From somewhere below there came a slow, rhythmic, almost tuneful booming as if of some great clock. It was a sound familiar to three of the detectives and there was not one in whom it did not cause a thrill of horror. For a second Begg hesitated, and then continued down the long flight of stone steps which revealed, by the marks in the mould which grew inches thick upon them, signs of recent usage.
Only Bardot had not heard the sound before. ‘What on earth is it?’ he enquired of Sinclair.
The pathologist frowned, clearly wondering if he should reply. Then he made up his mind, speaking rapidly and quietly: ‘Well, firstly, old man, it is not exactly of our earth. We believe it is a regulator of sorts. It is what we, who have travelled frequently between the worlds, sometimes refer to as the Cosmic Regulator. Others know it as the Grand Balance. I have heard it more than once, but never seen it. There are many conflicting descriptions. I have wondered if every person who has seen it has imposed their own image upon it. The Regulator is said to lie at the very centre of the multiverse, if the multiverse can be said to possess a centre.’
’Have you ever known anyone who has seen it?’ whispered Bardot, wiping cold sweat from his brow. He had only recently been transferred to the STP.
Sinclair nodded. ‘I believe Begg has set eyes on it, and perhaps Lapointe. But even they, articulate as they are, have never described it. It is often represented in mythological iconography as a kind of scale, with one side representing Chaos and the other Law, but nobody knows its true form, if it has one at all.’
‘Law and Chaos? Are those not Zoroastrian conceptions? The forces which war for control of the world?’
‘So far nobody has ever managed to gain power over the Balance, but should someone eventually succeed, it will mean the end of Time but not of consciousness. If Chaos or Law controls existence, we shall continue to live at the exact moment before the extinction of everything. For eternity! Or so the theory goes. But there will always be madmen to challenge that conception, to believe that by controlling the Cosmic Balance they can exert their own desired reality upon the multiverse. Heaven help us if Hitler and his lunatics are close to making such an attempt!’
Only half-comprehending this idea, Bardot firmed his shoulders and continued to follow Begg’s thin ray of light down into the sonorous darkness.
THE FOURTH CHAPTER: THE ROADS BETWEEN THE WORLDS
As they reached the bottom of the steps, they found themselves on uneven flagstones, peering through a series of vaults supported by ancient pillars.
‘No doubt,’ suggested Sinclair, ‘these are your famous Parisian catacombs?’
‘Possibly. I am not familiar with every aspect of them.’ Bardot peered into the rustling darkness.
The strange, distant booming continued. Whether the noise was mechanical or natural, it was impossible to determine. Lapointe and Begg both cocked their heads to listen. The echoes resounding through the vaults made it almost impossible to determine their source. At one moment Sinclair thought it might be water, at another some sort of engine. He was of a disposition to discount his own metaphysical speculation.
The vaults seemed endless and their darkness sucked the light from Begg’s lantern, yet the detective continued to lead the way as if he had some idea where the labyrinth offered an exit.
‘The arcades above us are a maze,’ remarked Lapointe, ‘which to some degree trace this other maze below.’
‘Remarkable,’ murmured Begg. ‘I had some idea of what to expect, but had no idea we were so close to the Regulator. This is not the first time I have used such a gate myself to move between one reality and another. But I have never before felt so near the centre. What about you, Lapointe?’
‘I must admit I have never heard it except as a very distant echo,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘Until now I have used mechanical means to negotiate the spaces between realities. We are issued with Roburian speedshells by the department. Naturally, old friend, I knew that you had not always taken advantage of such vehicles…’
‘One learns,’ the detective muttered, almost to himself. ‘One learns.’ His progress seemed almost erratic and without logic as he moved backwards and forwards, then side to side, keeping the mysterious sound constantly at a certain distance, treading a trail which only he could sense.
Now they made out a silvery light ahead.
‘Can it be possible that the Arcades de l’Opéra lead directly to the roads between the worlds?’
Hearing this, Sinclair gave an involuntary shudder.
Above them the great arches grew taller and taller until they were impossibly high, no longer structures of human architecture, but part of a natural vault which had become part of the night itself. And then all four men gasped, pausing in their tracks as Begg’s lantern revealed a long, twisting pathway which seemed to vanish into infinity. Above them, as well as below them, were other paths, all of them crossing and re-crossing. And on some could be distinguished tiny figures, not all of them human shapes, walking back and forth along these causeways.
When Sir Seaton Begg turned to address his fellow detectives his eyes might have been glistening with tears.
‘Gentlemen,’ he whispered, dousing the lantern, ‘I believe we have discovered the roads between the worlds!’
And now their eyes became used to the light which emanated from the moonbeam roads themselves. They stretched in every possible direction, both above and below. The legendary trails which led to all possible planes of the multiverse.
‘I have dreamed of this discovery,’ said Begg. ‘On occasions I have glimpsed these roads as I passed from one aspect of reality to another, but I never suspected I would ever discover access to them by accident. To think, the gateway to them has existed in Paris, presumably since the beginning of time, their patterns perhaps unconsciously imitated by the architect who designed the galleries above. Our mythologies and folktales have hinted, of course. There have been sensational tales. Yet they hardly prepare one for the reality. Is this Zenith’s and Mrs Persson’s secret, do you think?’
‘And is it also Hitler’s?’ asked Lapointe grimly. ‘Are his ambitions greater than we ever expected?’
Dwarfed by the vast network of moonbeam roads, the detectives were frozen in their uncertainty. There were no maps, no evident routes to follow. They had discovered an extraordinary, mysterious reality!
‘At least it is no longer a mystery as to how Zenith was able to evade our men. And Mrs Persson also. How long have they known of this route?’ Bardot wondered.
Begg shook his head slowly. ‘I believe Mrs Persson has probably been using these roads for a very long time. Yet it is my guess that she did not come this far voluntarily.’
‘How on earth can you make that supposition, Begg?’ enquired Lapointe.
‘Her cats,’ said Begg. ‘I know she would never have left her cats unattended. She would have brought them with her or she would have made arrangements for them to be looked after. No, gentlemen, if she was not faced with an overwhelming emergency, I believe Mrs Persson was lured down here and then made a prisoner.’
‘By Zenith?’
‘Possibly.’
‘If not by Zenith, then by whom?’
‘By Hitler. Or one of his people.’ Begg placed his foot firmly upon the road which led away into the darkness. There seemed nothing below them but other roads, on which those tiny wayfarers came and went.
‘How do you know she came this way, old man?’ Taffy Sinclair wished to know.