Giles asked, visibly brightening.

“Heaps. He just bought a collection from somewhere, that’s what he said. They were still in boxes. There’s no telling what all he had.”

Giles looked around himself furtively. “Will you sign this?” he asked William, hauling out the Analog.

“Of course.” William beamed at him. “I don’t have a pen, though.” He tapped his pants pockets. “You and I could accomplish a bit, you know.”

Giles turned red, embarrassed at the praise, and handed across a pen.

“What we need for the diving bell is an oxygenator-propulsion combination. I’ve got some ideas, actually, having to do with a Hieronymous machine. Are you familiar with it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Giles.’ ‘I saw a picture of one in an old issue of Astounding, a Psionic Machine-Type 1.I always wanted to build one.”

“Well, here’s your chance. And another thing—absolute gyro. For stabilization. Do you have any ideas there?”

“Easy,” said Giles. “I’ve already built something like that for the digger. We can do it this afternoon, but we’ve got to get to the Sprouse Reitz on Colorado before they close. That’s where I buy most of my parts.” He checked his watch.

“After Powers’,” said William, smiling.

There was another noise, nearer the shutters now. William motioned Jim into a corner, crept across, and slowly opened one shutter. Darkness met him across the dirty glass. He rubbed circuitously on it with the side of his hand, cleaning a little oval and squinting through it, deciphering the gloom. His heart raced strangely, as if in certain knowledge that something lurked out in the hypnotic darkness—something his eyes couldn’t yet perceive.

Then, in a slice of a moment that seemed to William to resemble the staccato, stroboscope unreeling of an ancient motion picture, there materialized before him a white, smiling face, swerving into sudden clarity beyond the window, leering in. A hand rose beside it. Fingers wiggled in satiric greeting like four fleshy little worms, reminding him of the unholy appendages on the strange fish of Han Koi. The face belonged to a satisfied Hilario Frosticos.

William was frozen in terror, gasping for short breaths, utterly unable to summon up any of the courage he’d possessed not fifteen minutes earlier. A scream gagged him, then ripped from his throat, a single shriek, cut off into a gurgle as he staggered back into the cabin, smashing across the books on the floor and past a terrified Giles Peach to collapse in a heap.

Jim, reacting only to the instinctive terror of a sudden face at a dark window, hurled a book at it, catching the grinning, self-satisfied doctor full in the face. There was a curse of rage followed by silence. Giles sat stone-faced. Staring. William didn’t move. It seemed unlikely to Jim that the two of them were waiting for anything. They were simply swallowed up by fear.

Jim pushed at the desk, shoving it across the door, then heaved at a stack of bookcases, sweeping books out of them onto the floor until he could lever the top case onto the desk. The second followed. He shoved books back into them for weight, conscious as he did so of an omnipresent heaviness in the air. He labored for breath, watching the window out of the corner of his eye for the sign of meddling. He felt wet all over. Not clammy from the muggy air of the cavern, but wet, as if he’d just crawled out of the sea or as if the air around him were itself congealing into seawater. The last of the bookcases rested on the desk. Jim picked up a handful of books, dropping half of them, realizing that since he’d been at it, no one had made any effort to get past his barrier, and hearing at the same time the click and snap of a door opening behind him—a panel in the carved rosewood of the wall. Dr. Frosticos bent through it, smiling malignly. In his hand was a syringe.

William gripped the arms of his chair and sat petrified, utterly unable to respond. Giles seemed asleep, although his eyes were wide open, staring at something none of the rest of them could see. Then, strangely, inexplicably, a fish, pecking at debris on the floor, swam past Jim’s foot. The floor itself, when Jim stared at it in surprise, seemed insubstantial and grainy, as if it were decomposed, or rather as if it weren’t wood at all, but grains of dark sand on an ocean bottom. A tendril of kelp dragged across Jim’s face, waving on a current of heavy, wet air that washed past, then fell momentarily slack before surging back past him in a rush of bubbles, sand, bits of seaweed, and grinning, startled fish.

A cacophony of questions and contrary impressions flooded in on him with the sudden wave of seawater. Had they capsized? Sunk? He fought for a breath of air. Dr. Frosticos banged upside down on the ceiling, his syringe floating off to be swallowed up by a balloonlike puffer that swelled immediately into a spiny orb, whirring away with little flurries of its tiny caudal fin to disappear into one of the bookcases.

There was a terrible battering and howling as the ship listed to port. A groaning surrounded them. There was the sharp snap of ropes, and the junk lurched and heaved on the surface of a suddenly wild sea. The door burst outward; the window disintegrated into sand-size particles, and with a sliding rush as the boat was tossed to and fro, the lot of them tumbled against the wall, then halfway to the door, then back again into the wall. Giles Peach floated along peacefully, resisting the strengthening urge with little sculling motions of his arms and webbed hands. Frosticos was the first to slide through the door.

He flopped over onto his side, hands grasping and flailing, and held onto the door frame, seeming to pull the entire junk farther to port, as if it clung to the side of an enormous vertical wave. Bookcases toppled from the desk, washing past him. The floor seemed to open beneath his face, as if the turmoil had broken through the thin crust of the ocean bottom and into the tunnel of some sand-dwelling creature. A claw poked out. Two claws. A weedy crab the size of a clenched fist, blood red and with white eyes on stalks, a creature almost more spider than crab, hoisted itself from the hole, followed by another and another and another. They crawled onto the head and face of the clutching doctor, nipping off little shreds of skin. His mouth opened in a bubbling scream and the first of the crabs darted in. Frosticos jerked like a hooked fish, loosed his hold, and was swept out into the darkness, followed by surging water, wriggling fish and waterweeds. …

Jim was aware sometime later that he was on deck. A tearing wind banged at the painted sail. His father sat with his back against the mast, staring in disbelief. Overhead was a wild dance of thunder and lightning and flooding rain, an incredible monsoon that swept them along through the darkness. A second junk, the drifting boat of Han Koi, tossed on incredible seas, rising on the face of a swell, toppling at the crest, and running down the backside, its mast snapped, its cabin broken in.

A bolt of forked lightning lit the cavern in a wash of phosphorescent yellow, exposing within the torn-away cabin the Oriental’s immense aquarium. It was lined with sudden cracks like a frozen marble dumped into boiling water, and it burst in an explosion of water and glass, its strange finny prisoners washing as one over the side of the junk and into the momentarily illuminated sea. Utter darkness followed. The light on the distant island was snuffed out—either by the torrent of rain or an intervening ledge of black rock, and the junk seemed to fly across the surface of the sea. Sparks flickered along the mast, and as if in answer to a wild clash of thunder, a ball of revolving sparks arced from the tip of the mast and sailed skyward, wriggling and burning like ascending demons.

William hunched to his feet, clinging to the mast to keep from pitching off the rolling deck. His hair streamed out behind him as he blinked into the wind, watching the ravaged waves toss and leap, now piling into steep walls, now blown flat, long streamers of lacy silver spray taking sudden flight and wisping away, tearing themselves into misty particles and disappearing. The sea itself seemed radiant with light, as if the driftwood fires of the island burned deep beneath the waves, illuminating submarine grottoes where the skeletons of sunken ships shone like the silhouettes of ancient ruined cathedrals.

Jim was suddenly aware that his father was shouting at him over the wind. He could make nothing of it at first, then realized he was asking about Giles. “Where’s Giles?” he shouted, gesturing with his free hand. Jim shook his head. In the cabin? Perhaps so. His lamp, weirdly, was still lit. It swung back and forth on its chain, sputtering. Jim crawled toward the door, but saw that it had slammed shut. The window, though, was unshuttered. He pulled himself along the deck, wedging his left foot against the bulwark and pressing himself up, pulling on the sill, peeking in as the junk lurched and flew on its course. Giles sat within, placid as a stone in his chair, reading Edgar Rice Burroughs in the wavering light of the swinging lantern.

The junk jerked to a stop with a suddenness that threw Jim into the cabin wall. There was a monumental scrunching and scraping of gravel as it beached itself not fifteen feet from the foot of the stone stairs. St. Elmo’s fire flickered along the mast one last time, charging the suddenly still air with the smell of burnt gunpowder, then winking out. The seas fell off, leaving the water oily smooth, and the only noise was the screak, screak, screak of the brass lantern chain as inertia pulled it to a slow stop.

Chapter 20

William rested in the darkness of the abandoned Koontz house, munching morosely on a bag of Fritos and sipping a tasteless beer. Four hours ago he’d envisioned himself heaving up out of the sewer with a grim smile on his face—the conquering hero, young Peach in tow, the painted sail of the junk folded under his arm as a memento of the last decisive battle, won beneath the streets of Glendale. The threat to the Earth would be extinguished—snuffed out by William Hastings, the man hounded and bedeviled by the lying forces of evil. But the victory didn’t amount to much. His sail lay in a heap in the living room at home, the top edge charred by St. Elmo’s fire. It was a gaudy effect, but wasted on him now. All his conceit, his bravado, his best intentions had gone to smash in an instant. He couldn’t have saved himself from annihilation. Damn himself; he couldn’t have saved his son, who at least had the wits and the courage to slam Frosticos in the nose with a book.

It was true that William had talked Giles into altering his allegiance. His story had done that. Giles had said as much. He’d been amazed to find that William shared his knowledge of the arcana of physics. It had been his story, in a sense, that had saved the world from bursting like a balloon. He’d have to write Analog and congratulate them for their far-sightedness.

William shook his head sadly. In the end, Giles had done all the saving, had led them up that interminable staircase and out into freedom, William all the time anticipating the following tread of Hilario Frosticos, of his face materializing in the blackness ahead. William wondered what it was Frosticos had seen during the melee, what it was Frosticos understood to have happened. Had he felt himself being eaten alive by crabs? William shuddered. It wouldn’t make him a happy Frosticos if he had. Perhaps he had drowned. But William knew he hadn’t. It would be too convenient. Things were never that simple.

And he had an uneasy feeling along his spine—something that stirred that black marble of guilt and doubt and fear within him—that was as instinctive and undeniable as the certainty that possessed the Chinese pigs, that prompted them into fearful restlessness and sent them snuffling around their cages in search of an exit which, if found, would lead in a wild, terrified rush off the edge of a cliff of self-destruction.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and there was the face writhing like a mass of ghostly worms, whirling into sharp clarity. He yanked his eyes open almost at once. There’d be little sleep tonight. He’d take the chance of sneaking home after midnight—better to take the chance of being caught among friends than to spend the night in an empty house.

He dozed off and dreamed that he was rubbing a circle of clarity into the dirty glass of a window. There was something beyond, something in the night—white and deadly, grinning humorlessly in at him. He shuddered awake, lurching to his knees, swearing to himself that he’d been an idiot, a monkey-witted pickle-head to have given poor Latzarel such a fright in Frosticos’ basement. He had no idea. It was karma; that’s what it was. The circle would remain unbroken, as the song put it. Japanese carpenters left a visible error in their cabinetry to humble themselves, to scuttle conceit. But the joints and workings of William’s life were riddled with unintended error, with outright bungling, and it hadn’t done a bit to pare away conceit. Conceit had swum in laughing, nodding and shouting and making an ass of him. It made him something worse, but he couldn’t think of a word for it. Jim hadn’t blamed him, and that was the worst of it, in a way. The better people were, the harder it was to measure up, the more important it was not to go to bits. He hadn’t wanted to fold up like a paper doll. That wasn’t at all what he had in mind. He’d spend the night in the abandoned house, sleep or no sleep. He had his book, his pipe, half a bottle of brandy—what was it Laurence Sterne had said on the subject?—“and we know not what it is to fear death.” William had always admired that line. He wished he could have written it. But pipe and brandy aside, there were other things to fear besides death. For this night, though, the brandy would have to be the first defense. He hoped and feared at once that he’d have another chance to prove himself. For the moment, he’d start in on the dark house. He shut his eyes and watched the webby lines spin and twirl.

Reporters were skeptical on the television two days later. The whole idea was ludicrous, straight out of a science fiction novel—and not a novel with pretensions either, but a dimestore thriller, a pulp, with ray guns and dinosaurs on the moon. There was a shot of The Digging Leviathan, the mechanical mole, tethered behind John Pinion’s ranch house. It was elevated on a sort of trestle affair, with its nose facing downward, aimed into the Earth. It was self-propelling, Pinion explained to an inquisitive reporter. The last few feet would be the most touchy. Once its nose pushed through into the hollow core of the Earth, its propulsion would cease. They could only hope that its momentum would carry them forward far enough to get the hatch open.

Pinion looked nervous and kept smoothing down his hair. It struck Edward suddenly that he wasn’t really an evil sort, not at all. He was simply a man possessed. He was a zealot, and so was near-sighted and given to extremes. Edward almost pitied him. He was certain that Pinion’s reputation was about to be flung down and danced on. What the mole would do without Giles Peach at the helm was impossible to predict. It might simply sit there and refuse to work. Its engines might well be nonsense—conglomerations of the same sorts of dimestore trash and castaway debris that Giles and William had been puttering with in the maze shed.

