The Source by Brian Lumley Page B

through to naked metal plates, which were buckled out of alignment. It seemed somehow paradoxical that a Russian Army flame-thrower stood on a shelf against the exterior wall, clamped in position there. In surroundings like these Jazz might well have expected a fire extinguisher—but a flame-thrower? He made a mental note to ask about it later, but right now:
    â€œThe Perchorsk Incident,” he said, watching Khuv for his reaction.
    â€œCorrect.” The Russian’s expression didn’t change. He faced Jazz eye to eye. “Now we are going to take that strait-jacket off you. The reason is simple: down in the lower levels you will need some freedom of movement. I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself. However, should you attempt anything foolish, Karl has my permission—indeed he has my instructions—to hurt you severely. Also I should tell you that if you got lost down there, you could well find yourself in an area of high radioactivity. Eventually we may get around to decontaminating all the hotspots, but it’s unlikely. Why should we when we won’t have cause to use those areas again? And so, depending on how long it took you to surrender, or how long it took us to flush you out, you
would almost certainly jeopardize your health—perhaps even fatally. Do you understand?”
    Jazz nodded. “But do you really think I’d be stupid enough to make a run for it? Where to, for God’s sake!?”
    â€œAs I explained before,” Khuv reminded him while Vyotsky unfastened the restraining straps on his straitjacket, “we aren’t too concerned that you’ll try to escape. That would be sheer suicide, and you no longer have reasons to wish to die—if you ever did. What we are concerned about is the damage you might do, maybe even large-scale sabotage. And that could have very grave consequences indeed. Not only for everyone here, but for the entire world!”
    For once Jazz’s expression changed. He slanted his mouth into a humourless smile, laughed gratingly. “A bit melodramatic, aren’t we, Comrade? I think maybe you’ve been watching too many decadent James Bond films!”
    â€œDo you?” said Khuv, his slightly slanted eyes narrowing a fraction and becoming that much brighter. “Do you indeed?”
    He took a key from his pocket, turned to the heavy metal door. It was equipped with a lock set centrally in a steel hand-wheel, like a locking device on a bank vault. As Khuv went to insert his key, so the wheel turned through quarter of a circle and the edges of the door cracked open. Khuv stepped back. Someone was coming through from the other side.
    The door opened fully toward the three where they waited, and a handful of technicians and two men dressed in smart civilian clothes came through. One of the two was fat, beaming, jovial: a VIP visitor from Moscow. The other, grave-faced, was small and thin; his face was badly scarred and the hair was absent from the left half of his face and yellow-veined skull. Jazz had seen him before; he was Viktor Luchov, Direktor
of the Perchorsk Projekt—a survivor of Perchorsk Incidents One and Two.
    Brief greetings were exchanged between Khuv and these two men, and then the larger party went on its way. Then Jazz and his escorts passed through the door and Khuv locked it behind them.
    Beyond the door the complex took on an entirely different aspect. By comparison, the damage on the approach to this area had been superficial. Jazz stared and tried to make sense of the chaos he saw there. The evidence of terrific heat was apparent everywhere: stanchions were blackened and in places eaten half-way through; the floor-plates were missing entirely, had been replaced with timbers; the face of the exterior rock wall—literally the mountain itself—was black, dull and lumpy, like lava frozen in its course. A metal chair or desk—difficult to tell which—and a steel cabinet