sun had risen clear and was sending rosy streams of light to illuminate dark towers of cumulo-nimbus.
The illusion of limitless space was perfect; the technology of this chamber had leapfrogged to the early 21st century.
Lightning forked through a far-off thunderhead. Distant thunder pealed and crumpled. The wind freshened. Blake stood naked on the threshold of a door into the storm, a diver on the highest of platforms. He wondered what was expected of him now. Unless some flying machine or great bird were to rise through the clouds, he could think of no way forward.
The wind continued to rise. It whipped at his hair and pushed him staggering away from the edge. He got to his hands and knees and crept back, pushing his face into the wind. It was a hard, steady wind, as steady as the blast from a giant wind tunnel.
Once, when Blake was little and a late summer hurricane had whipped New York, he had been taken outside on the top of the skyscraper tower to feel eighty-knot winds from the safety of his father’s arms. This wind was stronger.
The cloudscape continued to move serenely and majestically; its projected clouds were insubstantial creatures of light, unaffected by the fast-rising column of material air. The words of the invocation echoed in Blake’s mind–“. . . if he can master the fear of death, he will leave the Earth’s bosom . . .”
Then he knew what he was supposed to do.
He crept back from the edge. Once more he tried to reassure himself of his hosts’ sanity, or at least practicality. He raised his arms and ran forward. He dived away from the ledge as far as he could.
Skydiving was not one of his hobbies. He found himself tumbling and struggling, vainly beating the air with his arms and legs. The wind roared in his ears and the clouds rose past him at a terrifying rate–he fell through a layer of cirrus, plummeted haphazardly toward hazy stratus, saw himself drifting toward the skirts of a mushroom-capped thunderhead.
His athletic instincts came to his rescue, and he got his arms out and curved, his legs straightened and parted. Suddenly he found himself gliding like that great bird he had hoped would come to save him, although the roar of the wind reminded him that his speed through the vertical wind was still well over a hundred knots.
He scanned the clouds below. They were rising more slowly now–but it was all illusory. How far had he really fallen? How far down was the floor? What was down there, beside the whirling blades of a giant turbine?
A great canyon of cloud opened beneath him, its walls black with rain. As he gently descended into the airy canyon, he saw what he thought were birds spiraling on updrafts. But the shapes were not birdlike. With a start he realized they were human. They soared toward him, arms outstretched.
These were the initiates who had gone before him. They climbed and dived past him, grinning gleefully. He recognized Bruni, Lokele, Salome, Leo, others, swooping and circling and tumbling naked in the air.
Blake caught himself smiling back. This wasn’t so bad after all: in fact it was fun. He steered himself toward Lokele, who was climbing fast. At the last moment Blake veered and make a grab for Lokele’s outstretched hand, but he miscalculated–and flew right through the man’s body. Lokele kept grinning.
The fliers were as illusory as the clouds. Blake reminded himself of his true situation. He was suspended in a vast wind tunnel. He didn’t know where the walls or floor were, and he had no idea how he was going to get out.
Another naked figure swooped down out of the clouds above him–not an initiate this time, an adept. It was Catherine. She flew toward him, smiling, her hands outstretched. He watched her image impassively, noting its realism.
She touched his hand. A palpable touch. She was real indeed. Still smiling, she gestured to Blake to follow her. She turned and dived away, into the black flanks of the nearest thunderhead.
He dived after
The illusion of limitless space was perfect; the technology of this chamber had leapfrogged to the early 21st century.
Lightning forked through a far-off thunderhead. Distant thunder pealed and crumpled. The wind freshened. Blake stood naked on the threshold of a door into the storm, a diver on the highest of platforms. He wondered what was expected of him now. Unless some flying machine or great bird were to rise through the clouds, he could think of no way forward.
The wind continued to rise. It whipped at his hair and pushed him staggering away from the edge. He got to his hands and knees and crept back, pushing his face into the wind. It was a hard, steady wind, as steady as the blast from a giant wind tunnel.
Once, when Blake was little and a late summer hurricane had whipped New York, he had been taken outside on the top of the skyscraper tower to feel eighty-knot winds from the safety of his father’s arms. This wind was stronger.
The cloudscape continued to move serenely and majestically; its projected clouds were insubstantial creatures of light, unaffected by the fast-rising column of material air. The words of the invocation echoed in Blake’s mind–“. . . if he can master the fear of death, he will leave the Earth’s bosom . . .”
Then he knew what he was supposed to do.
He crept back from the edge. Once more he tried to reassure himself of his hosts’ sanity, or at least practicality. He raised his arms and ran forward. He dived away from the ledge as far as he could.
Skydiving was not one of his hobbies. He found himself tumbling and struggling, vainly beating the air with his arms and legs. The wind roared in his ears and the clouds rose past him at a terrifying rate–he fell through a layer of cirrus, plummeted haphazardly toward hazy stratus, saw himself drifting toward the skirts of a mushroom-capped thunderhead.
His athletic instincts came to his rescue, and he got his arms out and curved, his legs straightened and parted. Suddenly he found himself gliding like that great bird he had hoped would come to save him, although the roar of the wind reminded him that his speed through the vertical wind was still well over a hundred knots.
He scanned the clouds below. They were rising more slowly now–but it was all illusory. How far had he really fallen? How far down was the floor? What was down there, beside the whirling blades of a giant turbine?
A great canyon of cloud opened beneath him, its walls black with rain. As he gently descended into the airy canyon, he saw what he thought were birds spiraling on updrafts. But the shapes were not birdlike. With a start he realized they were human. They soared toward him, arms outstretched.
These were the initiates who had gone before him. They climbed and dived past him, grinning gleefully. He recognized Bruni, Lokele, Salome, Leo, others, swooping and circling and tumbling naked in the air.
Blake caught himself smiling back. This wasn’t so bad after all: in fact it was fun. He steered himself toward Lokele, who was climbing fast. At the last moment Blake veered and make a grab for Lokele’s outstretched hand, but he miscalculated–and flew right through the man’s body. Lokele kept grinning.
The fliers were as illusory as the clouds. Blake reminded himself of his true situation. He was suspended in a vast wind tunnel. He didn’t know where the walls or floor were, and he had no idea how he was going to get out.
Another naked figure swooped down out of the clouds above him–not an initiate this time, an adept. It was Catherine. She flew toward him, smiling, her hands outstretched. He watched her image impassively, noting its realism.
She touched his hand. A palpable touch. She was real indeed. Still smiling, she gestured to Blake to follow her. She turned and dived away, into the black flanks of the nearest thunderhead.
He dived after
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