Avram Davidson - The Kar-Chee Reign

… and climbed…

The reticulations of the scaffolding finally came to a visible end, and there, above them, a railing surmounted the whole and circled about beneath the dome. And there, riding the railing and seeming to swallow it as it did so and then to extrude it as it passed on, was an engine of sorts… fastened right behind it, another engine… fastened right behind the second, a third… and then no more. The engines mounted up to the rim of the dome. They grasped the rim, grappled with it. The engines moved slowly, so very, very slowly; they almost seemed not to move at all. The struggle was a long and slow one. Water oozed in along the rim, fell in minor torrents. The engines approached… the engines worked… at last, after longer time than Liam could count in his head, the engines crept on along.

Before them, the rim was wet. Behind them, the rim was dry.

The two men reached up their hands and arms, took hold, and took the last few steps upward.

The rail itself was no simple single bar of metal curved into a circle. It received part of the engine carriage deep within itself and retained it as the engine or engines crept around with deliberation and slow determination. Liam crept up himself as close behind the retreating third as he could. He peered within, and seemed to see the glint of wheels… He thrust his hand within the bosom of his shirt, pulled it out. Something flashed with a blue glint of fire. Liam’s hand, moving dreadfully carefully, vanished within the continuous cavity which was the inside of the railing. It emerged. He repeated the gesture. Again. Again. Again. At last his hand groped within his shirt and found nothing. He grunted then descended. Lors took his place.

The engine had moved only a few inches in this time.

Blue fire flashed again, flashed many times. There remained nothing more inside of Lors’ shirt, either. He got down from the rail. And now, alternately moving more quickly than they had in going up and, caution overcoming fear, more slowly, they made their way down and across. Once only, before taking earth, they allowed themselves one last glimpse into the abyss. But they could discern no new things: the three black-hulled spaceships, the tiny dots which were the swarming Kar-chee, the dull flaring-flickering glow as the mysterious gateways into the subcavernous cavern were briefly opened and quickly closed — all was as before.

And of Rickar himself they could see nothing.

“Here we go,” Liam said, pointing to an opening in the rock wall.

“That’s not the way we came in,” Lors said.

“Well, that’s the way we’re going to go out,” Liam answered, making his way toward it. “If we get to go out at all, that is… You coming?”

“Don’t move so slowly,” said Lors.

Jow wiped sweating forehead with his forearm and looked at his son. “We’ve been doing nothing but make boats,” he said, partly annoyed, partly alarmed… and not a little confused. “And for what, if not to put them on the water and ourselves inside of them? Now you come along and tell us, Stay away from the water!”

“I’ve told you good reason for it, haven’t I? — Popa, there isn’t much time. There isn’t much time! ”

His father gave a deep sigh. Then he said, “I’d better believe you. Come on, then, boy!” He leaped to his feet, seized a length of wood which was only partly fashioned into a paddle, and rushed across to where the great wooden gong hung from the branch of a tree. He struck it once… twice… a third time. Attention! He struck it once… twice… a third time. Attention! All around, all work ceased, all looked up, started rising to their feet. Fishermen heard it along the shore and commenced pulling in their nets. Women gathering shellfish in the shallow coves straightened up and began moving in toward shore. Boatmen about to launch another new canoe at the beach hesitated, slid it back a bit… listened. Everyone listened.

Jow struck the echoing wood once-twice, quite quickly. He sounded the double-note again. Again he brought down the improvised gong-stick; and again. Doom-doom … doom-doom… doom-doom .…

Danger!

The fishermen froze, a shell-gatherer stopped with one foot in the air, the canoe-launchers rolled their eyes at one another and did not otherwise move. They waited. Waited.

Doom-doom … doom-doom .. . doom-doom .…

Danger!

Then the great hollow sounding-board gave forth three slow notes. And another three. And another three. Then once again it sounded Danger; then once again three slow notes and for a third time three slow notes. Then it fell silent. Jow, Tom, the boatbuilders, the fishermen, the shell-gatherers, the canoe-launchers, treecutters, old men, children — everyone and everyone — understood the meaning of the last signal.

The hills…

The hills…

The hills .…

The net lay where it had been dropped. The basket floated and bobbed about and the shellfish began to be dimly aware that they were in water once again, the canoe lay on its side and was aware of nothing. A pot boiled over and quenched the untended fire. A parrot called out querulously, cocked its head at the silence, finally flew off, muttering.

The day was unusually clear. Away and away, off in the Uplands, three men who had gone out to scout for guanaco turned aside from their quest a moment and glanced below. After a moment one of them spoke.

“I see many persons moving very fast,” said Nephi.

“Many, many persons, moving very, very fast,” said Lehi. He paused, shaded his eyes, frowned. “And also,” he said, “Many, many dragons also,” he said, “many, many dragons also moving very, very fast. I fear that they will catch and destroy the persons.”

“Only maybe not,” said Moroni.

From the Rowan homesite the retreat to the hills had proceeded somewhat less precipitately, it being rather more removed from the water than Jow’s place was. Not many people, in fact, were there — some had gone to join Jow’s people and some had gone to join the Knowers. But old Ren and his wife were there, and their son Carlo and his family, and several others.

Ren seemed very old, very uncertain. Indeed, if his wife had not joined with her sons in pulling him onto this feet, he might not have moved at all.

“Up, up, Popa!” cried Duro. “Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying? Don’t you believe me?”

His father did not resist, but neither did he much cooperate. “I don’t know…” he groaned, allowing himself to be pushed along. He reached out and grasped the pannier of a loaded llama, perhaps not so much for physical support as for the comfort of a familiar object. “I don’t know… I suppose it will make no difference… Here, there… today, tomorrow… What does it matter? Mmm… It doesn’t matter.”

The land had begun perceptibly to slant upward and they could see Mount Tihuaco for once all free of cloud, when they heard in the middle distance the cry of a questing dragon. Old Ren sucked his breath in between his teeth, fearfully, and trembled.

Duro took his arm, pressed him gently, firmly forward. “It’s far away, Popa,” he said, reassuringly. “And it’s certainly not after us.” The small caravan continued.

But when they heard the second dragon, and the third, and then the fourth, each nearer, and each from a different angle, Carlo voiced the inescapable conclusion: “Duro, they may or not be after us, but they seem bound to cut across our path. We’d better leave our path—” As if to confirm or to confound him then, it seemed as though every dragon in the world gave voice, from everywhere and all about, a pandemonium of hissing, roaring, bellowing. The old woman gave a little cry of fear and one of the babies started wailing.