Chapter Six

"Rachael, you look terrible," he whispered. "What happened last night?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. With a heavy sigh and a wince, Rachael accepted his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't ask. If it wasn't so sad, it would be funny. Just be satisfied to know that the only part of me in one piece is my virtue. The man is a veritable threshing machine. It's no wonder Margo wanted to sleep with you." Martin stiffened.

"Ssh, not another word. We'll talk about it later. Blake is waiting for me in his office with the Governor. Margo went to the banquet hall a few minutes ago, why don't you join her? Some coffee will do you good. I'll meet you there as soon as we're finished."

Rachael limped from the room rubbing her left buttock. If their discovery had not been so frightening, Martin would have thought his own bedroom encounter a thing of pure comedy. He had been able to make it through the night in much the same way as Rachael. Thankfully, his worst fears had not been realized, and he strode into Blake's office with a feeling of relief. Martin was confronted by the Governor's illustrious figure.

"You cannot know how pleased I am to have you with us," Fairmont crowed. "Together we shall mount the greatest offensive ever recorded in the history of the city."

Martin was only vaguely aware that the white-haired dignitary had not offered his hand in welcome. Moving to the far side of the desk, Fairmont sat apart from Blake and Martin. The plan of the city lay stretched across the table, Shaper's temple circled in red.

"What do you have for me, something different I hope?" The Governor seemed disinterested, almost bored.

"This!" Blake tapped the red mark with his pencil. "Martin has discovered the sewer rats using Shaper's temple as a doorway into the city. Evidently, there is an unmarked sewer leading to it under the westside gate."

"Of course the building is exempt. It exceeds the boundaries of the campaign. But the delvers are not beyond cheating to keep us from gaining a victory. They know no honor," Blake growled.

Fairmont glanced at the drawing quickly and yawned. His attitude seemed too casual for Martin's liking, but the Secretary continued to display his usual electric excitement. The Governor finally bent over the desk, staring down at the map. Tapping his finger against the schematic, he shook his head sadly.

"There is nothing new about this. As I have told you in the past, we will not attack Shaper's home. If you find a tunnel, seal it off. That shouldn't be too difficult. Is there anything else?"

"We have to start planning on the use of level-one personnel, logistics, and there is....." The Governor stopped Blake with a wave of his hand.

"Listen, Blake, you and Martin take care of all the details. I have every confidence in your ability to handle this. And don't hesitate to call on me if any authorizations are needed. Sixty companies should be enough to do the job. I have plans of my own for one of the divisions. The slummers can fill out your ranks where necessary."

The Governor rose to leave, but after nodding at Martin, Fairmont paused to stare hard into his eyes.

"These military excursions are only worth a few hours of stimulation. They are beyond me. Politics is the thing, politics pure and simple."

Reaching the door, he glanced at Martin again, then looked directly at Blake.

"The extermination of the delvers must be complete. All of them are to be put to death, every single one. There are to be no exceptions." Turning abruptly, Fairmont strode out of the room.

Several breathless moments passed before Martin was able to muster up enough courage to speak. At that, he was careful in choosing his words.

"He doesn't seem very impressed."

"Of course he is," Blake contradicted, "it's just the Governor's way. If he had been disappointed, Fairmont would have taken over the entire operation. As it is, we have his confidence and approval."

"You certainly read a great deal into one unconcerned yawn. However, he seems absolute in his feelings about the delvers. Since we have a certain freedom in this project, where would you like to start?"

Blake frowned at the silent map as though trying to read some secret plan into its complex lines. At last his finger came to rest at the westside gate.

"There is a narrow tunnel running between these two main arteries. The shaft leading from Shaper's temple must connect somewhere along its length. We will send five.....no, six elite to locate the delver's path and seal it off."

"If there is a tunnel at all. I was only guessing at the possibility of there being a tunnel."

Blake stared at the map in silence. When he spoke, there was a new found dedication in his voice.

"Of course there is a tunnel, why else would I be going to all this trouble? How could I have discovered the delver's plan if it weren't real? I will issue the order at once. Then we need only sit and wait."

