up and weht back to the door, opened it, and started down the steps. Running his fingers along the walls, he saw that they were filmed with gray dust.
Stop right here.
He reached the bottom of the steps, hesitated almost a minute, then turned into a room where overhead lightstrips glimmered uncertainly.
That was the instant when it all broke apart like good stemware dropped on a brick floor.
See what you've done!
He couldn't move. He was more frightened than he had ever been. This time, he had really thought it was okay. He had thought it was over. What a joke.
Maybe it would never be over.
In front of him, floating in ten glass-walled nutrient tanks, wired to robotic machinery which dangled overhead, were ten human bodies, both men and women. In the nearest tank, directly before him, the faceless man lay on the jelly-like nutrient, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
XV
He wanted to wake Allison at once and spirit her out of the house. He found it difficult if not impossible to believe that she was a willing conspirator. They had a hold of her. That was the only explanation. He recalled Galing and the faceless man speaking of her in one of those other illusory realities; the old man had said that she was drugged to insure her cooperation. If that were the case, he had to take her with him, now.
Nevertheless, he was also aware that the cellar door had been let ajar to get his attention. Henry Galing wanted him to discover the bodies in the glass tanks. This time, the illusion had been shattered on purpose. The old bastard would be expecting him to go back for Allison.
Therefore, the thing to do was to go outside and explore the lawn, the woods, and whatever lay beyond. When he had a better idea of what they were up against, he could come back for her with more of a chance of gaining their freedom.
Still in his pajamas, he left the house through the kitchen door. He stood on the dark lawn, drawing deep lungfuls of chilly air. The stars were bright. The moon was huge. And the grass was damp from the sprinkling the meager formation of clouds had given it ten minutes ago. This had to be real.
It wasn't.
Although the lawn appeared to be hundreds of feet deep, Joel crossed the whole of it in twelve long steps, just as he had done when he and Allison had made their first escape, before they'd been trapped in the wrecked shuttle.
The woods were filled with night sounds: the squeaky telegraphy of crickets, small animals shuffling through the underbrush, leaves rustled by the breeze. The air was redolent of leaf mulch, various pollens, and the odor of wet bark.
Yet it was as fake as the immense lawn. He crossed it in a moment and came onto the sidewalk on that street full of neat houses and willow trees. It was all calm and precise and middle-class and reassuring. It was meant to be; a damned good stage designer had made it that way.
Walking as if the pavement were made of eggs, as if it would crack beneath him and plunge him into an abyss within the shell, he crossed the two lanes of the highway, stepped up on the other sidewalk. He opened the gate in the fence which encircled the nearest house, and he went up the walk to the porch.
The porch was well furnished. It held a swing, two lawn chairs, and two wrought iron tables with ceramic tops. Two whiskey glasses were set on each table. The place looked lived-in, homey.
“Very nice, Mr. Galing,” he said.
The small window in the center of the front door was curtained with filmy white lace sewn on a dark blue cotton. Between the two lengths of fabric, a cracked paper shade was drawn all the way down to the sill.
He knocked, politely.
The sound reverberated loudly in the night, but no one came to open the door. The house remained dark and still as a sepulchre.
Although he suspected that it was a useless gesture, he knocked again, louder this time, kept on knocking until he thought that the glass would break.
The house was deserted.
“Good enough,” he said. He
Stop right here.
He reached the bottom of the steps, hesitated almost a minute, then turned into a room where overhead lightstrips glimmered uncertainly.
That was the instant when it all broke apart like good stemware dropped on a brick floor.
See what you've done!
He couldn't move. He was more frightened than he had ever been. This time, he had really thought it was okay. He had thought it was over. What a joke.
Maybe it would never be over.
In front of him, floating in ten glass-walled nutrient tanks, wired to robotic machinery which dangled overhead, were ten human bodies, both men and women. In the nearest tank, directly before him, the faceless man lay on the jelly-like nutrient, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
XV
He wanted to wake Allison at once and spirit her out of the house. He found it difficult if not impossible to believe that she was a willing conspirator. They had a hold of her. That was the only explanation. He recalled Galing and the faceless man speaking of her in one of those other illusory realities; the old man had said that she was drugged to insure her cooperation. If that were the case, he had to take her with him, now.
Nevertheless, he was also aware that the cellar door had been let ajar to get his attention. Henry Galing wanted him to discover the bodies in the glass tanks. This time, the illusion had been shattered on purpose. The old bastard would be expecting him to go back for Allison.
Therefore, the thing to do was to go outside and explore the lawn, the woods, and whatever lay beyond. When he had a better idea of what they were up against, he could come back for her with more of a chance of gaining their freedom.
Still in his pajamas, he left the house through the kitchen door. He stood on the dark lawn, drawing deep lungfuls of chilly air. The stars were bright. The moon was huge. And the grass was damp from the sprinkling the meager formation of clouds had given it ten minutes ago. This had to be real.
It wasn't.
Although the lawn appeared to be hundreds of feet deep, Joel crossed the whole of it in twelve long steps, just as he had done when he and Allison had made their first escape, before they'd been trapped in the wrecked shuttle.
The woods were filled with night sounds: the squeaky telegraphy of crickets, small animals shuffling through the underbrush, leaves rustled by the breeze. The air was redolent of leaf mulch, various pollens, and the odor of wet bark.
Yet it was as fake as the immense lawn. He crossed it in a moment and came onto the sidewalk on that street full of neat houses and willow trees. It was all calm and precise and middle-class and reassuring. It was meant to be; a damned good stage designer had made it that way.
Walking as if the pavement were made of eggs, as if it would crack beneath him and plunge him into an abyss within the shell, he crossed the two lanes of the highway, stepped up on the other sidewalk. He opened the gate in the fence which encircled the nearest house, and he went up the walk to the porch.
The porch was well furnished. It held a swing, two lawn chairs, and two wrought iron tables with ceramic tops. Two whiskey glasses were set on each table. The place looked lived-in, homey.
“Very nice, Mr. Galing,” he said.
The small window in the center of the front door was curtained with filmy white lace sewn on a dark blue cotton. Between the two lengths of fabric, a cracked paper shade was drawn all the way down to the sill.
He knocked, politely.
The sound reverberated loudly in the night, but no one came to open the door. The house remained dark and still as a sepulchre.
Although he suspected that it was a useless gesture, he knocked again, louder this time, kept on knocking until he thought that the glass would break.
The house was deserted.
“Good enough,” he said. He
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