Chapter Four

Martin blinked and stared up at a white tree etched into the ceiling. It was the first thing he noticed as he woke from a dreamless sleep. The pain in his hand became a sharp tingling as blood flowed through it in a conscious tempo. He tried to nurse his fingers back to life

Rachael pinned his arm to the mattress, her body heavy in sleep. Pushing against her shoulder, he managed to retrieve the aching limb and rub it vigorously. The excersize made it hurt worse, but he massaged the injured nerves until a pins-and-needles tingle stung his fingers. He rose from the bed, swinging to one side as he sat up.

The tapestry covered his view of the city, but somehow he knew it was still night. Tiptoeing to the ornate wall covering, he pulled it aside to be greeted by the harsh glow of lights. Martin turned away until he was able to adjust to the unending radiance.

Nothing about the skyline had diminished. If anything, the chaotic scene was even brighter, grating against his nerves. Sitting back on the edge of the bed, he stared out at the display with unwavering interest.

"Still night-time?" Rachael stirred behind him, trying to shake off the last shadows of sleep.

"I'd say, good morning, but the term would be out of place. My inner clock tells me it should be daylight, but as you can see, it's not."

Rachael sat up cautiously, massaging the back of her neck.

"Well, my outer clock, namely a wristwatch, tells me the same thing. The standards of time in this place are a lot different than our own."

"You don't suppose weekend is exactly what it suggests," Martin asked, "the end to five solid days of night?"

"Who knows," Rachael grunted. "God, my head. I haven't slept that hard in years."

Struggling off the bed, she made her way into the bathroom and closed the door. Martin smiled, then sniffed the air suspiciously. The odors of breakfast began to assail his nose. Coffee, toast, bacon, and sausage wafted under the door and brought his senses to life. His mouth watered with remembered delights and he was hungry.

Martin pulled the curtain across the window and went to the door. Opening it carefully, he let the aroma thicken around him. Recalling the disappointment of dinner, he returned to the bed. Rachael was just coming out of the bathroom, a large towel wrapped around her head.

"Why do all the women I know shampoo their hair first thing in the morning?" Rachael stopped long enough to give him a cold stare.

"How many women do you know?" She recanted quickly. "Sorry, but I'm hell without my coffee in the morning. Do I smell breakfast?"

"You do, but I'm afraid it may be as tasteless as dinner." Rachael unwound the towel and dried her head briskly.

"No one could ruin coffee, it's just not possible."

Martin took his turn in the shower, delighting in the rain of hot water and soap suds. They issued jointly from an ancient showerhead. His own disposable razor served for a hurried shave. The smell of food was quickly filling their apartment and Martin feared the body politic might finish it before they could get to the hall.

Rachael sat on the edge of the bed, waiting impatiently while he combed his thinning hair. Ready at last, he opened the door with a bow and returned her wry smile as she stepped into the corridor.

"Breakfast first and then we get in touch with Gateman."

"A phone may not be very private," Rachael warned. "It might be safer to go down on the elevator."

"Or have him come up," Martin added quickly.

Their conversation ended as they walked into the hall. The room seemed empty with less than two dozen people lingering about the well stocked tables. They were eating casually, plates in hand. Quiet discussions barely muted a soft music that floated through the room.

"It's just like a resort," Martin smiled. "Vacationers at a mountain inn, fire burning, cutting an early morning chill while two lovers whisper about a midnight rendezvous."

"Beautiful, but too colorful for me at this hour. Besides, it sounds like a cheap dime novel."

Rachael left him to snatch a steaming cup from the end of a row of steaming cups. Eyes glowing, she laid toast and bacon on a large plate and waited for Martin to do the same. She led the way to the same table they had occupied hours before.

Holding the cup a fraction of an inch from her lips, Rachael sniffed, closed her eyes, and sipped quickly. She stayed in the pose for long seconds before the first, 'damn', escaped.

"Hot water, nothing but hot water."

Martin chuckled softly. "I expected as much."

Lifting a piece of bacon, he dropped into deep thought, smelling the reality of well-cooked meat. His mouth watered as he recalled the sharp flavor of bacon, tasted the essence of the real thing. With a deep sigh he popped it into his mouth and chewed.

