“In here.” They passed into another workroom. Rows of dull white metal cases occupied a central table and most of the wall space. Black cables snaked across the floor. The room looked surprisingly clean.
Another door, made of heavy metal, stood ajar. “This is the entry to the ring,” he said. He pulled it open, hit a wall switch, and interior lights blossomed. They looked into a tunnel. Walls and ceiling were lined with cables and ridges, and a grate had been placed over the concrete floor. The passageway gradually
curved away in both directions. “It’s still whole,” said Talley. “All the way around. Seventy miles.”
“Are you sure?” asked Chaka. “I walked it once. It took a week.” She glanced at Quait.
“It’s not as unsettling as it might seem, young lady,” Talley said. “There are hatches every few miles. They didn’t all open, but some of them still work.”
They went back and looked at the lines of cases. Quait had seen anifacts that resembled this kind of equipment, but never in such good condition, and never so many. He saw his first legible keyboard. He saw dark glass surfaces in pseudo-metal frames. The boxes were of varying sizes and shapes, all linked by a maze of cables.
“Now,” said Talley. “What is the true nature of the world? The Baranji believed these machines were used to perform experiments, and to store data. If that’s so, it’s reasonable to assume that everything that was learned here was put into them.”
Quait thought that sounded good, but he didn’t know exactly what it meant.
Silas was also showing mixed reactions. “Then,” he said, “let’s break them open and take a look.”
“That seems simple enough,” added Chaka. “No. It’s not simple at all. The data are not in written form.” Silas’s eyes narrowed. “What other form is there?”
“I’m not sure how to explain it. I don’t understand it myself. But they may have had a technique for encoding information in invisible fields.”
“I see,” said Silas, who obviously didn’t. “It’s true,” said Talley. “Baranji technicians worked on the problem for almost a century. I have their notes.”
Silas glanced at Chaka. “Invisible fields,” he said. “It doesn’t sound possible.”
Talley was unfazed. “You’ve seen the lamp. Don’t underestimate ancient technology.”
“How,” asked Chaka gently, “do you get the machines to Rive up their information?”
“Let me show you.” He led them to the back of the room, where one of the framed glass sheets was connected by cable to a glass globe. A rock was suspended in the center of the globe, and six coils were positioned around it. The globe was connected to a wheel, over which a saddle had been mounted. Talley climbed onto the saddle, inserted his feet into a set of pedals, and began to turn the wheel. As the wheel turned, the coils moved around the rock. “This is a force bottle. The rock’s a lodestone. When the copper coils rotate around the lodestone, they divert a force from it and pass that force through the cable. I don’t quite understand the effect myself, but it works.”
Talley built up speed and the coils whirled. Suddenly the glass sheet, which had been dark and inert, lit up.
Silas backed away. He heard Chaka catch her breath.
“Incredible,” said Silas. “What’s happening?”
“The generated force makes the machines work. I believe that if I can create enough of it, the machines will talk.”
Silas touched the globe cautiously as Talley left off pedaling. The light faded. “Talley,” he asked, “How fast can you pedal?”
Talley laughed. “That task would be beyond any man, Silas. But we’re close to the Wabash. I’m going to build a much larger version of the force bottle, and I plan to let the river god, so to speak, sit in the saddle. When you come back, if you come back, I expea to know whatever the Roadmakers knew about creation.” He took a deep breath. “Stop in and say hello. By then we should have much to talk about.”
11
They needed the better part of a day to put the ring-shaped ridge behind them. The woods gave way to an open plain and they were eventually able to look back on perhaps twenty miles of the enigmatic construction. Chaka sat in her saddle and imagined the elderly mystic walking all the way around in the dark. No wonder he was half mad.
Yet he had produced the light in the glass. They talked of little else for two days, and were so engrossed in speculation that even Jon Shannon was slow to see two Tuks ride out of a wall of forest directly into their path. Both cradled rifles in their arms. They wore stitched animal hides and fur-lined boots. The taller of the two, who was almost Shannon’s size, drifted to a stop.
His companion rode on ahead a few paces, far enough to ensure they couldn’t both be taken down by a single burst of gunfire, and turned to watch. He was also big. An oversized fur hat perched casually on the back of his head.
“It’s okay,” Shannon said. “They’re friendly.”
He raised his hand. To Chaka’s considerable relief, the two men raised theirs. Shannon rode forward; words were exchanged, and smiles appeared.
“Old friends,” commented Flojian.
“This is Mori,” Shannon said, introducing the taller, “of the Oriki clan.” Mori was in his thirties, blue eyes, thick brown hair, beard, and quite handsome, in a rough-cut sort of way. He had the whitest teeth Chaka had ever seen. He bowed slightly to the women and pronounced everyone welcome.
“And Valian, his spiritual brother.” Valian removed his hat.
His hair was also brown, but cut short. He had dark, intelligent eyes, and was maybe two years younger and twenty pounds leaner than Mori.
They exchanged greetings.
“Our home is nearby,” said Mori. “We’d be honored if you would stay with us tonight.”
Silas looked at Shannon, and Chaka read his expression. Was it safe?
“Strangers are sacred with the Oriki,” said Mori.
Shannon nodded.
An hour later, in deep woodland, they rode into a hamlet. It was so effectively a part of the forest that Chaka did not immediately pick out the log dwellings, which were scattered among trees and shrubbery. There was no clearing of the land, and consequently no obvious external sign betraying the presence of the people of the forest.
A small group, composed mostly of children, gathered to greet them. Like the Illyrians, the Oriki displayed no distinctive racial type. Some were dark, some pale, but the vast majority favored a middle tone; some had flat noses, others had epican-thic folds. They looked healthy and happy, and they obviously enjoyed visitors.
Clan members descended on the companions with offers of bread and fruit. Chaka’s red hair provoked laughter. (For no readily apparent reason, red hair was the one physical characteristic that seemed to be missing.) Some wanted to inspect the newcomers’ clothing and weapons. Others wanted only to touch the visitors. “They think we’re strong,” Shannon explained, “because travelers are always protected by spirits. Touching us gives them a share of that strength.”
They were taken to a warm hut and given fresh water, more food, and a pitcher of wine. They washed, changed clothes, and went out to explore the hamlet.
The Oriki were anxious to talk. They were happy to see Shannon again. Had his friends been to Oriki country before? What were their homes like? Were they aware that the land ahead was haunted?
Chaka explained they’d been on the road for almost a month, and that they’d never been this far north before. She was happy, she said, to be among friends and in comfortable quarters.
Where were they going?
Haven was a concept that did not lend itself easily to explanation. The Oriki had no notion of the collapse of civilization. And they did not read. So Avila eventually settled by telling her hosts simply that she intended to look at the world. And to visit her neighbors.