Fantastic Voyage II: Destination Brain

Francis Rodano was at his office early the next morning, which was Monday and the beginning of the week. That he had worked on Sunday was common enough not to surprise him. That he had slept at all during the night just completed did.

When he arrived, half an hour before the official start of the day, Jonathan Winthrop was already there. That did not surprise Rodano, either.

Winthrop walked into Rodano's office within two minutes of the latter's arrival. He leaned against the wall, the palms of his large hands hugging his elbows, his left leg crossing his right, so that the toe of his left shoe was digging into the carpet.

"You look worn-out, Frank," he said, his eyebrows hunching low over his dark eyes.

Rodano looked up at the other's shock of coarse gray hair, which routinely deprived him of any claim of his own to splendor of appearance, and said, "I feel worn-out, but I was hoping it didn't show." Rodano was very aware of having gone through the morning's rituals thoroughly and carefully and of having dressed with considerable judgment.

"It shows, though. Your face is the mirror of your soul. Some agent in the field you'd have made."

Rodano said, "We're not all made for the field."

"I know. And we're not all made for desk work, either." Winthrop rubbed his bulbous nose as though he were anxious to file it down to normal size. "I take it you're worried about your scientist, what's his name?"

"His name is Albert Jonas Morrison," said Rodano wearily. There was this pretense at the Department of not knowing Morrison's name, as though everyone was anxious to emphasize that the project wasn't theirs.

"Okay. I have no objection to your mentioning his name. I take it you're worried about him."

"Yes, I'm worried about him, along with a lot of other things. I wish I could see things more clearly."

"Who doesn't?" Winthrop sat down. "Look, there's no use worrying. You've handled this from the start, and I've been willing to let you do so because you're a good man. I'm perfectly satisfied you've done all you could to make this work because one thing about you is that you understand the Russkies."

Rodano winced. "Don't call them that. You've been watching too many twentieth-century movies. They're not all Russians, any more than we're all Anglo-Saxons. They're Soviets. If you want to understand them, try to understand how they think of themselves."

"Sure. Anything you say. Have you figured out what's so important about your scientist?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. No one takes him seriously except the Soviets."

"Do you think the Soviets know something we don't?"

"A few things, I'm sure, but I haven't any notion of what they see in Morrison. It's not the Soviets, either. It's one Soviet scientist - a theoretical physicist named Shapirov. It's possible that he's the guy who worked out the method of miniaturization - if the method has really been worked out at all. Scientists outside the Soviet Union are ambivalent about Shapirov. He's erratic and, to put it kindly, eccentric. The Soviets are all gung-ho on him, however, and he's all gung-ho on Morrison, though that may just be another sign of his eccentricity. Then the interest in Morrison recently graduated from curiosity to desperation."

"Ah? And how do you know that, Frank?"

"Partly from contacts inside the Soviet Union."

"Ashby?"

"Partly."

"Good agent."

"At it too long. Needs to be replaced."

"I don't know. Let's not retire a winner."

"In any case," said Rodano, unwilling to fight the point, "there was a sudden multiplication of interest in Morrison, on whom I'd been keeping tabs for a couple of years."

"This Shapirov, I suppose, had another brainstorm about Morrison and persuaded the Russ- Soviets they needed him."

"Perhaps, but the funny thing is that Shapirov seems to have dropped out of the news recently."

"Out of favor?"

"No sign of that."

"Could be, Frank. If he's been feeding the Soviets a line of garbage about miniaturization and they've caught on to it, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. These may be the good new days, but the Soviets have never learned to have a sense of humor about being made to look or feel foolish."

"It could be that he's gone underground because the miniaturization project is heating up. And that could also explain the sudden desperation about Morrison."

"What does he know about miniaturization?"

"Only that he's sure it's impossible."

"It makes no sense, does it?"

Rodano said carefully, "That's why we let him be taken. There's always the hope it will shake up the pieces and that they may then come together in a new way that will begin to make sense."

Winthrop looked at his watch. "He should be there by now. Malenkigrad. What a name! No news of any plane crash last night anywhere in the world, so I guess he's there."

"Yes - and just the wrong person to send, too, except he was the one that the Soviets wanted."

"Why is he wrong? Is he shaky ideologically?"

