who took note of such things.
The cliff wall curved left and right in bays and protuberances. His astonished eye followed the cliff farther and farther. In the distance the mighty curves met, and light twinkled from the shadows of the far cliff wall opposite. He was in a palace: the place must have miles of halls and corridors.
It looked like someone had taken a museum, or one of those old French palaces, and stuck it in the middle of a gigantic crater in the middle of the mountains. But did they heat the whole estate, merely to grow a rose garden and grape arbor in the midst of snow? Menelaus wondered at the energy expended.
Palace? Or fortress? He saw, folded almost invisibly into the rock, immense shutters of metal; clamshell armor thicker than bank vault doors. Several acres of steel were poised to fall over these windows and gardens and airy walkways, and he also saw pillboxes, hatches, and turrets which implied a healthy antiaircraft battery was also buried in the rock, only its many snouts poking above the surface.
There was nothing like this on Earth, and no blueprints for anything like it. Which meant he had been asleep for longer than merely the trip in the punt back to Earth. How far had the Hermetic traveled in this time? Was it twenty-five years later? Fifty? Had the first starship of Man reached her destination? Perhaps even now Blackie Del Azarchel was walking on the surface of the Monument in a pressure suit, bending down to study the alien glyphs. Menelaus gritted his teeth and ignored a boiling knot in his stomach.
Abruptly, he flung wide the French doors, and strode onto the balcony. A rushing blanket of warm air hovered near him. He did not hear any fan roaring, or see any vents whence the air came, but Menelaus stood without a coat on in sub-freezing mountain winterscape, unscathed. He could smell the snow, and if he put out his hand, he could feel cold air on his fingers. His hand felt queer, as if he had disturbed the surface of an invisible, vertical pond.
Menelaus only then noticed what he was wearing: silk pajamas. They rustled in the warm winds. There was a monogram on the pocket, a combination of the letters D and X and A.
At least there were Latin letters still in use here in the future.
He wondered where he was. Not a hospital, that was sure. Maybe the palace was owned by the Alliance of Deneb X? (That sounded promising.) Xylophone Anti-music Department? The Algophilists of the Xipetotec Desolation? (Given a vote, he’d prefer disgruntled percussion musicians to votaries of a old Injun blood-god.)
Beneath his hand was a little sphinx with the cherub-head of a child, smiling. “What’re you grinnin’ at, kid?” he grunted. Then he jerked his hand in surprise. The carven haircurls of stone embracing the wee face were warm under his touch: the marble balustrade was heated.
Now he looked out. Underfoot, through the openings in the fog, was a vast crater. Each time Menelaus estimated its size, he saw some other feature, such as a pine tree which he had mistaken for a weed, and had to revise his estimate upward. The crater was many miles across.
The clouds all hung at the same level, so looking down was like peering through the surface of a lake at a hidden lakebed. A particularly wide gap in the cloud was open at his feet, and opening slowly as if the winds were unseen hands parting a stage curtain. Menelaus leaned forward, eager for a glimpse of the future world.
The bottom of the crater was a broken field of glassy splatters, looking almost like volcanic rock. In the center of the crater, a lake had gathered. From the color of the water, he guessed it was newly made, a decade old or less, and nothing much lived in it. In the very middle of the water rose a cone-shaped island of rock.
Island? An uplift peak. He knew what he would have seen if he had been standing on it: chevron-shaped striations in the rock called shatter cones, all radiating out from the impact point, or laminated
The cliff wall curved left and right in bays and protuberances. His astonished eye followed the cliff farther and farther. In the distance the mighty curves met, and light twinkled from the shadows of the far cliff wall opposite. He was in a palace: the place must have miles of halls and corridors.
It looked like someone had taken a museum, or one of those old French palaces, and stuck it in the middle of a gigantic crater in the middle of the mountains. But did they heat the whole estate, merely to grow a rose garden and grape arbor in the midst of snow? Menelaus wondered at the energy expended.
Palace? Or fortress? He saw, folded almost invisibly into the rock, immense shutters of metal; clamshell armor thicker than bank vault doors. Several acres of steel were poised to fall over these windows and gardens and airy walkways, and he also saw pillboxes, hatches, and turrets which implied a healthy antiaircraft battery was also buried in the rock, only its many snouts poking above the surface.
There was nothing like this on Earth, and no blueprints for anything like it. Which meant he had been asleep for longer than merely the trip in the punt back to Earth. How far had the Hermetic traveled in this time? Was it twenty-five years later? Fifty? Had the first starship of Man reached her destination? Perhaps even now Blackie Del Azarchel was walking on the surface of the Monument in a pressure suit, bending down to study the alien glyphs. Menelaus gritted his teeth and ignored a boiling knot in his stomach.
Abruptly, he flung wide the French doors, and strode onto the balcony. A rushing blanket of warm air hovered near him. He did not hear any fan roaring, or see any vents whence the air came, but Menelaus stood without a coat on in sub-freezing mountain winterscape, unscathed. He could smell the snow, and if he put out his hand, he could feel cold air on his fingers. His hand felt queer, as if he had disturbed the surface of an invisible, vertical pond.
Menelaus only then noticed what he was wearing: silk pajamas. They rustled in the warm winds. There was a monogram on the pocket, a combination of the letters D and X and A.
At least there were Latin letters still in use here in the future.
He wondered where he was. Not a hospital, that was sure. Maybe the palace was owned by the Alliance of Deneb X? (That sounded promising.) Xylophone Anti-music Department? The Algophilists of the Xipetotec Desolation? (Given a vote, he’d prefer disgruntled percussion musicians to votaries of a old Injun blood-god.)
Beneath his hand was a little sphinx with the cherub-head of a child, smiling. “What’re you grinnin’ at, kid?” he grunted. Then he jerked his hand in surprise. The carven haircurls of stone embracing the wee face were warm under his touch: the marble balustrade was heated.
Now he looked out. Underfoot, through the openings in the fog, was a vast crater. Each time Menelaus estimated its size, he saw some other feature, such as a pine tree which he had mistaken for a weed, and had to revise his estimate upward. The crater was many miles across.
The clouds all hung at the same level, so looking down was like peering through the surface of a lake at a hidden lakebed. A particularly wide gap in the cloud was open at his feet, and opening slowly as if the winds were unseen hands parting a stage curtain. Menelaus leaned forward, eager for a glimpse of the future world.
The bottom of the crater was a broken field of glassy splatters, looking almost like volcanic rock. In the center of the crater, a lake had gathered. From the color of the water, he guessed it was newly made, a decade old or less, and nothing much lived in it. In the very middle of the water rose a cone-shaped island of rock.
Island? An uplift peak. He knew what he would have seen if he had been standing on it: chevron-shaped striations in the rock called shatter cones, all radiating out from the impact point, or laminated
Similar Books
