"I'm not sure I know what you want."
"Well, for things done on Earth it would have to be independently documented. The invention of a life-saving device, the origination of a worthwhile new philosophy. Sacrificing yourself for others. Have you seen It's a Wonderful Life by Frank Capra? No? It's a shame how you people neglect the classics for the whims of fad and popular taste. The protagonist in that story did things that would have qualified him, but they weren't documented in the papers, and he could hardly bring up a busload of character witnesses to testify to me, so he'd be out of luck. It's too bad, but it's the only way I can operate. Have you thought of anything?"
Chris shook his head.
"Anything you did since you talked to Dulcimer?"
"No. Nothing. I suppose my energies have been directed mostly toward my own problem. Perhaps I should apologize for that."
"No need, no need. Now to the deal. The thing is, I deal only with heroes. You may assume that I'm a snob with ephemerals and that I must draw the line somewhere. I could have used wealth as a criterion, and you' be facing a more difficult task than you are now. It's harder to get rich than it is to become a hero.
"In times past, I wouldn't even be talking to you. You would have first needed to prove that you are heroic. In those days the test was simple. The elevator was closed to free beings. If they wanted to see me, they had to climb up through a spoke, 600 kilometers. Anyone who made it was by definition a hero. A lot didn't, and were dead heroes.
"But since I became a healer to the human race, I revised the plan. Some of the people who need cures are physically too weak to get out of bed. They can't slay dragons, obviously, but there are other ways of proving worth, and now they have a chance. Think of it as a crumb thrown in the direction of human concepts of fair play. Understand, I don't guarantee the fairness of any of this. You take your chances."
"That I also understand."
"Then there you are. Unless you have a question, you may be on your way. Come back when you're worthy of my notice." But she did not yet turn away.
"But what do you want me to do?"
She sat up straighter, began ticking off points on her fingers. They were stubby little sausages crusted with jewelry, the ring bands buried in fat.
"One. Nothing. Go home and forget about it. Two. The simplest. Go to the rim, and climb back up here. You have about one chance in thirty of making it. Three." She forgot about counting, swept her arm to include the people on the couches around her. "Join the party. Stay amusing, and I'll keep you healthy forever. All these people arrived as you did. They decided to play it safe. There's plenty of films, and as I said, the food is good. But the suicide rate is high."
Chris looked around, looked closely for the first time. He could imagine that it would be. Several of the people did not really look alive at all. They sat staring at the huge screen, dull presences that seeped depression like a gray Kirlian miasma.
"Four. Go down there, and do something. Return to me a hero, and I will not only cure you but give Terran doctors the answers that will enable them to cure the seventy-three people who have the same thing you have.
"That's the bottom line. Now it's up to you. Do you jump onto the tracks, or do you stand and wait for someone else to do it? These people are hoping someone braver will come along, someone suffering from what they have. There is one man, in fact, who has what you have. There he is, the one with the hungry eyes. If you go down, live or die, you can be his salvation. Or you can join him and wait for a real chump to arrive."
Chris looked at the man and was shocked. Hungry-eyed was precisely the way to describe him. For one frightening moment, Chris saw himself standing beside the man.
"But what do you want me to do?" Chris moaned. "Can't you just give me a hint?"
He felt that Gaea was rapidly losing interest in him. Her eyes kept straying to the flickering images on the screen. But she turned to him one last time.
"There are one million square kilometers of terrain down there. It is a geography such as you have never imagined. There is a diamond the size of the Ritz sitting on top of a glass mountain. Bring me that diamond. There are tribes living in ruthless oppression, the slaves of fell creatures with eyes red and hot as coals. Free them. There are one hundred and fifty dragons, no two alike, scattered through my circumference. Slay one of them. There are a thousand wrongs to be righted, obstacles to be overcome, helpless ones to be saved. I recommend that you set out to walk around my interior. By the time you return to your starting point I guarantee your mettle will have been tested many times.
"You have to decide now. This man here and seventy-two others on Earth await you. They are damn well tied to the railroad tracks. It's up to you to save them, and you'll begin knowing that you may not be able to save yourself. But if you die, your death will count for something.
"So what will it be? Order a drink, or get out of my sight."
8 The Aviator
Robin knew better than to stomp. She had not spent the last twelve years banished to the uplight regions of the Coven for nothing. But emotionally she was stomping.
Someone was supposed to be guiding her back to the elevator, but she quickly outdistanced her. Like an ant among elephants, she threaded her way through monuments.
Ridiculous things. Was she supposed to be impressed? If waste was impressive, she was overwhelmed.
Cathedrals. Tap dancers. A bloated, obscene thing passing herself off as the Great Mother, surrounded by listless sycophants. And to top it off?
Heroes.
She spit in the general direction of Notre Dame.
Why should she want to be the salvation of twenty-six strangers? One of them was undoubtedly her father. Gaea had pointed that out, to get a blank look in return. Fatherhood was as alien to Robin as stock options.
Nothing came for free, Gaea had said. What about those twenty-six who were counting on Robin to search out a nasty, dangerous death? Her whole being rebelled against the idea. Had even one of the sufferers been of the Coven she would have moved heaven and Earth to help her. But outsiders?
She had been on a fool's errand from the start. There was no need to compound the mistake. Staying among that pitiful pack of ass kissers was absolutely out of the question, and so was playing Gaea's game. She would go back to where she belonged, live her life as the Great Mother intended.
She found the elevator and pressed the summons beside it. A bell rang, and she got in. Bad design, she realized, looking around for grips to hold. There were two buttons to push-one marked "Heaven" the other "DOWN!" She hit the second one and raised her hands to catch the ceiling if it descended too fast. In that position, with that expectation, it was not alarming to feel her feet leave the floor. There was a blank moment before she realized the ceiling was not getting any closer. In fact, it was slowly receding. She looked down.
She saw her boots. Six hundred kilometers below them she saw Nox, the Midnight Sea.
Time slowed to a crawl. She felt adrenalin sweep to her extremities in a burning surge. Images swirled: brief, yet crisp with detail. The air tasted good. There was raw power in her limbs as she reached out with hands and feet grown curiously distant. Then there was dissociation as fear and despair threatened to obliterate her.
When she began to scream, her waist was just passing the level of the elevator floor. She continued to sink, cursing and screaming lustily. The walls stayed just out of reach until they were far above her. The elevator was a diminishing box of light.
Robin's calculations were not begun in the hope the answer would put her back among the living. She could see her death many kilometers below. What she wanted to know was how many seconds. Minutes? Could she possibly have hours to live?