"I doubt that he has an ideology. He's a zero. All last night I've been thinking that it's all a mistake. He lacks guts and he's not very bright, except in an academic sense. I don't think he can possibly think on his feet - if he ever has to. He's not going to be smart enough to find out anything. I suspect he'll be in one long panic from beginning to end and I've been thinking for hours now that we'll never see him again. They'll imprison him - or kill him - and I've sent him there."

"That's just middle-of-the-night blues, Frank. No matter how dumb he is, he'll be able to tell us whether he watched a demonstration of miniaturization, for instance, or what it was they did to him. He doesn't have to be a shrewd observer. He need only tell us what happened and we will do the necessary thinking."

"But, Jon, we may never see him again."

Winthrop placed his hand on Rodano's shoulder. "Don't begin by assuming disaster. I'll see that Ashby gets the word. If something can be done, it will be done and I'm sure the Russ- Soviets will hit a sane moment and let him go if we put on enough quiet pressure when the time comes. Don't make yourself sick over it. It's a move in a complex game and if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. There are a thousand other moves on the board."

Morrison felt haggard. He had slept through much of Monday, hoping it would rid him of the worst of his jet lag. He had eaten gratefully of the food that had been brought in toward evening, had partaken even more gratefully of a shower. Fresh clothing was given him that fit rather indifferently - but what of that? And he had spent Monday night alternately sleeping and reading.

And brooding.

The more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that Natalya Boranova was correct in her estimate that he was here only because the United States was satisfied to have him here. Rodano had urged him to go, had vaguely threatened him with further career troubles (how much deeper in trouble could he possibly get?) if he did not go. Why, then, should they object to his having been taken? They might object on principle or feel there was the danger of setting an undesirable precedent, but apparently their own eagerness to have him go had overruled that.

What, then, would be the point in demanding to be taken to the nearest American consul or in making wild threats of American retaliation?

As a matter of fact, now that the deed had been done with American connivance - surely with American connivance - it would be impossible for the United States to take open action on his behalf or express any indignation whatever. Questions would inevitably arise as to how the Soviets had managed to spirit him off and there would be no answer other than American stupidity or American connivance. And surely the United States would not want to have the world come to either conclusion.

Of course, he could see why this had been done. It was as Rodano had explained. The American government wanted information and he was in an ideal position to get it for them.

Ideal? In what way? The Soviets would not be fools enough to let him get any information they didn't want him to have and if they thought that the information he managed to get (or couldn't avoid getting) was too much, they would not be fools enough to let him go.

The more he thought of that, the more he felt that, dead or alive, he would never see the United States again and that the American intelligence community would shrug its collective shoulders and write it all off as an unavoidable miss - nothing gained but, then again, nothing much lost.

Morrison assessed himself - Albert Jonas Morrison, Ph.D., assistant professor of neurophysics, originator of a theory of thought that remained unaccepted and all but ignored; failed husband, failed father, failed scientist, and now failed pawn. Nothing much lost.

In the depth of the night, in a hotel room in a town he didn't even know the location of, in a nation that for over a century had seemed the natural enemy of his own, however much a spirit of reluctant and suspicious cooperation might rule in the last few decades, Morrison found himself weeping out of self-pity and out of sheer childish helplessness - out of a feeling of utter humiliation that no one should think him worth struggling for or even wasting regret over.

And yet - and here a small spark of pride managed to surface - the Soviets had wanted him. They had gone to considerable trouble to get him. When persuasion had failed, they had not hesitated to use force. They couldn't possibly have been certain that the United States would studiously look the other way. They had risked an international incident, however slightly, to get him.

And they were going to considerable trouble to keep him safe now that they had him. He was here alone, but the windows, he noted, had bars on them. The door was not locked, but when, earlier, he had opened it, two uniformed and armed men looked up from where they had been lounging against the opposite wall and asked him if he were in need of anything. He didn't like being in prison, but it was a measure, of sorts, of his value - at least here.

How long would this last? Even though they might be under the impression that his theory of thought was correct, Morrison himself had to admit that it remained a fact that all the evidence he had gathered was circumstantial and terribly indirect - and that no one had been able to confirm his most useful findings. What would happen if the Soviets found that they, too, could not confirm them or if, on closer consideration, they found it all too gaseous, too vaporous, too atmospheric to trouble with.

Boranova had said Shapirov had thought highly of Morrison's suggestions, but Shapirov was a notorious wild man who changed his mind daily.

