The Myst Reader (90 page)

“What your grandmother called the bigger picture?”

Atrus laughed. “Who told you that? Catherine?”

Marrim nodded, smiling now.

“And how goes the writing?”

“Slowly,” Marrim answered, her face clouding a little. “I’m afraid I’m not very patient.”

“Nonetheless, keep at it. Like all things, patience will come.”

Seeing the dismay in her face, Atrus smiled. “You think patience an innate quality, Marrim. Well, perhaps for some it is. But for most of us it must be learned. It is a life skill that must be acquired if one is to succeed.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, I know so. Look about you now. What do you see?”

Marrim turned and looked. The square beside the harbor, which, when they’d first arrived, had seemed so vast and spacious, was filled with makeshift dwellings, forming a kind of village beneath the steep-sloping levels of the city, while to one side, surrounding the library where Atrus worked, was a collection of workshops and storehouses.

Six months had passed since they had encountered the first survivors and much had changed for the better. It helped also that there were more than twelve hundred of them now, yet Marrim did not expect that number to increase by much. In a week—maybe less—the last of the Ages would have been searched, and they would know finally just how many had survived.

Not enough
, Marrim thought, dismayed despite the signs of industry that surrounded her. She did not know how many Atrus had expected, but she was sure it must have been more.

Looking up, beyond the busy harbor front, she saw at once the scale of their problem. Compared to the ruin that surrounded them, their little hive of activity was as nothing. So many empty streets, so many fallen and abandoned houses.

Patience…No wonder Atrus counseled patience.

Yet maybe he was right. Maybe patience could be learned. Maybe the task was not beyond them.

“Well?” Atrus prompted, when a minute had passed and she still had not answered him. “What
do
you see?”

“Stone,” she answered him, meeting his eyes. “Stone, and rock, and dust.”

 

 

§

 

 

That evening they held a meeting in the library. Catherine was there with Atrus, as were Master Tamon, Oma, Esel, Carrad, and Irras. Marrim was the last to arrive.

Coming straight to the point, Atrus drew a big leather-bound Book toward him and opened it.

The descriptive panel glowed.

“Twelve Books remain,” Atrus began. “This, the Book of Sedona, is probably the least dangerous of them. Even so, when we explore this we shall need to use the Maintainers’ suits.”

Atrus paused, then. “Sedona is a very old Age. Thousands of years old. Maybe even older. The language used is of a more antiquated and formal kind than we are used to. Oma and Esel have given up a great deal of their valuable time to help me…
translate
the Book. We think we know what most of it means, and what kind of Age we’re likely to encounter, but we cannot be sure, so we shall wear the suits as a precaution.”

“And the other eleven?” Tamon asked.

“The Guild of Maintainer seals on those are either broken or missing, and it is difficult to ascertain just whether those Ages were in use at the time D’ni fell. The only way to be certain is to make rigorous checks.”

“Using the suits,” Tamon concluded.

“Exactly,” Atrus said. “But first Sedona. The suit is ready. We shall link in the morning. You know the routine. We’ve practiced it often enough these past months. Tomorrow we do it for real. Marrim, Carrad, Irras. You will report here at sixth bell, along with Oma and Esel. I shall be here to greet you.”

“Are you going to come, too?” Marrim asked. Surprised.

“If it’s safe,” Atrus said. “I was there at the beginning. I think it only right I should be there at the end.”

 

 

§

 

 

The cell was a great square of a room, a dozen paces to a side, the jet-black walls coated with a layer of impervious matter—part stone, part chemicals—that sealed it hermetically. A narrow doorway, set deep into the end wall, was the only exit from the cell, and that led directly to an air lock, beyond which was a second sealed room, almost identical to the first—a fail-safe devised after one particularly gruesome accident.

The rooms differed in two respects alone. The first was that this cell—known simply as the Link Room—was further divided by a double wall of floor-to-ceiling bars that formed a tiny cell within a cell; thick rods of special D’ni rock known as nara spaced a hand’s width apart, the two walls separated by less than an arm’s length. In the center of that double wall, flush with it, was set a small revolving cage, the only entrance to that smaller cell.

The floor of the inner cell was a mere two paces square and lined with nara. A big semicircular machine of stone and brass was suspended some ten feet up, capping it like a roof, coiled armatures and other strange devices extending from its dark interior. This was the decontamination pod.

The second difference was the alcoves—eight in all, four to the left, four to the right—that were recessed into the walls on either side of the doorway. These were deep and heavily shadowed, and housed the eight protective suits that stood like huge mechanical sentries, their shiny surfaces untarnished by age.

So it was. So the Guild of Maintainers had designed it four thousand years earlier, founding their design upon long centuries of experience and many a fatal mission.

In theory, nothing could go wrong. No matter what was brought back from the Ages, it could not escape these cells. The bars prevented anything dangerous, whether it be desperate natives or aggressive beast, from breaking into D’ni, while the seals and air lock dealt with the ever-present threat of contagion.

For seventy years the cell had lain in total darkness, but now it was bathed in light from the great overhead lamps; a clean, almost sanitized light. In that penetrating glare Atrus and his fellows toiled, dressed in special lightweight suits, the impervious cloth a rich dark green, the bright red lozenge of the Guild of Maintainers crest, with its symbol of an unblinking eye above an open book, prominent on every chest. These suits were very different from those in the alcoves, one of which they were now removing from its recess, four of them hauling the incredibly heavy suit along the grooved runners in the floor.

Finished, they stood back, admiring it.

The protective suit had a brutal, almost mechanical appearance. It stood at the center of the laboratory, empty, like the casing to some giant insect, its chest and arms studded with strange appendages. The jet-black overlapping plates of which it was made had a polished, metallic look, yet there was no element of metal in their manufacture. The suit was made of stone—of a special lightweight stone named deretheni, not as hard as the legendary nara, but tough enough to handle the job for which it was intended.