The delight that showed on his face changed to a smile and then a gentle laugh. Toast devoured, he swallowed, finished the bacon and drained his cup of coffee in a single draught.

Rachael stared in disbelief and then looked at her own plate. She glared at Martin again. His self-satisfaction was to much to endure in silence.

"Don't you dare tell me it was delicious."

"Nothing less, but there's a trick to it. Pick up your cup, go on. Now shut your eyes and smell coffee, real coffee. Taste it....."

"This isn't....."

"Ah, just do it. Remember the taste, how it felt burning down into your tummy. Now drink it slowly....."

Rachael's face went from a wry grimace to open-mouthed surprise.

"How the hell did you do that?" Martin smiled boyishly, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Darned if I know, but the whole thing seemed logical and it works. They can reproduce the look and smell of real food so why can't they do the sane with taste? Either they have never eaten real food or the event took place so long ago, they've forgotten it."

"Maybe they don't have taste buds," Rachael injected. "But what about us?"

"The event is stored in our memory, it's all there. Let me give you a good example." Martin edged closer to her.

"You're thirsty, so you ask someone for a glass of iced tea. They bring you a glass with iced tea in it, ice cubes floating in the liquid, same color as iced tea.....you anticipate iced tea, you expect iced tea, you can even recall the taste of it. You take a sip and you taste iced tea, for that split second before you realize that you've been tricked. They brought you a cola instead. But for one instant, the taste is there, you substituted the memory of the taste for what was actually in the glass. We just have to recreate it, believe it, an absolute belief. The thing that makes good fanatics....."

"You fooled yourself," Rachael argued.

"Only remembered and transferred it to my senses."

"Self-hypnosis," she countered....."Uh oh, talk about fanatics, we've got company."

Rachael nodded toward Blake's figure as he hurried across the hall toward them. The ever-present smile nodded toward a growing number of people as he slowed to greet one or two familiar faces.

"We've got to call Gateman now," Martin whispered. "I don't want to get any deeper into this thing until I know what's going on."

"He looks awfully intent," she noted.

"Martin, Rachael, how good to see you up so early. Had breakfast already?"

"Yes, just finished. In fact, we were going to take care of some last minute....."

"No time," Blake interrupted. "We've got to dress you properly if you're going to take part in the council meeting. Can't go into the chamber looking like slummers. Rachael, Margo will be along shortly."

Blake started off without waiting for excuses. Martin's eyes met Rachael's, catching a moment of panic in her expression. For the first time since their arrival on level-ninety, he was afraid.

"Go on, I'll be alright."

"Of course, she'll be fine." Blake had returned for his charge. "We've got a great deal to do before the first council bell."

Martin attempted a quick smile for her benefit. She seemed such a small figure to his worried mind, alone and unprotected. At last glance she was happily indulging herself in a second cup of coffee.

Satisfied Rachael could take care of herself, he concentrated on making his way through a flood of new arrivals. Yawns and muffled conversations grew as the body politic woke into a new day. Inside level-ninety, without the dark of an extended night to confuse them, morning feelings were genuine.

"The mighty throng awakes," Blake crowed. "Sleep will leave them soon enough and their voices will flourish in the chambers of the great tower. A new age begins today, something to thrill the heart of any good beam-walker."

It was the first time Martin had heard the term and it seemed well fit for the general population as he had seen it. But there was little time to think about it as they hurried across the hall and entered the corridor leading to Blake's suite. Only a few people were headed to breakfast through it and they nodded at the secretary in silent recognition. He ignored them, continuing his one-sided dialogue.

"Every level will be represented this time, from level-ninety right up to the penthouse. Beam-walkers from every section will attend, the groundlings, and Gateman." He laughed.

Slapping Martin on the back he slowed his pace as they reached a curtained doorway. Pausing for a moment to return the guards salute, Blake passed through the open door.

Peering inside Martin saw an overly long room, no more than a foyer in width. The narrow chamber was lined with shelves that held bolts of cloth in every color and texture he could imagine. Additional rolls of material leaned against the walls, reflecting designs his eyes could not focus on quietly.