And if Shapirov shrugged and turned away, what would the Soviets do? If their American trophy were of no use to them, would they return him contemptuously to the United States (one more humiliation, in a way) or hide their own folly in taking him, by imprisoning him indefinitely - or worse.

In fact, it had been some Soviet functionary, some specific person, who must have decided to kidnap him and risk an incident and if the whole thing turned sour, what would that functionary do to save his own neck - undoubtedly at the expense of Morrison's?

By dawn on Tuesday, when Morrison had been in the Soviet Union for a full day, he had convinced himself that every path into the future, every alternative route that could possibly be taken, would end in disaster for him. He watched the day break, but his spirits remained in deepest night.

There was a brusque knock at his door at 8 a.m. He opened it a crack and the soldier on the other side pushed it open farther, as though to indicate who it was who controlled the door.

The soldier said, more loudly than necessary, "Madame Boranova will be here in half an hour to take you to breakfast. Be ready."

While he dressed hurriedly and made use of an electric razor of rather ancient design by American standards, he wondered why on Earth he had been faintly astonished at hearing the soldier speak of Madame Boranova. The archaic "comrade" had long passed out of use.

It made him feel irritable and foolish, too, since of what value was it to brood over tiny things in the midst of the vast morass in which he found himself? - Except that that was what people did, he knew.

Boranova was ten minutes late. She knocked more gently than the soldier had and when she entered said, "How do you feel, Dr. Morrison?"

"I feel kidnapped," he said stiffly.

"Aside from that. Have you had enough sleep?"

"I may have. I can't tell. Frankly, madame, I'm in no mood to tell. What do you want of me?"

"At the moment, nothing but to take you to breakfast. And please, Dr. Morrison, do believe that I am as much under compulsion as you are. I assure you that I would rather, at this moment, be with my little Aleksandr. I have neglected him sadly in recent months and Nikolai is not pleased at my absence, either. But when he married me, he knew I had a career, as I keep telling him."

"As far as I'm concerned, you are free to send me back to my own country and spend all your time with Aleksandr and Nikolai."

"Ah, if that could be so - but it cannot. So come, let us go to breakfast. We could eat here, but you would feel imprisoned. Let us eat in the dining room and you will feel better."

"Will I? Those two soldiers outside will follow us, won't they?"

"Regulations, Dr. Morrison. This is a high-security zone. They must guard you until someone in charge is convinced that it is safe not to guard you - and it would be difficult to convince them of that. It is their job not to be convinced."

"I'll bet," said Morrison, shrugging himself into the jacket they had given him, which was rather tight under the armpits.

"They will in no way interfere with us, however."

"But if I suddenly break away or even just move in an unauthorized direction, I assume they will shoot me dead."

"No, that would be bad for them. You are valuable alive, not dead. They would pursue you and, eventually, seize you. - But then, I'm sure you understand that you must do nothing that would be uselessly troublesome."

Morrison frowned, making little effort to hide his anger. "When do I get my own baggage back? My own clothes?"

"In time. The first order of business is to eat."

The dining room, which they reached by an elevator and a rather long walk along a deserted corridor, was not very large. It contained a dozen tables, each one seating six, and it was not crowded.

Boranova and Morrison were alone at their table and no one offered to join them. The two soldiers were at a table near the door and though they each ate enough for two, they faced Morrison and their eyes never left him for more than a second or two.

There was no menu. Food was simply brought to them and Morrison found he had no quarrel over the quantity. There were hard-boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, cabbage soup, and caviar, along with thick slices of dark bread. They were not given out in individual portions, but were placed in the center of the table where each person could help himself.

Perhaps, thought Morrison, they bring enough food to feed six and, since we two are the only ones here, we should only consume a third. And after a while, he had to admit that with a full stomach he felt a little mollified. He said, "Madame Boranova -"

"Why not call me Natalya, Dr. Morrison? We are very informal here and we will be colleagues for perhaps an extended period of time. The repeated 'madames' will give me a headache. My friends even call me Natasha. It could come to that."

She smiled, but Morrison felt stubbornly indisposed to be ingratiated. He said, "Madame, when I feel friendly, I will certainly act friendly, but as a victim and an involuntary presence here, I prefer a certain formality."

