...”
Benedict opened his mouth to say more, but he thought again.
They kept going, approaching a gate in the distance which looked very much like a subway barrier.
Electronic turnstiles hissed softly, endlessly letting the believers in and out of the chamber. Most of those who had just finished their shift dragged their feet, squinted and yawned tiredly, barely deigning their fellows a nod of acknowledgment.
On the contrary, the believers entering the chamber looked content and as neat and as efficient as they could, dispensing cheerful nods left and right.
The turnover was continuous, with new believers constantly replacing those leaving in an orderly bustle.
Each time a believer walked in or out of the barrier, a large electronic signboard hanging above the turnstiles updated the number of the believers remaining in the chamber. The signboard also made for a clock. Right now, it showed two numbers: 493 and 10:15 PM .
Trumaine’s group arrived at the barrier, where they stopped.
A guard left his booth on the right and came toward them. Except for the tool belt he wore over his suit jacket, also containing a large taser gun, he looked like another believer. He bowed his head at Benedict only.
“We’ll need to give him a pass,” said Benedict, pointing at Trumaine. “I think one week will do.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard, promptly.
He pulled from his belt something that resembled a stylish stapler, then rummaged into another of his belt pockets until he retrieved two metal disks the size of a button.
“This is your temporary pass,” said the guard.
He approached Trumaine, then put one of the disks inside Trumaine’s breast pocket, then slid the second inside his lapel, at the same level than the first one. The guard held it in position for a moment as the stapler activated with a soft bleep. The two halves clicked together, gripping through the fabric of the suit, very much like an anti-theft tag.
“You’re done,” said the guard. “The transmitter works together with the feature scanner embedded in the turnstile. If you change your jacket, or if you lose it, come back to me and I’ll give you a replacement.”
The guard stood aside, motioning for the detective to try the turnstile. Trumaine approached the barrier. Before it let him through, a light flashed in his face, taking a mugshot of him.
Only then did the turnstile door slide open with a hiss. It shut in silence behind him as he walked past.
Trumaine emerged from the turnstiles to find himself in the gallery giving onto the believers’ chamber. It developed over three receding levels that curved inward like the giant steps of an amphitheater.
An endless, orderly array of docking stations arranged for the couches lay on the outer lip of each level, behind a glass parapet that prevented the believers from falling into the gaping chasm of the chamber.
From time to time, the believers arriving from the turnstiles would move to the couch assigned to them. As soon as they sat down and rested their head on it, the couch activated, summoning long iron stems from the chasm. They rose from the abyss below the chamber, looking like the jointed, outstretched legs of giant spiders crawling from their cobwebs.
One by one, the spindly arms would then hook to the underside of the deckchairs, lifting and carrying them into the chamber, balancing them on their tips the same way waiters would do with a tray.
The stems delivered the couches to a preordained position in the mesh of the deckchairs already floating in the chamber.
In a similar way, when a believer had finished his shift, his couch would be automatically withdrawn from the chamber and, again, laid with mathematical precision to whichever level and docking position it had originally been retrieved from. Once the couch had been secured to its cradle, the stems would unhinge and return in silence to the bottom of the chamber, or move to pick up another believer.
The occupants of the
Benedict opened his mouth to say more, but he thought again.
They kept going, approaching a gate in the distance which looked very much like a subway barrier.
Electronic turnstiles hissed softly, endlessly letting the believers in and out of the chamber. Most of those who had just finished their shift dragged their feet, squinted and yawned tiredly, barely deigning their fellows a nod of acknowledgment.
On the contrary, the believers entering the chamber looked content and as neat and as efficient as they could, dispensing cheerful nods left and right.
The turnover was continuous, with new believers constantly replacing those leaving in an orderly bustle.
Each time a believer walked in or out of the barrier, a large electronic signboard hanging above the turnstiles updated the number of the believers remaining in the chamber. The signboard also made for a clock. Right now, it showed two numbers: 493 and 10:15 PM .
Trumaine’s group arrived at the barrier, where they stopped.
A guard left his booth on the right and came toward them. Except for the tool belt he wore over his suit jacket, also containing a large taser gun, he looked like another believer. He bowed his head at Benedict only.
“We’ll need to give him a pass,” said Benedict, pointing at Trumaine. “I think one week will do.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard, promptly.
He pulled from his belt something that resembled a stylish stapler, then rummaged into another of his belt pockets until he retrieved two metal disks the size of a button.
“This is your temporary pass,” said the guard.
He approached Trumaine, then put one of the disks inside Trumaine’s breast pocket, then slid the second inside his lapel, at the same level than the first one. The guard held it in position for a moment as the stapler activated with a soft bleep. The two halves clicked together, gripping through the fabric of the suit, very much like an anti-theft tag.
“You’re done,” said the guard. “The transmitter works together with the feature scanner embedded in the turnstile. If you change your jacket, or if you lose it, come back to me and I’ll give you a replacement.”
The guard stood aside, motioning for the detective to try the turnstile. Trumaine approached the barrier. Before it let him through, a light flashed in his face, taking a mugshot of him.
Only then did the turnstile door slide open with a hiss. It shut in silence behind him as he walked past.
Trumaine emerged from the turnstiles to find himself in the gallery giving onto the believers’ chamber. It developed over three receding levels that curved inward like the giant steps of an amphitheater.
An endless, orderly array of docking stations arranged for the couches lay on the outer lip of each level, behind a glass parapet that prevented the believers from falling into the gaping chasm of the chamber.
From time to time, the believers arriving from the turnstiles would move to the couch assigned to them. As soon as they sat down and rested their head on it, the couch activated, summoning long iron stems from the chasm. They rose from the abyss below the chamber, looking like the jointed, outstretched legs of giant spiders crawling from their cobwebs.
One by one, the spindly arms would then hook to the underside of the deckchairs, lifting and carrying them into the chamber, balancing them on their tips the same way waiters would do with a tray.
The stems delivered the couches to a preordained position in the mesh of the deckchairs already floating in the chamber.
In a similar way, when a believer had finished his shift, his couch would be automatically withdrawn from the chamber and, again, laid with mathematical precision to whichever level and docking position it had originally been retrieved from. Once the couch had been secured to its cradle, the stems would unhinge and return in silence to the bottom of the chamber, or move to pick up another believer.
The occupants of the
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