The Descent

It  seemed  the  helicopter   was   bound  west   forever   across   the   cobalt  blue  water, landless,  stained  red  by  the  sunset.   Night  chased   her   across   the   infinite  Pacific. Childishly, Ali wished they  could stay  ahead of the darkness.

The  islands  were  all  but  covered  with  intricate  scaffolding  and  decks,  miles  and miles  of  it,  ten  stories  high  in  some  places.  Expecting  amorphous  lava  piles,  Ali  was affronted by  the neat geometry.  They'd  been busy  out here. Nazca Depot –  named  for the  geological  plate  it  fed  to  –  was  nothing  but  a  vast  parking  garage  anchored  on pylons.  Supertankers  floated  alongside,  mouths  open,  taking  on  small  symmetrical mountains  of  raw  ore  conveyed  by  belts.  Trucks  hauled  containers  from  one  level  to another.

The  helicopter  sliced  between  skeletal  towers,  landing  briefly  to  disgorge  Ali,  who recoiled  at  the  stench  of  gases  curdling  into  mists.  She  had  been  forewarned.  Nazca Depot  was  a  work  zone.  There  were  barracks  for  workers,  but  no  facilities,  not  even cots or  a  Coke  machine,  for  passengers  in  transit.  By  chance,  a  man  appeared  on  foot among the vehicles and noises. 'Excuse me,' Ali yelled above  the roar of  the  helicopter.

'How do I get to Nine-Bay?'

The   man's   eyes   ran   down   her   long   arms   and   legs,   and   he   pointed   with   no enthusiasm.  She  dodged  among  the  beams  and  diesel  fumes,  down  three  flights  to reach a freight elevator  with doors that opened  up  and  down  like  jaws.  Some  wag  had written  'Lasciate  ogni  speranza,  voi  ch'entrate'  over  the  gate,  Dante's  welcoming injunction in the original.

Ali  got  into  the  cage  and  pressed  her  number.  She  felt  a  strange  sense  of  grief,  but couldn't figure out why.

The  cage  released  her  onto  a  deck  thronged  with  other  passengers.  There  were hundreds of people down here, mostly men, all heading in one direction. Even with  the sea  breeze  brooming  through,  the  air  was  rank  with  their  odor,  a  force  in  itself.  In Israel  and  Ethiopia  and  the  African  bush,  she  had  done  her  share  of  traveling  among masses  of  soldiers  and  workers,  and  they  smelled  the  same  worldwide.  It  was  the smell of aggression.

With  loudspeakers   hammering   at   them   to  queue,   to   present   tickets,   to   show passports,   Ali  was   swept   into  the   current.   'Loaded  weapons   are   not   permitted. Violators  will  be  disarmed  and  their  weapons  confiscated.'  There  was  no  mention  of arrest  or punishment. It  was enough, then, that violators  would  be  sent  down  without their guns.

The   crowd   bore   her   past   a   bulletin   board   fifty   feet   long.   It   was   divided alphabetically,  A-G,  H-P,  Q-Z.  Thousands  of  messages  had  been  pinned  for  others  to find:  equipment  for  sale,  services  for  hire,  dates  and  locations  for  rendezvous,  E-mail addresses, curses. TRAVELER'S  ADVISORY , a  Red  Cross  sign  warned.  PREGNANT  WOMEN ARE STRONGLY ADVISED  AGAINST  DESCENT. FETAL  DAMAGE AND/OR DEATH DUE TO...'

A  Department  of  Health  poster  listed  a  Hit  Parade  of  the  top  twenty  'depth  drugs' and their side effects. Ali wasn't pleased to find  listed  two  of  the  drugs  in  her  personal med kit. The  last six weeks  had been a whirlwind of preparation, with inoculations and Helios  paperwork  and  physical  training  consuming  every  hour.  Day  by  day,  she  was learning how little man really  knew about life in the subplanet.

'Declare  your  explosives,'  the  loudspeaker  boomed.  'All  explosives  must  be  clearly marked. All explosives  must be shipped down Tunnel K. Violators will be...'

The  crowd  movement  was  peristaltic,  full  of  muscular  starts  and  stops.  In  contrast to  Ali's  daypack,   normal  luggage  here   tended   toward   metal   cases   and   stenciled foot-lockers and hundred-pound duffel bags with bulletproof locks. Ali  had  never  seen so  many  gun  cases  in  her  life.  It  looked  like  a  convention  of  safari  guides,  with  every variety  of  camouflage  and  body  armor,  bandolier,  holster,  and  sheath.  Body  hair  and neck veins were  de rigueur. She was glad for their numbers, because  some  of  the  men frightened her with their glances.

In truth, she was frightening herself. She felt out of balance. This  voyage  was  purely of her own volition, of course. All she had to do was stop walking and the journey  could stop. But something was started  here.