The Brigadier lumbered to his feet and backed against the door, guarding it against all comers.
“You understand,” he said. “No one goes through this door. No one touches it.”
Lansing climbed shakily to his feet. Jurgens, after knocking her down, was helping Sandra up.
“There it is,” said Mary, shining the torch upon the floor. “There’s the wrench he used to loosen the lugs.”
“I saw it yesterday,” said Jurgens. “It was hanging on a hook beside the door.”
Mary stooped and picked up the wrench.
“Now,” said the Brigadier, “since all of us have gone through our periods of insanity, let’s settle down. We’ll put the lugs back in place, then we’ll throw away the wrench.”
“How do you know it’s a one-way door?” Sandra demanded.
“I don’t know,” said the Brigadier. “I’m just betting that it is.”
And that was it, thought Lansing. No one could know, not even the Brigadier. And until they knew, knew without question, no one could go through the door.
“There’s no way of knowing,” said Jurgens, “until you step through the door. Then it could be too late.”
“How right,” said the Brigadier. “But no one is going to try.”
He held out a hand to Mary, and she handed him the wrench.
“Hold the light on me,” he said, “so I can see what I’m doing.”
18
“He escaped,” said the Brigadier. “Lansing, when he talked with you last night did he mention escape?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t, but apparently he was hopeless. He said this place was Hell and he meant that it was Hell, the actual biblical Hell. He wasn’t simply swearing.”
“He was a weak man,” said the Brigadier. “He took the coward’s way out. He was the first of us to go.”
“You sound,” said Sandra, still tearful, “as if you expect others of us to go.”
“There are always casualties,” said the Brigadier. “One must count on casualties. Of course, you do your best to hold them down to an acceptable percentage.”
Lansing grimaced. “If you think of this as humor, let me say that it’s repugnant humor. You’ll get no laughs from us.”
“And now you’re going to tell us,” Mary said, “that we must carry on. Even with the Parson gone, we must carry on.”
“Of course we must,” said the Brigadier. “It’s our only chance. If we don’t find something here—”
“If we find something here, you’ll think it is a trap,” said Sandra. “You’ll be scared to use it. We can’t use the doors because they may be traps.”
“I’m sure they are,” said the Brigadier. “I don’t want to catch any of you trying to find out.”
“I looked through the peephole,” said Jurgens, “and there was no sign of him.”
“What did you expect to see?” asked the Brigadier. “Him standing there, thumbing his nose at us? As soon as he stepped through the door, he lit a shuck. He got out as fast as he could manage. He didn’t want to take a chance.”
“Maybe it was for the best,” said Mary. “He may be happy there. I remember his face when he first looked through the peephole. He looked happy, the only time I ever saw him happy. There was something in that world that appealed to him. To all of us, perhaps, but especially to him.”
“I remember,” said Lansing. “He was happy. It was the first time I ever saw him without the corners of his mouth pulled down.”
“So what do the two of you want us to do?” asked the Brigadier. “Line up in front of that door and all go marching through?”
“No,” said Mary. “It wouldn’t be right for us. But it was right for the Parson. It was the one way out for him. I hope that he is happy.”
“Happiness should not be our sole goal,” said the Brigadier.
“Nor is a death wish,” said Mary, “and that is what you have. I’m convinced this precious city of yours will kill us one by one. Edward and I are not about to stay and have that happen to us. Come morning, we are leaving.”
Lansing looked across the fire at her and for a moment felt the impulse to walk around the circle and take her in his arms. He did not do so; instead he stayed sitting where he was.
“The party can’t split up,” said the Brigadier, in a desperate tone. “The only strength we have lies in our staying together. You are giving way to panic.”
Sandra screamed, “It is all my fault! If I’d stayed and watched him.”
“It makes no matter,” said Jurgens, trying to comfort her. “He would have waited for his chance. If not today, then another day. He would not have rested until he tried that other world.”
“I think that’s right,” said Lansing. “He was a desperate man, at the end of his tether. I never realized how far gone he was until we talked last night. I honestly don’t think any of us can blame ourselves for what took place.”
“Then what about this leaving business?” asked the Brigadier. “How about it, Lansing?”
“It is my judgment that all of us should get out of here,” said Lansing. “There is something sinister about the city. Certainly you have sensed it. It’s dead, but even dead, there is something watching us. Watching all the time. Every move we make. You can forget it for a time and then you feel the watching once again, between your shoulder blades.”
“And if we stay, if the rest of us stay?”
“Then you stay alone. I’m leaving and Mary’s going with me.” Thinking as he said it that not until Mary had spoken earlier had he known they would be leaving. How had she known? he wondered. What unknown, unconscious communication lay between them?
“A few more days,” pleaded the Brigadier. “A few more days. That is all I’ll ask. If nothing turns up in the next few days, then all of us will leave.”
No one answered.
“Three days,” he said. “Only three days…”
“I’m not one to push a man to his limit in a bargain,” Lansing said. “Mary willing, I’ll make a deal with you and give you the benefit. Two days and that is all. There’ll be no extension.”
The Brigadier threw a puzzled look at Mary. “All right,” she said. “Two days.” Outside, night had fallen. Later the moon would rise, but now, with the sun gone, full night had fallen on the city.
Jurgens rose awkwardly. “I’ll get supper started.” “No, let me,” Sandra said. “It helps if I keep busy.” From far off came a terrible crying. They stiffened where they were, sitting starkly, listening. Again, as had been the case the night before, on a hilltop above the city a lonely creature was sobbing out its anguish.
19
Late in the afternoon of the second day, Mary and Lansing made the discovery.
Between two buildings, at the end of a narrow alley, they saw the gaping hole. Lansing turned the beam of his flashlight into the darkness. The beam revealed a narrow flight of stairs, a more substantial flight than might have been expected leading from an alley.
“You stay here,” he said. “I’ll go down and look. It’ll probably turn out nothing.”
“No,” she said, “I’m going with you. I don’t want to be left alone.”
Carefully he lowered himself into the opening and gingerly descended the steep flight. Behind him clicks and scuffings told him that Mary was very close behind. There was more than one flight of stairs. He came to a landing and a quarter of the way around it another flight plunged down. It was not until he had taken the first few steps down the second flight that he heard the muttering. When he stopped dead in his tracks to listen, Mary bumped into him.
The muttering was soft. Nor was it quite a mutter, which was what he first had thought it was. Rather a throaty singing, as if someone were singing softly to himself. Masculine, not feminine, singing.