"You discovered.....you, right. Since you have this under control, might I go to the banquet hall? Besides missing breakfast, I have a great deal to tell Rachael about last evening." Blake's smile was brilliant.

"Aha, Margo pleased you. This makes me very happy. Yes, beam-mate, off with you. But don't delay too long, I have planned a surprise outing. We are going down to level-fifty, to the roost-cafes. You will love the delights of carnival."

"Offer accepted," Martin cried.

Scurrying down the corridor, Martin hurried into the empty banquet hall. He spotted Rachael sitting alone. Margo was no where to be seen.

"Thank God that's over. Let me get something into this stomach of mine. I'm so hungry it hurts."

Returning with a well-filled plate, he sat beside Rachael and gently took her arm. She winced at the touch.

"Ow, please. Eat, but don't touch. Blake tried to use me for a punching bag last night."

"Didn't sleep well?" Rachael gave him a dirty look.

"I got hit with elbows, knees, and I recall one head-butt, but no sleep. Every inch of my body aches. She hesitated for a moment while Martin drained his cup with a sigh. He began eating with the haste of a starving man.

"I suspect you made the same discovery I did?" His attitude was far too nonchalant for Rachael.

"Martin, don't play games with me, I'm not in the mood."

He smiled with delight at the taste he had invented for his meal and then nodded.

"Margo. Margo has the most beautiful breasts I have ever imagined a woman could possess." Rachael's eyebrow rose quickly. "But nothing else. There is smooth, blank flesh where the normal organs should be. I would have to assume that the upper half is strictly for show, no biological function what-so-ever."

"Blake too," she sighed. "A magnificent male torso, muscular perfection, but no sex organ. Unless the beam-walkers use some unusual method for reproduction, they are unable to bear young. They are a barren race."

"And are totally void of the means for sexual fulfillment," Martin added. Rachael shook her head woefully.

"Men....."

They sat quietly while Martin finished his breakfast. Wiping his lips carefully, he lay the napkin across his empty plate.

"The forming," he muttered. "Some of the beam-walkers may be formed as children, never growing beyond that first stage. There were a great many children on level-one, but I haven't seen any up here."

"The body politic has no need for children," Rachael muttered. "Their desires seem to be taken up with sadism and self-indulgence. This war against the delvers certainly bears that out."

"But they play at sex," Martin injected. "Blake and Margo took their advances seriously. Perhaps their dreams are far more real than we imagine."

"Shaping delights in the mind, like you do with the food?" Rachael chuckled. "It seems a frustrating way of working off one's needs. Which might explain their violent nature."

"But there is something else, something just out of reach," she whispered.

Her eyes rose from Martin's empty plate. The look on her face told him to remain silent. Martin allowed her the time to transform her discovery into words.

"Complete, incomplete." Enthusiasm shone in her eyes. "Everything here is incomplete!"

Martin glanced around the hall quickly and Rachael caught his signal. Lowering her voice, she leaned accross the table toward him.

"The city is incomplete, never finished. It's only half done by our standards. Gateman insists there is a gate, but there is none. Only the concept exists, in the form of dimensional doorways."

"Our world consists of opposites balancing each other, hot and cold, good and evil, day and night. In this dimension day is only a momentary flicker of what it should be. Hot and cold, taste and tasteless, in this dimension they exist in our minds, and not in reality."

"There is a body politic, but nothing that should go with it. There is no campaign, no election, not even the opposition that goes with the rule of a dictator."

"So Gateman's gate is not a gate as we know it, but one of their dimensional doorways. And what about the delvers?" Rachael pressed her fingers against Martin's lips as their conversation grew too loud again.

"The delvers are victims, not an open force plotting against a dictator. Margo and Blake, neither is physically complete. There is birth, in their forming they are born. But if opposites do not exist, then there is no death, at least no natural death," she added.

Martin's lips moved without giving form to his thoughts while Rachael smiled. He played with the concept and then stared at her.

"Fairmont is ageless," he murmured at last.

"Everyone here is," Rachael nodded. "Even their architecture is incomplete. Blank faces adorn the center of their art work."