The old man sat on a large block of stone, stooping in an ancient pose. The polite smile on his face seemed to ask forgiveness for some long, forgotten sin. Blake let the curtain flap close behind them.

"The delver characteristics are so obvious," he whispered. "It never ceases to amaze me, but his craftsmanship cannot be denied."

Ignoring the little man, Blake began picking through the bolts of cloth nearest him. Lost in the wealth of material, he wandered away leaving Martin to bow in return to the tailor. With an extended arm, the old man motioned him toward a rack of pastel shades.

Martin tried to concentrate on shopping, but he could not stop glancing at the man's large eyes. They were different than other eyes, not in color or shape, but in what they held. The deep saucers were filled with sadness. A pain he could not know welled up in the pupils and spilled over into the wrinkles of his smiling face.

"Finish," Blake asked?

"Yes, this is fine."

Startled by Blake's voice he grabbed the nearest bundle of cloth, held up the bolt of pastel green, and allowed the tailor to carry it away. Martin noticed the tiny closet beside the door filled with a small chair and the man's sewing machine. Where he had rested on the polished stone a deep indentation bore the mark of his sitting.

Perhaps he rocked back and forth while he waited, but his weight alone was not enough to wear the stone away. Even then, to leave a mark so deep in the solid granite seat would have taken more years than a man could live.

"Splendid, an absolutely perfect choice," Blake smiled. "You must have been shaped with a touch of the military in your soul."

The secretary's prideful tone faded as the tailor returned, his extended arm leading Martin toward a dim circle on the floor. Smiling faintly, he entered the circle and allowed the old man to begin his measuring. The eyes were lost to him as they studied the marks on the tape.

"We'll have one made of flat-white and one of gray," Blake announced. "There's not a merchant on level-one who can match this material or the workmanship."

Nodding politely, the old man backed away, his face turning aside in a sign of respect. Martin found it difficult to take his eyes from the delver, but Blake's hand on his shoulder broke the spell.

"It wasn't to bad, hey? You just have to think of him as a tailor, nothing more or less. Now let me show you something, the finest collection of footwear I have ever seen."

Blake led the way into an alcove at the far end of the room and held up both hands as though he were exposing a lost treasure. The smell of fresh leather stung Martin's nose, conjuring up visions of a tanners cove, wallets, belts, and shiny new handbags. Racks of shoes covered the wall in an impressive display.

Guessing at the size, he tried on several pair before making a choice. As Martin expected, they were not made of animal hide. They were too soft, fashioned with pliable soles for walking the girders of level-ninety.

"Come on, Martin, take another pair, two or three. If the artisans are not allowed to escape Fairmont's edict, you may never have another chance like this."

Blake leaned backwards, glancing down the narrow room, but the old man was busy at his work. Satisfied they could not be overheard, he moved closer to Martin, his voice a low whisper of confidence.

"I would like to keep the craftsmen, if it's possible, there are so few of them. But....."

"I'm only thinking about convenience, the slummers can't come close to this kind of work," Blake mumbled. "Level-one is garbage compared to the

old delver's work."

"Will you try to convince Fairmont," Martin asked? "He seems determined to see an end to every last one of them." Blake hesitated.

"Perhaps, but let's indulge ourselves while happier times last. A pair for myself.....you're sure one is enough?" Martin only nodded.

The old man was standing at the end of the room, waiting for them to inspect his work. From a distance he appeared like a misshapen gnome, bent beyond repair, but the polite smile was still on his face. He held the suit in front of him, a dainty creation demanding admiration.

Martin slipped behind a tiny screen and stripped away his old clothes without remorse. The pastel jump suit fit perfectly, full enough in the crotch and legs to allow him ample freedom of movement. Stepping out in front of Blake, he bent at the waist, allowing his praise to be expressed by the movement.

The tailor simply nodded, smiling happily as he bowed in satisfaction. His eyes still avoided Martin's as though a look might give him away. He held the sadness in. It belonged to him and he would not share it with a stranger.

