But the words were barely uttered when the air turned to flame.
THE PATROL CRAFT was fifteen U out when its tail camera, set on automatic search-and-scan, trained itself on the first brief flicker from the dome. On a panel above the navigator's head a light began to flash. At once the pilot banked the craft steeply, turning toward the trace.
They were almost facing the dome when the whole of the horizon seemed to shimmer and catch fire.
The pilot swore. "What in Chang-e's name is that?" "The mountains. . . ." said the navigator softly, staring in amazement at the overhead screen. "Something's come down in the mountains!"
"No. . . ." The pilot was staring forward through the windshield. "It was much closer than that. Run the tape back."
He had barely said it when the sound of the explosion hit them, rocking the tiny craft.
"It's the dome!" said the pilot in the stillness that followed. "It's the fucking solarium!"
"It can't be."
The pilot laughed, shocked. "But it's not there! It's not fucking there!"
The navigator stared at him a moment, then looked back up at the screen. The image was frgzen at the point where the camera had locked onto the irregular heat pattern.
He leaned forward and touched the display pad. Slowly, a frame at a time, the image changed.
"Gods! Look at that!"
Near the top of the softly glowing whiteness of the dome two eyes burned redly. Slowly they grew larger, darker, the crown of the dome softening, collapsing, until the crumpled face of the solarium seemed to leer at the camera, a vivid gash of redness linking two of the four holes that were now visible. For a single frame it formed a death mask, the translucent flesh of the dome brilliantly underlit. Then, in the space of three frames, the whole thing blew apart.
In the first it was veined with tiny cracks—each fissure a searing, eye-scorching filament of fire, etched vividly against the swollen, golden flesh of the dome. As the tape moved on a frame, that golden light intensified, filling the bloated hemisphere to its limit. Light spilled like molten metal from the bloodied mouths that webbed the dome, eating into the surrounding darkness like an incandescent acid. Then, like a flowering wound, the whole thing opened up, the ragged flaps of ice thrown outward violently, flaming like the petals of a honey-gold and red chrysanthemum, its bright intensity flecked with darkness.
He reached forward and pressed to hold the image. The screen burned, almost unbearably bright. He turned and stared at his colleague, seeing at once how the other's mouth was open, the inner flesh glistening brightly in the intense, reflected light, while in the polished darkness of his eyes two gold-red flowers blossomed.
"Gods____That's awful. . . terrible. . . ."
The flat Han face of the navigator turned and looked up at the screen. Yes, he thought. Awful. Terrible. And yet quite beautiful. Like a chrysanthemum, quite beautiful.
CHAPTER TWO
The Silkworm and the Mulberry Leaf
AT THE MOUTH of the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor they had been following, Chen stopped and placed his hand against Jyaris chest, looking out into the wide but crowded thoroughfare beyond. Pan Chao Street teemed with life. Along both sides of the long, broad avenue ran balconies, four of them, stacked like seed trays one atop another, their low rails packed with people, the space between them crisscrossed with a vast unruly web of lines from which enormous quantities of washing hung, like giant, tattered veils, dripping endlessly onto the crowds below.
A hundred smaller corridors led into Pan Chao Street, the regular pattern of their dark, square mouths peppering the walls behind the balconies, like the openings to a giant hive.
Chen reached out and touched the smooth surface of the hexagonal, graffiti-proof plaque on the wall close by. LEVEL eleven, it read; south 3 stack, canton of munich. Relieved, he looked back, ignoring the curious stares of passersby. That much, at least, was right. But were they in the right place? Had they come out at the right end?
He glanced at Jyan, then nodded. "Come on. Let's find that elevator."
It was a noisy, boisterous place. And it stank. The sharp, sour-sweet smell of spiced soymeats and overcooked vegetables was mixed inextricably with the sharper scent of human sweat and the damp, warm smell of the washing. Jyan looked at Chen, grimacing.
"It's worse than beneath the Net!"
Chen nodded. It was true. The air was a rich, unwholesome soup. After the freshness of the higher tunnels it made him feel like retching. Each breath seemed to coat the lungs.
Chen pushed out into the middle of the press, aware of Jyan at his back. Young children, naked, many of them streaked with dirt, ran here and there through the crowd, yelling. Some tugged at their clothes as they passed.
"Ch'ian.'" one tiny, shaven-headed boy yelled, pulling at Chen's tunic, then putting his hand out aggressively. Money! He could have been no more than three at most. Chen glared at him and raised his hand threateningly, but the child only laughed and ran away, making a sign with his hand that was unmistakable. And you, thought Chen. And you.
People jostled this way and that, using their elbows and .shoulders to force a way through the press. In the midst of it all a few of them simply stood and talked, making deals or just passing the time, oblivious of the noise, the crush, the rickshaws jostling to get by. Some turned and eyed the two men as they made their way through, but most ignored them, intent on their own business.
At the edge of things, small groups of women stood in doorways watching them, their arms folded over their breasts, their lips moving incessantly, chattering away in the pidgin dialect of these levels. Nearby, traders pushed their barrows through the crowd, crying out in dae same strange singsong tongue as the watching women. Small MedFac screens were everywhere, on brackets fixed to walls and in shopfronts, on. the sides of rickshaws or pushed along in handcarts, their constant murmur barely distinguishable above the general hubbub, while from every side countless PopVoc Squawks blared out, some large as suitcases, others worn as earrings or elaborate bracelets. All added to the dull cacophony of sound.
Chen moved through it all slowly, purposefully, trying not to let it overwhelm him after the empty silence of the maintenance tunnels. His eyes searched for Security patrols, conscious all the while of Jyan at his side, matching him pace for pace. He allowed himself a brief, grim smile. It would be all right. He was sure it would be all right.
They were mostly Han here, but those Hung Mao about were almost indistinguishable in dress or speech. These were Chung Kuo's poor. Here, near the very bottom of the City, you could see the problem the City faced—could touch and smell and hear it. Here it hit you immediately, in the constant push and shove of the crowds that milled about these corridors. Chung Kuo was overcrowded. Wherever,you turned there were people; people talking and laughing, pushing and arguing, bargaining and gambling, making love behind thin curtains or moving about quietly in cramped and crowded rooms, watching endless historical dramas while they tended to a clutch of bawling children.
Chen pushed on dourly, swallowing the sudden bitterness he felt. To those who lived a quieter, more ordered life in the levels high above, this would probably have seemed like hell. But Chen knew otherwise. The people of this level counted themselves lucky to be here, above the Net and not below. There was law here and a kind of order, despite the overcrowding. There was the guarantee of food and medical care. And though there was the constant problem of idleness—of too many hands and too few jobs—there was at least the chapce of getting out, by luck or hard work; of climbing the levels to a better place than this. Below the Net there was nothing. Only chaos.