wt.theyearofthequietsun-第31部分

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gatehouse　and　rattled　the　broken　door。　A　large　piece　of　the　mountain　teetered　over　him；　threatening　to　bury　him　when　it　came　down。　Saltus　tried　to　crawl　away。
　　The　toppling　body　knocked　him　off　his　knees　and　knocked　away　his　weapon。　He　went　down　beneath　it；　still　fighting　for　breath　and　praying　not　to　be　crushed。
　　
　　
　　Arthur　Saltus　opened　his　eyes　to　find　the　daylight　gone。　An　intolerable　burden　pinned　him　to　the　gatehouse　floor　and　an　overpowering　hurt　wracked　his　body。
　　Moving　painfully　but　gaining　only　an　inch　or　two　at　a　time；　he　crawled　from　under　the　burden　and　tried　to　roll　it　aside。　After　minutes　or　hours　of　strenuous　effort　he　climbed　as　far　as　his　knees　and　threw　off　the　knapsack　hammering　at　his　back；　he　spilled　as　much　water　as　he　drank　before　the　canteen　followed。　His　rifle　lay　on　the　floor　at　his　knee；　but　he　was　astonished　to　discover　that　his　hand　and　arm　lacked　the　strength　to　pick　it　up。　It　may　have　taken　another　hour　to　draw　the　service　automatic　from　uiider　his　coat　and　place　it　on　the　hood　of　the　car。
　　An　unbelievable　time　was　spent　in　crawling　over　the　same　hood　to　get　outside。　The　gun　was　knocked　to　the　ground。　Saltus　bent　over；　touched　it；　fingered　it；　grew　dizzy　and　had　to　abandon　the　weapon　to　save　himself。　He　grabbed　at　the　door　handle　and　hauled　himself　upright。　After　a　while　he　tried　it　again；　and　only　managed　to　seize　the　gun　and　stand　upright　before　the　recurring　wave　of　nausea　struck　him。　His　stomach　doubled　up　and　ejected。
　　Saltus　climbed　into　the　car　and　backed　it　off　from　the　gatehouse　door。　Opening　the　near　window　to　get　the　cold　bracing　air；　he　tugged　at　the　drive　selector　and　steered　a　tortuous　course　from　gate　to　parking　lot。　The　car　glanced　off　one　curb　and　skidded　across　the　snow　to　jump　the　other　curb；　it　would　have　thrown　its　occupant　if　it　had　been　traveling　at　greater　speed。　Saltus　had　lost　the　strength　to　push　down　on　the　brake；　and　the　little　car　stopped　only　when　it　slammed　into　the　concrete　wall　of　the　laboratory。　He　was　thrown　against　the　wheel　and　then　out　into　the　snow。　A　spotted　trail　of　blood　marked　his　erratic　path　from　the　car　to　the　door　with　the　twin　locks。
　　The　door　opened　easily…so　easily　that　a　dim　corner　of　his　fogged　consciousness　nagged　at　him：　had　he　inserted　both　keys　into　the　locks　before　the　door　swung？　Had　he　inserted　any　key？
　　Arthur　Saltus　fell　down　the　flight　of　stairs　because　he　could　not　help　himself。
　　The　gun　was　gone　from　his　hand　but　he　couldn't　remember　losing　it；　his　bottle　of　birthday　bourbon　was　gone　from　his　pocket　but　he　couldn't　remember　emptying　it　or　throwing　away　the　bottle；　the　keys　to　the　door　were　lost。　Saltus　lay　on　his　back　on　the　dusty　concrete；　looking　at　the　bright　lights　and　looking　up　the　stairs　at　the　closed　door。　He　didn't　remember　closing　that　door。
　　A　voice　said：　〃Fifty　hours。〃
　　He　knew　he　was　losing　touch　with　reality；　knew　he　was　drifting　back　and　forth　between　cold；　painful　awareness　and　dark　periods　of　feverish　fantasy。　He　wanted　to　sleep　on　the　floor；　wanted　to　stretch　out　with　his　face　on　the　cold　concrete　and　let　the　raging　fire　in　his　spine　burn　itself　out。　Katrina's　vest　had　saved　his　life…　barely。　The　slug…more　than　one？…was　lodged　in　his　back；　but　without　the　vest　it　would　have　torn　all　the　way　through　his　chest　and　blown　away　the　rib　cage。　Thanks；　Katrina。
