—How can they be sure? Tennyson asked Whisperer. Are you sure they know where Heaven is?
—They do not know of it as Heaven. They know it by another name. In a distant sector of the galaxy lies a famous place. Unknown to us, of course, but famous.
—And this famous place is Heaven?
—They’re quite sure it is, said Whisperer. It has the shining towers and the noise that you call music and steep stairs leading up to it.
They had been moving toward the five cubes. As they moved toward them, the cubes had been moving, too, so that when they came close to them, the cubes had spread out and now closed in to form a circle with the two of them in the center of it.
The rose-red cube was facing them, and now that they were close to it, it wiped away the equation that it had been displaying and began replacing it with another, forming the new equation slowly so that it could be read even by one who was unfamiliar with that kind of communication.
—We welcome you, the equation said. Are you ready for our venture?
—Whisperer, said Tennyson. Whisperer!
There was no answer; there was no need of one, for it was quite apparent that it was not they who were reading the equation—it was Whisperer and because Whisperer was there, linked with them, they understood it, too.
—You do nothing, said the equation, flowing smoothly. You will simply stand where you are. And do nothing. Is that understood?
—We understand, said Whisperer, and as he spoke the words, the answer he had given appeared as a brief and simple equation on the surface of the rose-red equation person, printed there, thought Jill, so that the other cubes might know the answer that Whisperer had made.
It’s all damn foolishness, thought Tennyson, but he had no more than thought it than both Jill and Whisperer came swarming in on him, burying his mind so he could think no further, extinguishing the cynicism and the doubt that had come welling up in him.
Now another equation was forming slowly on the rose-red blackboard and Tennyson caught the beginning of Whisperer’s translations—then they were in Heaven.
They stood in a central plaza, and all around them reared the soaring towers. Celestial music came down upon them from the towers, enveloping them so that all the world seemed music. The paving of the plaza was gold, or at least gold color, and the towers were shining white, so shining and so white that they seemed illuminated by a light within them. There was a holiness, or what appeared a holiness, and it all was sanctified.
Tennyson shook his head. There was something wrong. They stood in the center of the plaza and the music filled the place and the towers were white and shining towers, but there was no one there. To one side stood the five equation people, and Whisperer, a small globe of glittering dust, was floating there above them, but there was no one else. The place was empty; they stood alone within it. Heaven, to all appearances, was uninhabited.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jill. She stepped away from Tennyson and turned slowly to look around the plaza.
“There is something wrong, isn’t there?” she asked. “For one thing, there is no one here.”
“For another,” said Tennyson, “there aren’t any doors. None in the buildings. Not what we think of as doors. There are only holes. Round holes. Mouse holes. Eight feet or so above street level.”
It was true, she saw. And there weren’t any windows. In all the soaring height of the towers, there weren’t any windows.
“There are no windows,” she said. “You’d think there would be windows.”
A chill breeze came blowing down the plaza and Tennyson shivered at its touch.
There were, he saw, between the towers, what seemed to be narrow streets. Here, he thought, they must stand at the heart of the city, if it was a city. He looked up at the towers and realized that they were much taller than he at first had thought they were. They rose high into the blue, so high that the last glitter of them was lost in the blueness of the sky. At first, too, he had thought that there were many buildings, each one supporting its individual tower, but now it appeared possible that there might be only one building, enclosing the sprawling square in which they stood, with the towers placed at regular intervals. What he had thought of as narrow streets between the separate buildings might be no more than tunnels, cut at street level through the massive structure.
The building (or buildings) was of flawless white that did not have the look of stone. It had the look of ice, ice frozen from the purest water, ice with no air bubbles or other imperfections in it. That couldn’t be, he told himself. If this great structure was not stone, neither was it ice.
All the time the music poured in upon them, engulfing them, seeping into them—an indescribable music that made one think it was more than music, or music raised to a poignancy no human composer had ever quite achieved.
Whisperer spoke to them.
—This place, he said, is not as empty as it seems. There are many here. This place teems with life.
As if on signal, life appeared.
Out of one of the narrow streets (or tunnels?), a massive head pushed out. It was a worm head. The front of it was flattened and heavily armored, a thick and heavy carapace covering the entire front part of the head. Behind the carapace, on either side of it, huge compound eyes looked out. Antennae sprouted from the top of the head. The head stood tall. Tennyson, gagging in distaste, estimated the top of the head stood a good six feet above ground level.
The worm emerged—it continued coming out, the long, thick body tracking behind the armored head. Once a fair length of it was out, it began to elevate its front end higher off the ground. Slender jointed legs that had been flattened to enable it to pass through the tunnel began to straighten up, lifting the body until it stood two feet taller than it had before.
As more of it emerged, it began to turn toward those who were standing in the plaza. Tennyson and Jill began slowly backing away, but the five equation beings stood their ground. Their blackboard sides were blurring in flashing colors as the equations raced.