Special hydraulics—slender rods of the same molecularly altered stone—gave the suit a degree of flexibility, but not enough for its wearer to turn quickly or to run. Not that that mattered. The wearer would need neither to turn nor run, only to look out through the polarized visor and take in, in the instant he was there, what the Age looked like.

Right now Gavas was putting on the inner suit, Oma helping him to attach the various straps and buckles, the two of them talking quietly, running through the routine for the dozenth time that morning.

The suit was ancient—according to the records it had been made by the Guild of Maintainers more than a thousand years ago—yet it looked brand new. Like everything the D’ni made, the environmental verification suit had been built to last.

Everything was ready. Or almost so. It remained only for Atrus to attach the last of the sampling devices, put the Linking Book inside the glove, and set the timer.

Once that was done, Gavas could climb into the suit and be sealed in.

Atrus consulted with Catherine a moment, then turned and looked across.

“Are you ready, Gavas?”

Gavas smiled. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good.”

Atrus reached down and picked up the two special books—tiny, “stone-bound” volumes less than a sixth the size of a normal Linking Book—then slid them into the special compartment in each glove.

The first would link Gavas to Sedona, the second would link him back. Both worked on the same principle. A thin, inert membrane overlay each page, rendering it impossible for Gavas to link—until he pressed a stud on the back of the right-hand glove, which would release a vial of harmless gas that would, in turn, dissolve the membrane and bring his palm into contact with the page.

At that moment he would link. And at that selfsame moment the timer would be activated.

For the first two seconds on the other side a similar membrane would overlay the page of the Linking Book in his left-hand glove, preventing him from linking back. But then the timer would do its work, the tiny vial of gas would be released, and Gavas’s palm would press against the page once more.

After two seconds, Gavas would link back, whether he was conscious or not. Alive or dead.

Two seconds. It was all they could risk first time out. Yet it was time enough for them to find out all they needed to know about the world on the other side of the page. The suit’s sampling devices would tell them what the atmosphere was like, how hot it was, and whether there were any signs of life. And unless it was so bright that the visor completely blacked over—which it was designed to do, to save Gavas’s eyes from frying in their sockets—he ought to get a good glimpse of the Age.

The deretheni plates of the suit would insulate him against the fiercest heat, while the suit’s hermetic seals would ensure that no noxious substances leaked through to poison him.

Carrad and Oma helped Gavas climb into the outer suit, then began to seal him up, each of the catches snapping shut with a resounding clunk. As they went across to fetch the massive helmet, Gavas gave one final look about him, smiling nervously. They had drilled for this many times now, but this was the first time any of them had done it for real.

Only Atrus seemed unaffected by the tension of the moment, and as he came across to give Gavas his final instructions, his very calmness put them all at ease.

“Remember, Gavas, your job is to look. Don’t think, just
see
. I’ll do the thinking for you when you get back.”

It was not the first time Atrus had said this, but Gavas nodded as if it were.

Atrus stood back, letting Carrad and Oma lift the helmet, with its heat-resisting visor, up over Gavas’s head, fastening it into the brace about his neck. Satisfied, they tightened the six great screwlike bolts that held it in place. That done, they began to work their way down the suit, from neck to toe, checking each one of the special pressure seals. Satisfied, they stepped back.

The gloves were last. Now they only had to move him over to the cage. He could have walked there, but it was quicker for them to push him along the grooved track and close the barred door behind him.

There was a great hiss of hydraulics and then the tiny cage turned a full 180 degrees. It clunked into place, bolts emerging from the floor to secure it. Only then did the barred door open once again, allowing Gavas to step out slowly, awkwardly, into the inner cell.

Wearing the suit, Gavas had little room to maneuver. Slowly, very slowly, he turned, until he was facing Atrus again.

All was ready. There was no reason for any further delay. Atrus looked to Gavas and placed his left hand over the back of his right, miming the signal. Gavas nodded, then—the motion of his arm exaggerated by the suit—copied the motion.

The suit seemed to shimmer in the air, then it was gone.

Inside the cell there was a nervous exchange of looks. Only Atrus stared straight ahead at the now empty cage.

One beat, two beats, and it was back.

The heat exploded into the room, as if someone had opened a furnace door. With a fierce crackling the whole suit seemed to convulse as it dropped the temperature gradient, the air about it steaming as the automatic extinguisher flooded the chamber with an enormous hiss.

There was a great groan from every side. Immediately, Carrad and Irras rushed to the chamber, wishing to help as the heavy layer of retardant boiled on the surface of the suit. They moved to step through the cage to help him, but Atrus called them back.

“No!”

They stood there, horrified, watching, knowing there was nothing they could do but wait while, slowly, the stone hardened as it cooled—the wet foam smothering the darkening surfaces. But now it was warped and twisted. The limbs stretched like wax, the body of the suit partly crumpled into itself, the helmet misshapen.

Catherine moved to speak when the silence had become unbearable, but stopped short when a faint groan came from within the suit.

Carrad quickly opened the floor drains purging the chamber. Irras flung wide the chamber door and selflessly went about extricating Gavas. Minutes passed as the others anxiously waited—their rehearsed duties and ready supplies would prove to be enough to spare his life, this time.

They carried Gavas away, his wounds being carefully tended prior to returning him to Averone for recovery.

“A nova,” Atrus answered quietly. It had to be. Nothing else could have generated the temperatures or pressures capable of melting a suit.

Gavas had stepped straight into the heart of an exploding sun.

 

 

§

 

 

Aridanu was next. A newer age, but lacking a Guild of Maintainers stamp. They had found the Book, partly damaged, in one of the upper district houses. It seemed okay, but that lack of a stamp worried Atrus.