What was peculiar was the fanfare. Spekowsky was some-how at least partly responsible; that much was clear. He poked around the machine along with another reporter, asking poor Pinion impossible questions about anti-gravity, questions that Pinion was utterly unable to field. He waved them aside as inconsequential. Wait, he said, until the launching. He was prepared to stake his reputation, his life. This wasn’t some sort of steam shovel. They were undertaking a journey of some eight hundred miles. Perhaps more. Following in the footsteps of Admiral Byrd, in the tradition of Christopher Columbus, who set out in spite of the flat Earth.

Edward hurried out to the maze shed where William and Giles tinkered with their Dean-drive mechanism. They’d attached it to the axolotl, still dressed in water-soaked trousers. When Edward bent in through the door William was just setting it off. There was the spinning of a tiny crank, the sigh of a stream of fine bubbles bursting on the surface of the water-filled maze. The axolotl shot forward, careering down the little avenue and smashing into the wall in a befuddled heap long before it occurred to him to begin to negotiate the turn. William fished him out and plucked the mechanism off his neck. He looked up at Edward and nodded at his device. Giles tinkered with a piece of sheet copper at the workbench.

“We’ve about got it,” said William. “The oxygenator threw us for a bit, but Giles has come up with a device with a chlorophyll and helium back-up system. It’s a little bulky, and if we have to use it we’ll talk like elves, but it should work. He’s piecing it together now.”

Edward looked across at the unit on the bench. Giles was dumping green powder into a funnel which emptied into a copper box. A canister of helium was linked to the box by a coiled tube. God knew why. Edward felt like a child. Physics and chemistry were not his provinces. All he could think of was that the tin funnel might have been Tom Terrific’s hat. He’d always had an inexplicable fondness for cartoons.

“They’re about to launch,” he said.

William put the axolotl back into its aquarium and dried his hands. Giles cared nothing for the launching of the leviathan. It was the diving bell that possessed him now. The digger would have to look after itself.

Edward followed his brother-in-law into the house. “I don’t believe Ashbless is on hand,” he said, clumping up the back steps.

“Hah!” cried William. “Of course he’s not. He’s no fool. I’m certain he thought he had Giles pegged that afternoon when Velma Peach came round to tell us he’d disappeared. Ashbless! He’s full of hunches. But he hasn’t half enough science in him for accuracy. He’s just moving by instinct. Giles tells me it was Ashbless that brought him the Analog. You mark my words. If the launching fails, we’ll hear from the poet. And soon, too.”

William turned up the sound on the set. John Pinion was crawling into the hatch, waving foolishly at the live action cameras. Then, not even acknowledging the existence of the cameras or reporters, Hilario Frosticos appeared out of the hangar, strode across the lawn, and clambered in, slamming the hatchcover after him. Reporters backed away and the machine hummed into life, shuddering there on its supports. The rotating teeth in its nose worked back and forth, and a monumental humming arose as it slid down into the Earth in a whirlwind of dust.

“It’s going, by God!” cried Edward.

William crouched in front of the television, unbelieving. The machine sank into the soft earth, sliding in a foot, then six feet, then its entire length, disappearing from view, pushing a mound of dirt out after it into an immense mole hill. Reporters, chattering in surprise that equaled Edward’s, rushed to the hole waving cameras. The leviathan sank deeper, threatening to disappear entirely from sight.

There was an awful tearing sound, such a breaking and banging and crashing that for one wild moment William was convinced the cataclysm was upon them. Then all was abruptly still. Reporters and cameramen rushed everywhere. William and Edward crouched before the television, inches away. Jim stood behind them. Professor Latzarel slammed in through the door without so much as a knock, gibbering about listening to the news on the radio, but he was waved to silence.

The Digging Leviathan had gone amok, slanting off its course and through the concrete wall of a sewer. Its indestructible mandibles were ruined—a mass of twisted metal, growling and whirring and spinning in random spurts, round and round like the crank of an old car. Somehow, within moments, a camera crew with blazing lamps had found its way into the sewer. The whole voyage was a debacle, a ruin. The leviathan was wedged into the concrete pipe. John Pinion climbed out of the hatch, his hand over his face. He appeared to be weeping. Frosticos followed, disappearing in the tumult.

Two helmeted policemen accosted Pinion, who shook them off with a curse. Beyond, half in the shadows, stood William Ashbless, watching. Sunshine streamed in suddenly from the hole above as a shower of dirt cascaded in, widening the opening. Firemen grappling with an enormous hose peered through, but there was no threat of fire. Pinion waved his fist at them, frightened, apparently, that they’d hose down his machine. He was shouting something, contorting his face. A reporter waved a microphone at him and tried to pick up the words. It was Spekowsky.

“How-do you feel after this tragedy?” asked Spekowsky nearly shoving the mike into Pinion’s mouth.

“What!” shouted Pinion, turning on him. “Get that filthy device out of my face! Get back, I tell you!” And he took a swipe at the reporter, who ducked neatly back, thrusting out his microphone once again.

“What went wrong, Mr. Pinion?” he shouted. Then he shook his head sadly at the camera, as if commiserating with Pinion over the fate of his enterprise.

“You … bastard!” cried the stupefied Pinion, springing at him. The two policemen subdued him, escorting him stooped and sobbing down the sewer. He broke away after about ten feet, turning to survey his wrecked machine, gesturing at it, mouthing something, perhaps asking it why it had betrayed him. Then he seemed to perk up and look around, as if for the first time noting the absence of his copilot, Hilario Frosticos. He said something to the police, who shrugged, gesturing down the sewer toward where a cylinder of light shone in through an open manhole.

A hole had been torn in the side of the digger, and the engine was a wreck of odd parts, exposed to the prying eyes of the camera. Spekowsky spoke into the microphone, motioning toward the digger, reminding the audience of Pinion’s claims to have invented unimaginable engines—anti-matter, perpetual motion.

“Hello, what’s this?” he said, obviously enjoying himself at the expense of Pinion and his device. “Who could imagine that such an engine could propel a machine through the Earth?” Then he stopped and grinned, as if suddenly remembering that the engine hadn’t propelled the machine anyplace but into a sewer. He poked at a flat, coiled spring, obviously a remnant of an old, cheap clock. It was attached by a complication of paper clips to a basketball bladder, and a length of copper wire from which dangled an obvious price tag. Spekowsky turned the tag over and a camera zoomed in. “Sprouse Reitz,” the tag read, “29¢.”

“Huh?” said Spekowsky just as the cameras retreated. William Ashbless, his long white hair around his shoulders, was edging in to have a look just as the segment winked out into a commercial for toilet cleaners depicting a man in a rowboat adrift on a toilet bowl sea.

“Poor John Pinion,” said William, feeling that Pinion had been betrayed, and that his betrayal was largely William’s fault—all William’s fault, for that matter. Two days earlier Pinion was leagues ahead of them—on his way to becoming the greatest explorer since Brendan the Navigator. And now here he was, a weeping ruin, a laughingstock. Reporters who’d been drinking beer all afternoon downtown were dancing on his dreams, yammering, dissecting his craft for the off chance they’d find material for new jokes. William could see the headline: “Mechanical Mole Clogs Sewer!” Pinion had shot his bolt after William had unfeathered it. Poor devil.

William grinned at the thought. Too bad about Pinion, as slimy as he was. But Frosticos, that was a different story. How had he been allowed to slip away unnoticed? Why hadn’t he been harried by reporters—asked to explain the workings of the marvelous vehicle? And Ashbless hadn’t even been aboard. What, he wondered, did the old man have up his sleeve? William was fairly sure they’d hear from him shortly. Well, Ashbless could whistle into the wind.

The lightweights. They bit off more than they could chew when they messed with William Hastings. He’d slid in again and whipped the rug out from under them. And now they were cooked geese. Even if they could hoist the leviathan out of the sewer, without Giles it wasn’t worth scrap. He wondered suddenly what Giles was up to. Here he was wasting time. Giles had been right not to watch the news. It was nothing but a circus. Pinion was a clown, capering and grimacing.

Giles worked silently and quickly, like a surgeon. No movements were wasted or arbitrary. The heap of debris on the counter was slowly diminishing, and a large Hieronymous Machine attached to a modified Dean-drive mechanism was taking rapid shape. They’d be in the water in a matter of days.

“Well, it was a failure,” said William to the back of Giles’ head.

Giles nodded, poking with a screwdriver at a recess in the box.

“I can’t quite figure why it went haywire. Either that or I can’t figure why it worked at all. One or the other.”

“It still had some bugs in it,” said Giles indifferently. “And he wouldn’t have known how to pilot it.”

“Needs a special pilot does it?”

“Yes, sort of. You have to have a feel for the mechanism. It’s simple, actually, if you understand it. It’s a question of emanations, of rays. You’ve read the Martian books?’

“Certainly,” said William. “Quite a bit in there about rays, as I recall.”

“Yes, there was. We don’t know half as much about them as they do on Barsoom, of course, but I was reading an article about the Russians. They’re quite advanced. All this talk about nuclear war is just nonsense—that’s what the word from the inside is. They’ve got a madness ray that’s impervious to the horizon. They’ll just aim it right through the Earth at Los Angeles, and—pow!—we’ll be drooling in the street.” Giles stopped abruptly, surprised at himself for having carried on so. He looked furtively at William, embarrassed, perhaps, at having spoken so flippantly about lunacy.

William smiled at him. The boy was a genius, and an eccentric. There was no denying it. He rummaged in the mouse cage and hauled out Alexis and Mary, two of his favorite mice. He suspended a pair of identical doll dresses in front of them, enticing the coy pair. They seemed to respond with interest, having fallen wider the spell of civilization. William helped them into the finery, then shunted them up the avenue into a dry section of maze where they went sniffing along inquisitively, looking for a treat. They were the mainstay of his experiments—the bedrock. The axolotl seemed to be drawn to their obvious gentility. William had high hopes that they’d be similarly affected by the amphibian and would undertake at the very least some of its attraction to water.

But if he could—if Giles could—perfect the mechanism in miniature, he could leap across ten million years of creeping evolution in one fell swoop. The mice could be amphibianized through technology. There was an interesting irony there, thought William, if you looked at it from the right direction.

A car door slammed out front. William was off like a rocket, through the aquarium shed, onto his stump, and over the fence. He closed the rear door of the Koontz house behind him and locked it. There was no one in the street. The manhole cover sat unwatched in the quiet street. There was no telling who had driven up. If they’d come a half hour earlier, they’d have caught him out, watching Pinion’s decline on the television. He hadn’t even heard the arrival of Latzarel’s car, noisy as it was. Such was fate. It was dealing him the high cards. He squinted through the window at the back door of his house. The door flung open and the two policemen burst out, heading straight for the trashcan. The fools. They must be supremely tired of chasing phantoms. Frosticos had made phone calls. He was mortified by defeat.

The two officers seemed to be yelling at Edward. The one with the amazing nose was waving his hands. Edward shrugged convincingly. Latzarel was acting heated, slamming his hand into his fist to emphasize a point. They wandered into the maze shed. William could only imagine their astonishment and loathing. What would they make of Mary and Alexis, sporting in the maze? What unholy explanation could Edward offer to explain the decorated mice? Civilization theory wouldn’t answer. They’d be deaf to it—obviously so; they weren’t a product of it.

The younger of the two came reeling out. The other followed, shaking his finger at Edward. William could hear the shouting through the closed window. “Deviant!” he seemed to be shouting, although it might have been “Deviate!” which was even better, since it implied sexual perversion. William giggled. Then he noticed the head of Mrs. Pembly peering over the fence. She’d set them on him. That had to be the case. He’d been lax, parading into the house in broad daylight to watch the news. He clenched his fist and started for the door, but stopped halfway there. They were two days away from launching. Edward and Latzarel were going up to Gaviota tomorrow to fetch the bell. He was almost home free. He’d wait. He had patience. But by God, if he could see his way clear, he’d make her pay dearly. He couldn’t afford it now, though. He was bound to be on the bell. It was a journey he’d anticipated for years, long before the first faint glimmers of it had begun to take material shape. He’d wait her out. That was what. Then, like good Caius, he’d “strike, and quickly too.”

All was quiet, it seemed, at home. But Mrs. Pembly still watched through her window, and the police were sure to be lurking in the neighborhood. He’d lie low, to borrow a phrase from Edward, and slip out after dark for a hamburger and fries at Pete’s Blue Chip.

Almost as soon as the sun disappeared and night fell, there was the sound of the secret knock on the rear door. William unlatched it, and Edward slipped in, full of news and desperation. Things were hot. The police, he was sure, were onto them. Reports of William’s presence had surfaced too often to be false leads. That they hadn’t been to the neighbors on Stickley Street yet and discovered the Koontz house was dumb luck. Tomorrow they might well wise up.

