"Storage for our products," he said.
A glimpse showed piles of wrought-iron artifacts, like those I had seen in the Oecus. We plodded on.
Early in the descent, I had become aware of a sound like the rumble I had heard atop Stone Mountain. As we went onward, the sound waxed louder.
We came to a dimly-lit vestibule, containing stacks of wrought-iron objects and several chairs. The noise was now so loud that we had to raise our voices. I could feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes.
There was a great metallic banging and clanging, mixed with guttural shouts. The speech was too much mingled with the clangor to make anything of. I could not even guess the language.
"This is as far as we shall go," said Owens. "As I have explained, our workers are extremely shy. They allow nobody but Forrest and me into their workshop. In any event, you can now report that we do have a production work force, can't you?"
"I guess so," I said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get the hell out of here." I was finding the noise and the confinement oppressive.
"Surely," said Owens.
We hiked back up the long slope in silence. When to my relief we reached the surface, it was lunch time. I ate one of the Oecus's simple but sumptuous meals and spent the afternoon with Owens, going over his books and learning the economics of the wrought-iron business.
They invited me to dinner, but I begged off. I had to get back to the motel to organize my thoughts, write up my notes, and telephone Drexel.
When I called Esau Drexel that evening, I told my story, saying: "I still don't know what he's got in that cave, but it must be something. I can't imagine that all that wrought-iron stuff and correspondence that he showed me is some elaborate charade. His business seems to be thriving."
"Then why is he so hell-bent to expand? Why can't he be satisfied with his current profits?"
"He's an idealist who wants to save the world from blowing itself up. Maybe he's got something there. He figures to earn enough from this expansion, while the vogue lasts, to make his Anthropophili a force in world public opinion."
"As if any dictator ever cared a hoot for world public opinion! You didn't see these gnomes or whatever the hell they're supposed to be?"
"No, but I heard them. Nearly busted my eardrums. I'd say to go ahead with the loan."
"Willy," growled my boss, "you've got a thing or two to learn about the lengths to which people will go to get their hands on the other guy's money. How do you know all that racket wasn't a recording, played over a loudspeaker?"
"Unh," I said. "I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you're just being too suspicious."
"Any time somebody wants to borrow half a million bucks on the pretext that he has spooks or fairies working for him, you're damned right I'm suspicious. What's the name of Owens's cult again?"
"The Anthropophili."
"Doesn't that mean 'man-eaters' or 'cannibals'?"
"No; you're thinking of 'Anthropophagi.' I think this name means 'lovers of man.'"
"Maybe they love man the way I love a good steak. Now, you go back and tell 'em: if you don't see their alleged gnomes, it's no deal."
"They say their workers—whatever they are—are touchy about letting people see them."
"That's their problem. You do as I say."
Next morning, when Owens and Bellamy came to the motel, I delivered Drexel's ultimatum. Again, Bellamy seemed about to burst with suppressed rage. Owens soothed him:
"Never mind, Forrest. 'Even the gods cannot strive against necessity.'" To me he said: "You understand, Mr. Newbury, that there may be certain—ah—difficulties in dealing with these beings? There might even be some risk."
"I'm not worried," I said.
Overnight, I had become half converted to Drexel's suggestions that the noise was from a recording. In any case, I was ninety-eight per cent certain that the workers, if any, would prove to be ordinary mortal men.
Back at the Oecus, Owens again unlocked the iron door in the pit. Down we went.
As we descended, I noticed a difference. The metallic clangor, instead of starting faintly as we entered the tunnel and slowly rising to an earsplitting din, was missing. There was a faint susurration, which grew to the sound of a multitude of bass voices, all talking at once. But this time, there was no anvil chorus.
My companions noticed it, too. Owens and Bellamy stopped to confer in low tones.
"Are they taking a coffee break?" I asked.
"Dunno," said Bellamy. "They sure ain't doing what they're supposed to."
"Some emergency must have arisen," said Owens.
"Perhaps an accident. We shall know when we get there."
We entered the vestibule. The noise was loud, although nothing compared to the previous uproar. Owens said:
"You and I shall wait here, Mr. Newbury, while Forrest goes ahead to make the arrangements."
"You mean to get these trolls' permission to bring me in?"
"Quite. Sit down and relax; this may require some time."
Owens and I sat. Bellamy disappeared into a passage at the far end of the chamber. This passage was angled so that one could not, from the vestibule, look into the working space beyond.
The rumble of voices died to near-silence. I heard Forrest Bellamy's voice, too muffled to tell what he was saying. Then the bass voices rose again. I still could not identify the language.
Owens and I sat and sat. Owens spoke of his ideals and his grandiose plans for the Anthropophili. At last he took out his watch.
"There must be more difficulty than I anticipated," he said. "I'll give Forrest another quarter-hour."
We sat for fifteen minutes more. Then, with another look at his watch, Owens rose.
"I shall have to take a look myself," he said. "Please remain where you are, Mr. Newbury. You must not attempt to follow me without instructions. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said.
Owens disappeared into the same passage that had swallowed Bellamy. The vocal noises died down briefly and then rose again.
I waited another quarter-hour. The temptation to sneak a look into the cave was strong, but I withstood it. I have the normal quota of curiosity and perhaps a bit more; but with a wife and three children at home, I did not care to let curiosity kill this particular cat.
Then the noises rose sharply. I thought I recognized the sound of an angry mob.
Colin Owens popped out of the passageway. His hair was awry, he had lost his glasses, he bled from a scratch on his face, and his coat lacked one sleeve.
"Run for your life!" he cried as he scampered past me.
I leaped from the chair and caught up with him in a few strides. Being much bigger than he, twenty years his junior, and in good physical trim for a man of my middling years, I could have left him far behind. Instead, I grabbed his arm and boosted him along. Even so, he had to stop now and then to catch his breath.
Behind us, the sound of voices mingled with the slap and tramp of many feet, running through the tunnel.
"Keep on!" gasped Owens. "They'll pound us—sledge hammers—"
I doubled my efforts to manhandle the little man along. The next time he stopped for breath, he gasped: "That idiot—should have gone in sooner myself—serves him bloody right ..."
Then the lights went out. Owens uttered a shrill cry: "Oh, my God!"
"Put your hand out and feel the wall," I said. "Pick up your feet!"
The footsteps and the rumbling cries intensified. I could see nothing. When we came to the place where the passage sloped up, I stumbled and almost fell. I thought: this is it. With a desperate effort, I got my feet under me again and ran on.
Brushing the wall, we jogged up the slope, while the sounds of pursuit came ever louder. Something whirled through the air behind us, to strike the stony wall and rebound to the floor with a clatter. While I could not see the missile, a thrown sledge hammer would have made such a sound.