The Celestial Blueprint and Others Stories by Philip José Farmer Page B
Authors: Philip José Farmer
Ads: Link
close to the very edge. A little more velocity, and he would have gone completely over.
Shuddering, he clutched the rim of rock until he’d regained some of his composure. After a while, he inched forward until his head hung over the lip of the precipice, and he could gaze downward into the abyss.
Below, seemingly a thousand feet down, though he knew the distance must be an illusion fabricated by Da Vincelleo, was a lake of molten lava rising in great billows, then sinking into deep valleys, and releasing gigantic bubbles that rose and burst, and loosed a stench of sulfur that almost suffocated him. Smoke spiralled up past his head, and collected against the roof far above. The heat that ascended was strong enough to crisp his face if he had looked long into it.
Nowhere was there a sign of Dafess’s inhabitants. All had been dissolved in the roaring sea of lava, in the hell that had been prophesied for all their enemies.
Quailing, Revanche looked to left and right along the narrow ledge for an avenue of escape. There was none. Both ends tapered off into the rock.
Straight across, perhaps a hundred feet away, was the balcony from which he had hoped to see the show. If he had the guts, he thought, he could step up his antigrav past the danger point and, almost weightless for a second, could leap to the balcony.
If the pack didn’t bum out while he was in midair. If he didn’t misgauge and miss the balcony ... if the hellish blast from below didn’t crisp him before he completed the jump . . . if . . .
He stood up, and by the glow thrown up from the bright ocean, he peered up the slide. Another if. What if he could brace his legs against the sides of the O, and painfully work his way back up?
At that moment, a figure shot out of the shadows of the tunnel, a figure that approached at express-train speed and quickly loomed larger and larger. Its blood-colored halo, the mask with the snarl of tenderness, the furnace-door eyes, and the dripping sword—all could be made out in frightening detail.
Like the lost soul he believed he was, Revanche screamed and dropped flat to the ledge, crushing his snipped nose into the granite. He moaned and waited for the clang of armor and the final whistle of the blade through the air before it thudded into his neck.
Above him, something dark and monstrous shot out of the O and roared by.
Whooshl
It missed the ledge by many feet and fell into the lava ocean.
A train of shadows flickered over Revanche. The air was disturbed by the constant passage of flying elephantine bodies.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
One by one, like living shells exploded out of a circus cannon, they projectiled over their intended prey. By the thousands, they meteored over him, eyeballs matching the glare of the lava below, swords automatically slashing out even as they spun and turned over and over, and splashed into the liquid rock.
Whish! Brrr! Whoosh! Splash!
Suddenly—silence.
Slowly, Revanche rose. He could not believe it. He looked over the ledge. Only the bare and boiling sea. He turned and glanced up the tube. Silence and shadows and the gleaming greasy symbol for zero.
Understanding melted the glacier on his brain. He broke into a wild dance, wept tears for gladness, whistled three times, and shouted, “I’ve won! Revanche has won! And I’ve beat them!”
Clippety-clop! Clippety-clop!
The unbelievable ring of iron horseshoes jumped out of the tub’s mouth.
Revanche froze in a pirouette, stood poised, then seemed to collapse into a strange loose creature that shambled over to the funnel and leaned backward to look up, like a dazed and stiffnecked Neanderthal.
The liquid film of joy glazed over his mind again, grew white and cold and lumpy.
A mount and its rider were coming out of the darkness and into the brimstone glare. The horse was a nightmare black, its eyeballs burning tiger-yellow bright. It stretched back cruel and foaming lips, and revealed teeth sharp enough to rend him.
A
Shuddering, he clutched the rim of rock until he’d regained some of his composure. After a while, he inched forward until his head hung over the lip of the precipice, and he could gaze downward into the abyss.
Below, seemingly a thousand feet down, though he knew the distance must be an illusion fabricated by Da Vincelleo, was a lake of molten lava rising in great billows, then sinking into deep valleys, and releasing gigantic bubbles that rose and burst, and loosed a stench of sulfur that almost suffocated him. Smoke spiralled up past his head, and collected against the roof far above. The heat that ascended was strong enough to crisp his face if he had looked long into it.
Nowhere was there a sign of Dafess’s inhabitants. All had been dissolved in the roaring sea of lava, in the hell that had been prophesied for all their enemies.
Quailing, Revanche looked to left and right along the narrow ledge for an avenue of escape. There was none. Both ends tapered off into the rock.
Straight across, perhaps a hundred feet away, was the balcony from which he had hoped to see the show. If he had the guts, he thought, he could step up his antigrav past the danger point and, almost weightless for a second, could leap to the balcony.
If the pack didn’t bum out while he was in midair. If he didn’t misgauge and miss the balcony ... if the hellish blast from below didn’t crisp him before he completed the jump . . . if . . .
He stood up, and by the glow thrown up from the bright ocean, he peered up the slide. Another if. What if he could brace his legs against the sides of the O, and painfully work his way back up?
At that moment, a figure shot out of the shadows of the tunnel, a figure that approached at express-train speed and quickly loomed larger and larger. Its blood-colored halo, the mask with the snarl of tenderness, the furnace-door eyes, and the dripping sword—all could be made out in frightening detail.
Like the lost soul he believed he was, Revanche screamed and dropped flat to the ledge, crushing his snipped nose into the granite. He moaned and waited for the clang of armor and the final whistle of the blade through the air before it thudded into his neck.
Above him, something dark and monstrous shot out of the O and roared by.
Whooshl
It missed the ledge by many feet and fell into the lava ocean.
A train of shadows flickered over Revanche. The air was disturbed by the constant passage of flying elephantine bodies.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
One by one, like living shells exploded out of a circus cannon, they projectiled over their intended prey. By the thousands, they meteored over him, eyeballs matching the glare of the lava below, swords automatically slashing out even as they spun and turned over and over, and splashed into the liquid rock.
Whish! Brrr! Whoosh! Splash!
Suddenly—silence.
Slowly, Revanche rose. He could not believe it. He looked over the ledge. Only the bare and boiling sea. He turned and glanced up the tube. Silence and shadows and the gleaming greasy symbol for zero.
Understanding melted the glacier on his brain. He broke into a wild dance, wept tears for gladness, whistled three times, and shouted, “I’ve won! Revanche has won! And I’ve beat them!”
Clippety-clop! Clippety-clop!
The unbelievable ring of iron horseshoes jumped out of the tub’s mouth.
Revanche froze in a pirouette, stood poised, then seemed to collapse into a strange loose creature that shambled over to the funnel and leaned backward to look up, like a dazed and stiffnecked Neanderthal.
The liquid film of joy glazed over his mind again, grew white and cold and lumpy.
A mount and its rider were coming out of the darkness and into the brimstone glare. The horse was a nightmare black, its eyeballs burning tiger-yellow bright. It stretched back cruel and foaming lips, and revealed teeth sharp enough to rend him.
A
Similar Books
