Iranaputra moved closer to the thrumming, pulsing ellipse. “Isn’t this a buried city?”
“This is no city. You are confused. That is understandable, because I am still confused as well. As time passes, these confusions will resolve themselves.” It sounded very sure of itself.
“I have this feeling,” murmured Ksarusix, “that I will be asked to improvise a dinner tonight.”
The trembling intensified slightly and the room rocked once. The rumbling groans became a faint, distant thunder. Through the transparent panel they could see stone beginning to flake from the cavern wall.
“Some kind of airport, or spaceport,” Shimoda rocked on his pillarlike legs. “Something’s getting ready to take off, somewhere.” He turned to face the Autothor. “What kind of building are we in?”
“Very confused,” insisted the Autothor above its internal humming. “There are no buildings. There is only the Ship.”
“The ship we are on, yes.” There was urgency in Iranaputra’s voice. “But what about the rest of the structures?”
“Others? There is only one ‘structure.’”
Through the panel they could see that the walls of the cavern were moving. No, Iranaputra thought. The walls were solid, immovable. Therefore, they had to be the ones who were moving.
“There is only one structure,” the ellipse reiterated, “and that is the Ship. I do so dislike confusion. It and I have been in hiatus. Asleep.” There was satisfaction in its announcement. “We are both waking up now.” A pause, then, “I am monitoring external conditions. Everything is very much changed since last I was active.”
“Just out of curiosity, old thing, when was that?” Follingston-Heath continued to minister to Gelmann.
“Definitions again.” The wall outside the panel was definitely crumbling, the hard stone powdering and collapsing, though they could hear nothing but the rising rumble which seemed to be all around them now. The sensation of movement intensified.
“About a million or so local years ago,” the Autothor finally disclosed. “Give or take a few thousand,” it added apologetically.
They were silent then; at once fearful and expectant, exchanging glances, eying the Autothor, or staring out through the ascending panel as they wondered what was going to happen next. Indeed, they were wondering what was happening then.
All except the serving robot, which was simultaneously genuflecting in the direction of the luminous blue ellipse and struggling to compose supper.
VIII
It was nearly midnight. Most of the inhabitants of the Lake Woneapenigong Village retirement complex were asleep or at least in bed. A few insomniacs for whom late-night broadcasts held incomprehensible attraction hovered around brightly lit vid screens as avidly as any coeleopteran around a streetlight. The Village’s night staff went quietly about their familiar business. Nurses and nursing machinery were on round-the-clock call at Lake Woneapenigong.
An exception was to be found in the persons of Mr. and Mrs. Esau Hawthorne of Wing F, who, unable to sleep, had taken possession of a swing couch on the porch overlooking the lake and were at that moment engaged in the ancient and time-honored recreational activity known as rocking. A split moon cast dancing streaks of molten silver on the calm waters of the lake.
At least, they had been calm until they started to bubble energetically.
Mrs. Hawthorne touched the switch which slowed the swing’s motion and hunched forward, clutching the collar of the flowery thermosensitive nightgown tight to her neck. In their younger days she and her husband had spent many relaxing hours sitting by diverse lakes on their homeworld of Westernia in the First Federal Federation, and she was quite sure that none of them had acted even beneath a split moon like an old-fashioned bottle of carbonated soda. The bubbling was much louder than the cry of a loon or the hoot of an owl. It was louder even than Mr. Hawthorne’s occasional snores.
An event had begun which was soon to awaken everyone in the Village, not to mention those over in Mt. Holly and distant Albany, but Mr. and Mrs. Esau Hawthorne were the only ones to observe it in its entirety.
“Esau, I do believe we are having an earthquake.”
“Yup.” Esau Hawthorne crossed his hands over his stomach and leaned back in the padded swing, eyes half-closed, his pajamas open to the navel to expose his white-haired torso. Esau liked it cooler than his spouse.
Nothing more was said for several minutes. The trembling that had begun as a whisper was now shaking the entire Village complex. Rose Hawthorne watched a couple of roofing panels slide off the top of the porch and crash into the pansy bed beneath the railing.
“Wonder if we oughtn’t to go inside?”
“Dunno.”
“I don’t think they’re supposed to have earthquakes in this part of the continent.”
“Nope.”
“I don’t like earthquakes, Esau.”
“Don’t much care for ’em myself.”
She pointed, her wedding ring bold on her finger. “I do believe something’s happening over that way.”
Esau Hawthorne squinted again. Though just the animate side of a hundred, his eyesight and hearing were still quite sharp. Almost as good as those of his wife, some seventeen years his junior.
She was right, of course. She usually was. Not only were the porch, and the roof, and entire building shaking mightily now, and the previously calm water boiling like a neglected pot, but something was definitely happening on the far side of the lake.
A gigantic structure was emerging from beneath the ground, shoving aside granite boulders and mature pines, sending startled deer and coyotes sprinting for safety. It thrust straight up into the moonlight and shattered it into a hundred splinters of silver tenebrosity. Massive struts and spires, towers and crystalline shapes, reached for the night sky, dripping broken earth and shattered stone from their gleaming flanks.
“There’s another one.” Her hand shifted westward.
Sure enough, another burnished edifice was erupting from the valley to the southwest of Lake Woneapenigong. It was similar in construction to the first, but different in design. Off to the north the crests of still others began to appear.
It was a most peculiar earthquake. It neither rose nor fell in intensity, but instead continued to rattle and roll as if the earth had been plugged into a giant vibrator. Hot cocoa sloshed out of the cup in the arm holder on Esau Hawthorne’s side of the swing until it was two-thirds empty. It trickled away through the slats of the genetically engineered cypress porch-deck planking.
Shouts and screams now sounded behind them, the panic of residents shaken rudely awake. The Hawthornes ignored everything save the incredible sight before them.
As they looked on, Mt. Pulaski, which dominated the far shore of the lake, began to quiver like a mound of dark green gelatin. Bits and pieces of it began to slough away, creating giant landslides. It was as though the mountain was molting. Huge chunks of exposed granite splashed into the heaving lake. A cloud of birds rushed past overhead, too frightened to cry out.
Something was coming up out of the earth, its turgid crepuscular ascent shoving the old mountain aside.
