“To make us feel at home?” Angela ventured.
“Sister,” said Clayborne, “I for one do not feel at home!”
“But it is bearable,” Angela persisted. “It’s not as alien as it could be—is it?”
“She’s right,” said Gill. “Human beings are strong in some ways, frail in others. Maybe this place is like this so as not to scare us to death. It’s different enough for us to notice, but not so bad as to knock us sideways.”
Again Anderson’s snort. “Are you suggesting it has been built for us?”
Gill might have answered in similarly sarcastic terms and tones, but Angela was already speaking. “A moon, stars, mountains,” she mused. “Presumably there was a sun, too. It seems there must have been, but that it’s gone down now. This is twilight rapidly turning to night.”
“Why weren’t we snatched at daybreak?” said Clayborne, nervously. “Answer me that, Mr. clever bloody Spencer Gill! Oh, you’re right: the Castle was a visitation from another world—but not another planet. It’s a spectral world, impinging upon our own. The Castle was its focal point—and we’ve been sucked into it!”
Gill gave up on him.
Anderson took Gill’s arm. Gill could feel the nervous tension causing the other’s hand to tremble. “Gill, the girl’s right. There was a sun and it’s gone down. But can’t you see why I’m so skeptical? All of this inside a machine? It stretches the imagination too far.”
“Not mine,” said Gill. “I know what I feel.”
“But … the light is going,” Turnbull pointed out. “A sun must have set. She’s certainly right about that.”
“Not necessarily,” said Gill. “Maybe someone is turning the lights down—and turning the moon and stars up … .”
“The same s-someone,” said Clayborne, his voice trembling as he backed stiff-legged away from the House of Doors, “who just this minute put numbers on all the doors, right?”
They looked.
The base of each of the two facets of the hexagon which were visible to them had four doors maybe six feet wide and nine high, with two feet of rough, mortared stone between each door. The doors were set back about fifteen inches in arched recesses. They seemed constructed of some sort of hardwood, possibly oak by its grain, with heavy jambs, mullions and panels. No one had noticed the numbers before, but now they shone with a ghostly yellow light: numbered one to eight in an anticlockwise direction.
“Widdershins,” Clayborne gasped, still backing away. “A sign of evil, of Satan himself!”
“I wish you’d cut out all that crap,” Turnbull rumbled, feeling a driving urge to lash out at something, anything. His instincts were all physical, but there was nothing physical here to focus on. Or there was—the House of Doors itself—but that was Unknown and therefore Untouchable. Turnbull wasn’t truly afraid, but he was frustrated. In his case, perhaps the two were the same.
“There are no doorknobs,” said Varre. “I couldn’t have used one of these doors anyway.”
“But there are knockers,” said Bannerman.
There were: great hinged iron rings set seven and a half feet high, with the numbers central in each ring.
“The light is going,” said Anderson, “and the more it goes, the brighter these numbers shine out. Some sort of luminous paint, maybe?” He looked at Clayborne. “Have you never looked at your wristwatch in the dark? Ghosts!” The last word was a sneer.
“There must be a reason for the numbers,” said Angela. She was back beside Gill again. “Maybe they’re there to tell us something—or at least to suggest something. Maybe we should try number one first.”
No one argued. They walked along the base of the wall to the first door. “But no handles,” Varre repeated, when they stood there under the glowing number one.
“Why don’t we just … knock?” suggested Bannerman.
It was almost dark.
Turnbull looked around at the others, took out his gun and released the safety. They stood clear as he reached up, took the iron ring, and swung it against the central panel. The effect was like someone had banged on the great door of a mighty, sounding cathedral. But that was only the first effect. The second was that in the next moment the door swung silently inwards!
Mist swirled in there, great banks of it that came gusting out in a dank, bitterly cold blast. A wind howled out from the open door. It was like opening the slab over a centuries-forsaken tomb: the door exhaled its pent gasses into their faces, blew out its damp, clinging mist upon them … and then was still.
“Mist?” said Angela, when she had her breath back. “Highland mist?”