Boranova sighed. She bit off a sizable chunk of bread and chewed moodily. Then, swallowing, she said, "Let it be as you wish, but please spare me the 'madames.' Let me have my professional title - and I don't mean 'academician.' Too many syllables. - But I interrupted you."

"Dr. Boranova," said Morrison, more coldly than before. "You haven't told me what it is you want of me. You mentioned miniaturization, but you know and I know that that is impossible. I think that you spoke of it merely to mislead - to mislead me and to mislead anyone overhearing us. Let us drop that, then. Surely here we have no need to play games. Tell me why I am really here. After all, eventually you must, since you apparently expect me to be of some use to you and I can't be that if I am left completely ignorant of what it is that you wish."

Boranova shook her head. "You are a hard man to convince, Dr. Morrison. I have been truthful with you from the start. The project is one of miniaturization."

"I cannot believe that."

"Why, then, are you in the city of Malenkigrad?"

"Small city? Littletown? Tinyburg?" said Morrison, feeling a pleasure in hearing his own voice sound the phrases in English. "Perhaps because it is a small city."

"As I have had periodic occasion to say, Dr. Morrison, you are not a serious man. Still, you will not be in doubt long. There are a few people you should meet. One of them should, in fact, be here by now." She looked around with an annoyed frown. "So where is he?"

Morrison said, "I notice that no one approaches us. Every once in a while, the people at the other tables look at me, but then they look away if they catch my eye."

"They have been warned," said Boranova absently. "We will not waste your time with irrelevancies and almost everyone here is an irrelevancy as far as you are concerned. But some are not. Where is he?" She rose. "Dr. Morrison, excuse me. I must find him. I will not be gone long."

"Is it safe to leave me?" said Morrison sardonically.

"The soldiers will remain, Dr. Morrison. Please do not give them cause to react. Intellect is not their forte and they are trained to follow orders without the painful necessity of thinking, so they might easily hurt you."

"Don't worry. I'll be careful."

She left, moving hurriedly out the door after exchanging a few words with the soldiers as she passed.

Morrison watched her go, then glanced over the dining room morosely. Having found nothing of interest, he bent his eyes upon his clasped hands on the table and then stared at the still-sizable portions of unconsumed food before him.

"Are you all through, comrade?"

Morrison looked up sharply. He had decided "comrade" was an archaism, hadn't he?

— A woman was standing, looking at him, with one balled fist on her hip in a negligent manner. She was a reasonably plump woman in a white uniform, slightly stained. Her hair was reddish-brown, as were her eyebrows, which arched disdainfully.

"Who are you?" asked Morrison, frowning.

"My name? Valeri Paleron. My function? Hardworking serving woman, but Soviet citizen and member of the party. I brought you this food. Didn't you notice me? Am I beneath your notice, perhaps?"

Morrison cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, miss. I have other things on my mind. - But you had better leave the food. Someone else is supposed to be coming here, I think."

"Ah! And the Tsarina? She will be back, too, I suppose?"

"The Tsarina?"

"You don't think we have Tsarinas any longer in the Soviet Union? Think again, comrade. This Boranova, the granddaughter of peasants and a long line of peasants, considers herself quite a lady, I'm sure." She made a sound with her lips like a long "psh-sh-sh," redolent with contempt and a touch of herring.

Morrison shrugged. "I do not know her very well."

"You are an American, aren't you?"

Morrison said sharply, "Why do you say that?"

"Because of the way you speak Russian. With that accent, what would you be? The son of Tsar Nicholas the Tyrant?"

"What's wrong with the way I speak Russian?"

"It clashes as though you learned it in school. You can hear an American a kilometer away as soon as he says, 'A glass of vodka, please.' He is not as bad as an Englishman, of course. Him you can hear two kilometers away."

"Well, then, I'm an American."

"And you'll be going home someday?"

"I certainly hope so."

The serving woman nodded her head quietly, pulled out a rag, and wiped the table thoughtfully. "I would like to visit the United States someday."

Morrison nodded. "Why not?"

"I need a passport."

"Of course."

"And how does a simple, loyal serving woman get one?"

"I suppose you must apply for one."

"Apply? If I go to a functionary and I say, 'I, Valeri Paleron, wish to visit the United States,' he will say, 'Why?'"

"And why do you want to go?"

"To see the country. The people. The wealth. I am curious how they live. - That would not be reason enough."

"Say something else," said Morrison. "Say you want to write a book about the United States as a lesson to Soviet youth."

