The door opened easily — so easily that a dim corner of his fogged consciousness nagged at him: had he inserted both keys into the locks before the door swung? Had he inserted any key?
Arthur Saltus fell down the flight of stairs because he could not help himself.
The gun was gone from his hand but he couldn’t remember losing it; his bottle of birthday bourbon was gone from his pocket but he couldn’t remember emptying it or throwing away the bottle; the keys to the door were lost. Saltus lay on his back on the dusty concrete, looking at the bright lights and looking up the stairs at the closed door. He didn’t remember closing that door.
A voice said: “Fifty hours.”
He knew he was losing touch with reality, knew he was drifting back and forth between cold, painful awareness and dark periods of feverish fantasy. He wanted to sleep on the floor, wanted to stretch out with his face on the cold concrete and let the raging fire in his spine burn itself out. Katrina’s vest had saved his life — barely. The slug — more than one? — was lodged in his back, but without the vest it would have torn all the way through his chest and blown away the rib cage. Thanks, Katrina.
A voice said: “Fifty hours.”
He tried to stand up, but fell on his face. He tried to climb to his knees, but pitched forward on his face. There was not much strength left to him. In time with the measured passing of an eternity, he crawled to the TDV on his belly.
Arthur Saltus struggled for an hour to climb the side of the vehicle. His awareness was slipping away in a sea of nauseous fantasy: he had the hallucinatory notion that someone pulled off his heavy boots — that someone removed the heavy winter garments and tried to take off his clothing. When at last he fell head first through the vehicle’s open hatch, he had the fever-fantasy that someone out there had helped him over the side.
A voice said: “Push the kickbar.”
He lay on his stomach on the webbing facing in the wrong direction, and remembered that the engineers wouldn’t recover the vehicle until the end of fifty hours. They had done that when William failed to return. Something was under him, hurting him, putting a hard new pressure on a rib cage already painfully sore. Saltus pulled the lump from beneath him and found a tape recorder. He pushed it toward the kickbar but it fell inches short of the goal. The hallucination slammed shut the hatch cover.
He said thickly: “Chaney… the bandits have burned the treasure house…”
The tape recorder was thrown at the kickbar.
The time was forty minutes after two in the morning, 24 November 2000. His fiftieth birthday was long past.
Brian Chaney
2000-plus
The meek, the terrible meek, the fierce agonizing meek,
Are about to enter into their inheritance.
FIFTEEN
Chaney was apprehensive.
The red light blinked out. He reached up to unlock the hatch and throw it open. The green light went dark. Chaney grasped the two handrails and pulled up to a sitting position, with his head and shoulders protruding through the hatchway. He hoped he was alone in the room — the vehicle was in darkness. The air was sharply cold and smelled of ozone. He struggled out of the hatch and climbed over the side. Saltus had warned him the stool was gone so he slid cautiously to the floor, and clung to the polywater tank for a moment of orientation. The blackness around him was complete: he saw nothing, heard nothing but the hoarse sound of his own breathing.
Brian Chaney reached up to slam shut the hatch but then stopped himself — the TDV was his only lifeline to home base and it was wiser to keep that hatch open and waiting. He stretched out his hand to grope for the locker; he remembered its approximate location, and took a few hesitant steps in the darkness until he bumped into it. His suit hung in a dusty paper sheath, prepared by a dry cleaner now many years behind him, and his shoes were on the bottom beneath the suit. An automatic pistol — put there at the insistence of Arthur Saltus — now was an ungainly lump in the pocket of his jacket.
The weapon underscored his apprehension.
Chaney didn’t bother to check his watch: it lacked an illuminated dial and there was nothing to be seen on the wall. He quit the darkened room.
He moved slowly down the corridor in a black eerie silence to the shelter; dust stirred up by his feet made him want to sneeze. The shelter door was found by touch and pushed open but the overhead lights failed in their automatic response. Chaney felt for the manual switch beside the door, flicked it, but stayed in darkness: the electric power was out and the lecturing engineer was a liar. He listened intently to the unseen room. He had no matches or lighter — the penalty paid by a non-smoker when light or fire was needed — and stood there for a moment of indecision, trying to recall where the smaller items were stored. He thought they were in metal lockers along the far wall, near the racks of heavy clothing.
Chaney shuffled across the floor, wishing he had that cocksure engineer here with him.
His feet collided with an empty carton, startling him, and he kicked it out of the way. It struck another object before it came to rest: Saltus had complained of sloppy housekeeping, and Katrina had written a memo. After a period of cautious groping the ungainly bulge in his jacket pocket struck the leading edge of the bench, and he put forth both hands to explore the working surface. A radio — plugged in and wired to the antenna — a lantern, a few small empty boxes, a large one, a number of metal objects his fingers could not immediately identify, and a second lantern. Chaney barely hesitated over the objects and continued his probe. His roving fingers found a box of matches; the fuel tanks of both lanterns jostled with reassuring sounds. He lit the two lanterns and turned to look at the room. Chaney didn’t like to think of himself as a coward but his hand rested in the gun pocket as he turned and peered into the gloom.
The raider had returned to pilfer the stores.
From the looks of the place the man must have spent the last few winters here, or had invited his friends in with him.
A third lantern rested on the floor near the door and he would have knocked that one over if he had stepped sideways in the darkness. A box of matches lay ready beside it. An incredible number of empty food cartons were stacked along a wall together with a collection of water cans, and he wondered why the man hadn’t hauled the boxes outside and burned them to be rid of an untidy mess. Chaney counted the cans and boxes with growing wonder and tried to guess at the many years separating Arthur Saltus from his own recent arrival. That reminded him to look at his watch: five minutes before nine. He had the uneasy suspicion that the TDV had sent him askew once again. A plastic bag had been opened — as Saltus had reported — and a number of winter garments were missing from the racks. Several pairs of boots were gone from their shelves. The bundle of mittens was broken open and one had fallen to the floor, unnoticed in the darkness.
But there was no spilled food on the floor despite the litter of cartons and cans; every scrap had been taken up and used. Nor were there signs of mice or rats.
He whirled to the gun rack. Five rifles had been taken plus an undetermined number of the Army-issue automatics. He supposed — without count — that an appropriate amount of ammunition had gone with them. Major Moresby and Saltus would have accounted for two of the rifles.