And then, losing it a little when their expressions didn't change: 'Er, helloP' he said. 'I mean, am I getting through to you, or would you like me to draw some pictures? Maybe your on-switches are off or something, or I don't know the secret code that could lead us to a basis for some kind of mutual, kindergarten understanding!'
But in fact he had never had anything of an 'understanding' with them, not with these two. The rest of the Pleasure Dome's workers were regular folks, but these two… everyone avoided them like the plague. Hah, even an Asiatic plague! Santeson thought.
It was a funny thing, because when they had come here looking for jobs a couple of months ago, they had seemed like regular people, too. But now: they never strayed far from the elevators, and Milan wouldn't go anywhere without them. But come to think of it, he never went anywhere much anyway! And there was the same kind of look about him, too. So maybe they were blood relatives, but Santeson didn't think so.
Finally one of them spoke. 'Mr Santeson/ he said. 'We've already told you three or four times — Mr Milan won't see you. He isn't seeing anybody. He's expecting a busy night and wants to get some rest. If we take you to him, it won't be you he'll get mad with — we'll be in trouble. So why don't you take some good advice, and…' Pausing in mid-sentence, he gave a small but violent start, and a facial tic began jerking the flesh at the corner of his mouth. Then his face took on an odd attitude of listening.
From the first word out of the minder's mouth, the spidery Santeson had backed off a pace… mainly from his breath! The man had the worst case of crotch-or armpit-mouth that the private detective had ever come across. His breath was so vile it literally stank like a cesspit, or maybe like a slaughterhouse? And now this. He stood there as if he'd been struck dumb, with his head turned a little on one side and his strange eyes rapidly blinking. But what was bothering him? What was he listening to?
It lasted for maybe twelve to fifteen seconds, until suddenly he gave his head a shake and straightened up. And smiling in a twitchy, nervous sort of way, he said, 'Mr Milan will see you now. We're to take you to him.' His eyes had stopped blinking.
Earphone! Santeson thought. Direct communication with the boss. This guy is wired, definitely, and in more ways than one! But at least it gets the job done.
The other minder thumbed the button and the elevator doors opened. Santeson got in and the goons followed on. Then the one with the earphone used his key, and the glass cage descended — down past the basement level, then to a sub-basement level (the last stop marked on the internal indicator)… where to Santeson's surprise the elevator didn't stop! Not until the next sub-level, which wasn't even registered on the indicator. And Santeson had to admire the brilliance of it, for anyone who wasn't wise to the system wouldn't even know that this nethermost level existed.
The elevator had lights, but as the doors hissed open Santeson saw that the corridor outside didn't. Well, it did, but so low-key, so subdued, he might easily be in some ultra-low-class Hong Kong brothel.
"This way,' said one of the minders… and something else that had been niggling at Santeson at once crystallized. It was their voices. Voices that rumbled out of them; they coughed, or growled, their words. They fired them at you; speech came bursting from them, literally impacting on you, or at least that was how it felt. Up in the casino, in some kind of decent light, the effect was lessened — lessend by the light, maybe, the accustomed surroundings — but down here in the near-darkness…
… It was like these people belonged down here in the dark. Almost as if they were made for it.
The minders led the way. Santeson couldn't complain about that; it was oddly reassuring to have these two in front of him and not behind. But he'd only taken a few paces when he stumbled. And now that his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom he saw why, and also why the place had reminded him of a brothel. It was the lighting.
The corridor was lit by a string of small red light bulbs, well spaced-out on a cable that was hooked up to a low ceiling. But the ceiling was of stone, likewise the walls and the floor. Natural stone, hewn stone. And this wasn't a corridor at all — except in the most primitive sense of the word — but a tunnel. A tunnel carved from the bedrock, and the floor was ridged and uneven.
So? Santeson asked himself. What did you expect down here? You go far enough down and there's rock, for Christ's sake! And as he stumbled a second time:
'Mind the floor/ one of the minders grunted, half-turning to glance back at him.
Only half-turning, but Santeson got a glimpse of his eyes. And he saw that they burned like sulphur in the dark! He began to panic, and immediately got a grip on himself. It had to be a chemical reaction, some kind of gas down here. For all he knew, his eyes might be burning yellow, tool Or perhaps — again perhaps — it was the lights. Like those fluorescent lights in the disco, that made his false front teeth glow.
'How f-far is it?' he heard himself say. A stupid question, stupidly put. How long is a piece of string? But for no reason at all that he could give name too, Santeson's nerve was going, and all of the smart talk lay dead in him. And in front, one of Milan's minders chuckled like a file on broken glass, and answered:
'Not very f-far at all!'
The walls had widened out, disappeared into gloom; the ceiling was higher, and the light correspondingly dimmer. Ahead of Santeson, the broad backs of the minders were twin black silhouettes, moving unerringly, relentlessly through the darkness and leading him on like…
… Like what?
For suddenly, out of nowhere, there was this picture in his mind of a lamb with a noose round its neck, and in his nostrils a waft of slaughterhouse breath that stung like a slap. And as he tried to shut these scenes and sensations out, still he wondered: How do these people see in the dark?
'Now be very careful how you go,' one of them said, and his voice echoed in what was obviously a large space, but one that
was filled with a powerful musk and a strange rustling. And his colleague advised:
'Step where we step.'
'I can't see a f-fucking thing!' Santeson husked, his voice a whisper in the darkness.
Abruptly, the minders paused, so that he almost bumped into them; they looked at each other questioningly, then turned as a man to Santeson. And: 'Would you like to?' One of them coughed a query.
'Eh?' Santeson stood there trembling. 'L-like t-to?'
'Would you like to see a f-fucking Thing?' said the minder, tilting his head in inquiry, his face gaping into such a grin as Santeson just couldn't believe.
'Lights,' said his partner, moving swiftly — with a flowing motion — away into the darkness.
'Camera,' said the one with the yawning cavern mouth, giving Santeson a small push in a certain direction. And:
'Action!' came the other's gurgling answer from some short distance away.
Santeson's balance was shot anyway. Weak as a baby, stumbling away from the one who had pushed him, he flailed his arms, fought to stay on his feet. But then he stepped on something — something that writhed or slithered underfoot — and at the same time was momentarily blinded as several neon tubes in the ceiling buzzed into life.
After that… madness!
Santeson no longer believed any of this. It had to be dazzle from the sudden glare, or his imagination, or anything. But it couldn't be real. What lapped at his feet… that couldn't be real. And what humped in one corner of the cave, tossing and heaving… that wouldn't interface with reality at all—