"You will deliver the other two suits to corridor seven, room one. Charge the merchandise to my office." Blake's voice was a harsh interruption into Martin's thoughts.

"Excellent work, tailor. Thank you."

The old man looked up quickly, long enough for the smile to broaden at the corners of his mouth. At last, he allowed his eyes to fill Martin, sharing their unbearable misery for one instant. They cried out to him, imploring him in a silent plea, and then the moment was gone.

"Why did you thank him.....no, this way, we've little enough time to get to the tower. Why did you thank him?" Blake was insistent.

"It seemed the thing to do, even for a delver." Martin had to think quickly. "After all, we may take life with little concern for the man, it is his talents we will miss."

Blake stopped dead in his tracks, allowing the mass of council members to pass them without notice. The secretary stared at Martin for a long time and then shook his head.

"You are amazing, absolutely amazing." Blake extended his hand in a gesture of friendship, squeezing Martin's with an unsuspected strength.

"I am going to put your name up for membership in the Inner Circle. No, don't say a word." Martin had intended none.

"This very day Fairmont will have the first recommendation proposed in seventy years. You, Sir, were formed for great purpose."

Blake's emotions rose with such intensity that Martin thought he was about to cry. Somehow he avoided it and hurried down the corridor with his arm across Martin's shoulders.

By now they had become engulfed in a mass of humanity moving toward a enormous, distant arch. The top was decorated with a stained-glass window. Beyond it lay the naked lights of the city.

* * * * * * * *

Rachael had finished her second cup of coffee and was thinking about a third when Margo appeared in the hall. Her jump suit was bright enough to light the room, hot pink and stretched to the limit in all the right places. No one in the chamber seemed capable of challenging her motif.

"Margo, how nice to see you." Rachael was surprised by the woman's smile.

"Everything is late today." Words seemed to pour out of the blonde, talking incessantly as she hurried them toward Rachael's apartment.

"The party was exhausting, and then I overslept. Blake was in a rage. He doesn't understand why the secretary's woman can't wear plain red like all the other council member's women do. The choice is open, any shade of red is permitted, and why should I be like everyone else, drab and old fashioned?

Do you like it?" She never gave Rachael a chance to answer.

"I'm his first, can you imagine?" When she stopped long enough to breath, Rachael managed a quick line.

"His first, what?"

"Concubine. What a silly question," she pouted. "He doesn't understand women at all, but he likes Martin very much. Blake says he has a quick mind and excellent ideas.

A pastel jump suit lay on the bed, powder-blue with a white stripe across the bodice. Soft-soled shoes were set on the blanket beside it. Rachael scurried into the bathroom admiring the style, if not the color of her new decor. Margo's voice followed her.

"It wouldn't surprise me if we became beam-mates by weekend. Blake thinks Martin will move right up to the Inner Circle. What's he like in bed?" Rachael froze.

"Blake is a wild man, all over the place. It's a wonder I'm not covered with bruises." Margo waited for an answer.

"Martin is.....quiet, very quiet....."

"I thought he would be," came the sighed response. "Would you mind if I slept with him some time? It would be a welcome relief from Blake's thrashing around. I'll bet you're not his first."

Rachael came out of the bathroom zipping the soft jump suit. She could not believe the look of excitement on Margo's face. It was closer to a child's expectant fantasy than a mature woman's desire. A strange thought crossed Rachael's mind at that moment, and she stared at the blonde with a raised eyebrow.

When she had first seen Margo, the impression was that of an empty headed, talkative floozy. She had been just the opposite, silent and aloof. Now, as the length of her stay on level-ninety increased, Margo had changed drastically, taking on more of Rachael's original perception of her. Shaking her head quickly, she dismissed the idea and finished dressing.

"The decision is up to Martin. What would Blake think about you sleeping with another man?"

"Beam-mates have the right, protocol demands it. Haven't you been indoctrinated yet?"

The frown on Margo's face worried Rachael, but her anxiety faded quickly. The woman seemed incapable of keeping the same line of thought for more than a few minutes. Whatever her suspicions, they would likely be forgotten with her next sentence.

