The Pure Cold Light by Gregory Frost Page B

varied wildly as to what exactly had been seen. Chemosh, who’d been in Orbit at the time, claimed she had multiple, pink, gummy heads with big, stubby tentacles around her eyes.
    Glimet believed he had followed her sound through the darkness of the lower tunnels. He had threaded his way along at a respectable distance, wary of her untried powers, until he had come upon her camp.
    It wasn’t a half-bad camp by underground standards—a glowing oasis on the banks of the Styx: a few sheets hung on cables, yellow lights burning behind them. Clearly, she was not alone. Others were in there with her. And something more.
    Even now he couldn’t be sure if the shape he had seen far back in the recesses of the camp had been part of this world or the other. If it were alive or not. If the Horrible Woman had known of his presence all the time and had deliberately never moved too fast to lose him.
    As if he had called to them, six figures had come shambling out of the tents. They had all fixed their stares straight through the blackness at Glimet.
    A wind had come up then, belched from out of the sewers—a stench of such nauseating decay that he’d covered his face, turned and run from it.… At least, that was the way he recounted it to himself—he’d run from the smell.

    ***

    Glimet and Shikker wove their way quietly through the upper strata of underground. At the station stop she was surprised to find tiled walls and pillars that looked as though they had only recently fallen into disuse. Tiled walls led along the narrow corridor to which Glimet led her. He pointed to a side tunnel labeled with an old sign: “SEPTA Police Vehicles Only.”
    “There’s a big somniferum camp down there,” he explained, “a whole bunch of room. Cleaner than most.”
    “What’s a somnif—what you called it?”
    “Somniferum. That’s a d-drug name. You know.”
    “You mean kif ?”
    “Naw, opium. We’re not allowed, down there, most of us. The Somnis come up sometimes. Even up to your level, to give shows with their puppets in the tea houses. Very well connected there, very secretive about it, with ties to outside plantations where the poppies are grown.” He shook his head at the inexpressible possibilities, and turned away. “They won’t t-talk with us,” he added. “I just wanted to show it to you. We should go on.”
    Numerous entrances to the underground concourse dimly lighted their way. They encountered few people on the trail, although the walls were lined with abandoned shop fronts, behind which Shikker guessed there must be some inhabitants. Glimet pointed out where there were, according to him, encampments far back in the limitless recesses of the concourse; she couldn’t see a thing. “Lots of camps in there,” he said.
    Eventually, they descended a stairwell to a second level. Three high turnstile gates blocked their way, but he went directly to one that rotated freely. They entered a darker realm. She commented, “I smell smoke,” but Glimet made no reply.
    At first they crossed a long platform. There were tiled walls again, orange ones this time. Each platform so far had been tiled in a different color. Shikker began to understand how Glimet took his bearings. A chrome fire-hose valve glinted where it jutted out of the tiles. It still had its little wheel, although there wouldn’t be any water pressure. In the distance the glow of a fire revealed a busy platform camp. Glimet suddenly dropped down off the platform and crept along in the shadowy rail pit. She had more trouble getting down, and had to run to catch up.  
    Once they had skirted the camp, he climbed back up. This time, he helped her up. “Not a friendly bunch back there,” he told her.
    The walls soon changed to graffiti-covered concrete. She couldn’t read the strange symbols and weird scrawls, although Glimet nodded at it from time to time.
    They chanced upon a few other nomads wandering through the murk; some greeted them and some ignored