that or swim, and I really don’t fancy that!”
“You’ve done this before,” I said as we set off again, because it was obvious that he had, and fairly often or recently. That explained how he knew these routes so well.
He nodded and replied, “Five times, yes. But this is going to be the last. For you, too.”
“Or maybe not,” I replied. “I mean, you never can tell how things will work out.”
“You young fool!” he said, but not unkindly, even somewhat sadly. “You’ll be right in the heart of the Bgg’ha Zone. Right there, in the roots of the twisted tower, that loathsome creature’s so-called ‘house!’ And I can tell you exactly how things are going to work out for you: you won’t be coming out again!”
“But you did it,” I answered him. “And all of five times—if you’re not lying, or not simply crazy!”
He shook his head. “I’m not lying, and I’m not just crazy. You’re the one who’s crazy! Listen, do you have any idea who I am, or why I’m really here?”
I shrugged. “You’re just an old man on a mad mission. That much is obvious. I may even know what your mission is, and why. It’s revenge, because they took your wife, your family. But one small suitcase—even one that’s full of high explosives—just isn’t going to do it. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon is ever going to do it.”
The look he turned on me then was sour, downcast, and disappointed. And: “Have I been that obvious?” he asked me, as we came to a halt where the ledge widened out onto an actual platform. “I suppose I must have been. But even so, you’re only half right—and that makes you half wrong.”
The shoggoth light was poorer here, where the mist writhing on the tiled, vaulted expanse of the ceiling was that much thinner. Our eyes, however, had grown accustomed to the eerie gloom and the fluctuating quality of the bioluminescence, and we were easily able to read the legend on the tunnel’s opposite wall:
KNIGHTSBRIDGE
“My God!” my guide muttered then. “But I remember how this place looked in its heyday: so clean and bright with its shining tiles, its endless stairs and great elevators, its theatre and lingerie posters. But look at it now, with its evidence of earth tremors and fires: its blackened, greasy walls; its collapsed or caved-in archways; all the other damage it’s suffered. And … and … Lord, what a mess!”
A mess? Something of an understatement, that. The ceiling was scarred by a series of broad jagged cracks where dozens of tiles had come loose and fallen; some of the access/exit openings in the wall on our side of the tracks had buckled inwards, causing the ceiling to sag ominously where mortared debris and large blocks of concrete had crashed down; and from its source somewhere high above a considerable waterfall was surging out of an arched exit and spilling into the central channel, drowning the tracks under a foaming torrent.
As we clambered over the rubble, the old man said, “I think that I—or rather that we—are probably in trouble.” And I asked myself: another understatement? How phlegmatic! And meanwhile he had continued: “Like everywhere else, this place seems to be coming apart. It’s got so much … so much worse, since I was last here … ”
Which was when he began to ramble and sob again, only just managing to make sense:
“There’s been so many earthquakes recently … if the rest of the underground system is in the same terrible condition as this place … but then again, maybe it’s not that bad … and Hyde Park Corner isn’t so far away … not very far at all … and anyway it was never my intention to try surfacing here … there’s water up there … too much water … but still a half decent chance we can make it to Piccadilly Circus down here . . I’ve got to make it to Piccadilly Circus … right there under that monstrous twisted tower!”
Feeling that I had to stop him before he broke down completely and did himself some serious harm, I grabbed his arm to slow him down where he was staggering about in the debris, and shouted over the tumult of the water: “Hey! Old man! Slow down and try to stop babbling! You’ll wear yourself out both physically and mentally like that!”
As we cleared the heaped rubble it seemed he heard me and knew I was right. Shaking as if in a fever, which he might well have been, he came to a halt and said: “So close, so very close … but God! I can’t fail now. Lord, don’t let me fail now!”
“You said something about not intending to surface here,” I reminded him, holding him steady. “About maybe having to swim?”
At which he sat down on a block of concrete fallen from the ceiling before answering me. And as quickly as that he was completely coherent again. “Wouldn’t even try to surface here,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders. “There’s far too much water up there—and too many of those monsters that live in it! But we must hope that the rest of the system, between here and Piccadilly Circus, is in better condition.”
“Is that where we’re heading?” I inquired, grateful for the break as I sat down beside him. “Piccadilly Circus, I mean? So how do we manage it? Will it mean getting down in the water?”
Swaying a little as he got to his feet, he looked over the rim of the platform before answering me. “Are you worried about swimming? Well don’t be. The water here isn’t nearly as deep as I thought it might be … I think it must find its way into the depths of the shattered earth, maybe into a subterranean river. So even though we won’t have to swim, still it appears we’ll be doing a lot more wading; knee-deep at least and maybe for quite a while. So now for the last time—even though it’s already far too late—I feel I’ve really got to warn you: if you want to live, to stand even a remote chance, you’ve got to turn back now! Do you understand?”
“I think so, yes,” I told him. “But you know, Henry, we’ve been lucky so far, both of us, and maybe it’s not over yet.”
“I can’t convince you, then?”
“To go back? No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think I want to do that. And the truth is, we all have to die some time. Whether it’s at Piccadilly Circus under the twisted tower or back there where those—those beings—were splashing about in the water; I mean, what’s the difference where, why, or how we do it, eh? It’s got to happen eventually.”
“As for me,” he said, letting himself down slowly over the rim of the platform into water that rose halfway up his thighs, “it is a matter of where I do it—where I can be most effective! My revenge, you said … and at least you were right about that. But you: you’re young, strong, apparently well-fed! Which is a rare thing in itself! You probably came in from the woods, the countryside—a place where there are still birds and other wild things you can catch and eat—or so I imagine. So for you to accompany me where I’m going … ” He shook his head. “It just seems a great waste to me.”
There was nothing in what he’d said that I could or needed to answer; so as I let myself down into the water beside him, I simply said, “So then, are you ready to move on?” And since his only reply was to lean his bony body into the effort—for the flow of the water was against us and strong—I added, “I take it that you are! But you know, Henry, pushing against the water like this will soon drain you. So may I suggest—only a suggestion, mind you—that you let me carry the case? If you want to do the job you’ve set yourself, whatever it is, that’s fine. But since I’m here, why not let me help you?”
He turned to me, turned