He and Latzarel were leaving in the early morning for Gaviota. Jim was off to school. Giles had taken the machine home for the day to put the finishing touches on it. Edward hated to see him go. Pinion wasn’t, to be sure, entirely out of the picture. There was no telling what sorts of desperate capers he’d get up to. And Frosticos—he was clearly still interested in Giles regardless of the fate of the digger. But Velma Peach was staying home. She was a stalwart woman, said Edward. If things had been different—if she and Basil had separated … well …

William commiserated with him and invited him to go along for a hamburger. This was no time for hamburgers, said Edward. What if William was forced underground? They had to launch in two days. The oceanarium only half understood what they intended to do with the bell. The sooner they were away in it the better. And Giles insisted the mechanism would be ready. He was adamant. If they hesitated they’d lose him. He’d set out in a flowerpot. And he’d get there, too, while they joined Pinion in the failed-man’s club.

William agreed. He couldn’t agree more. The sooner the better. If he had to go into hiding, they’d know it. He’d simply be gone. The only thing to do was for them to stick to their plans. If all else went awry, he’d meet them at San Pedro. Or if not there, at Palos Verdes. If he couldn’t get to Palos Verdes, then he’d fallen into the clutches of some nemesis—the police, Hilario Frosticos—and wouldn’t be making the trip anyway. But that, he said, was unlikely. He had a copy of Pince Nez. There was a drainage outfall with sewer connections right there in the cove. Neap tide was at three in the afternoon. What could be simpler?

Edward shook his head. It didn’t seem at all simple to him. There were too many variables. But whatever else happened, William was to lie low. Incognito. He wasn’t to stir when the sun was up.

William was satisfied. He’d be a bat, he said. A vampire—melted by the sun. But for now, he was off to Pete’s Blue Chip for a double cheeseburger, fries, and a boysenberry shake.

Edward shook his head darkly and watched. He wasn’t sure what it was he feared most, William’s fears or his bonhomie, which chose the strangest times to surface.

A wind blew up in the night, thrashing through the date palms that lined Stickley Avenue. The big dry fronds rustled back and forth, and William, sleeping fitfully on the floor, teetered on the edge of wakefulness, surfacing every half hour or so to curse the wind. He swore each time that if he weren’t asleep in ten minutes he’d switch the lamp on and read, dangerous as it was, but somehow he dozed off immediately into a sort of half sleep, never actually looking at the luminous dial of his pocket watch.

Around two in the morning, predictably, he began to regret the onions on his cheeseburger. There was half a warm beer left in a bottle against the wall, but somehow instead of drowning the burning in the bottom of his throat, it seemed to encourage it. He had a bottle of Rolaids—500 of them—in the medicine chest at home, and at two-thirty, unable to remember the passing of the last hour but ready to swear he hadn’t slept through it, he lay on his back calculating how much he’d pay for two of the chalky, miraculous tablets.

The wind blew harder. A door banged shut somewhere, over and over again, and there was a continual swishing of troubled vegetation out in the night. Every once in a while, entirely randomly, he could hear the scrape-swish of a branch against a window screen. He started each time, yanked up out of thin sleep, certain as his heart labored and he lay holding his breath that someone was fiddling at the screen, that there’d be a sudden face at the window. He could see the face in his mind. As he drifted into a twilit sleep, the face, somehow, became one with the wind, as if fingers of wind tugged at the screens out in the dark night and a pale cold face, just the smoky, swirling shroud of a face, stared in, watching him. A crashing in the yard broke into the dream, dissolving the face.

William hovered on the edge of sleep. A palm frond, he told himself, had dropped onto the sidewalk. Dream images swirled in his head. He watched himself stand up and move off—going out, he supposed, to visit a bookstore. Noises in the night distracted him. There was a universe of activity on the wind. Bits of debris flew past, lit by the moon: a bowler hat, a slowly revolving bicycle wheel, an open umbrella, a lawn chair that bounced along end over end, leaping the fence and swirling suddenly skyward toward the moon. The elm tree, still leafless, danced and thrashed against the blue-black sky. There seemed to something in it, ropes tangled in a steel device, a winch. Beyond the fence, in the Pembly yard, Mrs. Pembly stood staring, her housecoat flapping gaudily. She seemed to be looking right through him.

Dr. Frosticos labored behind her, aided by Yamoto the gardener. Yamoto’s white trousers snapped and flapped in the wind as if at any moment he would simply set sail, careening away in the wake of the bowler hat and the lawn chair. They strapped Mrs. Pembly’s dog into a leather sling and hoisted the protesting beast skyward. The dog wore a tweed jacket and a bowler hat. They were mocking William. Clearly. They knew he was watching, that he wouldn’t dare confront them in the dead of a windy night.

The dog dangled in its sling, back and forth, its legs hanging foolishly. Its hat blew off. Frosticos cursed as Yamoto jumped for it and missed, the hat sailing away into the darkness just as a toppled lawn chair shook in the teeth of the wind and rose into the air, blowing away with the hat. The dog swung in a little circle over the wall. They lowered him in jolts onto William’s lawn, grinning and whispering encouragement. Mrs. Pembly stood with her arms crossed, still staring, deadly serious.

In a moment the dog was airborne once more, its filthy goal accomplished. William was speechless with horror and loathing. It was his tweed jacket the dog wore. He was sure of it. They’d stolen it, the bastards—sneaked in under the cover of the wind and slipped out with it. They could have slit his throat, drugged him, beaten him, but they didn’t. They were toying with him. He was furious. They’d pay. The lot of them would pay.

The dog disappeared behind the wall. Yamoto clambered up onto the fence and pulled himself onto a branch, wrenching at the device in the tree. That was for Edward’s benefit. There’d be no evidence of machinations in the morning, no explaining the horror in the yard.

Yamoto dropped back onto the fence, grinning. He crouched, peered toward William who stood frozen with terror, and ran along the copings toward the old Koontz house, toward William’s sanctuary, his white, billowing trousers lit by moonlight. He was far older than William remembered. William had seen his face before, and recently too. He had a little droopy beard and wore earrings beneath the brim of his bowler hat—dangling goldfish with the face of Giles Peach. Yamoto’s face was empty of expression. Dead. And he seemed to run on and on along the fencetop, sure as a cat, scampering closer and closer.

William gasped with terror. Choked with it. Tried to move, but could do nothing but watch Yamoto running toward him through the wind, his white robes whipping and snapping like loose sails on a mast. He saw suddenly that a steamer trunk lay propped against the wall, its lid slamming shut and falling open, bang, bang, bang, until the entire chest rose above the ground, hovering and dancing for a moment before sailing off, shrinking in the distance. Yamoto ran inexorably along and was suddenly lifted by the wind and flung head over heels, his bowler hat spinning away and he following after, an untethered kite, glowing and dwindling in the agitated moonlight. The roof of the Pembly house blew loose and spun off. The elm cracked and bent and tore out bodily, pinwheeling away. Clouds raced in the sky, and through the rents torn by the wind, William could see shooting stars, showers of them, blown through space, the wild gale sweeping the heavens clean and piling stars and planets, bowler hats and lawn chairs against some rusted and teetering chainlink fence in the void.

Chapter 21

Sunlight shone through the curtainless window, straight into William’s eyes. It was eight o’clock. It had been a hellish night. The wind still blew, but somehow daylight masked the sound of the rustling palm fronds. William remembered having nightmares. It was impossible, though, to say when he’d fallen asleep, and whether he had seen anything at all out the back window. It was all peculiarly real to him.

He was damned if he was going to spend the day in the empty house. He’d have been wise to sneak home before dawn, but he’d just have to risk it now. He’d never been quite so desperate for a cup of coffee. Edward would sweat at the idea of him exposing himself so, but c’est la vie, as the Frenchman said. He’d lock himself in and not answer the door or telephone. He could always nip back over the fence in a crisis.

He stood for a moment at the back door, watching the Pembly house. Nothing stirred. He opened the door and darted out, hunched and running toward the fence. He stopped, peeked over, saw nothing once again, and then clambered up onto a pile of brick and over the wall into the door of the aquarium shed. From the maze shed he looked out again. There was no use taking chances. He started out, then checked himself, stopping and staring at the grass under the elm where a clump of dog waste gathered a multitude of early morning flies.

William’s heart smashed away in his chest, half in anger, half in fear. There was no sign of a winch in the treetop. Of course there wasn’t. They’d taken it out. If he looked over the wall, there it would be, rusting in the weeds, the picture of innocence. He came to himself suddenly and hurried into the house.

The morning dragged along. He tried to read, but couldn’t. So he tried to write, but it was a waste of time. He came up with nothing but nonsense, nothing but first paragraphs full of mystery and promise that led to the wastepaper basket. He roamed the house, poking into closets, flipping on lights and flipping them off again. He spent more and more time watching through the window, speculating on the activities of his neighbor. He arranged the drapes. The hibiscus hadn’t grown so much as to obscure his view, but until almost noon, there was nothing at all to see. Mrs. Pembly remained invisible, ignoring her weeds. Once she came outside with something for the dog, an enormous knucklebone, from the look of it, or, thought William giggling at his post by the drapes, the boiled head of her husband. She disappeared straightaway into the house. William didn’t like it a bit. It was unnatural. Something was in the air.

At around noon William dozed in the green chair. He awoke with a jerk, but couldn’t remember what it was that had roused him—a noise of some sort, vaguely threatening. He listened, cocking an ear toward the street. There was a creak and a bang, the sound of a tailgate being lowered. William stood up and crept to the front window, and there was Yamoto, in his trousers, messing with a bamboo rake and a grass catcher, scrabbling in the little bed of begonias that separated part of the Pembly lawn from William’s own.

William was furious. He could see in his mind a crouched and running Yamoto, wearing a bowler hat, his white clothes fluttering, the remnants of a nightmare. He shuddered and paced back and forth. A tiny Edward St. Ives sat on his shoulder, admonishing him, belaboring his conscience and his better judgment. William brushed him off onto the floor. “I know what they’re up to,” he said aloud. He stopped in front of the window. Yamoto was weeding with a triangular hoe, dangerously close to William’s side of the begonias. If he touched the orange tuberous …!

A man can’t be pushed that far, thought William.

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” said a tiny, irritating voice.

“Discretion! Don’t talk to me about discretion. And I hate cliché. Look at that! He’s jarred my angel wing! Those green stalks can’t take that kind of abuse. The butcher!”

William raged around the room. The tiny Edward vanished. And just as well for him. This was an affair of honor. The white glove had been cast long ago, and it was time for William to pluck it up and slap Yamoto silly with it. The old lady too. Their villainy had reached new heights the past night.

But William was shrewd. He thought of his lesson with the toothpaste tube. Slow and easy, that was his way now. Yamoto would be at it for an hour at least. There was time for preparation. He routed out an old backpack and hauled it into the kitchen, shoving in a package of saltines. A can of peaches followed along with a can opener. He found part of a bag of Oreo cookies in the cupboard and put that in, then added a half dozen little cardboard cartons of raisins, an apple, and a piece of salami.

He dug out a one-quart canteen and filled it with water, found a flashlight—not quite the bone crusher he was used to, but heavy enough in his hand to lend him a certain contempt for the casual villain—and finally the third of the army-navy store miner’s helmets. It belonged to Russel Latzarel, but he would understand. He wouldn’t need it aboard the diving bell anyway. William set the stuffed backpack, the canteen, and the miner’s helmet by the back door. Then, considering, he fetched the copy of Pince Nez, a compass, and one of the little penlights he’d gotten from Phillip Mays. He stuffed the lot of it into his pack, slipped out through the maze shed, and dumped them over the fence into the back yard of the vacant Koontz house. He might, after all, be moving quickly.

The preparations gave him a sense of urgency. Ready for anything, that’s how they’d find him. He’d tackle Yamoto now. He could hear the roar of his mower. It would be best not to simply charge out and confront the wily gardener. That had been his mistake the last time, when he’d been defeated by a garden hose. There must be a way to vindicate himself now, not only in his own eyes, but in the eyes of the law. It could easily come to that. It was odds-on that it would. And if it did, some link between Yamoto and Frosticos would go a long way toward justifying his own actions, his escapes from the sanitarium. Paranoia, after all, ceases to be paranoia in the light of revealed evidence. Edward would agree with him there.

William slipped out onto the front porch, flattening himself against the wall of the house that enclosed the end of the porch. He peeked around the corner of it. Yamoto chased his mower across the lawn. He jerked around in a tight little turn and headed back. William ducked away, waiting. As soon as Yamoto reversed direction again, William was off, scampering across the lawn toward the pickup truck. He was safely hidden by the fender when Yamoto reversed again, and in the next instant he was clambering into the cab, as quietly as he could, throwing himself fiat on his back atop the seat.