　　A　voice　said：　〃Fifty　hours。〃
　　He　tried　to　stand　up；　but　fell　on　his　face。　He　tried　to　climb　to　his　knees；　but　pitched　forward　on　his　face。　There　was　not　much　strength　left　to　him。　In　time　with　the　measured　passing　of　an　eternity；　he　crawled　to　the　TDV　on　his　belly。
　　Arthur　Saltus　struggled　for　an　hour　to　climb　the　side　of　the　vehicle。　His　awareness　was　slipping　away　in　a　sea　of　nauseous　fantasy：　he　had　the　hallucinatory　notion　that　someone　pulled　off　his　heavy　boots…that　someone　removed　the　heavy　winter　garments　and　tried　to　take　off　his　clothing。　When　at　last　he　fell　head　first　through　the　vehicle's　open　hatch；　he　had　the　fever…fantasy　that　someone　out　there　had　helped　him　over　the　side。
　　A　voice　said：　〃Push　the　kickbar。〃
　　He　lay　on　his　stomach　on　the　webbing　facing　in　the　wrong　direction；　and　remembered　that　the　engineers　wouldn't　recover　the　vehicle　until　the　end　of　fifty　hours。　They　had　done　that　when　William　failed　to　return。　Something　was　under　him；　hurting　him；　putting　a　hard　new　pressure　on　a　rib　cage　already　painfully　sore。　Saltus　pulled　the　lump　from　beneath　him　and　found　a　tape　recorder。　He　pushed　it　toward　the　kickbar　but　it　fell　inches　short　of　the　goal。　The　hallucination　slammed　shut　the　hatch　cover。
　　He　said　thickly：　〃Chaney　。　。　。　the　bandits　have　burned　the　treasure　house　。　。　。〃
　　The　tape　recorder　was　thrown　at　the　kickbar。
　　
　　The　time　was　forty　minutes　after　two　in　the　morning；　24　November　2000。　His　fiftieth　birthday　was　long　past。
　　
　　Brian　Chaney
　　2000…plus
　　
　　The　meek；　the　terrible　meek；
　　the　fierce　agonizing　meek；
　　Are　about　to　enter　into　their　inheritance。
　　
　　　　…　Charles　Rann　Kennedy
　　
　　FIFTEEN
　　
　　Chaney　was　apprehensive。
　　The　red　light　blinked　out。　He　reached　up　to　unlock　the　hatch　and　throw　it　open。　The　green　light　went　dark。　Chaney　grasped　the　two　handrails　and　pulled　up　to　a　sitting　position；　with　his　head　and　shoulders　protruding　through　the　hatchway。　He　hoped　he　was　alone　in　the　room…the　vehicle　was　in　darkness。　The　air　was　sharply　cold　and　smelled　of　ozone。　He　struggled　out　of　the　hatch　and　climbed　over　the　side。　Saltus　had　warned　him　the　stool　was　gone　so　he　slid　cautiously　to　the　floor；　and　clung　to　the　polywater　tank　for　a　moment　of　orientation。　The　blackness　around　him　was　plete：　he　saw　nothing；　heard　nothing　but　the　hoarse　sound　of　his　own　breathing。
　　Brian　Chaney　reached　up　to　slam　shut　the　hatch　but　then　stopped　himself…the　TDV　was　his　only　lifeline　to　home　base　and　it　was　wiser　to　keep　that　hatch　open　and　waiting。　He　stretched　out　his　hand　to　grope　for　the　locker；　he　remembered　its　approximate　location；　and　took　a　few　hesitant　steps　in　the　darkness　until　he　bumped　into　it。　His　suit　hung　in　a　dusty　paper　sheath；　prepared　by　a　dry　cleaner　now　many　years　behind　him；　and　his　shoes　were　on　the　bottom　beneath　the　suit。　An　automatic　pistol…put　there　at　the　insistence　of　Arthur　Saltus…now　was　an　ungainly　lump　in　the　pocket　of　his　jacket。
　　The　weapon　underscored　his　apprehension。
　　Chaney　didn't　bother　to　check　his　watch：　it　lacked　an　illuminated　dial　and　there　was　nothing　to　be　seen　on　the　wall。　He　quit　the　darkened　room。