Then all the worm was out of the tunnel, at least thirty feet of it, standing tall, well supported by the close-set legs.
The worm changed its direction again, angling away, back toward the structure of towering white. Its movement appeared to be purposeful. It gave no indication it had noticed those who were in the plaza.
It came to a halt under one of the eight-foot-high mouse holes and reared up. Its forward legs caught hold of the edge of the hole and began to lever itself into it. They watched as the worm drew its entire body through the hole and disappeared.
Tennyson let out his breath in relief.
“Let’s have a look,” he said. “Let’s see what we can see.”
They found out very little. The narrow streets did turn out to be tunnels, set at intervals along the structure, which turned out to be one building rather than many separate ones set together. But the tunnels were closed. Inside of them, thirty feet or so in from the opening, the way was blocked by doors. The doors were not white but blue. They filled the tunnels, wedged close against the tunnels’ curving sides. There seemed no way to open them. Tennyson and Jill pushed hard against several of them and failed to budge them. It did seem, in a couple of instances, that they could feel some give, but that was all.
“They’re tension doors,” said Tennyson. “I’m almost certain of that. Push against one of them hard enough and it will open. But we haven’t the strength.”
“The worm came through it,” said Jill.
“The worm probably is much stronger than the two of us. They may be exclusively worm doors. The worms may be the only things that have the strength to open the doors.”
“We’re fairly sure,” said Jill, “that this place is not Heaven. But we have no proof. We can’t just go back and say it isn’t Heaven. Before we go back, we must have proof. If I only had a camera.”
—We had to hold down weight, said Whisperer. We knew not what we’d find. We travel light and
fast.
—What think our equation friends of this? asked Tennyson.
—They stand much amazed.
—So do we, said Jill.
“Maybe photographs alone,” said Tennyson, “would not be acceptable proof. Photographs you can get anywhere at all. We have to do better than a handful of pictures.”
They made a circuit of the square and found nothing else.
“We’re trapped in here,” said Jill, “with only one way out, those mouse holes that the worms use. We could have Whisperer float over all of this and see what’s on the other side. There must be another side.”
“So could the equation folk,” said Tennyson. “They can float in the air, but at the moment I would hate to have us divide our forces. I have a feeling we should stick together.”
Far down the plaza another worm came out of a tunnel and came straight toward them, but it swerved to pass them by to reach another of the mouse holes. Rearing, it passed through the hole and disappeared.
“I’m not certain I would want to use one of those holes,” said Jill. “All that ever seems to go through them are worms.”
“The worms seem to have little interest in us.”
“Not while we’re out here. They might pick up an interest if we went inside.”
“I wonder,” said Tennyson, paying no attention to what she had said.—Whisperer, could you ask one of our equation friends to squat down a bit so I could climb up on him. Then he could float me up to one of the holes.
“If you are going, I am going, too,” said Jill. “I’m not going to be left out here.”
—Any one of them would be happy to, said Whisperer. Which hole do you have in mind?
—Any one of them, said Tennyson. I wouldn’t ask it, but those holes are out of reach for us.
—Would that one just behind you be all right?
—It would do just fine.
“I have a feeling,” said Jill, “that we’re quite out of our minds.”
The rose-red cube had moved up close to the wall, below the indicated mouse hole. The cube began broadening out, spreading itself, squatting down so they could reach its back.
“I’ll boost you up,” Tennyson told Jill.
“Okay,” she said. “I hope this won’t be as bad as I think it will.”
He boosted her up and she scrambled to the top of the cube.
“It’s ishy,” she said. “It’s terrible. The thing is like a mound of jelly. I’m afraid I will break through it. And it’s slippery as hell.”
Tennyson made a running leap and landed spread-eagled on the quivering surface of the cube. Jill reached down a hand and helped him scramble up beside her. They sat together, clinging to one another to retain their balance. The cube ceased some of its quivering and seemed to harden slightly, offering more support. It began to rise slowly in the air, not really rising, but assuming its normal shape, rising from its squat.
The mouse hole was in front of them and Tennyson made an awkward leap for it. He landed on his hands and knees, swiftly scrabbling around to reach out a hand for Jill, but before he could extend his help, she was there, sprawling beside him.
They rose to their feet and looked about them. The mouse hole was another tunnel, but a short one and there was no door.
At the end of it blazed a brilliant light. The floor was solid underneath their feet and they moved toward the light. Looking over her shoulder, Jill saw that the five equation folk had entered the tunnel behind them, with Whisperer scintillating above the foremost one.
When they reached the other end of the tunnel, they saw that the tunnel floor connected with a broad white road, apparently constructed of the same materials as the walls and towers. It led off into the distance, finally blotted out by the glare of light. It was suspended in midair, with dizzying heights above it and dizzying depths below.