"Or did," Martin injected. "Gateman said my own mind was giving it form.....wait a minute. Ever since we got involved in this campaign against the delvers, the war has been spoken of as though it had all happened before. Margo was bored to distraction with having to do it all over again. Even Fairmont....."

"Oh, yes," Rachael smiled, "we are the only new development in a reoccurring theme, my dear. There is no end to their games, because beginnings have no opposite to balance them. Nothing ends in this place, it just goes on repeating itself over and over again."

"They don't even have the ability to forget. They know all about the campaign down to its last detail. When Blake showed Fairmont, Shaper's temple, the Governor stated that there was nothing new about that part of their plan." Martin made his point very carefully.

"But they are aware that there is something better," Rachael exclaimed. "Margo insisted on having some part of the war last longer. Blake was straining to gain some new incite into the battle. The desire for change is there, but they don't have the creative intelligence to make it happen."

"The creation is there....."

"A reflection of its creator," Martin interrupted.

"Again, only an incomplete image of our own world. We were created with the ability to change things through ideas and hard work. We have the gift of self-determination." Rachael's smiled took on a sad quality.

"They can only act out a script, move to the last line and then go back to the beginning. In the end, in our own world there is compassion, forgiveness, and love. Even the character of Shaper is incomplete."

"If Shaper is divine at all." Martin sighed. Anxiety filled him once more.

"This is a living hell. At least the body politic finds some enjoyment in the insanity. What about the delvers?" Rachael looked to Martin for help.

"Did we get here in the beginning, the middle, or the end? From what I've seen, the delvers are formed into suffering and there they stay. Death must be a glorious release for them," he offered.

"If they have a concept of death, the beam-walkers seem to have none. I haven't seen a single cemetery, no hospitals, and no religious symbols to remind them of that realm. You may be right about their immortality."

"Every church at home is a promise of life after death, but in this world the subject isn't even touched." They stared down at the table for a long time before Rachael spoke.

"What if the delvers are different? There is certainly a distinction as far as the body politic is concerned."

"I don't know, I've only seen one delver....." Martin remembered the tailor. "He didn't seem to be any different than us, except for his eyes." Rachael's interest rose again.

"They were filled with pain, a hurt that I could not fathom. He was old, very old, but I didn't get the impression that he was ageless."

Martin did not like the memory, but he could not seem to put it out of his mind. They were silent for a long time

* * * * * * * *

Rachael edged close to Martin as the elevator moved through the shadows of the lower council halls. Once it descended out of the Great Tower's protection, the open lift exposed them to the lights of the city. The westside landing seemed even more grotesque than the rest.

Its lights moved, flashing symbols that impressed themselves on the viewer's eyes. Brilliant arrows pointed down toward level-fifty, and strings of lights came on alternately, giving the impression of moving directional signals. Spirals flamed by, and designs flashed in every color imaginable as they sank toward the roost-cafes.

Beyond all of this lay the endless existence of a metropolis aflame with a million glowing lanterns. Scaffolding and beams brilliant in the lights that framed the enormous skeleton of city, moving elevators close, and far away, captured their minds and bent them toward a growing, subconscious rhythm.

The heavy beat of a subterranean music grew as the lift moved closer to level-fifty, compelling Margo to move her lush figure back and forth. Her hip bumped Martin playfully, and she winked in open invitation. The music exploded with a deep bass, overwhelming them, and Martin was forced to cover his ears, deafened by the garish concussion of sound.

"Carnival!" Blake shouted. "Follow me."

Rushing off the lift with a hundred others, Martin tried to keep pace. Blake led the way, pulling Rachael by the hand. Margo followed Martin, her hands on his waist as they scampered along a wide beam.

Level-fifty's girders allowed the beam-walkers to travel two and three abreast, but the depths beside them still seemed far too close for Martin. The swirling crowd was everywhere. Beams crossed each other every few feet, and the main crossroads were mobbed as beam-walkers changed direction in answer to a myriad of street-hooter's invitations.

The roost-cafes and concessions captured Martin's attention as the line they were in slipped between the approaching columns of party-goers in perfect synchronization.

