than the things we go after. What I meant was, I need your help to get this trolley up and over the closed ticket barriers. Unless you have some clever trick to get us past them.”
JC smiled at her pityingly, took out his travel card, and slapped it against the clearly indicated contact point. The barriers sprang open.
“Very good!” said Melody. “Now consider the sheer amount of equipment packed onto this trolley and tell me how you’re planning to squeeze it all through that narrow gap.”
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” said JC. “But it’s not going anywhere yet.”
“Why not?” said Melody, immediately suspicious. “What still needs doing?”
“Listen,” said JC. He stood very still, his head cocked slightly to one side, a single finger held up, as though testing for some spiritual breeze. “ Listen . . . Get a feel for the place. It’s 5:07 P.M. Well into the city rush hour. There should be crowds of people flowing through this station, heading home after a hard day’s work or shopping. Men and women and children, workers and families—the city’s human lifeblood—chasing headlong through its arteries. They should be filling this place, loud and raucous and determined to be on their way.”
“God, you do love the sound of your own voice,” said Melody.
“It’s always worse when he gets like this,” Happy said gloomily. “It means he’s moved into full smug mode because he thinks he’s spotted something we haven’t.”
“All right, I get it, it’s quiet,” said Melody. “Can we move on now, please?”
JC looked at Happy, smiling his most superior smile. “Do you get it, Happy?”
“Maybe,” said Happy, reluctantly. “It’s the wrong kind of quiet. Not only the absence of noise but the actual suppression of all sound, of everything that’s alive and natural. As though something else has replaced the sound of people. An unwanted Presence, like a weight on the air, pressing down on the world. This light is all wrong, too. It’s too bright, too stark . . . merciless and forensic, like a dissecting lab. We are very definitely not alone down here.”
“Well,” said Melody, after a moment, “that was very nicely spoken, Happy. All very fab and groovy, splendidly atmospheric and ominous; but you’re as bad as he is. Feelings are useless until I can get my lovely machines set up, and we can start analysing the data! So suck it up, brain boy, and help JC and me lift this bloody trolley over the bloody ticket barriers. Preferably without dropping anything fragile.”
“Your vibrator broke down again last night, didn’t it?” said Happy.
“Stay out of my head!”
“Lucky guess, lucky guess,” said Happy, holding up both hands and trying not to grin. “Let’s shift the trolley and get this show on the road.”
“God loves a volunteer,” said JC. “Come, children, lift that barge and tote that bale; the ghosts are waiting.”
The three of them man-handled the trolley over the barriers without too much trouble, Melody alternately coaxing and bullying the equipment to stay in place. They then had to carry it down the escalator to the tunnels and platforms below, as none of the metal stairways was moving. Apparently the main computers were down. Personally, JC thought they were lucky to still have the lights, but he had enough sense to keep the comment to himself. There was such a thing as tempting fate. JC, Happy, and Melody bumped and clattered the trolley all the way down the unmoving metal steps, accompanied by a certain amount of bruised limbs, trapped fingers, and really foul language, before they finally reached the bottom.
Happy gave the trolley a good kick, on general principles, then stopped suddenly and stood very still, one hand upraised to ward off questions from the others. He frowned thoughtfully, listening with more than his ears. JC and Melody looked at him, then at each other, shrugged pretty much simultaneously, and
JC smiled at her pityingly, took out his travel card, and slapped it against the clearly indicated contact point. The barriers sprang open.
“Very good!” said Melody. “Now consider the sheer amount of equipment packed onto this trolley and tell me how you’re planning to squeeze it all through that narrow gap.”
“You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days,” said JC. “But it’s not going anywhere yet.”
“Why not?” said Melody, immediately suspicious. “What still needs doing?”
“Listen,” said JC. He stood very still, his head cocked slightly to one side, a single finger held up, as though testing for some spiritual breeze. “ Listen . . . Get a feel for the place. It’s 5:07 P.M. Well into the city rush hour. There should be crowds of people flowing through this station, heading home after a hard day’s work or shopping. Men and women and children, workers and families—the city’s human lifeblood—chasing headlong through its arteries. They should be filling this place, loud and raucous and determined to be on their way.”
“God, you do love the sound of your own voice,” said Melody.
“It’s always worse when he gets like this,” Happy said gloomily. “It means he’s moved into full smug mode because he thinks he’s spotted something we haven’t.”
“All right, I get it, it’s quiet,” said Melody. “Can we move on now, please?”
JC looked at Happy, smiling his most superior smile. “Do you get it, Happy?”
“Maybe,” said Happy, reluctantly. “It’s the wrong kind of quiet. Not only the absence of noise but the actual suppression of all sound, of everything that’s alive and natural. As though something else has replaced the sound of people. An unwanted Presence, like a weight on the air, pressing down on the world. This light is all wrong, too. It’s too bright, too stark . . . merciless and forensic, like a dissecting lab. We are very definitely not alone down here.”
“Well,” said Melody, after a moment, “that was very nicely spoken, Happy. All very fab and groovy, splendidly atmospheric and ominous; but you’re as bad as he is. Feelings are useless until I can get my lovely machines set up, and we can start analysing the data! So suck it up, brain boy, and help JC and me lift this bloody trolley over the bloody ticket barriers. Preferably without dropping anything fragile.”
“Your vibrator broke down again last night, didn’t it?” said Happy.
“Stay out of my head!”
“Lucky guess, lucky guess,” said Happy, holding up both hands and trying not to grin. “Let’s shift the trolley and get this show on the road.”
“God loves a volunteer,” said JC. “Come, children, lift that barge and tote that bale; the ghosts are waiting.”
The three of them man-handled the trolley over the barriers without too much trouble, Melody alternately coaxing and bullying the equipment to stay in place. They then had to carry it down the escalator to the tunnels and platforms below, as none of the metal stairways was moving. Apparently the main computers were down. Personally, JC thought they were lucky to still have the lights, but he had enough sense to keep the comment to himself. There was such a thing as tempting fate. JC, Happy, and Melody bumped and clattered the trolley all the way down the unmoving metal steps, accompanied by a certain amount of bruised limbs, trapped fingers, and really foul language, before they finally reached the bottom.
Happy gave the trolley a good kick, on general principles, then stopped suddenly and stood very still, one hand upraised to ward off questions from the others. He frowned thoughtfully, listening with more than his ears. JC and Melody looked at him, then at each other, shrugged pretty much simultaneously, and
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