scientific personnel, I
realized that Tom and Alise could have been told these things and have assumed
their truth. One could easily make a case for some portion of the Reich having
survived the war.
I
was about to put down the notebook when I noticed several loose sheets of paper
stuck in the rear; I pulled them out and unfolded them. The first appeared to
be a map of part of a city, with a large central square labeled “Citadel,” and
the rest were covered in a neat script that— after reading a paragraph or two—I
deduced to be Alise’s.
Tom says that since
I’m the only one ever to leave the caves (before we all finally left them, that
is), I should set down my experiences. He seems to think that having even a
horrid past is preferable to having none, and insists that we should document
it as well as we can. For myself I would like to forget the past, but I’ll
write down what I remember to satisfy his compulsiveness.
When we were first
experimenting with the tunnel, we knew nothing more about it than that it was a
metaphysical construct of some sort. Our control of it was poor, and we had no
idea how far it reached or through what medium it penetrated. Nor had we
explored it to any great extent. It was terrifying. The only constant was that
it was always dark, with fuzzy different-colored lights shining at what seemed
tremendous distances away. Often you would feel disembodied, and sometimes your
body was painfully real, subject to odd twinges and shocks. Sometimes it was
hard to move—like walking through black glue, and other times it was as if the
darkness were a frictionless substance that squeezed you along faster than you
wanted to go. Horrible afterimages materialized and vanished on all
sides—monsters, animals, things to which I couldn’t put a name. We were almost
as frightened of the tunnel as we were of our masters. Almost.
One night after the
guards had taken some of the girls into their quarters, we opened the tunnel
and three of us entered it. I was in the lead when our control slipped and the
tunnel began to constrict. I started to turn back, and the next I knew I was standing
under the sky, surrounded by window-less buildings. Warehouses, I think. The
street was deserted, and I had no idea where I was. In a panic, I ran down the
street and soon I heard the sounds of traffic. I turned a corner and stopped
short. A broad avenue lined with gray buildings—all decorated with carved
eagles—led away from where I stood and terminated in front of an enormous
building of black stone. I recognized it at once from pictures we had been
shown—Hitler’s Citadel.
Though I was still
very afraid, perhaps even more so, I realized that I had learned two things of
importance. First, that no matter through what otherworldly medium it
stretched, the tunnel also negotiated a worldly distance. Second, I understood
that the portrait painted of the world by our masters was more or less
accurate. We had never been sure of this, despite having been visited by
Disciples and other of Hitler’s creatures, their purpose being to frighten us
into compliance.
I only stood a few
minutes in that place, yet I’ll never be able to forget it. No description
could convey its air of menace, its oppressiveness. The avenue was thronged
with people, all—like our guards—shorter and less attractive than I and my
siblings, all standing stock-still, silent, and gazing at the Citadel. A
procession of electric cars was passing through their midst, blowing horns,
apparently to celebrate a triumph, because no one was obstructing their path.
Several Disciples were prowling the fringes of the crowd, and overhead a huge
winged shape was flying. It was no aircraft; its wings beat, and it swooped and
soared like a live thing. Yet it must have been forty or fifty feet long. I
couldn’t make out what it was; it kept close to the sun, and therefore was
always partly in silhouette. (I should mention that although
realized that Tom and Alise could have been told these things and have assumed
their truth. One could easily make a case for some portion of the Reich having
survived the war.
I
was about to put down the notebook when I noticed several loose sheets of paper
stuck in the rear; I pulled them out and unfolded them. The first appeared to
be a map of part of a city, with a large central square labeled “Citadel,” and
the rest were covered in a neat script that— after reading a paragraph or two—I
deduced to be Alise’s.
Tom says that since
I’m the only one ever to leave the caves (before we all finally left them, that
is), I should set down my experiences. He seems to think that having even a
horrid past is preferable to having none, and insists that we should document
it as well as we can. For myself I would like to forget the past, but I’ll
write down what I remember to satisfy his compulsiveness.
When we were first
experimenting with the tunnel, we knew nothing more about it than that it was a
metaphysical construct of some sort. Our control of it was poor, and we had no
idea how far it reached or through what medium it penetrated. Nor had we
explored it to any great extent. It was terrifying. The only constant was that
it was always dark, with fuzzy different-colored lights shining at what seemed
tremendous distances away. Often you would feel disembodied, and sometimes your
body was painfully real, subject to odd twinges and shocks. Sometimes it was
hard to move—like walking through black glue, and other times it was as if the
darkness were a frictionless substance that squeezed you along faster than you
wanted to go. Horrible afterimages materialized and vanished on all
sides—monsters, animals, things to which I couldn’t put a name. We were almost
as frightened of the tunnel as we were of our masters. Almost.
One night after the
guards had taken some of the girls into their quarters, we opened the tunnel
and three of us entered it. I was in the lead when our control slipped and the
tunnel began to constrict. I started to turn back, and the next I knew I was standing
under the sky, surrounded by window-less buildings. Warehouses, I think. The
street was deserted, and I had no idea where I was. In a panic, I ran down the
street and soon I heard the sounds of traffic. I turned a corner and stopped
short. A broad avenue lined with gray buildings—all decorated with carved
eagles—led away from where I stood and terminated in front of an enormous
building of black stone. I recognized it at once from pictures we had been
shown—Hitler’s Citadel.
Though I was still
very afraid, perhaps even more so, I realized that I had learned two things of
importance. First, that no matter through what otherworldly medium it
stretched, the tunnel also negotiated a worldly distance. Second, I understood
that the portrait painted of the world by our masters was more or less
accurate. We had never been sure of this, despite having been visited by
Disciples and other of Hitler’s creatures, their purpose being to frighten us
into compliance.
I only stood a few
minutes in that place, yet I’ll never be able to forget it. No description
could convey its air of menace, its oppressiveness. The avenue was thronged
with people, all—like our guards—shorter and less attractive than I and my
siblings, all standing stock-still, silent, and gazing at the Citadel. A
procession of electric cars was passing through their midst, blowing horns,
apparently to celebrate a triumph, because no one was obstructing their path.
Several Disciples were prowling the fringes of the crowd, and overhead a huge
winged shape was flying. It was no aircraft; its wings beat, and it swooped and
soared like a live thing. Yet it must have been forty or fifty feet long. I
couldn’t make out what it was; it kept close to the sun, and therefore was
always partly in silhouette. (I should mention that although
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