over the back of a chair and took the keys from it.
He entered the Director’s office through the open window, and unlocked the desk with the keys from the Director’s jacket. Inside was another set of keys, older and heavier and somehow more serious: the keys to the tunnels.
He went down into the cave. He took no lantern; he needed no light to see by.
—The paintings are Folk stuff.
—It is one of their Spirits. Weak.
—Strong enough.
He came to the glittering pool and knelt by its waters. He ran his fingers through it and felt them tingle. It was warm. He flicked the water idly into the shadows.
He leaned back against one of the painted rocks and contemplated his problem.
—No violence! A terrible handicap for a man in my line of work.
He stared into the pool’s light and it shone back blankly.
At the corners of his vision, those red lines on the walls shimmered and slunk in the half light, half-seen, like the stripes of one of those sneaking jungle cats of the far East.
—It is stupid, Creedmoor. Or it would have killed you already.
—A creature of simple appetites.
He considered lighting a cigarette; he thought better of it. Best to leave no trace.
—It wallows in weakness and pain and suffering. It disgusts us, Creedmoor.
—We made it out of our misery. Just as we made you out of our hate, and we made the enemy out of our fear.
—Careful, Creedmoor.
He touched the water again. Water dripped from the walls like rain, a sleepy gentle rhythm. Circular echoes spread out across the pool.
—How do we kill it, do you suppose?
—It is immortal spirit, Creedmoor. It cannot be killed.
—Except by the General’s wonderful long-lost weapon, which can kill the enemy and can kill you and presumably this poor misbegotten thing, too.
—Presumably.
The water lapped at Creedmoor’s fingers.
—It has limits. When I killed poor William at the gate, it was distracted.
—You were lucky.
—Can’t kill it. But I know how to get around it.
—Yes. We know.
—It feeds on pain. So what happens if we choke it?
CHAPTER 22
FORWARD CAMP AT KLOAN
Lowry knocked back three of his gray bitter-tasting lozenges with a glass of water. They made him cough, and his eyes watered. He waited, clutching the edge of his desk with white knuckles, for the surge of energy that would kick his exhausted body into life again. He had not slept for—he didn’t recall how long. Ever, possibly. Too much to do. Only science and the will of the Engines kept him plodding forward.
There it was. Yes.
“Thernstrom. Drum. Nickel. Slate. To me.”
He burst out of his tent into the blazing afternoon sun and the smoke and din and minutely ordered chaos of Kloan Forward Camp, which was gearing up for an assault.
“Come on, come on. Time’s wasting. Act fast. No second thoughts or turning back. Come on.”
He plunged into the crowds and they followed.
Old Kloan was nearly gone now. Poor old Kloan, Lowry thought. Too late now. The Line had done to Kloan what it did wherever it touched.
A city of tents surrounded Lowry, heavy, gray and black, squatting on Kloan’s remains. Black-clad soldiers emerged, formed into lines that pressed together into squares, rifles at the ready, gas masks dangling loosely round their necks, eyes forward. Lowry shoved through.
“Yes. Yes. Drum? What the fuck’s wrong with these idiots.”
Drum stopped to shout at a line of men who appeared uncertain where to go. Pick it up, pick it up, you idiots. Lowry pushed on.
Over the last month, nearly a full division of the Line’s forces had moved in. They came from Kingstown, Angelus, Gloriana, Harrow Cross, Archway, elsewhere. They came grumbling and cursing, blinking in the sun. They were far from any familiar Stations, and they hated the big sky and the hot sun and the bare earth and the thin air, which lacked the texture of air into which the Engines had exhaled. So Kloan had been rebuilt for them. Tents; then a city of tents; then iron shacks; hastily erected iron hangars and vaults; smoking chimneys and forges and foundries. The Line was mobile. Industry could be brought in on the back of trucks, assembled in days. . . .
An error. He stopped short, wheeled around.
“Slate? Where are these men’s gas masks?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
A rank of Linesmen, maskless, looked dead ahead, avoiding Lowry’s furious red-eyed gaze.
“Where the slagging fuck are their gas masks? Who’s to blame? Mr. Slate? Eh? They’ll die without masks. Serve ’em right. Take care of it, Mr. Slate.”
He strode on, through slick