He breathed hoarsely, out of fear rather than exertion, and ran his hand along under the seat. There were nothing but springs. He had no idea what he hoped to discover. A walkie-talkie? A gun? A medical bag? His hand closed on a book. He hauled it out It was written in Oriental characters. William couldn’t tell which end was which. He tossed it to the floor in disgust. ‘Then why can’t he talk like a man,” he muttered, quoting Huckleberry Finn, and popped open the glove box. An avalanche of debris cascaded out onto the floor. He shoved his hand in and swept out the rest: cigarettes, hard candy, street-maps, napkins, little plastic containers of mustard and ketchup, a fountain pen, another book, nuts and bolts. Nothing, though, that really sewed the case up. Nothing damning, as the lawyer would say. Nothing but a little wooden box, carved, it seemed, out of rosewood—in the figure of a goldfish, bent in the middle like the yin half of a yin and yang. William popped the top off. There were pills inside, Bayer aspirin, from the look of them. William touched his tongue to one. It was bitter.

Of course they would look like aspirin. In an organization of the magnitude of Han Koi’s it would be a simple enough business to press morphine and heroin into false aspirin tablets. And the goldfish—a dead giveaway. It would mean nothing, of course, to the casual observer. But to William, to someone with knowledge of the arcana, the machinations of the world by the clever Han Koi. … William shoved it into his pocket.

He raised himself onto his elbows and looked back over his shoulder at the house. Yamoto cut on, oblivious. William laughed. Damn it! he thought to himself. If only he’d brought a potato to jam into Yamoto’s exhaust pipe. He’d wait in the bushes, watching. Yamoto would try to start the truck. Nothing would happen. He’d crawl down out of the cab, scratching his head, and open the hood. The engine would tell him nothing. It would leer at him. Puzzled, he’d creep around, peering under the truck, wiggling things, chattering. Mrs. Pembly would come out with her arms folded and commiserate. Both, of course, would harbor suspicions, fears. They’d look around in vain. Was William Hastings about? Had he been coming and going like a ghost in the night? Had it been he who had destroyed the plan to penetrate the Earth?

Mrs. Pembly would shake her head. Yamoto would crouch on his hands and knees at the rear of the truck, staring in horror at the business end of a potato stuffed up his exhaust pipe, thwarting the flow of necessary vapors, stopping utterly the workings of the engine. He’d poke at it. Mrs. Pembly would marvel, perplexed, asking him why on Earth? Then both would stop. There’d be a rustling in the bushes behind them. William Hastings would step out, smiling, wearing a suit and tie. He’d bow, inquire after the health of the dog. Suggest modifications in the sling and harness affair in the tree. They’d be dumbstruck, Yamoto holding the potato like a fool, Mrs. Pembly falling back at the sight of him. “Aspirin?” he’d ask, holding out the incriminating box. Yamoto would pale.

William giggled, thinking about it. If he hurried, he might still have time to pull it off. He stared at the fabric stretched across the ceiling of the cab. There seemed to be a million little holes in it, all in uniform lines. It was just possible, though, that they weren’t holes, that they were little dots painted on.

“Aspirin?” asked William aloud, canting his head and widening his eyes.

An unimaginable scream jammed him against the seat—a short, violent scream like the scream of a man in mortal terror. William sprang up, slamming his head into the ceiling. Yamoto, his mouth working, stared in at him through the open window, gibbering, looking as if he’d seen his own corpse in a bush.

“Hah!” shouted William after his initial surprise. He waved the rosewood goldfish at him. “So this is your game? Heroin, morphine? What is it? What do you know of Han Koi?”

Yamoto stumbled backward, waving his open palms before him in a sort of ritualistic dance. William reached for the dashboard to steady himself, found Yamoto’s book, and pitched it out the window. He could think of nothing else to do with it. The same was true for the debris on the floor. William picked up a handful and tossed it out onto the lawn, furious. They’d see who it was they’d run afoul of. He pushed open the door and shoveled the rest into the gutter. Mrs. Pembly was on the porch. If she had any sense, she’d stay there.

Yamoto ran toward his tools. So it was that way. He’d been spooked by William’s knowledge of the pills in the box. This wasn’t ten-cent bets on baseball games anymore. Yamoto was desperate. William climbed out of the cab and into the bed of the truck. He tripped over a bamboo rake. The bastard. He cursed at it, stomping the little bent fingers of the thing. He picked it and sailed it into the bushes like a spear. Yamoto waved his hoe menacingly. William laughed aloud, dumping a gunnysack full of grass clippings out onto the road and rolling a power edger out after it down the lowered tailgate, the red and yellow machine clanging to the street on its side and lying there dead. William shouted at it. Then he shouted at Yamoto, who, he could see, was keeping his distance. He leaped off the truck onto the parkway, stumbled, and clambered to his feet again before Yamoto had a chance to be on him with the hoe.

He advanced toward the porch. Yamoto was a gibbering wreck. It was Mrs. Pembly who now most desperately required comeuppance. “Do you think,” shouted William, waving his arm, “that I know nothing of your little game with the dog?”

Mrs. Pembly shot into the house like a rocket, slamming the door. She reappeared at the window. William made a hash of one of her begonias while Yamoto protested loudly and incoherently. William stomped another. “Keep your filthy dog off my lawn!” he shouted. The speeches he’d rehearsed in past weeks were taking flight in the face of his rage. He yanked a third begonia out by the roots, tore it to bits, and flung it at Yamoto, then stomped another into scrap.

He was tiring out. There was no profit in flattening begonias. It wouldn’t accomplish a thing. He was suddenly at a loss. Things hadn’t gone at all well. Edward had been right all along and there was no denying it. But he had the rosewood box. That’s what frightened Yamoto so. You could see it in his eyes—a desperation. He needed that box. William hopped across into his own yard. “I’ll be back!” he cried, although it sounded weak to him. Not the note of severity the situation required. He nipped into the maze shed and over the fence, grabbing his backpack and canteen and slamming the miner’s helmet onto his head. Five minutes later he was climbing down iron rungs into the sewer, unpursued.

* * *

By the time Uncle Edward and Professor Latzarel drove up in the flatbed with the diving bell perched weirdly on its bronze feet, the police had come and gone twice. They’d questioned Jim. He’d been at school and knew nothing. There was evidence, they insisted, that William Hastings had broken into the empty house behind, that he’d been living there for days. Jim hadn’t heard anything about it. His father, he had been sure, was in northern California, living among the redwoods. The police weren’t interested. They’d found hamburger wrappers in the Koontz house, and a counter boy at Pete’s Blue Chip had recognized a photo of William Hastings. They’d done some neat detective work, to be sure.

But William Hastings was gone—into the sewers, likely. He thought of himself, they said, as some sort of Swamp Fox, a Robin Hood, suffering under the delusion that he fought a cloudy and nebulous world threat.

An article in the Times the following morning referred to the incident in humorous tones, capitalizing on William’s adventures and on his associations with Russel Latzarel, the diving bell pilot, who also sought the center of the Earth. John Pinion’s recent fiasco was mentioned. They’d received a letter from Hastings, written very coherently and elegantly on blank endpapers torn from an old book. The strange missive, detailing a plot to explode the world, had been rolled into a little cylinder and shoved up through a manhole cover directly in front of the Times office. Subsequent searches of the sewer by police yielded nothing. Hastings had wisped away like smoke.

There were accusations in the letter against a prominent local psychiatrist, talk of great subterranean lakes sailed by opium smugglers in Chinese junks. Mermen lived in the dark waters in homes made of ancient sunken sloops and galleons, all of which, in some imponderable way, were linked to the submarine boneyard recently discovered by abalone fishermen, to the sighting of an elasmosaurus by Professor Russel Latzarel in an oceanic trench off Palos Verdes, and to a mysterious flying submarine seen from the tip of Catalina Island. The Times was cheering for Hastings. He was, after all, harmless. What had he done beyond ruining a half dozen begonias in a neighbor’s flowerbed? And as for slugging a man with a heavy flashlight—Hastings had included with the letter a photocopied order for a pull-frontal lobotomy to be accomplished in the very sanitarium he’d fled from weeks past. His doctor, lately and coincidentally implicated in the John Pinion sewer imbroglio, was being sought for questioning.

Edward’s first thought was to lament the letter. But as he read the article through a second time, his attitude slowly changed. William, it was clear, had gone a long way toward turning himself into something of a local hero. It had been a shrewd step. Admittedly he’d never be taken seriously again, but then even without the letter he was on the edge of that particular fate.

And who was to say that it wasn’t publicity Frosticos feared most? Han Koi certainly couldn’t afford it. Perhaps Yamoto was in league with the doctor. Edward had coolly agreed to paying for repairs to his equipment and to the restoring of Mrs. Pembly’s begonias. There was nothing to be gained in expanding the feud. Far better to deflate it. But the Pemblys were putting the house up for sale and moving away. They’d had enough of William’s shenanigans. And Edward was no better. As far as she could see they were all peas in a pod.

In the end Edward determined to take William at his word, for bettor or for worse. His brother-in-law had, after all, become in some ways the most strangely coherent of the lot of them. And when all was said and done, if he’d been pressed, Edward couldn’t have begun to explain where those randomly appearing dog droppings were coming from. If it turned out that Giles Peach had equipped a neighborhood dog with anti-gravity, it would hardly have surprised him.

So William had a copy of the timetable in his wallet. Giles insisted that the schedule was crucial. They’d cast off at the nadir of the low tide, an impressive negative six feet. Squires could just get the tug into position if there wasn’t a swell running. And all reports predicted calm and tranquil seas. Why they needed a low tide, Edward couldn’t at all understand. Giles said it had to do with the effect of pressures on the Hieronymous machine and the Dean-drive system. If they’d wanted to go the other direction—to fly—they’d need a high tide. It was a matter of particle physics and of ray propulsion. Edward took his word for it. They’d launch tomorrow at three o’clock sharp. William would either be there or he wouldn’t. It was simple as that. The time had come.

Edward awoke that night, wondering what it was, exactly, that he’d heard. It had been a banging, a gunshot, perhaps, or a car’s backfiring. That and the jangling of an abruptly stifled bell. He sat in bed, the sleep draining from his brain, then tiptoed down the hallway. The noise, he was sure, had come from outside, so there was no real need to carry the unsheathed saber that he clutched in his hand, but like William’s flashlight, it gave him a feeling of invulnerability.

A white truck was parked at the curb. A shadowy face peered out of the cab, watching the house. It was John Pinion. Latzarel had been afraid that Pinion would snap—that his unsought trip down the sewer pipe would break him. They’d all, said Latzarel, have to look sharp. Edward flipped on the porch light. The truck rumbled to life, died, was rekindled, and jerked away down the road. Edward turned the light off and went back to bed, wondering what in the world it was that Pinion was up to. If he was looking to sabotage the diving bell, he was sadly out of luck. It was locked in Roycroft Squires’ garage. Professor Latzarel and Giles Peach guarded it, and Edward suspected that if Giles intended the bell to be safe, then the bell would be safe.

The phone rang at eight o’clock in the morning. Edward was lying in bed, thinking about the voyage. He felt as if he were moving, perhaps to a foreign country, a country in which he wouldn’t be able to communicate, where they drove cars on the wrong side of the road or upside down. He was struck with the immense foolhardiness of their scheme. They were entrusting their lives to Giles Peach. There was no denying his powers, but at the same time there was no denying his eccentricity, his peculiar impenetrable surface calm. It seemed to Edward to be a big mistake to take Jim along. They could endanger their own lives if they chose, but not Jim’s. He’d spoken to William about it and William had spoken to Jim. The result of all the speaking was that Jim was going. Giles, after all, got to go. Giles was going with or without them. Well, thought Edward, lying on his back, life was full of risk. For the first two hundred feet they’d be tethered to the Gerhardi. If Giles’ devices were in order, they’d cut loose and descend. If they weren’t, Squires would hoist them out. But this last seemed impossible to Edward. He couldn’t envision life beyond that afternoon, not life on the surface anyway. His entire existence had been funneled into the journey.

It was William Ashbless on the telephone. He was jovial—regretted that be hadn’t seen Edward since Catalina. He’d been morose on the trip, not his usual self. It was a matter of artistic temperament. He’d hiked off into the hills and meditated on pine nuts and berries for a few days.

“We saw you take off in the submarine,” said Edward flatly, stretching the truth a bit. “And we’ve spoken to Basil Peach about your trying to extort favors out of him for the safe return of his son. You’ve sold all of us out one way or another. Go back to bed.”