Anderson pressed eagerly forward. “Scottish mist?”
From somewhere within the swirling fog beyond the open door—from somewhere a hundred yards or a thousand miles away, it was impossible to tell—came the mournful, unmistakable howl of a lost dog. They all froze, gazed at each other with wide, astonished, even hopeful eyes. For a moment. Then—
A figure tore abruptly through the mist in the oblong of space before them, came sobbing and reeling out to crash into Anderson where he stood in the forefront. Anderson screamed like a woman; Turnbull snarled and pointed his gun; Gill shouldered the big man aside even as he pulled the trigger. The bullet sped harmlessly away into unknown space while the echoes of the shot came thundering back to them, gradually diminishing.
One breathless moment later and the door slammed itself shut again—slammed as if in a fury—leaving a tattered, bloody, staggering figure to sink to its ragged knees, sobbing on the alien grass. A male, entirely human figure, with flame-yellow eyes that burned on them all where they gasped and gaped.
“Thank God!” the man cried, raising his arms to them. “Oh, thank … God!” And then he fainted … .
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Angela got down on her knees and cradled the crumpled figure of the man from door Number One in her arms. “I think he’s all right,” she finally said, without looking up. “Just exhausted.”
“And bloody,” said Turnbull.
“And scared half to death!” Clayborne added.
Turnbull looked at Gill. “I almost shot him.”
“That’s because you’re all geared up to be a minder,” Gill said. “And in a place like this you’re bound to be edgy. I was just seeing a bit clearer than you, that’s all.”
Anderson was still white, his face gleaming with cold sweat in the light of the high-sailing moon. “What was that place, Gill?” he said. “The mist, the howling dog, and then this fellow …”
“Well, it wasn’t Scotland,” said Gill. “Scotland’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I know, but nobody hates it that much!”
“Is that your British sense of humour?” Varre was perplexed. His claustrophobia seemed to have abated a little; paradoxically, to him the night had always made everything seem somehow larger, less enclosed. “How can you find anything funny in these circumstances?”
Turnbull answered him. “See, Spencer here has just had a big lift. Oh, this whole thing is a downer, no denying that, but for him it isn’t so bad. Before this, we had an advantage over him. Just about everybody was better off than Spencer. We were all going to live out our lives in full, but Spencer knew he didn’t have too much time left. What’s happened here is like the Big Equalizer. Now it looks like we’ve all got exactly the same amount of time left. Namely, not a lot.”
“Whatever do you mean, Jack?” Anderson snapped.
“Work it out for yourself,” Turnbull answered.
“He’s talking about little things like food and water,” said Gill. “And about staying alive. He’s talking about our continued existence in an alien environment. Or environments.”
“Environments?” Clayborne repeated him. “Plural?”
Gill shrugged. “It speaks for itself, doesn’t it? What’s the sense of all these doors if they all lead to the same place? But as far as I’m concerned that’s not a bad thing. I mean wherever this bloke came from, it’s no kind of place fo
r me!”
“He has a lot of bruises,” said Angela. “He’s thin, too. Starved, I’d say. But his cuts are fairly superficial. The blood is mainly dry on him. He looks worse than he is. I’d say he’s been on the run, long and hard.” What she didn’t say was that she knew how the unknown man must feel. Something of it, anyway. She’d been on the run, too.
And that was when the battered stranger woke up.
He opened his eyes and by moon and starlight looked up at them, and they down on him. Then he gave a choking cry and hugged to Angela for dear life. He clutched at her as if she were the sole source of sanity, light, a rope dangling from a sheer cliff. His cliff. “Back!” he finally croaked, his voice high-pitched and yet cracked. “God, I’ve come back! I’m really … back?” But a note of doubt had entered his voice, and the life had seemed suddenly to go out of his eyes as they fastened on the alien moon.
