"Your knife," said the largest, stepping up to Jojola with his hand out.
Jojola stepped back. "Sorry, no one touches my knife while I'm alive."
"Suit yourself," the big man said, lowering a sawed-off shotgun.
A moment later, the shotgun clattered to the ground, and Jojola straddled the man, who lay on his stomach, and pulled his head back by the hair, the knife at the man's throat. The man's stunned comrades who'd hardly had time to react when the Indian disarmed their leader, pointed their weapons but seemed unsure of what to do next.
"If they don't back off, you'll die before I do," Jojola snarled.
"Stop!" a loud voice commanded from off to the side. "We are all friends here."
A tall, hooded figure entered the tunnel from behind a curtain of burlap sacks sewn together. He threw back his hood and Jojola found himself looking at the face that had haunted his dreams recently.
"David Grale," he said, releasing the leader of the guards.
"John Jojola, I presume," Grale said and laughed, which caused him to suddenly bend over and gasp in obvious pain. He straightened again and, his voice weaker, said, "My friends tell me that you and Miss Lucy Karp have been inquiring about my health, which is sadly lacking, I'm afraid."
Jojola pointed to Grale's midsection. "The knife wound?"
"Yes," Grale agreed. "I'm afraid the demon Lichner has done for me, although it will take a bit more time than he would have hoped."
"But I felt for your pulse…the blood…"
"Why am I not dead?" Grale asked with a solemn look. "I believe it is because God has more tasks for me before He calls me home. That and our wonderful little medical clinic we've established here in my…kingdom. But come, let me show you."
Grale turned and passed through the burlap sack curtain, expecting Jojola to follow. They walked quickly down another tunnel, then climbed another ladder into a large hall.
Jojola was surprised to see that the gymnasium-size hall was illuminated by electric lamps.
Grale caught his glance and smiled a little sheepishly. "We've several electricians among our brothers and sisters here in down-world, and I'm afraid we've been naughty and tapped into New York public utilities."
Looking around, Jojola took in the "brothers and sisters," who walked through the hall or conversed in small groups. Some were obviously mentally troubled, meandering around, talking to themselves. One half-naked woman ran past, shrieking, "They've taken my baby! They've taken my baby!"
Grale watched her disappear out of the hall and turned back to Jojola. "My apologies; Helen's five-year-old disappeared on the way home from school some ten years ago and she's never recovered. Some of our brothers and sisters among the Mole People take more looking after than others. But it's our Christian duty and we're happy to help."
"Who are the Mole People?" Jojola said. "I take it there is some difference between them and the morlocks or demons Roger and I met."
"Ah, so you met those we hunt…and who sometimes hunt us," Grale said.
"Yes, I had to kill several, and one bit me on the shoulder."
Grale frowned. "We'll need to see about antibiotics. Those wounds are common and they tend to cause nasty infections. Anyway, in answer to your question: yes, the difference is that between day and night, good and evil. The Mole People are-as Lady Liberty might say if she could speak-the wretched refuse of New York, the unwanted, the sick, the despairing…"
"Homeless…street people?" Jojola asked.
"One more step farther down the ladder of acceptance in our society," Grale said. "Those who for one reason or another-shame, loathsome physical deformities, up-world desires that they would prefer to avoid-have found their way down here. But they are not homeless. This is their home. They were a bit unorganized and were set upon by the evil ones who lurk down here as well until I arrived and brought with me the light of Jesus Christ Our Savior…as well as that of New York Electric. But now, as you can see, they have a place to call their own."
Grale pointed and Jojola saw that the hall was lined with small alcoves. Some were closed to view by more burlap sacking. But others were open and revealed beds and other furniture-obviously recycled from the up-world-and personal effects. Some were occupied by a single person, but others housed what appeared to be entire families.
"How do they survive?" Jojola asked.
Grale shrugged. "Scrounging, begging-and I'm afraid a certain amount of stealing, though we try to discourage it except in cases of survival-in the up-world."
Leading him to one of the larger alcoves, Grale pulled back the curtain to reveal an amazingly well-equipped medical clinic. "Sorry, appears that the doctor is out," he said. "But here my life hung in the balance for some weeks. I guess I needed four complete blood transfusions. But come, John Jojola, you did not make this journey to ask questions about people the rest of the world has forgotten, or my health."
Grale led Jojola to an alcove, spartan except for a crucifix on the wall and a straw mattress on the ground. "My humble abode. So tell me, what brings you?"
A half hour later, Jojola finished his story-both the Vietnam version and the dream version.
As he spoke, Grale's already haggard face looked even more tired. He sighed. "I think I can explain some of your dream by showing you something."
Grale swept out of the room and was joined by two bodyguards and Jojola. They walked for perhaps a quarter of a mile-apparently paralleling a subway track, judging by the regularly interspersed roars as trains went past on the other side of the wall. As they walked, Grale filled him in.
"I don't suppose you've ever heard of a man named Alfred Ely Beach? Well, in 1870, Mr. Beach, a real dreamer, secretly built a small prototype of a pneumatic subway that would run a short distance under Broadway. He figured, correctly, that Boss Tweed and his cronies in Tammany Hall would have extorted huge sums from him to build his experiment, so he did it under their noses by renting the basement of Devlin's Clothing Store at Broadway and Murray and then, over a period of fifty-eight days, having his men dig out a tunnel."
Grale stopped his story and climbed a ladder to a wide but low-ceilinged tunnel that required they crawl as he led them in. "Quiet, please, from this point on," he whispered to Jojola. "Anyway, most New Yorkers know the story of Mr. Beach and his clandestine subway, which worked, but due to Boss Tweed's machinations never went any farther."
Reaching a spot twenty yards in, Grale carefully lifted a sheet of metal from the ground and scooted it to the side. "What only a few know is that Mr. Beach built another, somewhat longer prototype-two blocks long that runs almost directly beneath the triangle created by the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue from Forty-fifth to Forty-seventh Street-Times Square," he whispered. "He died before he could put it to use and his team sealed it off; his grand project was forgotten. However, someone has discovered this long-lost tunnel and is planning to put it to their own less-benign uses. Here, have a look."
Jojola crawled to the place where Grale had removed the metal sheet. He looked down, letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior of another large tunnel.
Now he understood the presence of the armed troop of men in the tunnel. More than a dozen such men were below him no more than twenty-five yards away-some of whom appeared to be Middle Eastern, including some in traditional headgear wrapped to hide their faces; others were young blacks. They carried weapons, and the Arabs were obviously training the black men on how to conduct a defensive delaying action to protect whatever was at the other end of the tunnel.
Grale tugged on his sleeve and motioned him to follow as he crawled farther up along the top of the other tunnel. Behind them the bodyguards slid the sheet metal over the viewing hole.