Could it be that her long flight from Jentry's anger would end here?
MICHAEL KEPT SNEAKING glances at the green man as they walked. It wasn't as if someone had applied green paint to his body. The color had a depth to it, so that the contours of his body shone a deeper shade than the planes. Even his long tangled hair was green. He stalked rather than walked, balancing on the balls of his feet, nostrils flared, eyes wide. He looked ready to fight, or flee.
The strange man had not spoken at first, merely staring at Michael, Herat, and Waldt. Finally one of the other humans had introduced himself, as a Mr. Arless. "These are the ones you asked for," Arless had said to the green man.
"Phages in the house of God," said the green man. His voice was thin, as if he had to force the words past some obstruction. "This is a catastrophe."
"We were informed that the autotrophs will see us," said Herat.
"They see no phages," hissed the green man. Then he looked down at his feet. "But you may see them."
Arless hovered at Michael's shoulder. "We gave the monks of the Autotroph Way a hand when they were starting out," he whispered. "The 'trophs accept them and in turn they owe us big time. So trade happens."
"Who is 'we'?" asked Michael.
Arless shrugged. "Business people."
"Of course." Michael knew the R.E. would never tolerate such an arrangement. Genetic alteration of humans was illegal— as were the personal neural implants of NeoShintoism, he thought sourly. The R.E. was terrified that humanity would radiate into a thousand subspecies, as had happened to so many spacefaring civilizations in the past. That fear was one of the reasons they used to justify the tyranny of the Rights Owners.
"I can't believe the 'trophs have agreed to see you," said Arless. "You must really have something they want." He glanced at his men.
"It's nothing you could use," said Michael quickly. "You might say it's a shared hobby."
"Come," said the green man. He had turned and marched into the green mouth of a tunnel. For almost half an hour now Michael had let himself be drawn though a seemingly endless maze of corridors hacked out of crustal ice. The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were of deep blue, emerald where lights shone in nearby, hollowed-out chambers. Cables ran along the ceiling and the footing underneath was loose plastic plates.
Finally the green man stopped at a dead end. A ladder was set into the wall of the tunnel here. It led upward.
"We'll wait for you here," said Arless as Michael and the professors moved to the ladder. "Say hi to the 'trophs when you see 'em."
They followed their guide up the stairs, which rang loudly under their feet. Michael shaded his eyes and looked ahead to try to make out their destination. He could see a triangular network of girders, mist, and, somewhere in the distance, a rich red surface like a theater curtain. The light was too bright to make out more.
The steps passed through the girders and let onto a large concrete surface. To Michael's left, the geodesics of girder-work swept up and into obscurity, at least half a kilometer overhead. Blue and green ice brooded outside the triangles. Where sight foundered in dim mist overhead, the eye met glowing crimson, which swept down inside the geodesics to become a second wall to Michael's right. This space— outside a wall of girders and inside a wall of billowed crimson— curved away to either side. The girders must form a geodesic sphere and inside that sphere was another, this one of the red material. Michael and the others stood at the bottom, in between the two walls.
There were more green humans here, striding back and forth or riding small carts, carrying supplies and tools. A few stared in their direction. The concrete floor was a maze of stacked boxes and pillowed tarpaulins. It was damp in here, the air heavy, but no longer cold.
"Phages are not allowed beyond this point," said the guide. He scowled at Michael and the professor. "They must not know that you are here. Walk only where I say."
"Are the autotrophs afraid of us?" asked Herat casually. Michael stared at him— how could he be so tactless? But the guide simply shook his head.
"Fear is an emotion. Emotions are a pollution of phages, not autotrophs."
"That doesn't sound very attractive," said Herat. "Why do you admire them so much if they have no concept, say, of love?"
"There are… affects… that autotrophs have, but phages cannot." The guide was proving to be positively chatty. Michael was once again surprised at Herat's ability to ferret out information from seemingly impossible sources.
"But do these affects correspond to states like fear or attraction?"
"This way." The guide started walking again. In the distance, Michael could see a slit of bright light in the crimson wall.
They rounded a stack of huge crates and came to the slit in the curtain. The red material was at least two meters thick, Michael now saw, and rubbery. As they approached he put his hand out to touch it. It felt like a leaf— alive and delicate. He snatched his hand back.
The slit rose a good ten meters above them, narrowing gradually.
The green man gestured to a rack of pressure suits. "Dress." He picked one off its hangar and began suiting up. Michael grabbed another; it was an unfamiliar design, with markings in a language he had never seen before on its metal cuffs and wrist pad. He tried to imitate the green man's actions. Getting a suit properly sealed was a matter of life and death; because he couldn't read the suit's HUD display, he wasn't sure if he'd done it right. Did green lights mean safe or danger to these people?
Waldt had reached for a suit, but the green man stopped him. "Only three may safely enter at a time," he said. Waldt started to protest, then shook his head in obvious disappointment and stepped back.
The now-suited green man walked over and checked Michael's suit, then Herat's. Michael's earphones crackled and he heard the voice of the green man say, "Good. Come." Their guide walked over to the glowing slit in the wall and pressed himself into it. The material gave slightly. The suited man pushed and wriggled his way deeper into it.
"You don't suppose the whole place is like that?" asked Waldt. "Solid, I mean?"
"You don't know?"
Waldt shook his head. "I've never been allowed beyond this point," he said.
Michael went up to the slit and tentatively pressed his hand into it. It gave like rubber. He pressed forward into crimson glowing material; this was much less pleasant than the Lasa airlocks had been. Like being born, in reverse, he thought. He got about a meter in without difficulty; then he began to encounter a strong pressure. The light was changing, becoming brighter and what he could see of the arm extended ahead of him was beaded with moisture.
Abruptly his hand was free of the material and with relief he pushed himself out, into a realm of dazzling light and noise.
As his eyes adjusted he made out a vast space, at least a kilometer across, carved out of the ice and draped with the folds of this red stuff. No— not draped, he realized as he began to see more. The red material rose up in petals, like a cyclopean rose, with the glassed-over shaft leading down to icewater at its base. At its crown, banks of arc lights lit everything in shadowless, blue-white. The color of this light darkened the red of the huge flower to a bruised purple. The radiance was hot on Michael's skin even through the faceplate.
Narrow catwalks crossed the open space in a profusion of bright lines and rising up from around the circular water shaft were numerous scaffolds, upon which bright machines twirled and roared. The whole space echoed with noise, in fact— an industrial bedlam completely at odds with the strange and opulent flower that cradled the machinery.