"Come on, no time. We'll make plans after Blake announces the arrangement, if he does. Everything is up in the air right now what with the war." Margo opened the door.

"I meant to ask you before," Rachael hesitated. "Is there a service phone nearby? Martin and I have some unfinished business on level-one."

Margo's smile faded again as she pointed to the ornate, full-length mirror.

"Press the right hand corner, same as all the others. We'd better go." She led the way in silence, rushing through a nearly empty corridor.

They joined the last of the women passing through a small archway onto one of level-ninety's crossing beams. A long procession moved in single file before them, stretching out of sight into the dark of Shaper's night. City lights weaved a spell over the breathtaking scene, circling up beyond them in untold numbers until they reached the mighty tree of the Great Tower.

Hundreds of yards away, Rachael could see the extended line of council members moving toward the same destination. The tiny figures appeared to be suspended in space, frozen between a black nothingness and the bizarre display of lights around them. She gave up any hope of seeing Martin and dared to look down. She swallowed quickly. The depths beneath her could not be measured, and the girder seemed to shrink to a fragile thread. Rachael followed close behind Margo as they made their way toward the council halls.

"Did you want to call, Gateman?" Margo's question surprised Rachael and she nodded out of habit.

"Oh, yes. There are some details we have to discuss."

"Then you have nothing to worry about." Margo spun quickly as she talked, drawing a frightened gasp from Rachael. "He'll be at the tower during the meeting, he always is."

The remark caught Rachael's attention, but the thought was replaced by anxiety as Margo walked backward on the narrow beam with no apparent concern for her own safety. She started to reach for the blonde as she whirled again, moving in surroundings that were perfectly natural for her. Unmindful of the dizzying heights, Margo stepped gracefully, playing with the edge of the walkway

'Martin must have gone through hell,' she thought. 'God, I hope he didn't panic.....' Margo's voice interrupted her fears.

"Quiet, you say....."

* * * * * * * *

The entrance to the tower was a doorway like none Martin could have imagined. Bathed in a shower of light, columns of white spots blinding their eyes, the single file of council members disappeared into the glow. No physical entrance existed, at least none Martin could see.

Shaking badly, he followed Blake into the brilliance. One moment of warmth surrounded him and then Martin found himself in an enormous vestibule surrounded by a thousand other figures. Immense, unoccupied space stretched everywhere, marble floors echoing the tell-tale sound of pliable soles padding off its hard surface.

The ceiling stood hundreds of feet above his head. Its massive etchings told a story that Martin could not hope to understand. At its center, commanding attention, stood the great tree. Blake's voice brought him back to the moment's business.

"No time for sight-seeing, the first bell has already rung. Margo and Rachael will be here soon, come along."

Martin followed Blake's lead through the press of bodies, twisting back and forth in order to see all the amazing architecture. A good deal was hidden by the crowd, but he could see enough to realize that he had entered a skilled society. Their art was austere, clean of line and spacious. The architecture held a science beyond that, for the interior dimensions of the Great Tower seemed far larger than his estimate of its external measure.

The doorway Blake led him through was so large he was hardly aware of entering another room. Mahogany-like panels decorated the walls and Martin could have sworn the floor was made of the finest, polished wood. The whine of generators startled him. Realization came when the entire structure jerked and started moving up toward the farthest reaches of the tower.

"Amazing, isn't it? The only elevator of its kind in the city. The wire cables lifting us reach three hundred girder levels to the council chamber."

Martin thought about being nervous, but he had just walked a crossing-girder without incident. Why should an enclosed elevator be a greater challenge? Blake patted Martin on the back, chuckling with pride. He fell into silence after a moment, lost in thought. Martin took the chance to study his surroundings, lifting up on his toes. For a moment he was sure Gateman was on the elevator with them.

"Do you think Gateman might be at the council meeting?" Blake shrugged his shoulders, hands clasped in front of him.

"It's possible. The groundling has freedom of movement as far as the elevators will take him. I have never seen him walk the beams of any level, but he could be here in the tower."

