The Descent

Ike  felt  the  sky  coming  to  pieces  overhead.  Don't  think,  he  warned  himself.  Don't feel.  But  the  sun  rose  and  strangled  him  with  his  own  shadow.  His  dark  image  lay broken on the steps  beneath him.

He was aware  of Sandwell watching him patiently. 'You came  here  to  see  me  bleed?'

he ventured.

'I  came  to  give  you  a  chance.'  Sandwell  handed  him  a  business  card.  It  bore  the name  Montgomery  Shoat.  There  was  no  title  or  address.  'Call  this  man.  He  has  work for you.'

'What kind of work?'

'Mr  Shoat  can  tell  you  himself.  The  important  thing  is  that  it  will  take  you  deeper than  the  reach  of  any  law.  There  are  zones  where  extradition  doesn't  exist.  They won't be able to touch you, down that far. But you need to act immediately.'

'You work for him?' Ike  asked.  Slow  this  thing  down,  he  was  telling  himself.  Find  its footprints, backtrack  a bit, get some origin. Sandwell gave  nothing.

'I was asked to find someone with certain qualifications. It  was  pure  luck  to  find  you in such delicate straits.' That  was  information  of  a  kind.  It  told  him  that  Sandwell  and Shoat were  up to something  illicit  or  oblique,  or  maybe  just  unhealthy,  but  something that needed the anonymity of a Sunday morning for its introduction.

'You've  kept  this  from  Branch,'  Ike  said.  He  didn't  like  that.  It  wasn't  an  issue  of having Branch's permission, but of a promise.  Running  away  would  seal  the  Army  out of his life forever.

Sandwell was unapologetic. 'You need to be careful,' he said. 'If you decide  to  do  this, they'll  mount  a  search  for  you.  And  the  first  people  they'll  interrogate  are  the  ones closest to you. My  advice: Don't compromise  them.  Don't  call  Branch.  He's  got  enough problems.'

'I should just disappear?'

Sandwell smiled. 'You never  really  existed  anyway,'  he said.

There is nothing more powerful than this attraction toward an abyss.

– JULES VERNE, Journey to the Center of the Earth

7

THE MISSION

Manhattan

Ali  entered  in  sandals  and  a  sundress,  as  if  they  were  a  magic  spell  to  hold  back  the winter. The  guard ticked her name off a list and complained she was early  and without her  party,  but  passed  her  through  the  station.  He  gave  some  rapid-fire  directions. Then she was alone, with the Metropolitan Museum of Art  to herself.

It  was  like  being  the  last  person  on  earth.  Ali  paused  by  a  small  Picasso.  A  vast Bierstadt Yellowstone.  Then  she  came  to  a  banner  for  the  main  exhibit  declaring THE HARVEST  OF  HELL.  The  subtitle  read  'Twice  Reaped  Art.'  Devoted  to  artifacts  of  the underworld, most of the exhibit's objects had been brought back to the  surface  by  GIs and  miners.   All  but   a  few   had  been   stolen  from  humans  and  brought   into  the subplanet to begin with, thus 'twice reaped.'

Ali  had  come  well  ahead  of  her  engagement  with  January,  in  part  to  enjoy  the building,  but  mostly  to  see  for  herself  what  Homo  hadalis  was  capable  of.  Or,  in  this case, what he was not capable of. The  show's gist was this: H. hadalis  was  a  man-sized packrat.  The  creatures  of  the  subplanet  had  been  plundering  human  inventions  for eons.  From  ancient  pottery  to  plastic  Coke  bottles,  from  voodoo  fetishes   to  Han Dynasty  ceramic  tigers,  to  an  Archimedean-type  water  screw,  to  a  sculpture   by Michelangelo long thought destroyed.

Among  the  artifacts  made  by  humans  were  several  made  from  them.  She  came  to the  notorious  'Beachball'  made  of  different-colored  human  skins.  No  one  knew  its purpose,   but   the   sac  –  once  inflated,  now  fossilized  as  a  perfect   sphere   –  was especially offensive to people because it so coldly exploited the races as mere  fabric.

By  far  the  most  intriguing  artifact  was  a  chunk  of  rock  that  had  been  pried  from some  subterranean  wall.  It  was  inscribed  with  mysterious  hieroglyphics  that  verged on  calligraphy.  Obviously,  because  it  was  included  in  this  'twice  reaped'  display,  the curators  had  judged  it  to  be  human  graffiti  that  had  been  taken  down  into  the  abyss. But  as  Ali  stood  pondering  the  slab  of  rock,  she  wondered.  It  did  not  look  like  any writing she had ever  seen.

A voice found her. 'There  you are, child.'

'Rebecca?' she said, and turned.

The  woman  facing  her  was  like  a  stranger.  January  had  always  been  invincible,  an Amazon  with  that  ample  embrace  and  taut  black  skin.  This  person  looked  deflated, suddenly  old.  With  one  hand  locked  upon  her  cane,  the  senator  could  only  open  one arm to her. Ali swiftly bent to hug her, and felt the ribs in her back.