Small buildings, no more than huts, lined the beams, held in place by the most fragile of platforms. Gaudy signs flickered in the shape of liquor bottles, foods, and isolated men and women. Every ram-shackle building was filled with conversation and music. All too often a delighted female scream managed to lift above the eruption of sound. Men's laughter replied with guttural obscenities.

The smells were beyond sorting out as one flowed into another, setting Martin's nostrils on edge. Rachael's eyes gave him a heavenward gesture indicating her own discomfort. Both of them forgot the five hundred stories of emptiness below them. They had been captured by the essence of Carnival, by the riot of absolute bedlam that surrounded them.

Martin almost collided with Blake as the Secretary stopped in front of a pitchman's tent. The hooter shuffled from side-to-side behind the long counter, filling glasses with pink liquor. Martin took the offered shot-glass and swallowed it down.

He made it taste like creme de menthe and exhaled quickly as the thick liquid hit his empty stomach.

"I want to dance," Margo shouted.

Her arms circled Martin from behind, her sharp breasts pushing into his back.

"Le Politique," Blake smiled?

"No, something degenerate, level one-ish." The blonde pouted toward Blake. "The Nest!" Blake's face bloated with anger.

"Margo has a strange sense of humor," he growled. "The Nest is a slummer's retreat. It is filthy as well as being dangerous. Martin, she's your beam-mate, perhaps you can talk some sense into that frivolous head of hers."

The blonde peeked from behind Martin's shoulder, prodding him with her breasts. Sighing heavily, Blake gave in to a bawdy wink and led them out onto the main concourse again. The more sturdy looking cafes thinned out, and a line of ramshackle huts began to take their place. If possible, the noise increased and seemed far more unacceptable.

They stopped at a major crossroads, waiting for the right moment to change directions. Martin shifted his weight from an aching left foot and found nothing beneath his right. Grabbing at Rachael, he regained his balance, if not his wits. His face was still pale when they charged off in a new direction, passing between the ranks of oncoming revelers. At last, they stopped in front of a small, ramshackle building.

"The Nest," Blake announced.

Martin could not understand how it stayed attached to the beams. Not one of the boards was level, and the noise coming from inside made the entire structure tremble. It seemed to move with a pulse of its own, one that threatened to topple it and its occupants into the depths below. Rachael gave Martin a long, unhappy look as they entered its shadowy confines.

It was Margo who led the way toward the back of the cafe, ignoring the stares of those who filled its many tables. As if she had known beforehand, Margo found the small, empty table waiting for them. It stood at the end of a long bar, tilted and stained. The four of them squeezed together around it and sat without speaking. Margo glanced around cautiously, flirting with Martin whenever she could catch his attention.

"What do you want?"

The groundling startled Martin. For one moment he thought that Gateman had found them. A second glance taught him his error. The roly-poly had tufts of unkempt hair splattered over his chest, and his face bore scars from untold brawls in the cafe. The towel draped over his shoulder had seen better days too. Rachael prayed the stains on its mottled surface were from disinfectant and not some unspeakable horror.

"Martin?" Blake waited.

"Oh, I don't know. What are you having?"

"Haven't got all night," the waiter complained. "Leave it to the body politic to waste my time."

"Four greens," Blake frowned.

Margo eyed the sweaty groundling, turning her head slightly as he waddled across the creaking floor. Martin was forgotten as her mind turned in fancy toward some obscene design. Blake grunted in disgust.

"Can you imagine what it would be like to sleep with him," she whispered? I would imagine that he's terribly violent." Her eyes misted.

"As you can see," Blake offered, "Margo is obsessed with the strange and malignant. Anything morally outrageous appeals to her....."

The scuffle began at the entrance and moved quickly toward the bar. The sound of breaking glass harmonized with guttural shouts and an overturned table before the men came into view. Margo's eyes followed the tallest figure as he pounded a hardened fist against the bar's chipped surface.

Long hair flowed down his back, partially covering the rotted holes in his shirt. His pants rode stiffly with his long legs. It seemed as though the filth staining them had hardened the material beyond repair. The boots he wore were the only things about him that shone. His eye caught Rachael's, and he turned toward her.