"Do you know how many books -"

She stiffened and began to wipe the table again, suddenly absorbed in her work.

Morrison looked up. Boranova was standing there, her eyes hard and angry. She uttered a harsh monosyllable that Morrison didn't recognize but that he could have sworn was an epithet and not a very polite one, either.

The serving woman flushed dully. Boranova made a small gesture with her hand and the woman turned and left.

Morrison noticed that a man stood behind Boranova - short, thick-necked, with narrowed eyes, large ears, and a broad-shouldered, muscular body. His hair was black, longer than usual for a Russian, and it was in wild disarray, as though he clutched at it a great deal.

Boranova made no move to introduce him. She said, "Was that woman talking to you?"

"Yes," said Morrison.

"She recognized you to be an American?"

"She said my accent made it obvious."

"And she said she wants to visit the United States?"

"Yes, she did."

"What did you say? Did you offer to help her go there?"

"I advised her to apply for a passport if she wanted to go."

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more."

Boranova said with discontent, "You must pay no attention to her. She is an ignorant and uncultured woman. - Let me introduce to you my friend, Arkady Vissarionovich Dezhnev. This is Dr. Albert Jonas Morrison, Arkady."

Dezhnev managed a clumsy bow and said, "I have heard of you, Dr. Morrison. Academician Shapirov has spoken of you often."

Morrison said coldly, "I am flattered. - But tell me, Dr. Boranova, if that serving woman annoys you so much, it should be an easy task to have her replaced or transferred."

Dezhnev laughed harshly. "Not a chance, Comrade American - which I expect is what she called you -"

"Not actually."

"Then she would have sooner or later, had we not interrupted you. That woman, I suspect, may be an intelligence operator and is one of those who keeps a close eye on us.

"But why -?"

"Because with an operation like this, no one can be trusted entirely. When you Americans are engaged in breakthrough science, are you not kept under close observation?"

"I don't know," said Morrison stiffly. "I have never been engaged in any breakthrough science that my government has been in the least interested in. - But what I was going to ask is, why does that woman act as she does if she is an intelligence agent?"

"To be a provocateur, obviously. To say outrageous things and to see what she can trip someone else into saying."

Morrison nodded. "Well, it's your worry, not mine."

"As you say," said Dezhnev. He turned to Boranova. "Natasha, have you told him yet?"

"Please, Arkady-"

"Now come, Natasha. As my father used to say, 'If you must pull a tooth, it is mistaken kindness to pull it slowly.' Let's tell him."

"I have told him we're involved in miniaturization."

"Is that all?" said Dezhnev. He sat down, pulled his chair next to that of Morrison, and leaned toward him. Morrison, with his personal space invaded, automatically withdrew. Dezhnev came closer still and said, "Comrade American, my friend Natasha is a romantic and she is convinced that you will want to help us for love of science. She feels that we can persuade you to do gladly what must be done. She is wrong. You will not be persuaded any more than you were persuaded to come here voluntarily."

"Arkady, you are being boorish," snapped Boranova.

"No, Natasha, I am being honest - which is sometimes the same thing. Dr. Morrison - or Albert, to avoid formality, which I hate" - he shuddered dramatically - "since you won't be persuaded and since we have no time, you will do what we want by force, as you were brought here by force."

Boranova said, "Arkady, you promised you wouldn't -"

"I do not care. I have thought since I promised and I have decided that the American must know what he faces. It will be easier for us - and it will be easier for him, too."

Morrison looked from one to another and his throat tightened so that it grew difficult to breathe. Whatever it was they planned for him, he knew he would be given no choice.

Morrison continued to be silent while Dezhnev, unconcerned, proceeded to eat his own breakfast with relish.

The dining room had more or less emptied out and the serving woman, Valeri Paleron, was carrying off the remains and was wiping down the chairs and tables.

Dezhnev caught her eye, beckoned to her, and indicated that the table was to be cleared.

Morrison said, "So I have no choice. No choice in what?"

"Hah! Has Natasha not even told you that?" replied Dezhnev.

"She told me on several occasions that I was to be involved in miniaturization problems. But I know - and you know - that there is no miniaturization problem except that of trying to turn an impossibility into fact - and I certainly can't help you in that. What I want to know is what you really have for me to do."

Dezhnev looked amused. "Why do you think miniaturization is impossible?"