Martin began searching the crowded elevator again, trying to find the roly-poly body in the midst of a thousand figures. He gave up quickly, deciding the task was hopeless. He assumed the gate-keeper would find him if it were necessary. In the growing hub-bub, he wondered if Rachael was safe, and where she might be.

He was surprised at the relative speed of their journey and how much smoother it was than the east-side landing elevator. Blake tapped his shoulder, nodding toward the far wall of the elevator. Martin followed him through a parting crowd, aware of the many eyes on his figure.

"When I leave you at the council chamber, go directly to the blue section. Take a seat near the aisle and come when you are summoned."

The doors of the elevator slid open before Martin could ask why he would be called or who would command his appearance. Nervous anxiety grabbed at his stomach as Blake's figure strode through the steel doors of the chamber. Martin was left alone to begin his adventure in politics, an occupation he had always considered questionable.

The council pressed forward as a deep gong echoed through the building, anticipation giving their movements additional energy. On this day, Governor Fairmont would declare an open state of war on the delvers. The city's birth-right would be claimed without the eternal obstacle of delver interference. The beam-walkers were about to attain perfect freedom and absolute power.

The wave moved and Martin washed into the chamber with it, fear increasing as the mood thickened and grew electric. Reaching the top of a steep incline, he pushed through the wide gateway and stopped short. His emotions churned, and then turned to utter astonishment.

The arena he faced was shaped in an enormous, steep-sided oval, its depth and breadth far greater than any stadium he had ever seen. Far below the stadium floor, he could see a gigantic podium guarded by rows of military. Martin thought he saw Blake's tiny figure moving about, shaking hands with the many dignitaries. From his own position, the ceiling rose a dozen beam-levels into darkness. The far end of the arena lay half a mile away.

Along the uppermost tier of seats far behind him, great stone pillars circled the stadium, each bearing the sign of the tree. Flags hung from the rafters, barely touched by the lights from hundreds of galleries stacked about the arena. The sound of growing emotions increased, loud conversations, shouts of expectancy, and cat-calls to acquaintances rose about him.

Studying the nearest sections, Martin understood why Blake assumed he would know where to go. Each area was colored brightly, red, green, white, yellow, and blue. The latter was right beside him and Martin had no difficulty in finding an aisle seat. Rachael's voice singled him out in the melee.

"Martin! Over here, behind you!"

He turned quickly, waving as he spotted her thirty rows above him. Smiling happily, she hurried to meet him between the blue and yellow sections.

"Oh, thank God, I didn't know what to expect. How did you get across the beam?" Rachael took his hand in a warm embrace.

"Actually it wasn't that hard. The line moved slowly enough and Blake kept me occupied with his constant chatter." He smirked quickly as her stare hardened and an eyebrow lifted suspiciously.

"I was terrified.....almost came apart before we were ten steps out. I still haven't stopped shaking, but I didn't have time to get sick. Come sit with me, the architecture is absolutely overwhelming."

"I can't. Margo said that I have to stay with the other women in the yellow section. When you're summoned I have to go with you." Martin's brow wrinkled with concern.

"I wish I knew what the hell was going on."

"Well, it seems that Blake has taken quite a liking to you, Margo too. She wants to go to bed with you." Martin's mouth opened in a gesture of shock and then snapped shut.

"Out of the question! How do you know all this?"

"Woman's talk.....there's Gateman!"

Martin whirled, following Rachael's hand as she pointed toward the vestibule. The round shape of the groundling hurried toward them, an intense expression on his pudgy face. Martin held out a hand, but never got to say a word.

"I must speak with you. Quickly, there's little time."

"Seems as though no one has time around here," Martin snapped. He followed with Rachael in tow.

The oafish figure waddled beneath a stairwell, took a moment to wipe his round face and then set hard eyes on both of them. Rachael sensed Gateman's hostility, and moved to calm him.

"No, I won't be tricked by your feminine ways this time. What have you done," he directed at Martin!

"Done? I haven't done anything except save our skins."

"You call getting me involved in the body politic, nothing? By the Shaper, you've gotten maintenance and entry into the council, and embroiled city government where it does not belong. You have interfered with Shaper's creation and insinuated that his temple is being used by the delvers as a gate into the city. All this is hardly nothing!"