The slummer's footsteps were heavy on the broken floor, and even Blake turned aside as a rancid smell preceded him. He set the bartender's tray in the middle of the table and leaned over it.

"Evening, Blake." The voice hissed through uneven teeth.

"Gurst, what brings you to level-fifty?" The man shook his head sadly.

"Blood-lust, Blake. Blood-lust and boredom. We've had no word from the body politic, as usual. Now I know what keeps you from the battle." His pale eyes appraised Rachael openly.

"Something new has come up," Blake whispered.

"So I see."

"NO!" Blake shouted. " No, you don't."

He rose from the table quickly, standing eye to eye with the slummer. Gurst's hand started toward the back pocket of his pants, then stopped as Blake straightened brusquely.

"I have work for you. Martin and I have found a new delver scheme. One, I might add, they have been using right in front of your nose." Gurst relaxed, turning toward Martin.

"So, Martin. And did he volunteer information? It would seem that you choose strange bedfellows, Blake. Are you taking up Margo's habits?" Blake's face paled.

"Martin and Rachael have been named beam-mates to Margo and myself. They are honored members of the council, so mind your manners," Blake warned. "There are a thousand butchers waiting to take your place on level-one."

"Really?" Gurst chuckled quietly. "Hire them and see what they think of the body politic fraternizing with....."

"That's enough!" Blake stepped toward the tall slummer, only to have Gurst stand his ground. "I will have the order passed to you before weekend. Until then, we do not care to have your company at our table."

"And will you and your friends join us in the campaign, or will you wait for word of our success in your splendid tower?"

"Leave before you say too much," Blake growled.

Shaking his head, Gurst turned slowly. His eyes caught Rachael's, freezing her to the spot. The grimace on his face was one of a hatred so deep, it reached to her very soul. Rachael trembled openly.

"Come on," Gurst yelled, "let's go where we're appreciated. The body politic is insulted by our shaping."

The slummer's comrades followed him through the crowded building, their cries rising above the chaos of music and screaming voices. Blake's anger subsided quickly, but Margo was lost in some disturbing fantasy, her eyes staring toward the bar. Martin raised a green-shaded glass to his lips, hesitated, and drained it quickly. It hit him like a hammer, thudding in his head and forcing the air out of his lungs.

"What do you feel, Margo?" Blake leaned toward her, leering obscenely. "Does our slummer friend heat your passions, will he be the ultimate stimulant for your desires?" The Secretary turned to Martin.

"She is obsessed with Gurst. She feels the violence in him, yearns to bed with him, to steal his dreams in sleeping." Martin jerked with shocked understanding at Blake's words, and he exchanged a look of fear with Rachael as Blake went on.

"Margo cannot be blamed for her shaping, the blood-lust takes her to another realm. I am afraid she will be of little use to you tonight Martin, unless you delight in dreamless slumber."

Shocked and dizzy from his drinking, Martin rose unsteadily from the table. Rachael's hand shook badly as he took it.

"I think we should return to level-ninety, Rachael is not feeling too well," he stuttered apologetically.

"I agree," Blake smiled. "I'll take care of Margo."

The blonde chose that moment to return from whatever fantasy she had been lost in. Smiling, she looked up at the others and raised an eyebrow.

"Have I missed something? It's not time to leave yet....."

"I'm afraid so." Blake helped Margo to her feet. "Our beam-mates wish to return to their apartment. I imagine their first visit to carnival has been quite tiring."

Blake led them through an empty cafe. Chairs lay scattered on the floor, and drinks had been left sitting on the few tables that remained upright. Silence came so quickly that neither Martin or Rachael realized the noise had ended. Martin wondered if it was another trick of dimensions until they reached the door. A mass of humanity blocked their path. Not one person moved, no sound issued from the crowd as it faced the main thoroughfare.

Margo suddenly moved ahead of Blake, picking her way between the frozen shapes. Her breath quickened as she forced a path to the walkway. Escaping the Secretary's clutches, Rachael grabbed Martin's arm as they made their way to the front of the crowd.

Gurst and his friends had cornered a small figure on the beam and were slowly closing in on him. The tall slummer taunted the man, but only threatening gestures gave evidence to his whispered dialogue. The short blade in his hand blurred as Gurst slashed at the frightened beam-walker.