The interior was vast, but its vastness was masked by columnar structures that rose within it, spearing from the depths into the upper reaches, both the depths and the upper reaches being blotted out by sheer distances. The columns basically were of the same white material of which the rest of the structure was made, but little of the white showed through the blinding, crazy flickering of the lights that ran all around them. The lights took no particular pattern and their flickering had no rhythm. They were of every color.
The entire place, Tennyson told himself, was a massive carnival, a riot of dancing color, a gaudily decorated Christmas tree multiplied a million times.
“Look,” said Jill, jogging his arm. “There is one of our friendly worms.”
“Where?”
“Right over there. On one of the columns. Look where I’m pointing.”
He looked but it took a while to see what she pointed at. Finally he made it out. One of the worms was clinging tightly against one of the columns, hanging straight up and down the column. But not using all its feet to maintain its grip, for it was using many of them in a manipulatory way, working on the circuitry or the lights or whatever the column held.
“Maintenance men,” said Jill. “Maintenance worms, that is. Jason, they are the things that keep whatever this is running.”
“It makes sense,” he said.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Jill. “All this makes me dizzy.”
They hurried down the whiteness of the road, although the road no longer was entirely white. It shimmered with the many colors of the flashing lights.
Far ahead they glimpsed the opening of another tunnel. When they came up to it, four creatures were waiting for them. The creatures were black cones, dead black, with no highlights in the black, as if the blackness sucked light into it, leaving none to be reflected. They were broad-based and stood five feet high, moving easily but with no hint as to the mechanism that made it possible to move.
At the mouth of the tunnel, just inside it, stood a platform, also black, mounted on wheels.
Three of the cones stood at the back of the platform and, as Jill and Tennyson and the equation folk came up, effectively herded them, without a sound or signal but by some judicious shoving, onto the platform. When Jill would have walked over the platform and back onto the roadway, the fourth cone blocked her doing so, keeping itself in front of her no matter where she turned.
“I guess they want us to stay here,” she said to Tennyson.
When all of them had been herded onto the platform, the cones stationed themselves at each corner, and the platform and the cones began to move down the tunnel, the cones apparently furnishing the motive power.
The platform shot out of the tunnel into another vast space, in which there were no columns. A number of roadways, a three-dimensional roadway system, ran in all directions, crossing over one another, looping around one another. Some of the roadways were for vehicles only, most of them platforms powered by the cones, although now and then other vehicles, some of them beetle-shaped and others shaped like flying open arrows, also shared the roads. Other roads seemed to be for pedestrians only. Along these crawled and hopped and skipped and walked and jumped and shambled an array of life. Looking at them, Tennyson remembered the Wayfarer captain and his loathing of all alien forms. Seeing some of those that traveled the pedestrian ways, he could understand something of the captain’s loathing. In his time he had come into contact with varied alien life, but never in such horrifying forms as he now was seeing.
In between the roadways, set at every angle, each surrounded by small courtyards, were buildings of every shape and size. These were not formed of the same material as the larger structures, but were of every color. It was, thought Tennyson, as if one were looking at tabletop models of many villages, but with all the tabletops haphazardly slung together with no regard to their relationship to one another.
The platform took a sudden curve, almost throwing them off their feet, changing from one roadway to another and almost at once entering another tunnel. When it emerged from the tunnel, it was in what appeared to be the interior of one of the larger buildings
they had been looking at. Gently the platform came to a halt in what could have been a parking lot, for there were many other vehicles there.
Jill and Tennyson stepped off and the equation folk floated off the platform, with the four cones herding them down a path between the cars.
They entered a room. At the farther end of it a bubble sat on a dais ranged against the wall. Other cones were there in groups around the dais, and to one side of it sat a small haystack that had eyes peering from the hay, while an octopuslike creature hopped back and forth before the bubble. Each time it landed on the floor, it made a squishy sound like a large chunk of fresh liver hurled against a solid surface.
The cones herded them forward until they stood before the bubble, then fell back and left them there.
The bubble was more than just a bubble. It had a dimple in the forefront of it, and inside the dimple was what might have been a face—the sort of face that one could not be sure was there. One second you could see it and the next moment it had dissolved into drifting smoke.
Jill gasped. “Jason,” she said, “do you remember that memo—the memo that Theodosius wrote. The one I found in the wastebasket in the secret closet.”
“My God, yes!” said Tennyson. “The bubble is one of the things that the cardinal described. A face like drifting smoke, he said.”
Noise came from the drifting smoke, a grating, scraping noise. The noise went on for some time. In a little while, it became apparent that the noise was the bubble talking to them.
“I can’t make out a word of it,” said Jill.
—It is trying to communicate, said Whisperer. That is evident. But unintelligible.
—It sounds as if it might be shouting at us. Is it angry, Whisperer?
—I think not, said Whisperer. It projects no sense of anger.
One of the cones came scurrying up and stood before the bubble. The bubble grated at it, and it turned and scurried off. The bubble fell silent. It was still looking at them, although at times the smoke would obscure the face, but even then they felt it still was looking at them.