“Ah… no, sir. I felt my first duty at this point was to return to Marshside with what I knew, not to risk getting myself killed."

“I can't fault you for that,” John agreed. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread-and you're no fool, Matt."

“Thank you, Captain."

“Somebody has to get in there, though. I won't ask you to go-after three weeks here you've done enough. I'll go myself."

“Do you think that's wise, sir?"

“It may not be. Look, I'll give you the fare back to Little St. Peter; if I'm not back by noon tomorrow you use it. I have a prisoner from Marshside, a woman, at the inn here-the Righteous House. She's locked in an upstairs room. Take her back with you. We left three horses in the stable at St. Peter's Inn, under the name Joel Meek-Before-Christ. You talk to a man there named James Redeemed-from-Sin, and he should let you have them. You ride back to Marshside and report to Lieutenant Habakkuk. Understand?"

“Yes, sir."

“Good.” He counted out the money, then passed over his trade goods as well. “Here, take these darn woolens and see if you can sell any, and I'll go take a look at that fortress."

“Yes, sir.” Matthew looked at the bundle. “What should I do with them?"

“Sell them-here in the market. You should get at least fifteen Heavener credits for them."

“Yes, sir.” He accepted the woolens unhappily.

“I should see you back at the inn around sundown, I think."

“Yes, sir."

John stepped back, then turned and strolled off in the direction of the headquarters building, leaving Matthew standing in the market looking confused and dismayed.

To his surprise, there were no guards. The strange glass doors were not only not locked, they stood open invitingly. He wondered if he had been misled by the building's massive appearance; perhaps this was not actually a fortress at all, despite the thick walls of smooth concrete. He ambled in, trying to look casual, as if he belonged where he was; nobody seemed to notice.

He found himself in a brightly-lit chamber-too brightly lit, and in an oddly yellow-greenish light that seemed to come from the entire ceiling. Three passages led off in various directions, and half a dozen closed doors were located in the various walls. The floor was covered by thick golden carpet, more luxurious than anything he had ever imagined; the walls were tawny plastic, the doors a darker shade of the same color. There was no furniture, and no people were anywhere in sight.

Puzzled, he chose a corridor at random and walked on into the depths of the building.

The corridor led past dozens upon dozens of doors, across intersecting corridors, endlessly; whenever he thought he saw the end of the passage through the harsh glare of the yellow-green lighting it turned out to be merely a corner.

His eyes adjusted to the odd illumination after a time, and he was able to notice details. None of the doors had handles, and there were no signs to indicate what might lie behind any of them; instead, a small red square of what appeared to be glass was set into the wall beside each one. The corners, he realized, were mostly to the left, so that he was actually following a large rectangle around and around; he had come in on one of the intersecting passages, but he could not identify which one. If he continued to turn only at the ends of the corridors, he would retrace his steps over and over forever.

He had just reached this conclusion after almost fifteen minutes’ walk, and was about to pick a crossing passage at random, when a door a few paces ahead of him slid open and a woman stepped out.

He stopped, prepared to salute a lady, but did not nod his courtesy after all; this woman was obviously no lady. She wore a garment of rusty orange that accorded well with the yellow-brown walls, and with her sallow skin as well; it covered one shoulder, but dipped down on the other side well onto the curve of her breast. The skirt was a respectable near-ankle-length, but slit up either side, and the entire dress flowed as she moved, shifting about her so that John had occasional glimpses of far more of her anatomy than he felt he had any right to see.

“Hlo,” she said, “My name's Tuesday; what's yours?"

“Joel Meek-Before-Christ,” he answered shortly, cutting off his natural tendency to add, “At your service.” He was not ready to serve harlots. She had used that odd greeting he had first heard at the airport; he guessed it was a Heavener peculiarity. She had also given a blatantly false name-John knew of no one in the Bible, not even in the Apocrypha, named Tuesday or anything that resembled Tuesday. He looked her in the eye, refusing either to gawk at her body or turn his gaze away in embarrassment, and noticed that her eyes, like her greeting, had a peculiarity of their own, a very strange one indeed; each had a fold of skin at the inner corner that made them seem unnaturally far apart and somehow crooked. Her hair was very black and straight, and her skin an odd color. Distracted by her outrageous garb, he had not seen at first that she was apparently a freak.

“Joel,” she said. “Nice. Come here."

“I'm busy,” he said, and turned away, intending to retreat back to the last intersection he had passed.

“Sure you are,” she said, “wandering around like a lost satellite. You've gone past my door four times now.” She had the Heavener accent even more strongly than most, in addition to her other quirks.

“I have?” He turned back.

“Yes, you have. Come on in, and I'll tell you about it.” She motioned at the open doorway.

John considered quickly. He had no idea who this woman was-though her occupation was certainly obvious, probably something she had been forced into as a result of her physical peculiarities, which would have precluded a respectable marriage-but he also had no idea of where he would find any useful information. He had expected to find the building full of people he could follow, signs he could read, and other indications of where things were; these empty, featureless corridors had thrown him badly off-stride. This whore might well be able to tell him something of what was going on. He had never had much contact with whores, but his impression was that most were not particularly bright, and could be manipulated readily.

“All right,” he said. He followed her through the door; it slid silently shut behind him.

Chapter Eight

“But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."-Proverbs 5:4

The room was furnished in a degree of luxury John had never before imagined. The floor was broken into curving sections at various levels one step up or down from one another, all covered with thick red carpeting so soft and lush it seemed more like a low fog wafting about their ankles. The walls and ceiling were opalescent and softly glowing, and there were no windows. Velvet cushions in a hundred shades of red and gold were scattered about, ranging in size from puffs the size of his hand to pillows big enough for two to sleep on. Some were gathered together into couches, and John could not tell whether they were mounted on a frame of some sort, or merely arranged.

Pearly tables of various sizes and shapes-all curved-floated at various altitudes; John looked for the wires that supported them, but could not detect them. Several held bottles, glasses, or platters of multicolored crystal that contained strange food and drink.

There was not a single hard corner or rough feature anywhere in the entire chamber, no surface that was not either gleaming smooth or upholstered in rich fabrics. The woman, sleek and smooth in her flowing dress, fit in well with her surroundings; John, in his rough leather jacket and worn jeans, did not. It was all appallingly decadent.