The man looked down at his chest, a hand reaching up to touch the ruined fabric of his jump suit. He stared at his fingers, a puzzled expression on his face. He seemed unconvinced that the blood was his own. Margo trembled openly as she moved toward the scene like a sleep walker. Gurst caught sight of her and smiled.

"You have an audience," he cried. "The delver has someone to watch him die."

The man turned toward Margo, revealing his face to the crowd. Martin took a deep breath and stared into the delver's eyes. They were the tailor's eyes, the eyes of fear, the eyes of pain. They cried out to him, sharing their misery. Gurst's fist smashed them into a bloody nothingness. The man fell heavily, stirred and tried to rise to his feet.

"Delver....."

"By the Shaper, what's he doing up here?"

"Kill the sewer rat."

".....end his shaping."

Murmurs rose from the crowd, figures stirred as Gurst's boot struck the man's stomach and lifted him off the beam. He fell, rolling perilously close to the edge of the girder.

"Oh, no, not that easy," Gurst laughed.

He pulled the delver back by the hair and lifted him to his feet. The man stared helplessly, never lifting a hand to defend himself, no sound issued from his mouth. What was left of the delver's face bent in humility, the bloody sockets staring at the cold steel of the beam. Gurst stabbed, slicing the figure from stomach to throat.

Margo rose up on her toes, hands grasping at her own throat as blood splashed over her body. Looking up, she arched her figure toward the great tower, her arms raised in supplication. Gurst crowed out loud as he lifted the fragile, broken body over his head. Blood flowed over him in a baptism of lust, and then he threw the doll-like figure from the beam.

There was no scream, no crying out for mercy. Only the eyes stayed, burning into Martin's brain as Rachael was sick beside him. Martin stared, his mouth open in disbelief. A word formed on his lips, but was never spoken. Instead it joined with the eyes screaming in his mind.

"NO!"

Margo threw herself at Gurst's feet, her hands clutching his legs as silence exploded into bedlam. The crowd surged, cursing, laughing, and music murdered the quiet. Beam-walkers strode onto the thoroughfare, returned to the cafe doing all the things they had done before the delver had been murdered.

Martin tried to console Rachael, but she only clung to him shaking uncontrollably. Blake moved out onto the beam and helped Margo to her feet. A few words passed between Gurst and the Secretary before the slummer disappeared into the crowd.

"Why, Rachael, what is wrong? You look terrible." Blake spoke in concerned tones.

"Her drink," Martin lied. "I guess it was too strong for her empty stomach."

"I had the strongest drink of all," Margo laughed. "Did you see it? Gurst was beautiful, magnificent." She frowned suddenly. "He could have made it last longer."

Margo shone red, the delver's blood coloring her soft, white flesh and the jump suit. She studied herself quietly and grinned.

"This is a trophy to be kept for another time, when the best part lasts forever." She wiped a spot of blood from her cheek and smiled.

* * * * * * * *

Rachael lay on the bed, a wet rag covering her forehead and eyes. Martin paced the floor, unable to rest quietly with the scene running through his mind. He had never watched a man die before, certainly not in violence.

"He looked just like anyone else, there was nothing different about him," Martin grumbled, "except his eyes."

"The eyes are the window of the soul," Rachael answered. She moved her feet to the edge of the bed and sat up.

"But the soul is invisible." Martin turned his head and stared at his companion.

"And I am going to be too." Rachael stood shakily. "We are going down on the east-side landing elevator. We are taking the road out of the city and back to the hill. Tree or no tree, it's time to go home."

"But, Gateman....."

"The hell with Gateman," she screamed! "I've had enough of this madhouse. They are going to kill every delver they can find, with no exceptions. And the delvers are not going to fight back, they are going to be slaughtered like lambs. What if there are children, infants? What if they decide they've played with us long enough?"

"I was hoping," his voice faded. "We have no proof they suspect who or what we are....."

"God damn it, Martin, they know we're different. They know we're not of the body politic. If we stay here much longer they are going to kill us too."

