Silence, and then the door eased slowly back. A big, thick wooden door. And as it opened a dull redness leaked out into the passageway, sketching them in its pallid color.
Beyond was a hall. Vast, high ceilinged, its true dimensions lost in the dim redness.
"Gentlemen . . ."
A tall, almost spectral figure stepped from the shadows and stood before them. He was taller than Tynan, but thin and angular, his arms and legs somehow too long, his face too narrow.
They knew at once what he was. A "sport"—a product of the Gen-Syn vats. Nothing natural bred like that, not even in the Clay.
The creature ushered them through. Behind him four hugely muscled men pushed the door shut on its silent hinges, then slid home well-greased bolts. Inside the air was filled with spices.
"This is our host," Tynan said, his hand resting lightly on the long, thin forearm of the GenSyn sport. "His name is Barrett. Whatever you want, ask him. He can arrange most things." He paused and leaned toward them. "Here anything is permitted."
The boyish smile was frightening. In the distance—in a second chamber—could be heard faint cries of torment: voices stripped of everything but pain.
Tak turned, saw Hastings looking down at his hands. His eyes were troubled. Beyond him stood Franke. Franke's eyes were different: they burned with eagerness—with an intense, unnatural desire. Tak turned back. Nolen was watching him, a half smile on his face.
"And what do you desire, little man? Or did they make you free of that?"
For a moment all eyes were on him. Tak smiled and bowed. "Nothing here, sir. Nothing you'll find in these chambers."
Nolen nodded and was about to say something more when Tynan interrupted him hastily. "No need to rush matters, gentlemen. First a few drinks. Then Barrett will see each of you privately. After all, discretion is needed in these matters, no?"
Deng Liang laughed, but the others were silent, thoughtful.
"Come, then," said Tynan, looking from one to another. "Whatever you want. My treat."
And at his side Barrett smiled, his mouth a slit of darkness, his eyes two moist points of redness. "Yes, come."
IT WAS A LARGE, dark room. The walls were bare and there was a musty, unpleasant taste to the air. In the corner was an old bed, the brass pots spotted with corrosion, the blankets bleached by age, worn almost to shreds. Hastings stood there, alone in the cool silence, looking about him. A crude electric light-bulb suspended from the ceiling illuminated the room, casting his shadow, sharp edged and unfamiliar, whenever he moved.
In one corner, set into the wall, was a set of wooden cupboards. He went across and opened them. Inside the shelves were empty, the walls bare but for some old traces of paint. A blind-eyed insect scuttled for its hole, twelve legged, its shell casing a perfect white. In one corner, high up so that he had to stand on tiptoe, was an old web, its strands broken. Tumbled at the bottom, like a discarded wrapping, lay the dried husk of a spider. How long had it been there? he wondered. How old this room? Four centuries? Five?
He closed the doors and turned, facing the room again, sensing the great age of this place beneath the old town. All of this so different from what existed in the Above. And then the thought hit him again: this was to be his place. Down here, among the dead men. For a moment his lips formed the shape of his distaste, then he shrugged and went over to the bed. He stood there, looking down at the blanket, trying to make out the faded pattern. It looked like roses. . . .
Behind him the door opened. He turned and saw it was Barrett. The sport smiled ingratiatingly and came into the room. With him was a frail-looking young girl. Barrett held tightly to her arm with one claw-like hand as he edged closer to Hastings, bowing grotesquely.
"As you wished, Master. A young woman. Clean. Very clean, I assure you. From the Myghtem's own household. His brother's daughter."
Hastings looked past the creature at the girl. Her hair was dark but lank, as if it had not been washed in weeks. She was thin to the point of emaciation and her breasts were undeveloped, giving her a boyish look. She shivered as she stood there, her eyes downcast. Looking at her, Hastings felt both revulsion and pity: these and a strange, previously unexperienced sense of desolation. He could see her hopelessness so clearly, as if through her eyes.
He waved Barrett away, then, when he had gone, went over to the girl. The top of her head barely came to his chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the bones beneath the thin cloth—so fragile, it seemed he could snap her with the smallest effort. Placing one hand beneath her chin he lifted her face and looked at her.
In other circumstances it would have been quite beautiful. The lines of her cheeks, the shape of her mouth, suggested what might have been, but paucity of diet had blunted the edge of her beauty. There was something both childish and ancient about her face: an innocence allied with the most profound experience. Her skin was rough, unhealthy, her neck marked by scars. Even so, it was to her eyes he found himself drawn, for her eyes were dark like his. Dark and beautiful, like mirrors to his own.
For a moment he looked away, thinking of the women he had loved in the Above. Cold, imperious women, their beauty cut like crystal, the expression in their eyes as distant as far galaxies. How he had suffered for such women. How vainly had he pursued them. He grimaced and held the girl tighter, then turned and led her to the bed.
They undressed and lay on the bed, on top of the thin and faded blanket. Beneath his weight the springs of the old mattress groaned and gently gave. Naked beside her he was aware even more of the contrast between them. His own body was so firmly fleshed, the muscles honed, his broad chest covered by a fine down of golden hair. Hers was white fleshed and undernourished, the ill-developed body of a child.
Her face was closed against him, her eyes averted. For an instant he didn't understand, then recognized what it was. She was ashamed. For her this was agony.
He felt a hot flood of compassion wash over him and reached out to draw her to him and hold her against him. He wrapped his arms about her, like a father comforting his child, one hand smoothing the back of her neck. For a long time he was content to lie there, simply holding her, feeling the faint trembling in her limbs grow still, her breathing normalize. Then he moved his head back and turned her face gently to look at her. For a moment she looked back at him, curious, her eyes searching his as if to understand him. But when he smiled she looked away quickly.
"Don't be afraid," he said, concerned, but then realized that his words meant nothing to her. Softly he laughed and, still curious, she turned to look at him again, her dark eyes shining in the pallid wasteland of her face. Again he smiled, feeling something more than pity, something greater than compassion, for her. Those eyes. So beautiful.
And as he looked her face changed, mirroring his own, smiling back at him, then pressed close to kiss.
Later, when he woke, he felt confused, the starkness of the unshaded bulb making him shield his eyes with one hand. Then he remembered and turned slightly, looking down at the sleeping figure beside him. In sleep she was more a child than ever, one hand raised to her mouth, the fingers gently curled, like a young animal, curled up beside him, trusting. And as he looked at her he felt something he had never experienced before. Not love, nor desire, but something more fragile and delicate than either—tenderness. It was like a barb in his gut, making him want to cry out. Not pain, nor happiness, but something in between. A sense of how frail, how vulnerable, she was. He reached out to touch but hesitated, letting his hand make a vague motion in the air, tracing the blunt lines of her wounded face, realizing how ugly she was—like a gelded, sickly boy-child. And yet not ugly at all.