Zelazny, Roger - SS - Lucifer.pdf - Roger Zelazny - chomikbob7

Lucifer

Roger Zelazny

Carlson stood on the hill in the silent center of the city whose people

haddied.

He stared up at the Building--the one structure that dwarfed every

hotel-grid, skyscraper-needle, or apartment- cheeseboxpacked into all the

milesthat lay around him. Tall as a mountain, itcaught the rays of the

bloodysun. Somehow it turned their red into golden halfway up its height.

Carlson suddenly felt that he should not have come back.

It had been over two years, as he figured it, since last he had been

here. He wanted to return to the mountains now. One look was enough. Yet

still he stood before it, transfixed by the huge Building, by the long

shadowthat bridged the entire valley. He shrugged his thick shoulders then,

inan unsuccessful attempt to shake off memories of the days, five (or was

itsix?)years ago, when he had worked within the giant unit.

Then he climbed the rest of the way up the hill and entered the high,

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widedoorway.

His fiber sandals cast a variety of echoesas he passed through the

desertedoffices and into the long hallway that led to the belts.

The belts, of course, were still. There were no thousands riding them.

There was no one alive to ride. Their deep belly-rumble was only a noisy

phantom inhis head as he climbed onto the one nearest him and walked ahead

intothe pitchy insides of the place.

It was like a mausoleum. There seemed no ceiling,no walls , only the

soft_pat-pat_ of his soles on the flexible fabric of the belt.

He reacheda junction and mounted a cross-belt, instinctively standing

stillfor a moment and waiting for the forward lurch as it sensed his

weight.

Then he chuckled silently and began walking again.

When he reached the lift, he set off to the right of it until his

memoryled him to the maintenance stairs. Shouldering his bundle, he began

thelong, groping ascent.

He blinked at the light when he came into the Power Room. Filtered

throughits hundred high windows, the sunlight trickled across the dusty

acresof machinery.

Carlson sagged against the wall, breathing heavily from the climb.

After awhile he wiped a workbench clean and set down his parcel.

Then he removed his faded shirt, for the place would soonbe stifling .

He brushed his hair from his eyes and advanced down the narrow metal stair

towhere the generators stood, row on row, like an army of dead, black

beetles. It took him six hours to give them all a cursory check.

He selected three in the second row and systematically began tearing

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themdown, cleaning them, soldering their loose connections with the

auto-iron, greasing them, oiling them and sweeping away all the dust,

cobwebs, and pieces of cracked insulation that lay at their bases.

Great rivulets of perspiration ran into hiseyes and down along his

sides and thighs, spilling in little droplets onto the hot flooring and

vanishingquickly.

Finally, he put down his broom, remounted the stair and returned to his

parcel. He removed one of the water bottles and drank off half its contents.

He ate a piece of dried meat and finished the bottle. He allowed himself one

cigarettethen, and returned to work.

He was forced to stop when it grew dark.He had planned on sleeping

right there, but the room was too oppressive. So he departed the way he had

comeand slept beneath the stars, on the roof of a low building at the foot

ofthe hill.

It took him two more days to get the generators ready. Then he began

work on the huge Broadcast Panel. It was in better condition than the

generators, because it had last been used two years ago. Whereas the

generators, except for the three he had burned out last time, had slept for

overfive (or was it six?) years.

He soldered and wiped and inspected until he was satisfied. Then only

onetask remained.

All the maintenance robots stood frozen in mid-gesture. Carlson would

have to wrestle a three hundred pound power cube without assistance. If he

couldget one down from the rack and onto a cart without breaking a wrist he

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wouldprobably be able to convey it to the Igniter without much difficulty.

Then he would have to place it within the oven. He had almost ruptured

himselfwhen he did it two years ago, but he hoped that he was somewhat

stronger--and luckier--this time.

It took him ten minutes to clean the Igniter oven. Then he located a

cartand pushed it back to the rack.

One cube resting at just the right height,approximately eight inches

above the level of the cart's bed. He kicked down the anchor chocks and

movedaround to study the rack. The cube lay ona downward -slanting shelf,

restrained bya two-inch metal guard. He pushed at the guard. It was bolted

tothe shelf.

Returning to the work area, he searched the toolboxes for a wrench.

Then he moved back to the rack and set to work on the nuts.

The guard came loose as he was working on the fourth nut. He heard a

dangerouscreak and threw himself back out of the way, dropping the wrench

onhis toes.

The cube slid forward, crushed the loosened rail, teetered a bare

moment, then dropped with a resounding crash onto the heavy bed of the cart.

The bed surface bent and began to crease beneath its weight; the cart swayed

towardthe outside. The cube continuedto slide until over half a foot

projected beyond the edge. Then the cart righted itself and shivered into

steadiness.

Carlson sighed and kicked loose the chocks, ready tojump back should

itsuddenly give way in his direction. It held.

Gingerly, he guided it up the aisle and between the rows of generators,

until he stood before the Igniter . He anchored the cart again, stopped for

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waterand a cigarette, then searched up a pinch bar, a small jack and a

long, flat metal plate.

He laid the plate to bridge the front end of the cart and the opening

tothe oven. He wedged the far end in beneath the Igniter's doorframe.

Unlocking the rear chocks, he inserted the jack and began toraise the

back end of the wagon, slowly, working with one hand and holding the bar

readyin his other.

The cart groaned as it moved higher. Then a sliding, grating sound

beganand he raised it faster.

With a sound like the stroke of a cracked bell the cube tumbled onto

the bridgeway; it slid forward and to the left. Hestruck at it with the

bar, bearing to the right with all his strength. About half an inch of it

caughtagainst the left edge of the oven frame. The gap between the cube and

theframe was widest at the bottom.

He inserted the bar and heaved his weight against it--three times.

Then it moved forward and came to rest within the Igniter .

He began to laugh. He laughed until he felt weak. He sat onthe broken

cart, swinging his legs and chuckling to himself, until the sounds coming

from his throat seemed alien and out of place. He stopped abruptly and

slammedthe door.

The Broadcast Panel had a thousand eyes, but none of them winked back

athim. He made the final adjustments for Transmit, then gave the generators

theirlast check-out.

There was still some daylight to spend,so he moved from window to

windowpressing the "Open" button set below each sill.

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