Rachael's outburst colored her face, and she turned from him angrily.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to go off the deep end, but we've got to get out of here." Rachael hurried into the bathroom.

"You're right." Martin bowed his head. "I just wish there was something we could do."

Martin changed into the green jump suit, his fingers moving across the embroidered tree over his heart. He thought of the tailor's eyes and shook his head sadly.

"Stop thinking," Rachael ordered.

Martin followed her to the door, took one last look at their spacious suite and hurried out into the hall. There were no guards, in fact, they met no one on the way to the banquet hall. Level-ninety was abandoned. Only their padded footsteps stirred the shadows of the great chamber, their tiny figures the only living things to mar the solemn emptiness of the great cathedral-like gallery.

Martin led the way into the utility room, scrambling past the supply cupboards toward the trap door. It was wide open with Blake's smiling face poking through.

"Good, you got my message. Rachael, please join Margo in my quarters."

"But I....."

"I realize your concern for your consort," Blake interrupted, "but this is man's work."

Martin followed the Secretary down the ladder and out onto the beam. Rachael's head appeared at the trap door, and Martin nodded toward her. It was all that could pass between them before he was urged along the beam and onto the east-side elevator. He joined a company of fully armed military.

"Stirs the blood doesn't it," Blake cried?

The elevator dropped out from under Martin's feet, and he thought he would be sick. In its hurried descent, the massive platform sped past the city's lights. The colors ran together forming a streaked blur that added to Martin's discomfort.

"I thought the troops would go down by the west-side lift," he muttered.

"On the contrary," Blake smiled, "they would be expecting a direct assault. We come down on the east-side landing and then move by foot across the city. There will be no warning for the sewer rats. When we break through the manhole they will be caught in a trap."

Blake unrolled the massive city street-map and nodded toward the circled edifice of Shaper's temple.

"We have two corps moving north and south through the main tunnel. We will descend through the opening between them. The delvers and their secret tunnel will be crushed. One plunge down the newly discovered path and it is over. Shaper's home will not be violated." Martin closed his eyes.

"Do you see a flaw in this plan," Blake asked?

"None, if there is a tunnel....."

The Secretary turned away angrily, crushing the heavy paper in his hands. He paced forward into the crowded troops and turned abruptly. He glared at Martin for a long time, irritation lining his face. Martin stared back, capturing Blake's eyes in a momentary flash of tunnel vision. There was nothing, Martin blinked and looked again.

Blake's eyelid had lifted, his expression changing to one of a less foreboding nature. Martin studied his eyes carefully, matching them with the ones in his mind. They were blank, void of expression, lacking the light that a living, expressive eye would hold. Martin might as well have been looking into the eyes of a dead man.

"Forgive me, I am as anxious as you," Blake apologized. "Everything will be in order when we arrive at our destination."

The great lift shuddered, massive cables straining to slow its descent as it met the east-side landing surface. The troops streamed off and drove through the mobs of level-one, taking over the road without regard for those who were pushed aside or knocked off their feet. The slummers waited, trotting in beside the corps as it moved across the city.

Martin cursed his middle-aged physical condition and looked up at the stars to occupy his mind as he ran. He frowned and realized that the stars above him were nothing more than the lights of the city rising up a thousand stories above level-one. They seemed dingy now, and uninteresting.

They sped past beam-foundations, empty spaces that were filled with the goods of the slum dwellers. Drummers stood behind racks covered with their wares. They were stacked on mounds of dirt, cheap imitations, garish in appearance. He knew why Blake treasured the tailors work.

"So the one named Martin joins the battle." Gurst's voice brought Martin back to reality. "By the Shaper, this is interesting. Blake and his puppy dog in the midst of the campaign."

"Gurst, how many slummers did you bring?" Blake spoke without looking at his adversary.

"More than your corps can handle," he laughed. "Don't worry, they'll be safe with my boys to guard them."

Their trek seemed endless. The west-side landing was on the other side of the city, still miles away. Martin slowed to a staggering walk as he tired and was not missed by Blake. He concentrated on the growing number of families roosting on the beams. They nested together no more than fifty feet above the road, occupying homesteads that were no more than a piece of wood placed between themselves and their neighbors.