“I sold no one!” Ashbless called into the phone before Edward had a chance to hang up. “Who was it smuggled the copy of Analog into Giles? Who was it put the idea into his head of throwing in with William and you? Who was it revealed the treachery against Reginald Peach? I’m a poet, an artist, and always have been. I understood that William saw more clearly than the rest of them added up, and that’s what I told young Peach. If William hadn’t gone in after him, I would have. Why do you think I wasn’t aboard the leviathan?”

“Because,” said Edward tiredly, “you knew it wouldn’t go anywhere without Giles. You’ve known about Giles’ powers longer than the rest of us. I’d bet on that. You’ve just been waiting to see which of us would get hold of them in the end. Well, we have, and there’s no room for passengers.”

“Wait!” shouted Ashbless into the phone as Edward hung up. There was no time to wait. It took a little under an hour to get the last bits of gear together and lock the house up. Once, at around 9:30, Edward was certain he heard the jangling of bells on an ice cream truck, but he could see nothing on the street. Jim was sure, shortly thereafter, that he’d seen a head peering over the back wall. He thought at first that it was his father, but a search minutes later revealed nothing.

By eleven the four of them were piloting the flatbed truck along the Pasadena Freeway. Roycroft Squires followed along behind in his little Austin Healey, which neither flew nor drove at light speed, thanks to his cheerfully refusing Giles’ offer to customize it. He’d been tempted, but in the end he couldn’t think of anywhere he had to go that quickly.

Edward watched the side mirrors for the sign of a pursuing truck. As far as he could tell there was none. He kept his suspicions from Giles, not knowing exactly how Giles would react to the mention of John Pinion. Most of all, Edward wanted to avoid Giles’ turning the Pasadena Freeway into a tidepool. The less oddball activity they involved themselves in, the better, especially when they were a bare four hours away from the launch. And besides, there was no sign of John Pinion. It had quite likely, thought Edward, been his imagination.

But almost as soon as he’d convinced himself, they crossed under Pasadena Avenue and Edward glimpsed a white panel truck just pulling onto the freeway behind them. In a moment it was out of sight in traffic. Edward didn’t know whether to speed up and lose it, or to slow down and identify it. So he did neither, but simply drove on apace, catching sight of it again as they crossed Lomita Boulevard into Wilmington.

Latzarel, he was fairly sure, had become aware of his apprehension, for he watched the mirror incessantly, and once, just before the Harbor Freeway ended at the Vincent Thomas Bridge to Terminal Island, Latzarel gave him a questioning look, raising his eyebrows. Edward shrugged. Giles sat impassive, lost in himself. Jim read a copy of Savage Pellucidar, toning up for the journey. When they hauled the bell up to the dock alongside Squires’ tug, there was no sign of a white truck.

Chapter 22

Living in the sewers wasn’t all it might he. William’s fascination with himself as a phantom Robin Hood evaporated as it became clear that, at least for the moment, no one was chasing him. No one, for all he knew, cared a bit about him. It was unlikely that they’d launched a manhunt as a result of his treading on Mrs. Pembly’s begonias. And it was fearsomely dark in the sewers. The light afforded by occasional street drains didn’t illuminate the underground tunnels for more than a few murky feet. With his headlamp and flashlight off, he was enclosed by such utter darkness that he felt as if he were walled up—in a coffin, perhaps, or had met the fate of an Edgar Allan Poe villain, bricked into a cellar. The idea of spending the night and most of the next day in the darkness, listening to the scuffling of rats, imagining the slow dragging swish of an impossible serpent, began to weigh on him.

He followed the map of Pince Nez, trudging up Colorado and into the foothills toward uncharted streets that he knew to be under construction. Not two miles from home he discovered a manhole cover in an undeveloped cul de sac—nothing around but weedy vacant lots stickered with little surveying stakes. He pushed up out of the manhole, caught a bus on Colorado to downtown Los Angeles, and spent the declining afternoon at Olvera Street eating enchiladas and writing a letter to the Times on pages ripped from the log of Pince Nez.

But he was jumpy. Every policeman was a threat. Idle looks of passersby were filled with manufactured suspicion. He found himself refusing a table near a window and insisting on one against a wall by a rear exit, remembering advice from a gangster movie he’d seen involving a hoodlum gunned down through a restaurant window from a passing car. He spent half an hour searching for a manhole in the area, and found one finally across from Union Station, too far away from his beer and enchiladas to do him any good in a crisis. In the end, however, there was no crisis, and he slipped into the sewer around four-thirty, making his way to the Times building to deliver his letter—his apologia—to the fingers of fate.

He certainly couldn’t simply barge in and declare himself to be William Hastings, so he shoved the rolled letter through a manhole cover and fled, surfacing again late in the evening to buy flashlight batteries and a sleeping bag, toying with the idea of spending the night in the woods—such as they were—that covered one of the little unused triangular acres at the confusion of interchanges involving the Santa Ana, Santa Monica, Pomona, and Long Beach freeways.

But the plan fell through when he was hailed by a slow-moving squad car on Spring Street and was forced to go to ground once again in the sewers, not knowing whether he’d been recognized or whether the police had simply been suspicious of his miner’s helmet and sleeping bag.

A half hour later he was in a cab driving south down La Brea. He had to get closer to the coast. He hadn’t enough money in his wallet for a trip all the way to the peninsula, so he watched the meter fly, the cab motoring through Inglewood, Lennox, and Hawthorne—closer and closer to freedom.

Then he caught the driver’s eye in the rear view mirror. It was furtive, suspicious. “I’ll just get off at Rosecrans,” said William, gathering his gear.

“I thought you said Palos Verdes,” the driver put in, irritated.

“No,” said William. “I’ve changed my mind. This is fine.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the driver.

Something was wrong, and dangerously so. The driver was an agent of someone—Frosticos, the police. They’d gotten to him. He was leading William into their clutches. The traffic signal at Rosecrans was green, fifty yards away. The cab accelerated. The light switched to yellow. The driver sped along, then slowed as he approached the next intersection.

“Palos Verdes it is, then,” said William. “I was just a bit nervous about money. The tip and all.”

“Don’t worry,” said the driver again. “We’re in business to make friends, not money.”

William started for his wallet, considered for half a second, then leaped from the cab, leaving the door gaping on its hinge, just as the driver pulled into the intersection.

“Hey!” shouted the driver, lurching, slamming on the brakes. Horns honked. The driver jumped out, his car stalled in the intersection. Traffic was a mess in an instant. William ran off down an alley and into a residential neighborhood, banging along with all his supplies. The cab driver hadn’t made any money on him. William laughed aloud and slowed down. He’d write a note to the company, thanking them for their friendship.

It was clearly time to disappear into the sewers. No one, apparently, could be trusted. He’d sleep for an hour or two, then travel the rest of the distance on foot. He found it impossible, though, to sleep. There was water almost everywhere, at least a little trickle—sometimes a river of it—running down the center of the pipe. Some of the tunnels were wide enough for him to stroll along comfortably above the flood, but if he tried sleeping on the curved wall of pipe, he’d have rolled down into the water as soon as he dozed off. Either that or the level of water would rise in the night and float him away. He found a dry pipe, finally, and unrolled the bag, crawling in and lying there in the darkness. He was ten or twelve miles from Palos Verdes, a distance he could cover fairly easily, even after spending three hours asleep.

He read Pince Nez in the lamplight, studying the charts, tracing the straightest route to the storm outfall south of Lu-nada Bay. Every once in a while a car rumbled past overhead, but they were fewer and fewer as the night wore on. He began to imagine that he was in a tent formed of thin, yellow light, that the darkness was a canopy around him. With the light on he could see nothing at all outside its little sphere of radiance. Several times he directed his flashlight beam into the surrounding night, illuminating nothing at all but the empty gray concrete swerve of pipe. He was surè, once, that he saw the dark bulk of some fleeing animal, just vanishing from the sudden splash of light, but when he shone the flashlight round about, searching, it had disappeared utterly. It began to seem to him as if creatures must be crouched just out of the lamplight, studying him.

No light, he decided, would be preferable to inadequate light, so he snapped off the flash, insisting to himself that he’d steep and then push on. It was nearly three in the morning. He lay fully clothed in the sleeping bag, forcing his eyes shut. Water gurgled somewhere close by. His foot began to itch. He shifted, scratching his leg, and became tangled in the bag. His shoes, somehow, insisted on gluing themselves to the cotton lining so that when he crossed or uncrossed his legs the entire bag folded over him, strapping his legs together like the wrappings of an Egyptian mummy. He turned over onto his side, and seemed to teeter there on his hipbone, grinding it against the suddenly thin bit of polyester fluff that separated him from bare concrete.

He had to lie still. He must focus on something. That was the key. He realized that he had been playing a tune incessantly in his head, perhaps for hours. “Ding-dong, the witch is dead; witch-o, witch-o, witch-o, witch; ding-dong the wicka-dold-witch is dead,” over and over again. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what the rest of the words were or whether the song had another verse. But there it was, maddeningly, appearing and reappearing, playing and replaying. He’d try counting backwards; that sometimes worked.

But in the middle of his counting he heard a noise—he was certain of it—away down the sewer. He’d heard the echo of something, of hasty footfalls or of the scrabbling of animals. And it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. He had fancied, in fact, the faint sounds of pursuit shortly after he’d eluded the cab driver on Rosecrans. But the sounds vanished almost as soon as he paid them any heed.

He shined the flashlight into the darkness, but in the thirty feet of its influence there was nothing. He clicked it off, lay there breathing shallowly, and listened. There it was again—a faint scraping, the pad of quiet feet. It was impossible to say whether it was behind him or before him. He flipped the light on once more, hoping to surprise whoever—whatever—it was that approached. He wondered if lamplight would ward off wild beasts the way firelight was supposed to. He couldn’t at all see why it should. It would simply make him visible. They knew by now exactly where he was, perhaps that he lay completely immobile in a sleeping bag. He was a sitting duck.

He slipped the bag down toward his waist, sitting up and putting on his miner’s helmet. He had to shake it to get it to work at all. Latzarel had fiddled the thing half to death, probably. He waited and listened. Something was impending. He could feel it along his spine. He shared the ability with Chinese laboratory pigs. The sewer was dead silent and absolutely dark. He slipped the bag over the tips of his shoes, hauling himself into a crouch. He groped around for Pince Nez and shoved it into his backpack, which he slung over his shoulder. He squinted fiercely, dying to pierce the gloom. There it was again—the scraping and padding, just a few short steps that came to an abrupt halt. Then silence. It was in front of him. Lord knew what it was: a blind sewer pig? A boa constrictor as big around as a cow? He gripped his flashlight in his right hand, holding his breath, reaching with his left hand for the switch on the helmet.

He could hear breathing, unnaturally loud. It might have been a foot from his face, an inch. He flipped the switch on the helmet. A quick flash of light burst out, cut off in an instant with an audible click. It illuminated the black tunnel of the sewer in one frozen moment and was gone. Disappearing with it, back into darkness, was the pale standing figure of the white-suited Hilario Frosticos, clutching a black bag of instruments, smiling impassively, a smile devoid of all meaning.

There wasn’t a sound following the night-shattering click of the useless helmet. No footsteps rushed toward William. There was only utter darkness and silence. William was empty. His chest seemed suddenly hollow. His legs disappeared. He felt himself tottering forward onto his knees, caving in. He fought against it, expecting at any moment to be seized. And it was that moment, when he would first feel the probing, clutching fingers that he feared the most. He was possessed with the urge to crawl into his sleeping bag and yank it over his head, holding it shut from within. But he didn’t. He couldn’t move in any direction, since in the absolute, haunted darkness, all directions were equally threatening. He stood and quaked, his knees bent. Nothing stirred.

Had it been an illusion? Had he been asleep? Dreamed it? Leaped to his feet in fright? He held his flashlight in his right hand—a puny weapon, risible. He couldn’t bear to wait in the darkness. He suddenly couldn’t bear the darkness at all. But if he switched on the light and saw again what he thought he’d seen a moment before. … He clutched the backpack in his left hand, and slowly raised his right arm. He could imagine the sudden clutching of his wrist and the doctor’s cold laugh. Or worse, fingers without warning on his throat.

He flipped the switch, A cone of light played out, revealing nothing. A dark veil of night lay beyond. A car bumped along the road overhead, an absolutely friendly and substantial sound that lent momentary substance to the otherwise empty night-land. William had no idea how far from a manhole cover he was, but he intended to find out. Damn the cumbersome sleeping bag. He’d leave it. It was four in the morning anyway. He’d head straightaway for Palos Verdes.

Suddenly he was struck with the cold fear that Frosticos had somehow gotten round behind him—that he was at that moment slipping up, smiling. William dropped the pack, whirled around, and with a single sweep of his arm, flung his useless helmet straight as an arrow down the center of the pipe at head level. If anyone had been there … but no one was. The helmet bounced, skittered along, then spun to a dizzy stop just out of sight in the darkness. William was after it with his pack and flashlight, loping along. To hell with looking over his shoulder. If Frosticos were ten paces behind, William didn’t want to know. Either they’d catch him or they wouldn’t.

