The Star Below

The Star Below Damon Knight

I

Thorinn, son of Goryat, stood in the darkness and listened. Stone hung heavy over his head, leagues of stone and earth, stretching upward black and silent.

Behind him the sound of the cataract down which he had floated to this place had receded to a dull murmur, and he could hear the gurgle of lesser streams running away somewhere below him. The falling curtains of water were all around Him, ghostly silver and silent, pricked with the jewels of floating droplets. Drifting water-points burst on His lips with tiny cool kisses.

There were gaps in the falling curtains, tom by the irregular stone above. He put his Head through the widest of these openings, saw other broken slabs, other curtains of water beyond.

Following the cool air, He made his way among the gray and silver curtains that hung everywhere from the ceiling. Rivulets ran toward Him underfoot among the slabs of stone, and he knew by this that the floor was slanting upward. At length the falling curtains of water grew less numerous, and the sound diminished to a mournful pattering behind him. Ahead, the cavern broke into a tortured complexity of shapes in which he found a narrow passage leading upward. He paused to tip out the water from his wallet and to dry His Hair as well as he could with his hands; then he followed the passage. It coiled away ahead of him, always upward, always rounded, irregular, dry and empty in the glow of his light-box.

He followed the passage, and at length it widened into a greater darkness. Thorinn stepped out into it cautiously, found himself in a narrow cavern half-choked with a pile of fallen stone. Beyond, in the far wall, he saw a jagged opening.

He climbed the heap of stones and peered in. Light glimmered back from objects whose forms He could not make out. A breath of air came from the opening, but it was slow and stale. He hesitated a moment, then climbed through the gap in the wall and dropped to the level floor below.

Silence pressed in upon his ears, a silence more profound even than that of the passage behind him. On every side stood massive objects piled one on another, with slender rods between them. The floor he stood on was perfectly level and as smooth as ice. It was not stone, but some gray, greasy material which seemed faintly warm to the touch. The air was dry and warm. The huge columns stood in rows; their tops disappeared in the darkness.

Thorinn moved between the columns, touching them curiously as He passed. The rods, of cold metal, were racks on which were piled bundles and bales, and other things for which Thorinn had no words, all covered with some cool, water-smooth substance. He began to realize that He must be in some giant’s storehouse, and he paused, listening; but the silence was unbroken.

He slid his hands curiously around one of the bundles. It was so smooth and heavy that it was hard to find any purchase on it, but he dragged it out at last and lowered it to the floor. It was almost as broad as his arms could span, vaguely oblong but with all its comers rounded, like a huge gray cheese. He looked in vain for any seam or opening; the smooth surface was unbroken.

Next he tried to cut it with his sword. At the first touch, the covering opened like a mouth. Thorinn put his fingers under the edges, marveling at the thinness and transparency of the stuff, finer than the skin of an onion. He pulled, and the tear lengthened easily. The covering split and tore without resistance, and he peeled it off in great rustling sheets. Underneath was a gray soft substance like bread dough; he could push it in, but the hollow filled out again at once, nor could he tear it with his fingers.

Again he used the sword. The gray stuff cut readily, but would not tear like the other. When he pried at the gash he had made, sticky-looking fibers at the bottom clung stubbornly together. He slashed it deeper, and at last it gave way, opening in a slit as the transparent stuff had done, and he saw something else beneath it: a gleam of russet and gold.

He tore away the gray substance in lumps, threw them aside. In the glow of his light-box a bundle of cloth lay revealed, and he caught his breath. Rich and soft beyond belief it was, russet and gold and scarlet in shimmering patterns that were not printed on the fabric but woven into it. He unfolded and unwrapped the cloth, spreading it out on the floor as he went; it covered the whole width of the aisle, and still there was more. Thorinn dropped it and stared at it in helpless wonder. Such a piece of stuff was beyond price; he could ask what he liked for it. This one bale had made Him rich. And what was in all the others?

He attacked a second bundle, found it contained another cloth like the first, colored in deep purple, royal blue, peacock green. In a fury of impatience, he ran to the next aisle, found a rack of smaller bundles, some of which, no bigger than his Head, Bad fallen to the floor. He chose one, slashed it open. Inside was a glittering device of brass and ebony, beautifully made, though he could not imagine its use.

The next was a pretty jug with a handle and a spout to pour from. He tilted it to see why it was so heavy, but only a single drop of moisture came out.

The next was a black-and-red-patterned box in which, nested in purple velvet, lay dozens of tiny bright figurines of men and ladies.

Stunned with joy, He ran to the next aisle and found other outlandish engines; the next: Yen-metal knives smaller than his finger, with tiny blades sharper than his sword; the next: Hammers, wedges, no bigger than the knives, and other tiny tools whose use he could not guess.

The fever to open more and yet mare bundles made him forget weariness, cold, thirst and hunger. He found clothing — wide-skirted robes, heavy with brocade; tunics and breeks of gossamer stuff; shoes, marvelously thin and supple. He found more engines, some with parts that turned, some that did not move at all. He found rings, bracelets, ropes of jewels that spilled in a flood across the floor. Riches piled up around him, and still he was aware that he Had barely begun to loot this incredible treasurehouse.

Once he paused long enough to gather all his trove into one place and, sorting through it, to try to decide what he would take with him, for it was obvious that he could not carry even a tenth of what he had uncovered so far. Then the blank gray faces of the unopened parcels drove him to frenzy again, and against all common sense he attacked bundles larger than any He had yet opened, gray oblongs taller than he was, ripping open their fronts without removing them from the racks, merely to see what was inside them. (Cabinets of polished wood inlaid with nacre. More engines. Chairs with arms curved like serpents. More bales of cloth, ten times larger than the others.)

Then for weariness alone he forebore awhile and sat with his head on his heavy arms. Hunger and thirst returned. He tipped up his wallet and drank what little water was in it, but it was not enough. He began to think of finding some container and going back through the caverns for water. The wallet would do, but he wanted to keep that dry to hold his treasures. He could put some of the smallest things in it, the jewels perhaps, and for the rest make a bundle to carry on his back. But before that he must sleep, and before sleep he must have water to quench his thirst. So he turned the problem back and forth, a little thick-headed in his weariness, and came to the same conclusion ten times over, but did nothing because it was so much pleasanter not to move.

Then he remembered the jug, and opening his eyes, which he had closed in order to think better, He saw it at the edge of the pile he had made on the floor.

He got up wearily, thinking of the long way back through the tunnels. When he took up the little jug, it seemed to him that it was heavier than before. He shook it, and it gurgled. Without thinking, he tipped it over. Water splashed on his feet.

Thorinn righted the jug and stared at it. He shook it again, and it still gurgled. He put the spout cautiously to his lips, tilted it up, tasted. It was water, cold and pure. He put his head back and drank in great gulps until the jug was empty.