He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just a judgment on someone, and he forgot about it. He was looking at the Dore illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a knock at his door.
“Who knocks?” asked John.
There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.
Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he’d ever seen.
It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, “the likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes, and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure.”
“What seekest thou?” gasped John.
“Clothes, for God’s sake. Hot soup. Brandy.”
“Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?”
“What?”
“What order do you belong to?”
“I don’t belong to any order,” Frank said. Seeing the old man frown, he added, off the top of his head, “I’m an independent. Freelance.”
“An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?”
“Will I ever!”
Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist’s apartment. I wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport away from the collapsing street.
He must think I’ve had it, though. I’d better get back quick.
“Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger,” he said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. “I will repay you.”
“Don’t repay me,” John said. “Just do the same some day for some other homeless wanderer.”
“You bet,” Frank said, shaking the old man’s hand. “Can you tell me how to get to Sheol from here?”
“We all go to Sheol eventually,” said John with a somber frown, “and we’d better be prepared.”
“I guess that’s true.” Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened it. “So long,” he said, “and thanks again.”
It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones, and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned left. He was wondering what he’d do if some understreet vagabonds were to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn’t the type of wanderer that would tempt a thief.
After he’d found Sheol the rest of the trip was easy, and within ten minutes he was turning the emergency hide-a-key in Orcrist’s front door lock. He swung the door open. The front room was empty, so he stumbled to the bathroom and began putting iodine and bandages on his various cuts and gouges.
Nothing seems to be broken, he thought, wincing as he probed a bruise over his ribs. Not obviously broken, anyway. His left ear was swollen and incredibly painful to touch, so he just left it alone. Finally he stood up and regarded his black and blue, bandage-striped body in the full-length mirror hanging behind the door.
Good God! he thought. What’s become of my hair? He ran his fingers through the ragged, patchy clumps of hair on his scalp. This dismayed him more than anything else. Those damned mice ate it! I didn’t know mice did that. What am I going to do? How can I face Blanchard looking like this? Or Kathrin?
He went to his room and dressed. He put on a wide-brimmed leather hat, tilting it at a rakish angle to keep it off his wounded ear. Finally he plodded wearily to the sitting room, poured a glass of brandy and collapsed into Orcrist’s easy chair.
Chapter 3
Frank woke up to the sound of the front door squeaking open and someone scuffing mud off of boots. Frank tried to stand up, but a dozen sudden lancing pains made him decide to remain seated. “Pons?” It was Orcrist’s voice. “Pons?”
“Mr. Orcrist!” Frank called.
Orcrist stepped into the sitting room and stared at Frank in amazement. The older man was still dressed as he had been that morning, and still had not shaved, nor, to judge by his eyes, slept.
“I’ll kill Poach,” he said. “He swore he saw you and about two hundred feet of Henderson Lane fall into the river.”
“Don’t kill him,” said Frank. “That’s what happened. I managed to climb out of the Leethee after about six blocks.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.” Frank took off his hat.
Orcrist raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell it to me from the beginning,” he said, pulling up another chair. As economically as possible, Frank explained what had transpired after Orcrist ran off in pursuit of the fleeing Transport cop. “Did you get him, by the way?” Frank asked. Orcrist nodded. When the story was finished, Orcrist shook his head wonderingly.
“The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank.”
“I hope it’s something quiet. How did the rest of you do?”
“Well, let’s see. Wister and Lambert went into the river with you, and are presumed drowned. Bob has disappeared also. Poach is fine. I’m fine. You’ve lost your hair. None of the Transports seem to have survived.”
“What was the purpose of it? Just to nail some Transport cops?”
“No, Frank, not at all. What we did was ... set a precedent. We’ve got to make it clear to the Transports that they are free to lord it topside, but have no jurisdiction understreet. If we can make sure that no Transport who comes down here ever returns topside, after a while they’ll stop coming down.”
“Maybe so.” Frank sipped his brandy. “Is it inevitable that they lord it in Munson?”
“As far as I can see. Are you still thinking of overthrowing the palace?”
“Sure.”
“Oh well. A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, and so forth. Would you like a wig? I’m sure I could get one somewhere.”
“No, that’s ... well, yes, maybe I would.”
DURING dinner there was a knock at the door, and George Tyler wandered in, grinning, leading by the hand a woman Frank had never seen. She was blond and slightly overweight; her eyelids were painted a delicate blue.
“Good evening, Sam, Frank,” Tyler said. “This is Bobbie Sterne. We were just ambling past, so I thought we’d stop in.”
“Sit down and have something to eat,” said Orcrist. “Pons, could we have two more plates and glasses?”
“Oh, uh, look at this, Sam,” said Tyler shyly, handing Orcrist a small book bound in limp leather, Bobbie smiled and stroked Tyler’s arm.
“Poems,” Orcrist read, “by George Tyler. Well I’ll be damned. Congratulations, George, published at last! This calls for a drink. Pons! Some of the Tamarisk brandy! Sit down, Bobbie, and Frank, get a chair for George.” Frank fetched a chair from the sitting room and took the opportunity to make sure his hat was firmly on.
“Frank,” said Tyler when he reentered. “You’re limping. And you’ve got a cut over your eye. Did one of your students get vicious?”
“It’s the lot of a fencing master, George,” said Orcrist. “Be glad you’ve got a more peaceful craft.”