He stormed up onto a manhole almost at once and passed it in his haste. He didn’t go back. There’d be another. But when the next appeared, he sailed past it too, not because he saw it too late, but because he was making awfully good time. Fear had lent him impossible stamina. If he paused to climb out they’d be on him. If they were there. If they weren’t, he’d find himself traveling unknown streets at four in the morning. He’d be taken in minutes. And if he were to hide from passing cars, to dart in and out of bushes, to slow up and pretend to simply be taking an early morning constitutional, he’d never get to Palos Verdes.

They’d leave without him. His life would be through. There would be nothing for it, he realized, but to turn himself in, and that would mean, like as not, a return to the sanitarium and to some inconceivable fate. He’d get to Palos Verdes if he had to run all the way. By God, he’d the in the attempt. Just how he’d the he didn’t know, but they’d find him a rough customer. That much was certain.

He dug into his backpack as he jogged along, yanking out his compass. He was heading south beneath Hawthorne Boulevard, straight as an arrow toward the coast highway. Abruptly the sound of pursuing shoes, of someone running along in his wake, joined the clatter of his own shoes on the concrete. He was sure of it. Stopping would reveal the truth, unless, of course, the pursuer were to stop too. There’d be time enough for stopping later, though. In a few minutes he’d be compelled to stop. But at least then he might be a mile closer to his goal, whatever that was worth. And when he did it wouldn’t be to give up. He determined to launch an attack of his own.

He’d run until he was played out. Then, with the last dregs of energy, he’d spin around and run full on into the face of his surprised attacker. He’d smash his head with the flashlight—break his teeth in. He pulled the backpack over his arms so as to free his left hand. Then he dug his penknife out of his pocket and opened the blade as he ran along. If Frosticos had blood in his veins, William would see the color of it shortly.

He gasped for breath, digging deeply into his lungs each time. In another minute or two he’d simply collapse. His flashlight had burned down to a muddy yellow which brightened momentarily when he shook it. In the dark, heaving for breath, he’d be a useless wreck. It was time. William stopped and tried to spin round, but it was a weary, plodding spin, and he realized right away that he hadn’t the strength left to lunge at anyone. He collapsed over forward, staggered a few feet, and shined the weakened light down the tunnel, his knife open and ready. Darkness stared back at him. He waited, enveloped in dread, but nothing appeared out of the black.

Finally he turned and staggered on. He’d run again, he decided, as soon as he caught his breath. But ten minutes later he was still walking wearily, wishing he’d been able to sleep for the two hours he’d lain awake in his bag. His flashlight wouldn’t last another ten minutes. He shook it and banged it to keep it alive, knowing that at any moment he’d have to stop and shove in the batteries he’d bought earlier on Spring Street. And that would mean a minute of absolute darkness, maybe more. What were the odds that he’d get the batteries in right end forward? What if he dropped one and had to go groping after it? But he had no choice. The light, finally, died, and wouldn’t be thumped back to life.

He pulled off his backpack and groped for the batteries, tearing at the plastic that encased them, cursing himself for not having opened them hours earlier so as to be ready. He stopped and listened, imagining he could hear the faint scrape of footsteps back up the corridor. He fumbled with the batteries, feeling for the little knobs on the end. The spring and bulb tumbled out of the cap onto the concrete, rolling, no doubt, toward the water that ran six inches deep down the pipe. William scrambled for them, reaching and groping in the darkness, gripped by a growing dread and a tense anticipation of the pressure of a hand on his back. He found them, juggled them along with the new batteries in his left hand, and swung the flashlight cylinder in a broad arc with his right, the batteries within sailing out and thudding away down the pipe. He dropped in the fresh batteries, listening for footfalls, but hearing nothing. He twisted on the cap, flicked on the switch, and spun around, flooding the tunnel with light. No one was there. It must have been his imagination. He shouldered his pack and walked on, still clutching his knife and remembering suddenly, five minutes too late, the penlight in his pack. He’d panicked. Lost his mind. He would have to get a grip on himself and think things through.

Every hundred feet or so he passed the mouth of perpendicular tunnels, keeping well away from each even if it meant slogging through water. He shined his light into each methodically, simply for the sake of knowing there was nothing there. And then, when William passed his light across the dark circle of another adjoining pipe, there stood, well up into it, the doctor. He was clearly not a product of William’s imagination. William didn’t have to pinch himself. He hadn’t any time to. He was off like a shot, any plans for a sudden assault on Frosticos, for getting a grip on himself, abandoned.

William was nothing but a toy—a mouse in a maze. They were running him for sport. But knowing that did him no good at all. He’d keep running. It was impossible, though, that they’d let him get to his goal. They’d simply wear him out. How had Frosticos gotten ahead of him? Slipped past in the darkness while he fiddled with the batteries? It was unthinkable. But there he’d been.

William couldn’t run forever. It was a matter of hours before the diving bell would drop into the sunlit sea. So there was no possibility that, as if in a nightmare, he would simply run endlessly through darkness haunted by a reappearing Frosticos. The idea of it was unnatural—impossible. Sooner or later it would come to a confrontation. Frosticos wanted to destroy him. It was simple as that. But he was greedy, and that would be his downfall. Frosticos thought of himself as a sort of artist—that was his problem in a nut—and he wanted sorely to turn this present effort into an epic, the stinking, self-satisfied monster. Let him take a long look in a mirror. He’d find he had the face of an ape.

William lurched along, his breath tearing in his lungs, unable to convince himself to slow down. There was no use shining the light behind him; it wouldn’t tell him anything. Frosticos might be anywhere. He was ubiquitous. He wasn’t fooling anyone. It was a simple matter—once he’d discovered William’s destination from the cab driver—to simply clamber in and out of the sewer, appearing for a moment, then disappearing, taking a car a mile up Hawthorne and waiting for William to pass, then popping off and doing it again. But there would be a time, perhaps when daylight made bouncing in and out of sewers impractical, that he’d act, when William’s fate would be played out in the darkness, and even his screams would go unnoticed or unremarked by the dawning world above.

He staggered to a slow walk, forcing himself along, his flashlight on but pointed groundward. He wheezed and coughed, stopping finally to pull his canteen from his pack and take a long chink. He rummaged around and found the apple. He wondered, suddenly, what would happen if he simply didn’t go on—if he sat down and had lunch, read Pince Nez, let a couple of hours slide by. What would Frosticos do? By now he was more than likely some ways farther along, perhaps a hundred yards, perhaps a mile. Maybe he’d stopped at Winchell’s for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, laughing to himself at the thought of William, terrified, quaking in the sewers below. What if William simply didn’t accommodate him?

Somehow, William couldn’t imagine Frosticos simply quitting—going home to bed. Surely Frosticos couldn’t take the chance of William slipping away down a sidestreet, jogging over a block or two, and continuing on. Someone, it occurred suddenly to William, must be shadowing him and had been all along. Then furtive steps in the darkness could easily belong to anyone. To whom? Yamoto? William set his teeth. Of course.

He shined the flashlight down the sewer as if it were a revolver drawn to mow down a gunslinger. Nothing was there—only the same silent darkness. The half-expected white trousers were nowhere to be seen. But how far did his light shine, forty feet? Maybe not even that. He threw his apple core against the far wall of the pipe and got to his feet. He was unspeakably weary, mainly because he’d stopped to rest. He’d lost momentum.

Fifty yards farther along, he spun round again with his light, and again there was no one. Ahead was the mouth of a small pipe leading off to the right. He was suddenly certain that Frosticos was in it—lying in it perhaps. Or that he’d come racing down it toward William on all fours, like a dog, his eyes wide and wild, his teeth sharpened, moving unnaturally fast. William could see it. He knew it was coming. Ten feet away now.

Did he hear footsteps again, shuffling up behind him? Frosticos, perhaps, eyeless, a bleached skull grinning and chattering, sitting atop the white collar. He couldn’t make himself turn. He was two steps away from the tunnel, edging across toward the far side of the pipe. The sight of Frosticos rushing toward him as if up the barrel of a telescope, growing as he rushed, frothing and barking, played against the back of his eyelids like old, scratchy, jumpy film. It would freeze him solid when it came—turn him into a lump of salt like Lot’s unfortunate wife.

Then he was past it. He strode on, his eyes clutched shut, still anticipating the sudden scramble that would announce the end, the sudden touch of a moist hand round his neck. But there was nothing. No one had been in the tunnel. He’d been tormenting himself with imagined fears. He turned and lit the corridor behind to prove it to himself, and saw, he was sure of it, a white patch of moving cloth, just out of flashlight range, disappearing as if someone had stopped suddenly and retreated. It was Yamoto. It had to be. Frosticos was waiting ahead.

William began to run, stopped abruptly, swung around, and once again caught sight of the vanishing white patch like the wisping away of a ghost. If it was Yamoto, William would deal with him. It was one thing for the man to torment him by day in his own home, masquerading as a gardener, clipping the shrubs and peering in at the windows. It was another to follow him into the sewers—quite likely with murderous intent. But William would deal with him. He’d done it before. He grinned at the thought of Yamoto’s screaming terror when he’d surprised William in the cab of his truck. And his gibbering complaint when William pulped the begonias—what had that been but fear? William would show him fear.

There ahead was another pipe leading away. It was time to act, decidedly time. In a moment there would be one less villain afoot in the sewers. He’d use the flashlight on him. He had the spare penlight, after all, and there was every chance that once he was rid of Yamoto, he could give Frosticos the slip. He could as easily jog down to Crenshaw, all the way out to the coast highway. With no one to alert Frosticos, his game would become impossibly complicated.

William switched off his light, plunging the sewer into darkness. He ran his hand along the wall until it slipped into the open pipe, and in an instant he clambered into it, his heart clanging, not allowing himself to think of the waiting Frosticos. There was no sound at all. He strained to hear the quiet pad of approaching feet. It was impossible that Yamoto could have seen him—unlikely that he could have guessed his intent. William crouched at the edge of the pipe and peered out into the larger tunnel. He could see nothing. He was struck with the sudden certainty that a heavy blade, an ax perhaps, would whistle down out of the darkness and sever his head where it poked out. He pulled farther into the pipe.

Who could say what sort of weapon Yamoto carried? A meat cleaver? He’d seen too many movies His elbow struck something solid. He froze in a crouch. It hadn’t been flesh. It felt more like wood—debris, perhaps, wedged into the pipe. He jabbed at it, making out the edge of some rectilinear object with his elbow. There was no sound beyond.

He couldn’t wait in the pipe, that much was certain. Surprise was everything. If Yamoto had stopped to wait him out, William might as well be on his way. Yamoto, after all, might easily have seen the tunnel ahead, might have understood William’s turning off the flashlight. He’d have to take a different tack, perhaps continue on in the darkness, feeling the wall like a blind man until another opportunity presented itself.

Still there was no sound of footsteps. He clicked on his light, poked his head out, and illuminated the empty tunnel. Then he turned and shined the light behind him, at whatever it was that blocked the smaller pipe.

It was a steamer chest, open, standing on end. William screamed in spite of himself, spilling out of the mouth of the pipe and into the stream of water. He was up at once, bathing the chest in light. In it, strapped upright with leather belts, were the remains of something—some fleshy horror. A corpse that might once have been human, but might just as easily have been a beast. It slumped there in its bonds, a ruin of scars and transplanted limbs, its mouth lolling open, nothing but a toothless slit in its face, its nose a black hollow, its eyesockets empty. The thing had no ears, and its arms, strapped across its chest, ended in webbed fingers. William backed away down the pipe, staring at the steamer trunk. It was meant as an advertisement—that much was obvious. He began to run, jogging at first, then racing along, pounding south toward the ocean and the diving bell that would transport him to another world. He didn’t think. There was no use thinking. He couldn’t reason through it. They’d gotten to him again. Who had it been in the trunk? What poor, harmless thing was it that had been reduced to such a state? Certainly not Reginald Peach. The idea of it made him sick. But it couldn’t be. He was too valuable to sacrifice for such a lark. This had been a failure, put to good use despite the failing.

William slowed finally, unable to maintain the pace, and sure once again of the sound of distant footfalls: Yamoto. A voice sounded behind him. William couldn’t make it out above the sound of his own labored breathing and footsteps. He stopped, listening. He had no idea where he was. His pocket watch showed that it was after eleven. He’d been making good time. Perhaps he was nearing his goal and had crossed under the coast highway into Rolling Hills. There was the voice again, calling his name. The footfalls grew louder. It had come down to the final confrontation. He braced himself for it, for the first chill glimpse of whatever it was—Frosticos, Yamoto, Lord-knew-what—that would materialize from the dark, distant tunnel. There it came.