Martin frowned, dropping his eyes toward the groundlings feet. Rachael tried to defend him.

"Martin did what was necessary to protect us. He had no way of knowing what was going on. It was.....so easy."

Gateman stared at them, his anger mellowing as another bell echoed through the stadium. Shaking his head sadly, the groundling sagged, then thrust his hands into deep pockets.

"You cannot understand what you have done or how serious it is. In protecting yourselves you have condemned those you do not even know, joined in a battle you cannot comprehend. In ignorance you have joined forces with the beast."

Rachael's expression was one of embarrassed horror. Stricken with conscience, she held Martin's hand and tried to apologize for him. The groundling waved her to silence.

"There's nothing to be said. The two of you must return to level-one. You are in terrible danger here, but knowing Blake and Fairmont, I do not believe they will act at once. They love their little games."

"Follow their lead as you have already done so well, but use discretion. It may be awhile before you can slip away without notice, possibly during weekend. Above everything else, do not allow yourselves to be named beam-mates with Blake and Margo. Call me before you leave." Still speaking, he rushed from the alcove. "I'll meet you at the east-side landing."

Martin and Rachael stared after the groundling until he disappeared.

"He knows everything we've done up here," Rachael breathed. "Do you think he has someone watching us?"

Martin could only shake his head. Gateman's tirade made him uncomfortably aware of their precarious situation. With his election to the Inner Circle about to be announced, Martin could see no way of escaping further notice.

"I don't know how, but I've gotten us mixed up in something we'd have done better to avoid. And what is this thing about beam-mates?" Rachael almost blushed as he glanced at her.

"Something Margo mentioned to me. It's not important right now."

"Evidently, Gateman thought it was important. Come on, let's get to our seats and hope we can avoid doing any more damage. If you have any suggestions, let me know. I have no idea how we are going to manage it."

The gong struck a fifth time as Martin returned to the blue section. The massed council was already seated, disconnected conversations covering the echoes of the last chime. From the far end of the arena a single blast of trumpets brought the entire assembly to its feet. They stood in dead silence, hands clasped behind their backs.

As though from some other realm, Fairmont rose up behind the podium in military dress. His white hair seemed a helmet of honor, the gleaming, unsheathed blade in his hand, a badge of power.

Martin's eyes scanned the vast stadium in stunned amazement. Every space was filled. Two, three hundred thousand strong, the council stood motionless. Martin could see Blake's tiny figure move forward to stand behind the governor, a laurel wreath held in his outstretched hands. Placing it on Fairmont's shining head, Blake bowed slightly and stepped back into the curved line of senior council members.

Fairmont laid the naked blade on the podium and, with hands on hips, stared out over the expectant throng. The dread look on his face challenged the congregation, but no one dared return his defiant glare. As each section turned away in a sign of respect, he smiled proudly, then raised his arms in a gesture of supplication.

"Who is worthy?"

His voice reverberated over the tiers, past the galleries and out into the empty chambers beyond the stadium. No one responded and frowns masked those nearest Martin.

"Who is worthy?"

A stir passed through the great arena, a mumble of voices and then silence. Fairmont grinned, and raising his voice, lifted the unanswered question once more.

"Who is worthy?"

This time Blake stepped forward, pointing his finger toward the blue section. The secretary's voice carried to Martin as though he were standing beside the tall figure.

"I name, Martin, worthy. By word he is worthy, yet to be proven by deed. By shaping he is worthy, yet to be proven by deed."

The stir grew, eyes turning, staring, until the entire body politic held Martin in their minds. They watched him tremble in fear thinking it no more than keen excitement.

"Let Martin come forward. Let the one who is named approach the Council of Fairmont."

Martin looked around frantically, seeing no obvious route toward the podium. Turning, he saw Rachael, but she could only shrug her shoulders. To his great relief, those nearest him stepped into the aisle and formed a human corridor. Rachael joined him, taking the proper position behind her consort. The passageway of smiling faces led them out of the gallery exit to a sharp right turn, and through a down entrance ramp. In that instant, hundreds of tiers shifted, levels blurred just beyond notice, and they stood beside the dais on the stadium floor, Fairmont's eloquent figure towering above them.

