"Good," he said, smiling, squeezing her arm gently, as if that was what he had wanted all along. "Then come quickly now. WeVe a lot to do."
THEY LAY in the long grass, a hundred ch'i from the opening in the wall, the ground firm beneath them. Where the seal had been was now a perfect circle of darkness, five times a man's height, the pearl-white wall surrounding it smoke-blackened and misted. The seal itself was broken. It lay on the grass beneath the great hole, its perfect circularity shattered like a broken mirror, long shards of pure white ice fanned out upon the green.
It was still and warm. From the woods on the far side of the creek a blackbird called, its piping song echoing out across the open space between the walls. But from the hole itself there came no sound, no sign of movement.
The field glasses lay on the earth beside Ben's elbow. For the past few minutes he had been silent, listening to the receiver he had cupped against his right ear.
Meg watched him a moment, then leaned closer, whispering. "What are they doing, Ben? Why aren't they coming out?"
"It's too bright for them," he whispered. "Tewl wants them to come out, but they won't. It hurts their eyes, so they're going to wait until it's dark."
She stared at him, bewildered. "Who, Ben? Who are they?"
"The Clay," he said, pronouncing the word as if it had some mysterious significance. "The men from the Clay."
She looked down. The Clay! Wild savages they were. Vicious, ugly little brutes. And they were coming here!
"How do you know?"
He handed the small black cup of the receiver to her. She stared at it, reluctant to place it to her ear, hearing the tiny, growling voice that buzzed like an insect in the dark interior.
"TheyVe been talking," Ben said quietly. "Communicating back and forth. Tewl. . . he's the chief of the raft people... he wants them to attack at once. But they're refusing. And without them he won't commit his own forces. Which is good. It gives us time. Another twelve hours. It ought to be enough."
"Sure, but what's happening, Ben? I mean, why don't they just come in anyway? If there's only us . . ."
He smiled. "They're not interested in us. We're only small fry. No. They want to take the town."
"The town?" She almost laughed. "But there's nothing in the town."
"You know that. And I know that. But they don't. Don't you understand, Meg? They think it's all real."
Real. She shivered. Never had anything seemed so unreal as at that moment.
"Meg . . ." He nudged her, pointing toward the seal, then handed her the glasses. "Look!"
She looked. Two of the creatures could be seen now, leaning across the lip of the seal, their dark, misshapen forms like something glimpsed in a nightmare. She shuddered and handed the glasses back to Ben.
"So what are we going to do? How are we going to fight them?"
Ben lifted the glasses to his eyes, focusing on the naked figures that crouched there, shading their eyes, peering reluctantly into the brightness of the valley. Compared to the men from the raft, these were smaller and more wiry, their bodies flecked with scars, their eyes large and bulging in their bony heads. He had seen their like before, fattened up and dressed in the fine silks of the Above, but never like this; never in their natural state.
Even so, it was not that that excited him, looking at them. It was something else. Ben shivered, then nodded to himself, knowing that it was true what had been said. Sealed into the darkness, the Clay had reverted, its inhabitants regressed ten, twenty thousand years, to a time before cities and books. In these Clay-men there was no refinement, no culture, unless pure instinct was the ultimate refinement.
They were like animals. Thinking animals. Or like some strange genetic throwback. Ben grinned, the old words coming to his lips.
Man . . . who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law—
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.
"What is that?" Meg asked, pulling him down, afraid he would be seen.
"Tennyson. Though what the old bugger would have made of this. . ." His voice trailed off. "Look. They're going back inside. Good. For a moment I thought Tewl might have persuaded them, but they're going to sit it out after all."
He turned his head, smiling at her, then began to get up. "Come on, then, Megs. There's no time to lose. Twelve hours weVe got. Twelve hours to do it all!"
THE GRASS had grown tall before the old barn. Huge swaths of nettle and wildflowers blocked the entrance, forming a barrier fifteen feet wide in front of it. Ben threw the sack down and knelt, pulling out the ancient scythe and testing its edge on a nearby blade of grass. Then, stripping to the waist, he set to work.
Watching him, Meg was reminded strongly of her father. How often she had watched him standing there, just so, his body moving effortlessly from the hips, like one of Adam's sons in the early morning of the world.
She studied him, seeing how he moved, like some mindless, perfect automaton. Saw the green fall before the silver, and frowned.
He turned, throwing the scythe down, a broad path cleared in front of the big double doors.
"I don't understand," she said, looking past him at the dilapidated old building. "If weVe only got twelve hours . . ."
"Illusions," he said, meeting her eyes. "Surely you of all people should know how fond old Amos was of illusions. This. . ." he turned, indicating the barn, "is just another of them. Come . . ."
Ben went up on tiptoe, placing his eye against a dark whorled knot in one of the wooden planks, as if trying to see inside. There was the faintest sound, like the soughing of the wind through the grass, and then he stepped back, lifting the rusted latch and easing one of the huge doors back.
Inside was brightness, cleanliness. She stepped past Ben, wide-eyed with astonishment. It was a storehouse, a huge storehouse, packed with all manner of things. Six broad shelves lined the wall opposite, while at the far end, to her left, a number of large machines squatted on the white-tiled floor.
She went across, the smell of machine oil and antiseptic strong in that big, high-ceilinged room. Under the glare of the overhead lights she pulled one of the plain white trays from the second shelf. Inside, sealed in see-through plastic and neatly labeled, were a dozen mortar bombs. She glanced at one of the labels, noting the familiar oak tree logo and the date, then looked closer, surprised to find Ben's handwriting on the label.
Ben's? No. She noted the initials—"A.S."—and understood. Amos. Great-great-great-grandfather Amos.
Quickly she looked, going from tray to tray. Rope ladders, absailing harnesses and power-packs, land mines, mortars and ammunition, handguns and rifles, rocket launchers, flash bombs and hunting knives, decontamination suits, bulletproof vests and gas masks. And more. Much, much more. The supplies of war, all of it neatly parceled in see-through plastic with Amos's neat handwriting on the label.
She turned. Ben was standing by the door, looking through a hard-covered file marked "Manifold."
"What is this, Ben?"
He hung the Manifold back on the peg by the door, then looked across at her. "This? This is the intestines of the beast."
He walked across, his boots clicking on the dust-free tiles, and pulled down two sleds from where they hung on the end wall, bringing them back across.
"Here," he said, handing her the smaller of the two. "1 want a rocket launcher, a dozen shells, two handguns, one rifle with ammunition—better make it two hundred rounds—two lightweight gas masks, a dozen flash bombs, and two of those vests."
She stared at him in disbelief. "What are we doing, Ben? What in Christ's name are we doing?"
"We're being Shepherds, Meg, that's all. Making preparations. Now come on. You said you'd help."
She watched as he drew the big sled across and began to load it, pulling down things from the shelves as if he knew where everything was.