It was Elijah, hairy and wild and ancient. William jerked upright, aiming his light, unbelieving. It wasn’t Elijah; it was William Ashbless, limping. In his right hand was a leather sap. The bastard! It had been Ashbless all along, terrifying him. And here he was, setting out to cosh William into jelly. We’ll see, thought William, setting his feet and glancing over his shoulder in case another attacker approached from up the tunnel. He was dead tired, and his eyes felt as if they were loaded with sand, but he was damned if he couldn’t fight off an ancient poet with a sap.

“Come along!” he shouted, waving the flashlight in his right hand and his penknife in his left.

“Whoa!” hissed Ashbless, putting finger to his lip and shaking his head. “Pipe down, for God’s sake, or we’re both done.”

William lowered the penknife as Ashbless shoved the sap into his coat pocket and strode up toward him looking furtively behind as if fearful of being followed. “I took care of the Oriental,” he said, taking William by the shoulder and hurrying him along.

“Yamoto?” asked William.

“I didn’t ask his name,” Ashbless replied. “I just flattened him. They’ve been onto you since last night. Trying to take a cab to Palos Verdes was foolish. Damn foolish. Everyone knows—Frosticos, the police. I read the article this morning in the Times, then straight off ran into Frosticos and three others in the passage off La Brea. They were onto you then.”

“So they printed the letter!” cried William ecstatically.

“Shhh!” whispered Ashbless, looking around. ‘They paraphrased it, but the spirit of the thing was there. It’s been on the news all morning. What I’m telling you is that they don’t mean to let you out of this tunnel alive.”

“You came down here to tell me that?” asked William, suddenly suspicious again.

“No,” said Ashbless.

William waited for an explanation, ready to bolt. He studied it out. He could twist away to the right, flailing at Ashbless with the light. If he connected and the flashlight was wrecked, he’d run off down the dark tunnel with his penlight. Better yet, he’d take Ashbless’ light. He must have one on him.

“I’ve freed Reginald Peach,” said Ashbless.

“What?”

“Peach. You wouldn’t believe his misery. He escaped twice, but they hunted him down. They won’t find him again, though. He’s agreed to take me to the Earth’s core. Maybe we’ll run into each other there.”

“Reginald Peach,” said William, unbelieving.

“He’s quite an inventor in his own right. And he has certain powers. I think you understand me. Do me a favor if you get topside again. Tell Basil for me that I made an effort to free Giles and that I succeeded with Reginald. I’m afraid he’s misunderstood my motivations.”

“So have I, apparently,” said William, more than half convinced. ‘Thanks for taking care of Yamoto.”

Ashbless waved it off. It was nothing. The least he could do. There was the sound of rushing water ahead, of a subterranean river flowing through a deep channel.

“Where are we?” asked William.

“Nearly under the Palos Verdes Hills. This is as far as I go.” He produced a broad flashlight from under his coat and shined it ahead into the darkness. Vague shapes were outlined in the gray. William could feel cool, fresh moisture off the water. Ahead was an arched bridge, spanning the channel, and tied to it was a long, low craft, almost a gondola, straining to be away in the current. Above the waterline the sides were painted with crocodile men and bird-beaked children and strange Egyptian hieroglyphs, obviously, thought William, produced for some colorful carnival ride.

Sitting in the stern was the strangest apparition William had encountered: a half-naked man with pearly semi-translucent scales and webbed fingers, his head encased in an unbelievable spiral seashell with a porthole window in the front. Bulbous eyes stared out through the glass. The enormous shell, oddly, was filled with water—a helmet aquarium that encased the head of Reginald Peach. Two coiled tubes dangled into the water behind the boat.

William was stupefied. He could think of nothing to say. He’d never, in fact, been introduced to Reginald, hadn’t even seen him. It was true that he had a passing familiarity with some few of his offspring, but it would hardly be decorous of him to mention it.

“William Hastings,” said Ashbless, gesturing, “Reginald Peach.”

Peach dipped his head almost imperceptibly, and to William’s surprise, said “Glad-to-meet-you,” in a bubbly voice that was quite clearly radiated through some sort of machine—an artificial voice box. William said he was happy to meet Reginald too. And in truth he was. The man was fascinating. Imagine the stories he could tell—the filings he’d seen. William had half a mind to induce Ashbless to let him go along.

“Bound for the Earth’s core, eh?” said William, making small talk.

Peach ignored him, directing his gaze at Ashbless. ‘This boat won’t do,” he bubbled pettishly, “and something’s got into my waterline—clogged it up. Wait. There. It’s clear now. Oh, damn!”

A fish the size of a minnow appeared suddenly in his helmet, looking out through the faceplate, baffled. Peach tracked it with one eye. William had always wondered how the dry world looked from the inside of an aquarium. He wished he had the opportunity to ask Reginald—he could sense the core of a short story in it, the thrill of a budding symbol. But again, decorum intervened.

“Nothing ever works right,” complained Peach. “Everything is a mess. And this boat—I don’t trust this boat. It’s too small and there aren’t any cushions on the seats. Someone’s painted it all up, too. I feel like a fool sitting in it.”

Let him complain, thought William, taking the long view. Who has a right to bitch if not Reginald Peach?

Ashbless wasn’t as understanding. “This boat is perfect,” he said. “I’ve sailed farther in worse, on rivers I can’t even mention. And with stranger company too.” He gave William a look, raising his eyes as if to say he was bearing up.

More Ashbless bragging, thought William, who had half a mind to stick up for poor Reginald. But who was to say what Ashbless had and hadn’t done? Here he was, after all, delivering both of them out of the clutches of Frosticos.

Peach piped up before William had a chance to say anything. “Let’s go,” he said. “You’ve rescued this man, apparently. I don’t know why. Here he is, safe as a baby. Quit fooling away my time. Goodbye,” he said to William, tacking it onto the end of his final sentence almost without pause. “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!” He wiggled back and forth, nearly capsizing the boat, then made as if to stand on the spindly little thwart.

“Hey!” cried Ashbless, clambering in and untying the painter. He widened his eyes again at William. “It’s going to be a long trip. He won’t talk about anything but medical problems—a list a mile long. He had nothing to read for eighteen years but a waterproof copy of Merck’s Manual. He’s got a whole catalogue of complaints by now, let me tell you.”

“Get this fish out of my helmet,” Peach whined. Ashbless pushed off.

The weird boat with its equally weird crew angled away in the current and in moments was borne into darkness. William Ashbless stood in the stern like some ancient weed-haired sea god, sailing into a river of mystery. William wondered, suddenly, whore the river flowed. Obviously not into the Domin-guez Channel. He hoped Reginald Peach knew what he was doing, that both of them would find the land they searched for. Ashbless, after all, had turned out all right. They’d maligned him unjustly. William saluted with two fingers down the dark chasm where they’d disappeared, then trod across the bridge toward the peninsula and freedom. He hadn’t gone a quarter mile when he heard his name called once again, very softly.

John Pinion’s ice cream shirt and pants woe a wreck. He’d torn and soiled them in the sewers, trying to salvage something from the leviathan. But the sons of bitches hadn’t let him have any of it. They took the perpetual motion engine, worth a fortune. And the magnetic bottle, full of anti-gravity—they’d put it into a paper sack. It was insufferable. Insufferable. He didn’t know what he would do. His life was a wreck. He’d wanted nothing but knowledge, nothing for himself. Gain was foreign to him. But he’d been hounded, used. Allies had become traitors. He’d been accused of being a pervert, a charlatan, a glory seeker, a lunatic. He’d show them, somehow.

He could just see the flatbed truck parked ahead, along the main channel. The diving bell was hanging from a chain, swinging across onto the deck of the tugboat. The fools! They’d find nothing but death. His mechanical mole had been a work of genius. He couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. He drove to Ports O’Call Village and parked in a metered lot. Damn the meter. He was above meters. He walked along the docks, just at the edge of a meandering mob of Japanese tourists. There was the tug. The bell was aboard. The tourists pointed at it, jabbered. Good God, the fool Latzarel was telling them a joke. Pinion was furious. He was tempted to … he didn’t know what.

He knew only that Latzarel and St. Ives weren’t going anywhere. His head ached. Damn the noise! He squinted into the sun at a wheeling gull that cried out overhead to torment him. The pier ran out into the channel and another pier—two others—angled out perpendicularly from the first. Farther along was another identical pier, and beyond that another and another. Pinion’s head reeled with the thought of it. There was a dull ache right behind his eyelids, as if something was shoving against the back of his eyes, pushing them out. He felt as if his head were about to burst.

One of the tourists waved a camera at the bell, chattering at Latzarel to stand beside it. The man slipped, sprawled toward the edge of the pier, and Latzarel and St. Ives and the boy—what was his name?—gawked over the side. Pinion stepped across onto the boat, barely making a sound on his crepe soles. In a moment, just as the salty camera was hauled dripping from the water, Pinion crept in under a heap of canvas and rope. He lay in the darkness, the sounds from without muffled by the canvas. There was a roaring in his ears, as if someone held a great seashell to either one—the hollow windy sound of thousands of miles of open ocean. He clutched at his head, stifling a groan. It must be arthritis, enlivened by ocean air. He could feel it in his joints—a burning and tearing, almost an itch. His skin crawled. Maybe it was the damned canvas. But he couldn’t just throw it off and pop out.

The motor churned into life, the tug surged forward, and in twenty minutes he felt the roll of the groundswell as they motored out toward Angel’s gate. Latzarel was full of joviality. Pinion hated Latzarel. He retched under the canvas as silently as he could, clutching his stomach, which seemed to be tearing itself to pieces. His bones felt as if they’d crack apart. He was hellishly sick, but it wouldn’t stop him.

He was aware, suddenly, of an uncanny illusion. The canvas, it seemed, was translucent, like green seawater, and he peered through it at a sunlit sky as if he were looking out from the depths of a pool. He felt a cool rush of water across him just as a twisting shudder of pain wracked his hands. But nothing had happened. He still lay under the canvas. He reached for the edge of it to pull it back, but his fingers slipped through it as through water. It rippled, sending a swirl of little wavelets across his vision, obscuring the sight of the bowed front of the cabin that was drawn sharply against the sky. The ripples settled. Pinion stared, unbelieving. Just out of the corner of his eye he could see Latzarel bending to some task. St. Ives was nowhere about. Squires was invisible in the wheel-house above. And staring at him, dead at him, through the curved glass of the cabin, was Giles Peach, as if in a trance. A rush of panic slammed through him. Peach could see him. He looked him in the eye. He was watching him there beneath the canvas. Something was desperately wrong.

He doubled up in pain, then straightened with a cry he couldn’t suppress. He gasped for breath, floundering. They’d see him. Surely they’d see him. Suddenly he hoped they would. He’d die otherwise. His skin seemed to ripple like the canvas. It itched wildly. He scratched at his arm and a line of silver scales popped loose. His fingers were strangely immobile, were joined, in fact, by little fleshy bridges of skin. He clawed at his throat, unable to breathe. The flesh on his neck seemed to be disintegrating, pulling apart.

He gasped and thrashed, but his screams were airy nothings. And in a moment he wasn’t even aware of screams—he was aware of nothing at all, not even of the startled cry of Edward St. Ives, who noticed the pitching thing beneath the canvas and pulled it back to reveal a momumental fish with fleshy, finger-tipped fins, gasping helplessly in the ruined uniform of an ice cream man.

“Good Lord!” shouted Latzarel with a suddenness that nearly pitched the stupefied Edward into the metamorphosed John Pinion. But Latzarel hadn’t even seen Pinion, he was pointing at the beach, yanking Edward by the back of the shirt.

Chapter 23

Ashbless again? thought William at the sound of his name. But something told him that it wasn’t. It hadn’t been that kind of whisper. It hadn’t been meant to hail him; it was a ghost whisper, echoing out of the dark corridor, neither ahead nor behind him. He slowed, listening. There it was again. “William. William Hastings.” Then the sound of something—what was it?—a razor lapping against a strop, the scraping of leather soles on the concrete pipe.

How far was he from the shore? Surely not more than half a mile. He began to run. His flashlight had dimmed again to a dirty intermittent glow. William ran on, passing the mouth of a tunnel from which came a shrill scream, a howl that degenerated into shrieking laughter. There was a rush of steps behind him. They stamped along furiously for a moment then gave off into abrupt silence that lasted just long enough to convince William that some fresh horror was about to launch itself at him, then erupted into the clanging of a bell that echoed wildly through the sewers as if through the dark halls of a funhouse.

The clanging was sliced off cleanly, and in the deep, ensuing quiet the whispering began again: “William. William Hastings,” weirdly loud, as if leaking into the sewers through secret transmitters. And impossibly, directly ahead of him, Hilario Frosticos materialized, stepping out of the shadows, clutching his bag.

William almost ran headlong into him. He threw himself to the side, his shoulder skidding against the curve of the pipe, and spun half around, slouching onto his hands. His flashlight smashed against the concrete floor and blazed brighter than ever. But it wouldn’t last. William was sure it wouldn’t last.