"Because it is."

"And if I tell you that we have it?"

"Then I say show me!"

Dezhnev turned to Boranova, who drew a deep breath and nodded.

Dezhnev rose. He said, "Come. We will take you to the Grotto."

Morrison bit his lip in vexation. Small frustrations loomed large. "I do not know that Russian word you've used."

Boranova said, "We have an underground laboratory here. We call it the Grotto. It is one of our poetic words, not used in ordinary conversation. The Grotto is the site of our miniaturization project."

Outside an air-jet awaited them. Morrison blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. He regarded the jet curiously. It lacked the elaboration of American models and seemed little more than a sled with small seats and with a complex engine in front. It would be absolutely useless in cold or wet weather and he wondered whether the Soviets had an enclosed version for those times. Perhaps this was just a summer runabout.

Dezhnev took the controls and Boranova directed Morrison into the seat behind Dezhnev, while she took the one to his right side. She turned to the guards and said, "Go back to the hotel and wait for us there. We will take full responsibility from this point." She handed them a printed slip of paper on which she scrawled her signature, the date, and, after consulting her wristwatch, the time.

When they arrived at Malenkigrad, Morrison discovered that it was a small town in fact, as well as in name. There were rows of houses - each two stories high - with a deadly sameness about them. The town had clearly been built for those who worked on the project - whatever it was that they masked with the fairy tale of miniaturization - and it had been built without undue expense. Each house had its own vegetable garden and the streets, although paved, had an unfinished look about them.

The little craft, riding on the jets of air pushing against the ground, blew up a small cloud of dust, which was, for the most part, left behind as they progressed smoothly forward. Morrison could see that it was not comfortable for the pedestrians they passed who, one and all, took evasive action as it approached.

Morrison felt the discomfort in full when they passed an air-jet moving in the other direction and was inundated in the dust.

Boranova looked amused. She coughed and said, "Do not be concerned. We will be vacuumed soon."

"Vacuumed?" asked Morrison, coughing also.

"Yes. Not so much for us, for we can live with a little dust, but the Grotto must be reasonably dust-free."

"So must my lungs. Wouldn't it be better to have these air-jets enclosed?"

"They promise us shipments of more elaborate models and perhaps someday they will arrive. Meanwhile, this is a new town and it is built in the steppes, where the climate is arid. That has its advantages - and its disadvantages, too. The settlers grow vegetables, as you saw, and they have some animals, too, but large-scale agriculture must wait until the community is larger and there are irrigation facilities. For now, it doesn't matter. It is miniaturization that concerns us."

Morrison shook his head. "You speak of miniaturization so often and with such a straight face, you might almost trick me into believing it."

"Believe it. You will have the demonstration Dezhnev arranged."

Dezhnev said from his seat at the controls, "And I had trouble doing so. Once again I had to speak to the Central Coordinating Committee - may what is left of their gray hairs fall out. As my father used to say, 'Apes were invented because politicians were needed.' How it is possible to sit two thousand kilometers away and make policy -"

The air-jet glided smoothly forward to the rather sharp ending of the town and to the broad, low rocky massif that suddenly loomed before them.

"The Grotto," said Boranova, "is located inside that. It gives us all the room we want, frees us from the vagaries of weather, and is impenetrable from aerial surveillance, even from spy satellites."

"Spy satellites are illegal," said Morrison indignantly.

"It is merely illegal to call them spy satellites," shot back Dezhnev.

The air-jet banked as it made a turn, then landed in the shadow of a rocky cleft in the body of the massif.

"All out," said Dezhnev.

He moved forward, the other two following, and a door opened in the hillside. Morrison didn't see how it was done. It didn't look like a door; rather it seemed an integral part of the rocky wall. It opened just as the cavern of the Forty Thieves had with the utterance of the words "Open Sesame."

Dezhnev stepped to one side and gestured for Morrison and Boranova to move inside. Morrison went out of the brilliant morning sunshine into a rather dimly lit chamber to which his eyes took half a minute to adapt. It was no thieves' cave but an elaborately detailed structure.

Morrison felt as though he had stepped from the Earth onto the moon. He had never been on the moon, of course, but he was familiar, as was virtually everyone on Earth, with the appearance of the underground lunar settlements. This had precisely that other-worldly air about it somehow, except, of course, that gravity was Earth-normal.