"How did they manage that one," Rachael whispered.

Martin ignored the remark as Fairmont stepped down to them. Appraising Martin and ignoring Rachael, he smiled warmly.

"The means justify the ends." Fairmont's face seemed too young for his stature, not a single wrinkle marred its perfect complexion.

"We may take a life with little concern for the man, it is his talents we will miss." The governor's unwavering voice repeated Martin's words without error.

"Seventy years have passed without a name being offered for membership to the Inner Council. It has been a long time for a man like myself to wait, but Shaper knows his own mind. Perhaps he planned your selection for this very moment. Tonight, the declaration goes out, the final member is chosen and the future is fulfilled. It can be nothing less than the Shaper's wisdom that brings us together at such a time." Climbing the platform's steps, Fairmont raised his arms high.

"This day I proclaim Martin the newest and final member of the Inner Council. Let him be accorded all that goes with that high office."

"HAIL MARTIN!"

The cheer rose from a might throng, shook the temple of the body politic, and died instantly. Blake moved to Martin's side and gestured toward an empty space in the line of Council members. Filled with anxiety, Martin took his place and turned to face the Governor.

"Now Rachael, mistress of the Inner Circle, join your peers in the red section. I hereby declare you to be the official concubine and woman of Martin."

Martin's hand rose in protest only to be stopped by Rachael's quick, wide-eyed glare. Smiling, she allowed herself to be waved from the podium, dismissed by the Governor as he turned to other matters. Following the human aisle back to the galleries, she found Margo waiting to greet her. With only a moment's delay, Fairmont addressed the seated audience.

"Shaper awaits our action, for the purpose of the Delver race is known at last. They are the means to our final glory, they are the end through which we shall extend the realm, the way of the tree."

Silence.

"The Council of Fairmont declares that a state of war exists between beam-walkers of every level, penthouse, body politic, slummers, groundlings, and the race of delvers!"

Hysteria! A roar of approval rose to the heights of the stadium, shaking the great tower with the strength of its many voices. The air seemed to shudder with the power of those who evoked the explosion of sound.

"The tree shall be pruned to perfection, and for each delver wiped from existence, a new forming shall take place to add to the number of beam-walkers. New life for every level, true life for the tree. This is Shaper's word, the promise of life."

Never having completely subsided, the bellowing of the council increased until it was loud enough to drive thought from the mind. Still Fairmont's voice rose above the unending din.

"The great war begins.....death to the delvers, to all who crawl the sewer's depths. Death to their seed, death to the slime of the city, death to those who steal our birthright."

Martin was forced to join in as Blake glanced at his unmoving figure. The secretary smiled with approval at his shouting agreement. The intake of air dizzied Martin and sped through his frenzied mind, driving him to a greater hysteria. Swept away by delerium, Martin became an integral part of the screaming mob.

"The army is mobilized, so prepare yourselves for the blow. No delver shall escape, no sewer rat shall infest us, none shall escape the wrath of Fairmont!"

Oddly, the noise began to subside. Slowly, the echoes declined as one section after another regained their senses and sat down. The loss of energy brought greater strength to Fairmont's screeching voice.

"We will eat in peace at last, we will rejoice in a perfect harmony for the first time since the founding of the city. The final solution is at hand and we are the blade that will deliver the blow."

Martin found it difficult to breath and his muscles ached from their unusual exertion. Now even Fairmont seemed tired and his figure sagged against the podium.

"Many will lose their lives in this battle, but new life will be formed as an honor to their sacrifice. And we will remember them in a delver-free world, in a race untainted by the imperfect forming of that lower species. The body politic shall reign supreme."

Deadly silence as Fairmont's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"Prepare yourselves, make ready for the watch. Man the ramparts until the call goes out. Combat will arrive soon enough, and when it is finished no delver....." Fairmont hesitated, his eyes flitting toward Blake, "not one, single delver shall remain alive. Adjourned!"