“No,” he said then, the word strangled in his throat, bitter with disappointment. “No, I’m not back … .” He struggled free of Angela’s embrace, pushed to his feet and tottered there. And now the group could see him more clearly. Colours were difficult in the yellow moonlight, but a general description was possible:
He was small, no more than five-seven. Youngish, he’d be maybe twenty-six or -seven, and there wasn’t a lot of flesh on him. His copper hair, once crewcut, had gone a little wild; he had small, piggy eyes, gangling arms, puffy, petulant lips and a weak chin. His clothes were hard to make out. The wide lapels and padded shoulders of his tattered jacket might be considered smart in certain circles; likewise his stylishly baggy trousers; but his appearance generally, allowing for the damage, seemed somehow false. In pristine condition he and his gear might look just a shade too flash. In any case and whatever he’d been before, now he looked like he’d just come through a forest of thorn trees. The collar of his silk shirt was dark with blood, sweat, and fog.
He staggered this way and that, held up his arms as if to ward off the House of Doors. And: “No,” he sobbed again. “I’m not back at all. I’m still … here!”
“Who are you?” Anderson stepped close to him.
The stranger went at once into a half crouch, backed away from the group, made ready for instant flight. He wouldn’t be able to run far, but still he’d run if he had to. “Don’t you worry about me, mate,” he answered, his voice high and panting, his accent all London. “I know who I am all right. But who the fuck are you?”
Turnbull took two quick paces forward and caught him by the arm even as he made to race away. “We’re the ones who let you out of there, son,” he said quietly, inclining his head towards the looming House of Doors, specifically door Number One. “We’re the good guys, okay?”
“What were you running from?” Angela asked him.
The stranger’s eyes went wide in a moment, flashing his terror. “The crab!” he gasped. “The bloody lobster! The scorpion—whatever it is!”
Varre whispered to Gill, “Is he sane?”
“Did I come out of there?” The stranger pointed a trembling hand at the door. They all nodded affirmatives. “Then I’m not far enough away from it!”
He at once jerked himself free of Turnbull’s grasp, ran to door Number Two and leaped for the iron ring. The clang of heavy metal on hardwood resounded as before and the door swung inwards and stood gaping open.
Sunlight blasted out! Impossible! With the moon and stars overhead? Totally impossible—but real for all that. A shaft of golden sunlight oblong as the door itself, almost solid in comparison with the darkness it thrust back and invalidated, fell warm on the group where they leaped in pursuit of the fugitive, bringing them crashing together and to a halt. But not the stranger. He had paused for the merest moment on the threshold, and with one arm thrown up before his eyes had sobbed, “Warm! Oh, Jesus, no—warm!” And then he’d hurled himself through.
“Go on in,” Turnbull yelled at the others. Frantically he waved them forward. “After him, quickly—come on!”
They might have faltered, argued, but the big man had already left them, stepping out of a shadow world into a world of blinding bright haze. Bannerman was right behind him, and like lemmings the rest quickly followed. The door at once slammed shut behind them—and vanished! When they turned their heads to look back, there was no door there at all. Neither door nor House of Doors. Just … jungle! Green things growing everywhere, and sunlight turning the air to a dappled golden haze.
Again the instantaneous and simultaneous assault upon every human sense was terrific. Angela, Anderson, Varre and Clayborne felt their senses spinning and fell to their knees, collapsing together in loam and leaf mould and creeper. But Gill, Turnbull and Bannerman remained on their feet. Though they staggered a little, they quickly regained their balance. And without pride Gill thought: Obviously we three learn faster—we’re more adaptable—than most people.
“Why, Jack?” Anderson gasped, clutching Turnbull’s leg to steady himself where he kneeled on the forest’s floor. “Why did you follow him? There may be danger here.” Suddenly he was furious. “Who the hell authorised you to follow him?”
Turnbull stared down at him, frowned and shook him off. “I need someone’s authority to stay alive? Why did I follow him? Because he’s been a prisoner here longer than us, that’s why. And he’s survived. He must have learned a few things while he’s been here. I say stick with him, at least until we know as much as he does.”
Anderson took several deep breaths, finally looked away. “You’re probably right,” he said, however grudgingly. “But in future let’s try not to be too … . precipitous.”
