“Land ho,” said Soap, grinning at his marrow-chilled passengers.
“Would there be any chance of light at the end of the long dark tunnel?” Pooley asked. “Such as nutrition, or possibly the warming quaff of ale or lick of spirits?”
Soap tapped at his nose in a manner which the two remembered only too well. “You will be well cared for, you have been long expected.” Upon that doubtful note he withdrew once more into silence and rowed on towards land. The island, for such it now showed itself to be, was a strange enough place by any reckoning. As Soap beached the craft and ushered the two ashore, Pooley viewed the place with the gravest misgivings. There was a dreadful prehistoric gloom about it; if the black waters were bad enough, this was somehow worse.
The island was a long, rough crescent, covered for the most part with enormous stalagmites. These gave it the appearance of the half-submerged jawbone of some long-dead behemoth. Pooley felt instinctively that to set foot on such a thing was direly wrong and his thoughts were shared by Omally. Yet both were wet, cold, hungry, and demoralized, and with little complaint they numbly followed Soap along the bone-white beach to a craggy outcropping which seemed the highest point of the bleak landfall.
The island was a long, rough crescent, covered for the most part with enormous stalagmites. These gave it the appearance of the half-submerged jawbone of some long-dead behemoth. Pooley felt instinctively that to set foot on such a thing was direly wrong and his thoughts were shared by Omally. Yet both were wet, cold, hungry, and demoralized, and with little complaint they numbly followed Soap along the bone-white beach to a craggy outcropping which seemed the highest point of the bleak landfall.
“Would you kindly turn your backs a moment?” Soap asked politely. Pooley eyed his colleague and the blue-faced Irishman shrugged in his blanket shawl. Soap was but a moment in performing whatever action he had in mind, and when the two turned back, a great doorway yawned in the faceless rock revealing a comfortable-looking room of extraordinary size.
“Step inside quickly now, please. I have no wish to expose the entrance any longer than need be. There are eyes everywhere, even here.”
Pooley shook his head in redoubled wonder and the two men scuttled inside, followed by their amiable if enigmatic host. The door swung shut, predictably leaving no trace whatsoever of its existence.
“Now,” said Soap, “cup of tea, is it?”
A thin smile flickered momentarily upon Omally’s arctic boat-race, “Only Soap Distant could offer a cup of tea at the Earth’s core.”
“There have been others,” said Soap, indicating the letters A.S. which were scratched into the stonework of one of the walls. “But that is another story entirely.”
Pooley cast his eyes about the room. It had all the makings of the average Brentford front sitter: the moquette three-piece, the nylon carpet, the occasional table whose occasion was yet to come, the fitted bookshelves and the television set. But for the hewn rock walls and the obvious lack of windows one might have been fooled into believing that all was suburban mundanity.
“Surely reception hereabouts must be a little ropey?” said Jim, indicating the television.
“Kept purely through nostalgia for my former existence,” said Soap. “Now, my suggestion of a nice hot cuppa is eliciting very little in the way of positive response. I have some fine Riesling in my cellar, or perhaps some Bordeaux rosé? Shall I open a case or two?”
“That would be the thing,” said Pooley, with some enthusiasm, “events have sorely taxed us of late.”
Soap Distant vanished from the room, away down a flight of hewn rock steps which had not been previously mentioned.
Pooley and Omally sat a moment in silence before the great man of Eire gave voice. “If I might say so, Jim,” John ventured, “your suggestion of having it away to our cosy beds and starting afresh on the morrow was one which I really should have picked up on before it went out of fashion.”
“I blame nobody,” said the noble Jim, “but would sincerely ask what in the name of all the holies we are doing in this godforsaken place and how we might facilitate our escape?”
Soap appeared from the cellar, cradling several bottles of wine in his arms. “The day is yet saved,” he said, beaming hideously. “The cellar brims with vintage vino of all varieties. I have brought up a selection.”
Omally, who was certain that the day was very far from being saved, rubbed his hands thoughtfully together. “Why are we here, Soap?” he asked.
“Well now, that is a question and no mistake,” the other replied. “Some incline towards the theory of a divine creator with reasons of his own for doing things. Others favour the theory of natural selection or hint that we are nothing more than an accident of DNA. I myself have a rather more radical theory.”
“No doubt,” said John sourly, “but you know perfectly well that is not what I meant. Why are we, that is Pooley and myself, here, that is, sitting upon this ghastly settee, slowly but surely freezing to death?”
Soap popped the corks from two of the bottles and handed them one apiece to his guests. “In words of one syllable,” said Soap, “you are in big schtuck. I think that you might do well to take a sup or two before I fill you in on the details.”
The two sub-zero golfers did not need telling twice, and in a matter of seconds two bottles of vintage Rhine wine had vanished away into the nether regions of two stomachs. “The floor would seem to be yours,” said Jim wiping his chin. “Is there any more of this?”
Soap handed over two more bottles and positioned himself in a dignified pose against the stucco fireplace.
“As you will remember,” he said, “I have spoken to you many times in the past about the family Distant’s conviction that an entire world exists here, beneath the Earth’s surface, and that it is peopled by superbeings, benign and benevolent, who would bestow the great wealth of their knowledge upon the man from above who came in peace to speak with them.” John and Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I was wrong.”
“Tough luck,” said Omally. “Say la vee as the French say.”
“Are you certain?” Pooley asked. Soap had always spoken with such conviction that even though Jim considered him to be three-halfpence short of a shilling, he had half romantically wondered whether his tales might be true.
“I am indeed certain,” said Soap. “It is the exact opposite. There are dwellers beneath, but far from being benign and benevolent they are foul and evil and intent upon one thing only: to leave this world of darkness and conquer the sun-soaked realm above.” Soap’s pink eyes travelled upwards and John and Jim’s followed them.
“Now, now,” said Omally. “I cannot believe all this. Surely if it were so, these fellows would have emerged years ago. They could surely have dug their way out. How did they come to be here in the first place?”
“Ah,” said Soap, giving his nose an annoyingly significant tap. “That is a tale indeed, and if you have time I will tell it.”
“It would seem,” said John, “that unless you feel so inclined as to lead us skywards, then we have all the time in the world.”
“Certainly you are a captive audience, but I must impress upon you that this is a very important business, and that your help is sorely needed. I have no wish to return to the surface, my world is here. But neither do I have the wish to see mankind destroyed by these beings, or worse still, driven here to plague me.”