They chugged along and the horizon occurred.
“Keep bearing left.”
After a time they came to a stand of hills, a hole piercing the side of the largest.
“Enter the cave.”
“Looks like a tight fit, J. D.”
“Slow down, then.”
The engine lost velocity as it approached the cave.
“I think we’re all right. Need the lights, though.”
They moved slowly as they proceeded downward. Bright veins of metal flowed through the walls about them. Occasionally, something glassy gleamed.
Donnerjack blew the whistle. The way finally grew level, and the walls widened a little. They wound along for some while before they encountered an upward slope. The cave narrowed, widened again, continued widening.
Again the whistle blared.
“A little farther now,” said Donnerjack.
The way steepened and the Brass Babboon accelerated against the grade. Far ahead, an archway became faintly visible.
“That could be it, J. D.”
“I think you’re right. We want to come out fast, with the whistle blaring.”
“You got it.”
The Babboon jumped ahead, the archway grew but did not brighten. The grade began to level. Donnerjack began a steady blasting of the whistle and set “Dixie” for a replay.
They burst into the twilit world where clouds of detritus drifted, occasionally to rain particulate matter upon the land. Heaps of trash disintegrated before their eyes, revealing dark meadows, bogs, fens, and forests. They passed along the shore of a great dark sea of shifting, powdery sands or dust. A black orb hung in the heavens. Occasional bones protruded from the ground.
“Where to now, boss?”
“I don’t know where he is. Just keep going as we are. I think he’ll notice.”
After a time, he detected a faint, bruiselike glow ahead and to the left.
The Babboon veered and blasted on. The light grew slightly until Donnerjack topped a hill and beheld the valley below him.
“Halt!” he cried, regarding the prospect. Below, oddly tinted flames leapt from fissures in the ground. Amid them, strange beings toiled. Not human, not machine, they seemed to be assembled of anything that lay at hand—legs of metal, skeletal torso, discarded radio for a head, or otherwise. The laborers were of cable, metal, wire, and bone. They probably clanked and rattled, Donnerjack reflected, though he could not hear them from his hilltop.
Of the pastiche laborers—disintegrating where they fell, to have their places taken by the fresh-risen—some were engaged in moving massive slabs of stone while others worked to rear a huge iron gate rust-etched with the postures of the Danse Macabre.
“My palace,” Donnerjack remarked, “is already being built. Interesting. Crash it.”
“Sir …?”
“Lay track, build up a good head of steam, blow the whistle, and start down the hillside. When you come to the palace keep going, right through it. Then halt.”
He fiddled with the controls of a small black box on his left.
“Go!”
The Brass Babboon began to move, and a wave of static electricity caused Donnerjack’s hair to rise and fall.
“Battle mode!” Donnerjack said.
None of the workers looked up as they approached, though the Babboon bloomed flames at its sides and blew them from mouth and rear. When they hit what stood of the front wall, a quarter of it went down and was tracked over. Donnerjack’s hair rose again as they passed through the center of the palace and this time it did not fall.
Coming clear at the far end of the edifice, Donnerjack cried, “Turn! We’ll do it again if we must! And again—”
The ground erupted before him, building a fiery tower where they had been about to lay tracks. The air brakes screamed and the wheels smoked as the Babboon screeched to a halt.
Death stood atop the blazing mound of earth, hands hidden in his black sleeves. The slope before him grew steps, and he escalated down into the full glare of the Babboon’s headlamp. Above the engine’s chugging, his voice somehow came clear:
“Who dares to invade my realm?”
“John D’Arcy Donnerjack,” came the reply.
“I might have known. How did you get here?”
“By the Gate of Creation.”
“Amazing. You are a truly dangerous man, Donnerjack.”
“I want her back.”
“I already gave you your wish. There were no guarantees as to duration. Her time was overdue.”
“You let her live just long enough to bear the child you wanted. I don’t think that’s fair.”
“The universe is not a fair place, Donnerjack. I cannot release her again. Would you wish to join her? It may not be as bad as you think, over in my Elysian Fields where certain things are preserved. Some concessions involving pleasantries can even be made for those I favor.”
“And my son?”
“He is mine by fair trade. Have you forgotten so quickly?”
“No, but could you make me some concessions here and now, rather than later?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Let him live long enough to know what life is all about before you take him.”
“Life is tribulation. Life is disappointment. It would be better for him if I claimed him now and raised him here.”
“Life is only bad in parts, and you need that to appreciate the good parts—the feeling of a balmy wind on a summer day, watching a garden grow that you have planted yourself, the joy of discovery—be it scientific or otherwise—the taste of a good meal, a good wine, the friendship of one’s fellows, love. It may all be love in one form or another.”
“Love is the biggest delusion of all, invented to hold back the fears of the darkness which surrounds you.”
“I pity you. Love is why I dare stand before you.”
“Pity is a worthless commodity, Donnerjack. I do not need any.”
“Nevertheless, if you do not need the boy immediately, could you grant him a life before you claim him?”
“He could become a demon factor in both worlds if I were to permit him to achieve maturity.”
“And you don’t believe in taking chances?”
Death chuckled.
“I don’t believe in making promises.”
“A small assurance might suffice.”
“I never give anything away.”
“And you never take chances. How boring your existence must be.”
“I did not say that I never take chances.”
“Then take one now.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’ll fight you for his life.”
Death chuckled again.
“You seem to forget that I cannot be destroyed,” he said after a time. “If you were to disassemble everything of me that you see before you, yet would the forces of the universe bring back together their overseer of entropy—somewhere, somehow—and I would return. I am necessary to the proper functioning of things. My existence cannot be erased. You, on the other hand, are quite mortal. It would be a no-win contest for you.”
“I know. So I was hoping that you might grant me a handicap.”
“That being?”
“If I give you a good enough fight you consider it a draw and consider my petition.”
“This is awkward. You ask a measure of honor from me, who am considered to have none.”
“Yes.”
“And you mean to say that if I feel I have won though you are still standing, your life is forfeit?”
“Yes.”
“Intriguing. Indeed.” He paused, then, “Very well, I agree,” he said, and suddenly he vanished.
“Scan like you’ve never scanned before,” said Donnerjack to the Babboon.
But Donnerjack saw him first. Death suddenly stood beside the cab, rising, reaching toward the window.
“The flames, boss?”