The scene reminded Martin of the roost-cafes. The inhabitants of level-one milled about in a constant stream of walkers, pressing into open cubicles where drinks and food were being handed out. Sideshows lined the streets beyond the residential area where barkers shouted for the mob to try their games of chance. Humanity crawled the levels above them, their life style increased only slightly at the higher levels.

The troop halted suddenly, arriving at their destination doubled in number. Blake and Gurst led the way, passing to the center of the circled corps and the slummers. At their feet lay a steel circle imbedded in the roadway. It did not look as though it had ever been opened.

"None of the corps are to be touched," Blake growled.

"Give us delver flesh and you'll have nothing to worry about," the slummer hissed.

Gurst left the troops as they attended to the opening of the sewer main. Blake pointed off to the right. The enormous concrete square was only a few hundred yards from them, but the elevator was somewhere in the heights above them.

"If we had come by the west-side elevator, we would have given the enemy warning. This way we have caught them by surprise."

Martin could only wonder how Blake imagined that a forced march through the center of the city had not sent echoes of their approach long before them. He dodged aside as the steel manhole cover clattered across the road beside them, then stepped backward as an awesome smell overcame his senses and sent him reeling.

The foulest of odors fountained up from the sewer, and Martin had to breathe deeply to keep from being sick. Blake stared at him and smiled.

"No need for us to go down. The slummers are as eager for the kill as my own troops."

Men began dropping out of sight through the opening, slummers and troops together. They disappeared into the loathsome depths in strict military fashion, but the advance slowed unexpectedly. In moments it had stopped completely, and those who had gone into the tunnel came rushing out. Weapons exploded around Martin, gunfire crackled in the night sounds of level-one. Flame shot from heated muzzles as the first delvers tried to escape through the sewer main.

"They're attacking," Martin shouted.

"No, the company has flushed the sewer rats," Blake replied. "Look, we have them! We have them!"

A head disintegrated in front of Martin as it came through the opening. The body continued to climb out of the hole, only to sag lifeless with its legs still inside the sewer. Martin turned away as Gurst kicked the twitching body back into the dark tunnel. He dared to lift his head again after the gunfire had stopped.

"The slummers are going back down."

"Hand to hand combat," Blake shouted with pride, "butchering whatever stands in their way. They are efficient."

There were no screams, no cries of pain or anguish. Only staccato gunfire and sharp explosions echoed from the depths below. The heated shouts of Gurst and his followers came behind it, and then silence.

The slummer's head rose from the manhole, his eyes fastening on Blake. Gurst climbed from the sewer, wiped a grayish slime from his pant leg, and walked toward the Secretary with fire burning in his eyes.

"Five, five lousy delvers, Mister Inner Circle. Where is the main body of revolutionaries we spoke of this morning. Where is your secret passage?"

Blake's face paled, his thin lips quivering as he tried to stand up to the raging slummer. Gurst turned his face away and glared at the Secretary from the corner of his eye.

"The tunnel is there, it is there! Camouflage, that's it, they've hidden the entrance." Gurst pushed up against Blake, his sour breath causing the councilman to jerk his head back.

"Then why don't you go down and find it? We blasted every inch of the walls. We kicked them, pushed at them, exploded them. There is no passage. Come back from weekend, Blake. By the Shaper, we should take down some of your marvelous guard for a prize."

Gurst turned quickly and strode back down the street toward the east-side landing. His men straggled after him, cursing the uniformed troops as they left their positions. Martin stood in amazement as an army of slum dwellers retreated, leaving the guard to stand alone. The great corps of the body politic now seemed only a small group.

"Master Sergeant, how many have we lost?"

"Three hundred, Sir."

Martin appraised the emaciated group wondering where they had all gone. He would have asked, but he suspected the worst. It would seem that Gurst had taken his prize without asking.

"Go down there and find the passage," Blake ordered. "Take fifty men with you, and do not come out until you have located the entrance."

As they walked toward the west-side elevator, Martin decided to try another tack. Drawing even with Blake he cleared his throat nervously.

"How could five delvers overcome three hundred of your best men?" Blake stopped dead in his tracks.