　　He　moved　slowly　down　the　corridor　in　a　black　eerie　silence　to　the　shelter；　dust　stirrea　up　by　his　feet　made　him　want　to　sneeze。　The　shelter　door　was　found　by　touch　and　pushed　open　but　the　overhead　lights　failed　in　their　automatic　response。　Chaney　felt　for　the　manual　switch　beside　the　door；　flicked　it；　but　stayed　in　darkness：　the　electric　power　was　out　and　the　lecturing　engineer　was　a　liar。　He　listened　intently　to　the　unseen　room。　He　had　no　matches　or　lighter…the　penalty　paid　by　a　non…smoker　when　light　or　fire　was　needed…and　stood　there　for　a　moment　of　indecision；　trying　to　recall　where　the　smaller　items　were　stored。　He　thought　they　were　in　metal　lockers　along　the　far　wall；　near　the　racks　of　heavy　clothing。
　　Chaney　shuffled　across　the　floor；　wishing　he　had　that　cocksure　engineer　here　with　him。
　　His　feet　collided　with　an　empty　carton；　startling　him；　and　he　kicked　it　out　of　the　way。　It　struck　another　object　before　it　came　to　rest：　Saltus　had　plained　of　sloppy　housekeeping；　and　Katrina　had　written　a　memo。　After　a　period　of　cautious　groping　the　ungainly　bulge　in　his　jacket　pocket　struck　the　leading　edge　of　the　bench；　and　he　put　forth　both　hands　to　explore　the　working　surface。　A　radio…plugged　in　and　wired　to　the　antenna…a　lantern；　a　few　small　empty　boxes；　a　large　one；　a　number　of　metal　objects　his　fingers　could　not　finmediately　identify；　and　a　second　lantern。　Chaney　barely　hesitated　over　the　objects　and　continued　his　probe。　His　roving　fingers　found　a　box　of　matches；　the　fuel　tanks　of　both　lanterns　jostled　with　reassuring　sounds。　He　lit　the　two　lanterns　and　turned　to　look　at　the　room。　Chaney　didn't　like　to　think　of　himself　as　a　coward　but　his　hand　rested　in　the　gun　pocket　as　he　turned　and　peered　into　the　gloom。
　　The　raider　had　returned　to　pilfer　the　stores。
　　From　the　looks　of　the　place　the　man　must　have　spent　the　last　few　winters　here；　or　had　invited　his　friends　in　with　him。
　　A　third　lantern　rested　on　the　floor　near　the　door　and　he　would　have　knocked　that　one　over　if　he　had　stepped　sideways　in　the　darkness。　A　box　of　matches　lay　ready　beside　it。　An　incredible　number　of　empty　food　cartons　were　stacked　along　a　wall　together　with　a　collection　of　water　cans；　and　he　wondered　why　the　man　hadn't　hauled　the　boxes　outside　and　burned　them　to　be　rid　of　an　untidy　mess。　Chaney　counted　the　cans　and　boxes　with　growing　wonder　and　tried　to　guess　at　the　many　years　separating　Arthur　Saltus　from　his　own　recent　arrival。　That　reminded　him　to　look　at　his　watch：　five　minutes　before　nine。　He　had　the　uneasy　suspicion　that　the　TDV　had　sent　him　askew　once　again。　A　plastic　bag　had　been　opened…as　Saltus　had　reported…and　a　number　of　winter　garments　were　missing　from　the　racks。　Several　pairs　of　boots　were　gone　from　their　shelves。　The　bundle　of　mittens　was　broken　open　and　one　had　fallen　to　the　floor；　unnoticed　in　the　darkness。
　　But　there　was　no　spilled　food　on　the　floor　despite　the　litter　of　cartons　and　cans；　every　scrap　had　been　taken　up　and　used。　Nor　were　there　signs　of　mice　or　rats。
　　He　whirled　to　the　gun　rack。　Five　rifles　had　been　taken　plus　an　undetermined　number　of　the　Army…issue　automatics。　He　supposed…without　count…that　an　appropriate　amount　of　ammunition　had　gone　with　them。　Major　Moresby　and　Saltus　would　have　accounted　for　two　of　the　rifles。
　　The　tiny　metal　objects　on　the　workbench　were　the　insignia　Moresby　had　removed　from　his　uniform；　and　Saltus　had　explained　the　reason　for　their　removal　in　bat　zones。　The　empty　boxes　had　contained　reels　of　tape；　nylon　film；　and　cartridges；　the　one　remaining　larger　box　was　his　bullet…proof　vest。　The　map　revealed　the　usual　layer　of　dust。　The　radio　was　now　useless…unless　the　supply　of　batteries　had　survived　the　intervening　years。
　　Years：　time。