Battersea Power Station and Bankside and even the daunting face of University College London, a building that always made Everett imagine Batman sweeping down from its heights. Baroque Gotham, that was the architecture of E3 London. Electricity cables swooped between the domes and the blank-faced brick monoliths. Rooftops carried ugly power pylons; the city lay beneath a spiderweb of power lines. Elevated railways veered between the ancient buildings. Here were the arched glass roofs of great railway stations. There were more parks than he remembered, though they were crisscrossed by elevated railway lines. From the landmarks he recognised Everett reckoned he was around Sadler's Wells. He could see fifty kilometres. Everett gasped. At the limit of his vision was a wall that stretched as far in each direction as he could see. A burning wall—smoke and vapour went up all along its length. Everett pressed his hands against the glass and leaned forwards. No—not a wall. Chimneys. Kilometre after kilometre of chimneys and cooling towers belching smoke and steam into the atmosphere. He didn't doubt that they circled the whole of London.
Noise: voices raised against the general background of passengers heading for flights. A disturbance in the crowd, back where he had come from around the curve in the corridor. Only one thing could do that. He had stayed gaping like a fool too long. Run. He stopped himself. Don't run. Walk sedately. There were the elevators. Elevators up, elevators down. Three car loads of passengers arrived through the shaft and still the down elevator remained up on the top level. Come on come on.
Ting. The diamond-shaped lights on the call panel went green. The doors opened. Everett apologised his way into the press of people. As the doors closed he saw Charlotte Villiers, her hat like the prow of a warship, moving through the crowd. A wedge of men in dark blue uniforms and headgear like white fireman helmets cleared the way for her. Police always look like police, whatever the universe. She turned her gaze on the lift as the doors closed. The lift started downwards with a speed that made Everett feel like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. The Heisenberg jump had been less sick-making. Ting. Second tier: domestic flights. Ting. Ground level and transport. Everyone was heading for the exits and meeters and the greeters and the men in suits with travellers' names written on cards. And here was the trap, because beyond the meeters and greeters and the name holders and the world beyond the glass were more of the men in dark blue and white helmets. They had pieces of paper in their hands. They carefully checked the face of everyone leaving against the piece of paper. The crowd would propel him right under their eyes.
Everett peeled out from the crowd. Porters scooted around him on electric trolleys piled high with luggage. He slipped into the washroom. In a cubicle he bolted the door and tried to think of a plan. It was a good place to think. He'd always had good ideas in places like this. Something about being alone, private, free from disturbance. He sorted through the travel kit in his backpack. It had been a hasty pack that morning, after he'd had the idea of using the Heisenberg Gate to go in search of his dad. While the Spinettis had banged around trying to get ready for school and work, he quietly pilfered things a guy might need in another universe. Screwdrivers. Plugs and adapters. Insulating tape. Pencils, paper. Knife fork spoon. Ryun's dad's multitool and mains tester. Gas lighter. Matches. Headache tablets. Torch and spare batteries. Guilt stabbed him again as he brought up the wedding and engagement rings from the bottom of the side pocket. If he had had time, he would have gone home and taken his mum's. She was always promising to throw them away or have a getting-rid-of ritual or just send them to one of those “We-Buy-Gold” people who advertised on afternoon television. Mrs. Spinetti
Noise: voices raised against the general background of passengers heading for flights. A disturbance in the crowd, back where he had come from around the curve in the corridor. Only one thing could do that. He had stayed gaping like a fool too long. Run. He stopped himself. Don't run. Walk sedately. There were the elevators. Elevators up, elevators down. Three car loads of passengers arrived through the shaft and still the down elevator remained up on the top level. Come on come on.
Ting. The diamond-shaped lights on the call panel went green. The doors opened. Everett apologised his way into the press of people. As the doors closed he saw Charlotte Villiers, her hat like the prow of a warship, moving through the crowd. A wedge of men in dark blue uniforms and headgear like white fireman helmets cleared the way for her. Police always look like police, whatever the universe. She turned her gaze on the lift as the doors closed. The lift started downwards with a speed that made Everett feel like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. The Heisenberg jump had been less sick-making. Ting. Second tier: domestic flights. Ting. Ground level and transport. Everyone was heading for the exits and meeters and the greeters and the men in suits with travellers' names written on cards. And here was the trap, because beyond the meeters and greeters and the name holders and the world beyond the glass were more of the men in dark blue and white helmets. They had pieces of paper in their hands. They carefully checked the face of everyone leaving against the piece of paper. The crowd would propel him right under their eyes.
Everett peeled out from the crowd. Porters scooted around him on electric trolleys piled high with luggage. He slipped into the washroom. In a cubicle he bolted the door and tried to think of a plan. It was a good place to think. He'd always had good ideas in places like this. Something about being alone, private, free from disturbance. He sorted through the travel kit in his backpack. It had been a hasty pack that morning, after he'd had the idea of using the Heisenberg Gate to go in search of his dad. While the Spinettis had banged around trying to get ready for school and work, he quietly pilfered things a guy might need in another universe. Screwdrivers. Plugs and adapters. Insulating tape. Pencils, paper. Knife fork spoon. Ryun's dad's multitool and mains tester. Gas lighter. Matches. Headache tablets. Torch and spare batteries. Guilt stabbed him again as he brought up the wedding and engagement rings from the bottom of the side pocket. If he had had time, he would have gone home and taken his mum's. She was always promising to throw them away or have a getting-rid-of ritual or just send them to one of those “We-Buy-Gold” people who advertised on afternoon television. Mrs. Spinetti
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