Piers Anthony - Chthon

“That’s how it is,” Bossman said. “One garnet, one package. ’Denser’s over there; you grind your own,” indicating a spot down the hall. Aton made out the machine in a recess. “Time’s your own, too—but don’t mine anybody else’s territory.” He ambled off.

Garnet beckoned, and he followed her to an offshoot cavern. She ushered him to a section of wall, well scarred and pitted. She left him there.

Aton looked about him. Men and women were working down the line on either side, chipping at the face with bits of broken stone. Some were sifting through rock dust with their bare hands. Others slept. Two were sitting together, eating and talking. The pace was hardly frenzied.

He studied the wall. No garnets were visible. He thought of pounding loose large chunks with a heavy stone, then realized that this would probably powder any garnets in the way. It would be necessary to go very carefully.

He found a niche for LOE and his lunch, picked up a sharp stone, and tapped the middle section of his mine experimentally. He was rewarded by a choking puff of dust and grit. How many had died here from silicosis? He held back his head and tried again. This time it was difficult to see what he was doing. He could destroy a valuable stone before spotting it. This mining was not the easiest of tasks.

In the next mine downwind a small wiry man observed the proceedings, a faint smile tugging at his features. “Got a better way?” Aton asked, frustrated.

The man came over. He borrowed Aton’s stone, held it to the wall, gently tapped it with his own. The surface began to scale away with a minimum of interference. He leaned over and blew out the dust, careful to keep his face upwind from the cut. He returned Aton’s tool and went back to his own domain.

Aton stared after him, suspicious of this act of instruction. Were these the fiercest of humanity’s prisoners? But he experimented with the new method, gaining proficiency.

After an hour of fruitless chipping he retired to eat his meal. The food tasted uncommonly good. He went to refill his waterskin, then came back to attack his mine again.

Several hours passed. He excavated a fair-sized hole, but found no sign of a garnet. The scattered pocks left by the removal of earlier garnets mocked him. He resented the facility of the unknown person who had succeeded where Aton was failing. He began to understand why the other miners did not bother him: the business of making a living was too important. This was grinding, mind-deadening labor, cramping his forearms, tiring his legs. When he shut his eyes he saw a vision of the blank, pitted, pitiless wall; when he opened them, they smarted and blurred.

At length there was a general exodus, and Aton followed, picking up the routine by observation. They went to Garnet’s office, where she was handing out new packages. The men and women formed into a rough line, each in turn offering a single gem in exchange for the meal.

Aton, of course, was empty-handed.

Garnet accepted no explanations. No garnet, no food. “Don’t cry on my shoulder, Five,” she told him irritably. “You’ve got to learn to work down here, newcomer. You don’t get nothing for nothing. Better go look for a stone.”

Aton left, tired and angry. His hands were raw and blistered, his lungs choking from the dust. He was hungry, but the vacant wall offered no hope.

His little neighbor approached: coarse black hair, bright black eyes. “No food?” Aton nodded. “Look pal, she won’t never give you nothing to eat ’less you got a stone. You got to have a garnet.”

Aton was unimpressed with the news. “I know that,” he snarled. “I forgot to pick one up.”

The man dropped his voice confidentially. “Well, look, see, like if I was to do you a favor, would you be my pal? Name’s Framy. Like if I was to give you a stone…”

Aton studied him, not certain of the gist. What kind of proposition was this? The man was cringingly eager. If he were a pervert…

“No, I ain’t!” Framy exclaimed. Aton made a mental note to be more careful of his expression. The man’s petulance seemed genuine. What could he want, then? Company or protection? Was he a pariah? Was his friendship dangerous?

Aton’s stomach growled. The man might very well be useful, if he had garnets. Protection was a useful commodity. “Maybe,” he said, and introduced himself.

Framy poked a dirty finger into his mouth and popped out a glittering stone. Aton concealed his surprise. How else could a naked man safely store a semi-precious jewel? “Here,” Framy said, proffering the moist garnet. “I got an extra. You take it and get a package. Then you come back to me. Remember, I done you a favor.”

Aton accepted it. Moments later he turned it over to Garnet.

She took it and examined it suspiciously. “Well, I guess you got one,” she conceded reluctantly. She kicked the last package over to him. “You can have what’s left.”

He moved off, tearing it open hungrily. The cloth unraveled and fell free, empty. “There’s nothing here,” he said, showing it to her.

“I forgot to tell you mister. You came too late. Food’s all gone.” She turned her back to him.

“But my garnet—you took my garnet!”

She didn’t bother to look at him. “Too bad. No refunds.”

Aton fought down the urge to grab the tangled mat of hair and drag her through the coarse gravel. The incongruity of the situation struck him: here he was, quite naked, facing a similarly unclad woman—and his most immediate ambition was to knock out her teeth.

But he didn’t dare. He could not be certain that Bossman would meet him alone, in case he were to offer careless resistance to the crude hierarchy. Massed force might destroy him. Escape was far more important than immediate satisfaction.

He could not take vengeance physically. But there were other weapons. Many times would Garnet regret the enemy she had made this moment.

There was a certain feel to garnet hunting, a talent that permitted some to discover the stones easily, almost intuitively, while others strained all day (Chthon definition) only to finish hungry. Framy had it. He seemed to smell the precious quarry, and his appetite for riches was insatiable. Aton developed a fair talent; he did not go hungry again, but his reserve never grew large. Each man maintained a private cache, and Framy, at least, labored regularly in the mine more for the sake of appearance than need. A man too quick at finding garnets could become unpopular, and he and his cache were in danger from the hungry ones. Framy had done well to befriend a man like Aton; this was soon apparent.

There were many types in the lower caverns. Not all of the inhabitants were wholly sane, but once their idiosyncrasies were known life was compatible. One fought when one had to, never for amusement; one yielded upon occasion to unreason and stayed clear of trouble unless one wanted it.

One man stood out amid the steady grind for garnets. He was notable because he was a nonsurvival type who managed to survive nicely. This was the grossly obese Hastings: intelligent, knowledgeable, cheerful, quick with his hands, but with a complete vacuity of talent for mining, and perpetually unlucky. He survived as an entrepreneur. He won his garnets from men, rather than from stone.

“I need a blue garnet as I need Laza’s love,” fat Hastings expounded during a break. The others gaped at him, rising to the bait.

“Hasty, Hasty—you know what a blue garnet is ?” Framy asked incredulously. “You know what a blue garnet’ll do for a man?”

The other edged in, anticipating a show.

“I know what it’ll do for a man,” Hastings said. “It’ll kill him so fast the chimera wouldn’t pick up the pieces.”