We came back up to level one through one of the usual airlock-type hatchways. The seals on such hatchways were simple mechanical devices, so time and cold hadn’t wrecked them, and it had been easy enough for the C.R.E. to make them usable again. Thousands of the things had been mapped within a couple of kilometres of the city boundary, though the vast majority connected levels one and two— getting down into three was a slightly different matter, and in this region it was very difficult to get down to four, because there was no major cave-system directly below the city, and the regions of four hereabouts seemed pretty solid, as far as the C.R.E. had been able to establish.
Plugging the corridor was quick work; we sealed ourselves off in a chamber not much bigger than a starship cabin, where we had to jostle for the space to use the equipment. That made it economical to equalize the pressure and temperature, but it increased the likelihood of an accident with the cutting gear. Serne did most of the work—he was quick and neat, and when we were through he brought the edges of the cut back together so cleverly that you’d have had to get very close indeed to see that anything had been done. We worked by torchlight; the corridor was unlit. We were in what had been a residential district when the cavies lived there, but it hadn’t been colonized by the galactics. Out in the factory-fields the lights were on right around the clock, but this was as godforsaken a spot as the city had to offer.
We stripped off our suits and stowed them in the space between the plugs, where we left the equipment. Taking out the tubes—especially the drip-feed injectors—was messy and painful, and in a way it would have been more convenient and more comfortable to keep the suits on, but without them on there was every chance that we could pass for citizens if we were noticed by the new overlords of the city.
We dressed in clothes that we had brought with us—nondescript khaki coveralls, loose enough to hide the mud guns we were carrying, and brown boots. The boots were made from Tetron artificial organics, and I was glad to find that they were exceptionally comfortable, designed for human feet. I’d once tried to wear boots designed for Tetron feet, and found them impossible; I’d never seen a naked Tetron foot, but I deduced that they must have very peculiar toes.
When we were all properly dressed, we moved stealthily through the darkened corridor. We played the beam of a single torch along the ground ahead of us.
We’d hardly gone thirty metres before we were startled by sudden rustling sounds. We froze in our tracks.
“There’s someone there!” exclaimed Scarion, before I could signal for silence. Seme and Vasari, of course, knew better than to open their mouths in such a situation.
The light failed to pick anything out as we hurried toward what seemed to be the source of the noise. The texture of the sound suggested that to me it was some kind of vermin. Starships are supposedly free from rats, but there are several races in the galactic community that choose to take other lifeforms around with them—as pets, I guess. Skychain City had been around long enough to collect a feral population of catlike creatures, which made a living scavenging around the factory fields, skulking at other times in exactly those forgotten corners which had recommended themselves to our purpose.
Further on, we heard more sounds. Again we could see nothing, and I couldn’t tell whether the sound was only some small animal scurrying away, or whether it was something—or someone—larger. It might have been a galactic refugee, who assumed we were the invaders.
I looked at Serne for a second opinion, but he just shrugged. There was no point in starting a chase. In the end, we moved on—we had work to do.
Finally, we came to the edge of the darkness, and I switched off the torch. We peered out of a covert at a vast sheet of organosynthetic material, which looked like a plain of plastic grass, cut up into diamond-shaped sections by railways and walkways. The fifteen-metre ceiling was blazing with light.
Everything seemed to be working normally. Sections of supporting wall interrupted our view, but in between them we could see for several hundred metres. In the distance we could see one of the automated trains that transported the “crops” ambling along its track, pausing occasionally to pick up cargo. There was not a humanoid being in sight.
Although we were carrying flimsies with messages in Tetron script, which we were to pass on to any apparently trustworthy person, I was not at all dismayed by the absence of friendly natives. The longer we had to look around, the better.
“Any chance of hopping on a train?” asked Serne.
“Sure,” I said, “but a train might carry us straight into trouble. We have two choices—we can set off on foot along the walkways, which might make us a little conspicuous, or we can go under the carpet, into the tunnels that cut through the thermosynthetic feedways. I favour the walkways—there are plenty of places to duck out of sight, as long as we see the opposition before they see us.”
We began to make our way across the food-producing region, heading toward the centre of the city, although we had no intention of getting too close. It wasn’t long before we caught glimpses of other people. They were workers, servicing the automatic machinery. They looked like galactics—a couple were Zabarans—but I wasn’t entirely prepared to take appearances for granted. We didn’t know for certain that all the invaders looked like human beings. It had crossed my mind that maybe only the shock troops were human, doing the dirty work for paymasters whose appearance we couldn’t know.
We stayed out of sight until we reached a position from which we could see a roadway curving around the outer city limits. It was heavy with traffic—mostly automated transports, but with a number of military vehicles thrown in. We saw armoured cars go past at irregular intervals, but whether they were patrols or part of some desultory troop- movement we could only guess.
We moved a little closer, and then, as we moved past a section of wall, we saw a single humanoid standing on a railway, checking the engine of a broken-down train. We studied him from hiding, and 74-Scarion identified him as a Ksylian. I’d seen the species before—brown-skinned and big-eared, with dark eyes that seemed to be forever mournful—but I didn’t know much about them.
“You’d better let me approach him,” said 74-Scarion. “He’s certain to take you for invaders.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”
The Tetron moved from hiding and climbed up on to a walkway that took him across to the tracks on which the train ran. The moment the Ksylian saw him, he stopped work and looked furtively around. 74-Scarion talked to him for about fifteen minutes, while I bit my lip impatiently— then he turned to beckon us over. There was no way to judge from the Ksylian’s alien expression what his reaction was to the sight of us.
We were able to crouch down beside the train, so that we were virtually invisible to anyone else who might happen by, while a rapid exchange of information took place.
“He says that everything is quiet in the city,” said 74- Scarion. “When the invasion first occurred there was momentary resistance, but the peace officers were ordered to surrender by their commanders, and the killing soon stopped. At first, the invaders brought all the galactics from their homes, lining them up in the streets, but then they allowed almost everyone to return to their ordinary work. They stopped the moving walkways, though, and closed down some of the city’s other systems. He says that there must have been at least ten or twenty thousand of the invaders—an enormous force—involved in the initial attack. Since then, he thinks they may have moved another ten or twenty thousand up into the city, but I don’t think we can rely on his judgment. They have taken over some of the living-accommodations, and he says that many of the citizens are now living three or four to a room.