“He is right.” Gill was on Turnbull’s side. “That bloke was scared witless, but not like Varre and Clayborne—no offence meant. He was scared of something real.”
“You’d better believe I was,” said the stranger, emerging from a clump of undergrowth. “And I still am. I was listening to you lot, making sure you weren’t just part of all this. You can’t trust anything in this place.” He licked his lips, looked nervously all about. “We should be okay now, for a little while anyway. But let’s get away from here, see if we can find a clearing or something.”
Turnbull had snatched out his gun; he put it away again and said, “For someone who’s obviously knackered, you’re in one hell of a hurry. Don’t you ever stand still?”
The little man scowled at him. “We just came through a door and landed here, didn’t we? If something follows us through, it’ll land here too. Right here! You do as you like but I’m moving on.”
“But you must be dead on your feet.” Anderson carefully stood up.
“No,” said the other. “I’m alive on my feet! And I intend to stay that way.”
He moved off in a fashion suggesting a certain familiarity with this new environment, and the group quickly followed suit to stay close behind. The green growth was more forest than jungle, close but not densely grown. Ducking his way beneath low branches or hanging festoons of vines or creepers and weaving between or around clumps of thorn trees and brambles, the stranger led on. He seemed to be aiming at the sun.
Despite the fact that Gill was growing very tired now, he stuck as close to the little red-haired man as possible. That way he could talk to him as they traversed the forest’s ways. In any case the going wasn’t too bad: the stranger’s own exhaustion made keeping up with him no great hardship.
“I’m Spencer Gill,” Gill at last introduced himself. “I work for the government—or I did. It was my job to study the Castle, the House of Doors, on Ben Lawers’ flank. Now it seems the House of Doors may be studying me, and these others with me. The girl is Angela Denholm. Her being here is pure bad luck. The others—Anderson, Turnbull, Bannerman, the Frenchman Varre, and the American Clayborne—were just too close to the place at the wrong time.”
“Castle?” said the other. “I can understand ‘House of Doors’ easily enough, but ‘Castle’?” He frowned for a moment, then snapped his fingers and said, “Hey, I remember read
ing about that! A spaceship or spook house or something, which grew up overnight on a Scottish mountainside, right?”
Anderson and Angela were right behind and listening to the conversation. Anderson said, “Do you mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?” The stranger didn’t look back.
“You don’t know that this is the Castle, and that somehow we’re inside it?”
At that moment they emerged from under the canopy of trees at the forest’s edge onto the banks of a sparkling river. It wound out of the trees on a bed of bright, rounded stones between green banks cut through declining meadowland. Fifty yards ahead the water turned white over a series of shallow falls, and where bare rock thrust up through the thin soil, there the rushing river became a waterfall. From two hundred yards away the deluge roared its futile challenge to gravity, sending aloft a fine, drifting spray that fell soft and welcome on itching, sweaty faces. At the edge of gapped, jutting cliffs a rainbow bridged the void between earth and sky; and in the sky, halfway towards its zenith, there hung a ball of fire too bright and searing hot to allow more than a glance.
Wearily approaching the chasm, the little redhead laughed a raucous, almost hysterical laugh and finally answered Anderson’s question. “Inside it? We’re inside something, are we? Just how big is this bleeding castle of yours, mate? I mean, do you really believe there’s one big enough to pack all of this into?” He stood at the edge of the cliffs and opened his arms.
Beyond the rim were plains, forests, mountains, and rivers, reaching away into a distance where the world’s curvature was plainly visible. Gill looked at it all, and for the first time in a long time felt like a great fool. No wonder the little redhead was laughing at what Anderson had said, at what Gill had caused Anderson to believe. Here was an entire world lying open before them. How could you build a wall round that? Where was that wall?
Gill’s shoulders slumped a little and he sat down on a flat stone, chin in his hands. Anderson scowled at him and moved off to find a place to rest his heavy frame. Turnbull and the others likewise. Angela sat close to the stranger where he spread himself sighing on soft grass between a pair of leaning boulders at the very rim. But Varre sat close to Gill and touched his arm. Gill looked at him.