He looked into the doctor’s face, searching there for some sign of compassion, of civility. It was utterly blank—a face made of stone. Even its color was wrong—a pale bluish ivory that shone through a layer of powder. The color in his cheeks was rouge. And his hair—it seemed to be sewn on in tufts stitched in neat rows like trees in an orchard. He was ghastly—inhuman.

His eyes—that was the worst part. They were void. Empty and depthless and white as if obscured by semi-transparent cataracts. What did he look like, wondered William, beneath the rouge? How old had he been when he traveled in the company of Pince Nez, thirty-five years earlier? And who, for God’s sake, did he resemble? Why was William certain that he wasn’t who he seemed to be?

Frosticos coughed, lurching just a bit, almost imperceptibly. But William saw it. He clutched his black bag with rigid fingers. He grinned, and the grin broke into a fit of coughing and choking. William made a move, as if to run, but Frosticos stepped in front of him, waving the black bag, taunting him with it. What grim instruments did it contain? What hellish apparatus?

A tear ran out of Frosticos’ left eye, taking a line of powder with it. The flesh below was unnaturally blue—almost iridescent like the blue of a fish. It gave William the horrors. He was frozen there, waiting. He couldn’t think in a straight line. One thought kept bumping up into another, catapulting over it smack into a third, the lot of them piling up in a tangled heap. He watched the doctor’s face. There was something wrong with it. Dead wrong. He seemed to be almost gasping for breath, and he clutched once at his heart, involuntarily, as if swept by a sudden spasm.

“Where’s the poet?” croaked Frosticos, still grinning in a frozen rictus.

“Gone,” said William coolly.

“Peach?”

“Gone with him.” William was certain by then that Ashbless was miles down the river, deep into a land closed to Hilario Frosticos, no matter what vile powers he possessed. Frosticos knew it too. He’d lost Reginald Peach. A look of absolute fury twisted his face, followed by a wretching spasm of pain.

“You’ll like your new home. …” Frosticos began, but was doubled up by a wracking cough. When he looked up again he was haggard, twisted. He looked as if he had aged fifty years beneath the fleshy powder. William could have run. Frosticos’ power over him was broken. William knew it. He could have slammed Frosticos over the head, beaten him silly. But he didn’t Something was peculiarly, violently, wrong. And William sensed that for Frosticos it was going from bad to worse. He had a look in his eye—a hunted look—the look of a man who’s just discovered he’s made a frightful error. William would wait him out. He gripped the shaft of the flashlight tightly, ready to spring. But he’d watch for a moment first.

Frosticos’ hand shook as he fumbled with the latch on the black bag. For one grim instant William suspected that his worst fears were coming to pass. He raised the flashlight as if to crash it into the doctor’s forehead. Frosticos fell back a step, waving his hand, digging at the bag, glancing back and forth at William and the bag, sweating in a sudden flood of pasty makeup and rouge.

Something vital was in the bag, and it hadn’t anything to do with William. Heroin? Morphine? Of course. The false aspirin tablets. Frosticos had miscalculated. He’d chased William through the sewers until he’d gotten sick. But it was happening too quickly, taking him utterly by surprise. He must be incredibly dependent on it, thought William, eyeing the bag.

Frosticos tore it open and reached inside. William kicked it out of his hands, sending it end over end into slimy black water. Vials and bottles cascaded out, smashing, rolling, spilling serums and pills.

Frosticos howled—a deep, tortured howl of fear and pain. He turned on William, his teeth gnashing together, his eyes wild.

“Come on then!” William cried, waving his flashlight, a sudden surge of courage washing through him.

Frosticos turned and ran at the vials, grasping, gagging, clutching at an uncorked bottle of green liquid that had emptied half its contents into the water. William was after him in a trice. Frosticos lunged. William clubbed him with the flashlight, slipping in a pool. His legs splayed out. He grabbed Frosticos’ coat, pulling the doctor down with him. Frosticos shrieked, kicked, bit at the air. William rolled away and leaped up. He kicked the bottle down the sewer as if it were a football.

Glass and liquid flew when it glanced off the wall of the pipe. Frosticos screamed down on William, utterly insane, his mouth gibbering nonsense. William danced on the vials, smashing and breaking them, and clubbed Frosticos in the side of the head with the flashlight.

The lens smashed and the cap flew off followed by a shooting stream of batteries. Frosticos vanished in the darkness. William steeled himself for another gibbering onslaught. Frosticos would have the strength of a madman. But it was too late to run. He had run far enough.

Frosticos was silent, breathing heavily. He gasped. Something thudded into the concrete, three times in succession, as if Frosticos were jackknifing in the grip of a seizure, banging his head. William yanked off his torn pack, rummaging blindly for the penlight. He found it, switched it on, and shined the light into Frosticos’ face.

He gasped and fell back, treading on the pack. Frosticos seemed to be a mass of worms. His skin was crawling, metamorphosing. He jerked and breathed in hoarse, shallow, ratcheting coughs like an ancient, tired man dying on a sickbed, Then, with one last back-bending jerk, he flopped and lay still. His face slowly settled, quivering, broadening. Dark hair sprouted impossibly from between the pale sprouts. White eyebrows blackened. His eyes slowly focused on William’s face, puzzled at first, then clutched by a surge of sudden hatred. But they were no longer the eyes of Hilario Frosticos. Lying on the floor of the sewer, his still, dead face wearing a last look of rage and baffled surprise, was Ignacio Narbondo, vivisectionist, amphibian physiologist. William gasped, unbelieving.

The face began to shrink, changing once again. Skin shredded off. Hair grew out amazingly. There was a quick smell of death and dry decay in the air—a sarcophagus smell, mingled with the weird aquarium smell of fish. The hair fell out in clumps onto the floor of the sewer, and for one last moment, just for an instant that hung suspended between flesh and dust, William could swear that Frosticos resembled nothing more than a gigantic, ancient carp. But what was left staring up at him in the feeble glow of the penlight was the ivory-boned skeleton of a man, its head pushed forward onto its chest by the swerve of concrete pipe.

William stared at it, his mouth open in disbelief. Surely this was the least expected of the lot of it. But it fit—it fit like a glove. “Carp don’t die,” that’s what Pince Nez had said to Edward. A madness, Edward had assumed. But it signified in some dark way. They had all known it signified; they just hadn’t known how.

Shining the penlight on the still bones, William backed up, a step at a time, picking up his backpack from the sewer floor. He half expected the skeleton to hoist itself up like a marionette and rush at him as if William were Sinbad the sailor. A scattering of teeth clattered from the skull like dice, bouncing and rolling. William was off like a shot, racing for sunlight. This was no Arabian Nights. This was stark, sober reality. Frosticos was dead. The diving bell sailed at three o’clock. He’d come too far along peculiar paths to miss that voyage.

His knee, he discovered, had been bounced on the concrete when he’d fallen. And his back felt as if someone had been at it with a hammer. He pulled his pocket watch out; it was frozen at half past two. The water ran deeper in the pipe. He was forced to slop through it. He hadn’t run for five minutes before he was heaving and gasping again. He’d had it—more than had it. The thing was impossible. The bell, no doubt, had sailed. He’d stumble out onto an empty beach and be led away as a murderer. They’d find the skeleton in the sewer and accuse him of atrocities.

He dragged along, carrying his backpack in his good hand. There ahead, suddenly, was an arced slip of sunlight that looked for all the world like a crescent moon shining in a starless sky. The crescent grew to a half moon, a gibbous, a full moon, and he was out, jumping three feet down into the weedy sand.

Offshore sat the Gerhardi, riding at anchor. The bell was perched on deck. Latzarel was aboard. And there was Edward, posturing at a heap of canvas. Latzarel had him by the coat, pointing onshore, first at William, then above. He hollered something. Edward stood up. There was Jim at the bulwark, dropping the rowboat. A shout rang out above him on the bluffs. William looked up as he limped across the beach, pulling his backpack onto his shoulders, waving tiredly at Latzarel.

Two policemen were sliding toward him down the sandy trail. They hailed him, called him Mr. Hastings. They’d call him something else when Frosticos’ skeleton washed onto the beach in the next rain.

William waved at them pleasantly and loped straight into the water, striking out in a sodden, tired crawl toward the Gerhardi, which appeared and disappeared beyond the swell. He knew they wouldn’t swim for him—he’d become too much the public figure, no longer the head-smashing, begonia-tearing desperado. They’d shout foolish codes over the radio and the harbor patrol would put out of San Pedro. But unless they could dig up another member of the Peach family to pilot them, they’d have a hard time with the pursuit. William bobbed on a swell, treading water. There was Jim in the rowboat ten yards off, five yards. William struggled to haul himself into it, but couldn’t. It was impossible. Jim struck out for the Gerhardi with William in tow. Pince Nez, so miraculously preserved in the sewers, would be a waterlogged wreck. But it had served its purpose. Edward, of course, might despair at the drowning of his sixty-dollar book.

A moment later and William was clambering up the side, boosted from below. He collapsed forward onto the deck, the spinning sun in his eyes. “Let him lie,” said Edward—a harsh thing, it seemed to William. He rolled over and watched the rest of them hurry across to the far side of the deck to grapple with something heaped there. William blinked. It was a great fish. For a moment he was certain it was Reginald Peach, but of course it wasn’t. He rose, slumped, and crawled across on his hands and knees. It was John Pinion.

Edward and Professor Latzarel grabbed the canvas beneath the fish, heaved, and flopped Pinion overboard. William watched him sink, spiraling slowly downward into the deep pool wearing his foolish, shredded ice cream clothing. Pinion twitched and then thrashed almost double as if shaking himself out. He thrashed again, shuddered down the length of him, gave a great kick with his fused legs, and was gone, undulating away into the green depths.

“Let’s go,” shouted Giles, looking out the hatch of the diving bell, indifferent, it seemed, to Pinion’s fate. No one argued. There’d be five of them aboard—a tight fit, surely, but the bell was built for six. They shook Squires’ hand and helped William in, cutting short his shouted reminder to Squires to look after the mice and axolotl. Even before the hatch slid shut, the bell was hoisted above the deck and swinging out over the water. Giles checked the instruments and fiddled with the humming Hieronymous machine. Lights blinked on in a spray of amethyst and emerald and ruby.

William dragged off his backpack and rummaged inside. There was one thing he had to know. He pulled the top from the rosewood box and held the box in front of Giles. “I got this out of Yamoto,” he said, nodding at it. “I’m fairly sure they’re not aspirin. Some sort of opiate, I think—heroin maybe—manufactured by Han Koi, but I need to be sure.”

Giles glanced at the pills as if they were utterly uninteresting, just another irritation. “Of course they are,” he said after a moment. “You’re absolutely correct.” And with that the bell plunged into the water, a storm of green bubbles rising beyond the portholes. The Dean-drive mechanism whirred into life, and a pellet of salt, extracted from the first bit of converted seawater, tumbled out of the Hieronymous machine into a galvanized bucket.

William cheered, thinking suddenly of his origami boat. Giles grinned sheepishly at Jim. Edward and Professor Latzarel shook hands. Five silent minutes later, with an air of absolute confidence, Giles Peach yanked the pair of levers that loosed them utterly from the Gerhardi, and from the dust and muck and turmoil of the surface world. They dropped into the abyss, gaining momentum, tree at last, following the dark wake of John Pinion, all of them bound at last on a strange and watery journey toward the center of the hollow Earth.

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Also by James P. Blaylock

The Elfin Series

The Elfin Ship

The Disappearing Dwarf

The Stone Giant

Langdon St Ives

Homunculus*

Lord Kelvin’s Machine*

Other Novels

The Digging Leviathan

Land Of Dreams

The Last Coin

The Paper Grail

The Magic Spectacles

Night Relics

All The Bells On Earth

Winter Tides

The Rainy Season

Knights Of The Cornerstone

Collections

Thirteen Phantasms

In For A Penny

Metamorphosis

* not available as SF Gateway eBooks

Dedication

To Viki

And to Johnny and Danny,

best of all possible sons

and consultants on all matters of scientific import

And, most of all,

To my parents, Daisy and Loren Blaylock

James P. Blaylock (1950 - )

James Paul Blaylock was born in Long Beach, California, in 1950, and attended California State University, where he received an MA. He was befriended and mentored by Philip K. Dick, along with his contemporaries K.W. Jeter and Tim Powers, and is regarded – along with Powers and Jeter – as one of the founding fathers of the steampunk movement. Winner of two World Fantasy Awards and a Philip K. Dick Award, he is currently director of the Creative Writing Conservatory at the Orange County High School of the Arts, where Tim Powers is Writer in Residence.

Copyright

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright © James P. Blaylock 1984

All rights reserved.

The right of James Blaylock to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 11758 7

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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