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Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle by Richard Lupoff Page B
Book: Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle by Richard Lupoff
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Authors: Richard Lupoff
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you?"
"The, well, I shall call it the space-train, arrived, and I climbed aboard, and found myself here in London. In 1896. Surrounded not by phantoms but, as far as I can tell, by reality. Including yourself." He paused to catch his breath and to gather his thoughts. He peered through the transparent wall of the car.
To appearances, the car had emerged from its long tunnel and was making its way along a wholly ordinary railway line. The long night was ending; Clive could detect the rosy blush of dawn to the east, behind the car, which sped along the tracks in a westerly direction.
As the car passed an early-rising farmer driving his hay-laden wagon along a dirt track beside the railroad bed, Annie took Clive's wrist. "He cannot see us, Clive. We can see all the world from this car, but we are protected from being seen."
"What is this car?" Clive demanded. "Have you made league with… whoever is behind this? With Philo Goode and his confederates?"
She smiled up at him. "All in good time, Clive. You were telling me what happened to Neville's journal."
"The messages we received were seldom reliable anyway. I question both Neville's motivation in writing them and the authenticity of at least a number of them."
"You met Neville in the Dungeon."
"Yes. Neville—or a simulacrum."
"Did he acknowledge that he truly wrote all the messages in his journal?"
"He denied them all!"
She looked stunned, struck speechless.
Clive continued. "But now—was it truly Neville who denied writing the journal entries? And even if it was, can we believe him?"
Annie frowned. "Maybe we'll be able to find that out, somehow. But for now, where is the journal, Clive?"
"As I was explaining to you—when I entered the space-train, I was ragged, unshaven, half-starved, half-drowned, and half-frozen. When I found myself in London—in the bedchamber of my old friend du Maurier—I was nourished, shaven, magnificently togged, and bone dry. I do not understand what happened. I can only attribute it, like so many other mysteries, to the Dungeon."
"And Neville's journal?"
"I have no idea."
"Did you have it on the ice cap, Clive?"
"I don't know. I don't remember having it there, but I had other things to occupy my attention than thinking about my brother's notebook."
"Then it might still be on the ice cap. Or on the train. Or in George du Maurier's home, I suppose."
"Or back on the eighth level, in fact."
"Never mind. Never mind. We must cope with our situation as we find it."
The light from the east had increased, and Clive's observation of the green fields and budding trees that lined the railroad bed told him that it was a spring morning in the English countryside. One of nature's most beautiful creations—an English country spring.
"Where are we headed?" Clive asked.
Annie smiled. "Don't you recognize the landscape?"
Clive studied the vegetation and the lay of the land. "It looks like Gloucestershire."
"Right on the first response!"
"We're going to Tewkesbury!"
"Correct."
"Who is there, and what is your connection with them, Annie?"
"Why, your family seat is there, Clive. At Tewkesbury Manor!"
"I know that. I did not ask
what
is there. I asked
who
is there."
"We'll access that data when our cursor reaches the designated address."
Oh, Lord
, Clive thought,
she's lapsing into that strange futuristic jargon of hers
. "Annie, please—can't you speak in everyday language? Is the Queen's English inadequate to meet your needs?"
"Sorry, User. Uh, Clive. I forget myself. We'll find out when we get there, okay?"
"Very well. But Annie—so much has happened! Where are the others? Finnbogg and Shriek, Tomàs and Sidi Bombay…"
"You didn't mention Horace, Clive."
"I have seen Horace."
"At the North Pole?"
"No. In London. I was with him, although briefly, not more than an hour ago."
Annie's manner grew far more serious than it had been since their reunion in the transparent car. "You
"The, well, I shall call it the space-train, arrived, and I climbed aboard, and found myself here in London. In 1896. Surrounded not by phantoms but, as far as I can tell, by reality. Including yourself." He paused to catch his breath and to gather his thoughts. He peered through the transparent wall of the car.
To appearances, the car had emerged from its long tunnel and was making its way along a wholly ordinary railway line. The long night was ending; Clive could detect the rosy blush of dawn to the east, behind the car, which sped along the tracks in a westerly direction.
As the car passed an early-rising farmer driving his hay-laden wagon along a dirt track beside the railroad bed, Annie took Clive's wrist. "He cannot see us, Clive. We can see all the world from this car, but we are protected from being seen."
"What is this car?" Clive demanded. "Have you made league with… whoever is behind this? With Philo Goode and his confederates?"
She smiled up at him. "All in good time, Clive. You were telling me what happened to Neville's journal."
"The messages we received were seldom reliable anyway. I question both Neville's motivation in writing them and the authenticity of at least a number of them."
"You met Neville in the Dungeon."
"Yes. Neville—or a simulacrum."
"Did he acknowledge that he truly wrote all the messages in his journal?"
"He denied them all!"
She looked stunned, struck speechless.
Clive continued. "But now—was it truly Neville who denied writing the journal entries? And even if it was, can we believe him?"
Annie frowned. "Maybe we'll be able to find that out, somehow. But for now, where is the journal, Clive?"
"As I was explaining to you—when I entered the space-train, I was ragged, unshaven, half-starved, half-drowned, and half-frozen. When I found myself in London—in the bedchamber of my old friend du Maurier—I was nourished, shaven, magnificently togged, and bone dry. I do not understand what happened. I can only attribute it, like so many other mysteries, to the Dungeon."
"And Neville's journal?"
"I have no idea."
"Did you have it on the ice cap, Clive?"
"I don't know. I don't remember having it there, but I had other things to occupy my attention than thinking about my brother's notebook."
"Then it might still be on the ice cap. Or on the train. Or in George du Maurier's home, I suppose."
"Or back on the eighth level, in fact."
"Never mind. Never mind. We must cope with our situation as we find it."
The light from the east had increased, and Clive's observation of the green fields and budding trees that lined the railroad bed told him that it was a spring morning in the English countryside. One of nature's most beautiful creations—an English country spring.
"Where are we headed?" Clive asked.
Annie smiled. "Don't you recognize the landscape?"
Clive studied the vegetation and the lay of the land. "It looks like Gloucestershire."
"Right on the first response!"
"We're going to Tewkesbury!"
"Correct."
"Who is there, and what is your connection with them, Annie?"
"Why, your family seat is there, Clive. At Tewkesbury Manor!"
"I know that. I did not ask
what
is there. I asked
who
is there."
"We'll access that data when our cursor reaches the designated address."
Oh, Lord
, Clive thought,
she's lapsing into that strange futuristic jargon of hers
. "Annie, please—can't you speak in everyday language? Is the Queen's English inadequate to meet your needs?"
"Sorry, User. Uh, Clive. I forget myself. We'll find out when we get there, okay?"
"Very well. But Annie—so much has happened! Where are the others? Finnbogg and Shriek, Tomàs and Sidi Bombay…"
"You didn't mention Horace, Clive."
"I have seen Horace."
"At the North Pole?"
"No. In London. I was with him, although briefly, not more than an hour ago."
Annie's manner grew far more serious than it had been since their reunion in the transparent car. "You
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