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Authors: George R. R. Martin
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no pattern, though Ramon found
himself slowly learning to anticipate them.
Away from the chambers, in the
tunnels, it was close and dark and silent. The lead alien’s back gleamed pale
and faint in the phosphorescent glow of the rock, like a fish in dark water,
and, for a moment, it seemed to Ramon as if the markings on its flesh were
moving, writhing and changing like living things. He stumbled, and
instinctively clutched the alien’s arm to keep from falling. Its skin was warm
and dry, like snake skin. In the enclosed space of the tunnel, he could smell
the alien; it had a heavy, musky odor, like olive oil, like cloves, strange
rather than unpleasant. It neither looked behind nor paused nor made a sound.
The three aliens continued to walk on imperturbably, at the same steady pace,
and Ramon had no choice but to follow after them or be left alone in the chilly
darkness of this black alien maze.
At last, they came to a stop in
another garishly lit chamber, Ramon almost walking into the wide back of the
alien in front of him. To the human eye, there was something subtly wrong about
the proportions and dimensions of the chamber: it was more a rhombus than a
rectangle, the floor was slightly tilted, the ceiling tilted at another angle and
not of uniform height, everything subliminally disorienting, everything off, making Ramon feel sick and dizzy. The light was too bright and too blue,
and the chamber was filled with a whispering susurrus that hovered right at the
threshold of hearing.
This place had not been made by
human beings, nor was it meant for them. As he entered the chamber, he saw that
the walls streamed with tiny, crawling pictures, as though a film of oil was
continuously flowing from ceiling to floor and carrying with it a thin scum of
ever-changing images: swirls of vivid color, geometric shapes, mazy impressionistic
designs, vast surrealistic landscapes. Occasionally, something recognizable
would stream by: representations of trees, mountains, stars, tiny alien faces
that would seem to stare malignly at Ramon out of the feverdream chaos as they
poured down to be swallowed by the floor.
The alien who’d escorted him
gestured him forward. Gingerly, Ramon crossed the chamber, feeling uneasy and
disconcerted, unconsciously leaning to one side to correct the tilt of the
floor and putting his feet down cautiously, as though he expected the chamber
to pitch or yaw.
In the center of the chamber was
a deep circular pit, lined by metal, and at the bottom of the pit was another
alien.
It was even taller than Ramon’s
guides, and much fatter, the lower part of its body bloated to four or five
times the circumference of the other aliens, and its crest and quills were much
longer. Its skin was maggot-white, and completely free of markings. White with
age? Dyed white as an indication of rank? Or was it of a different race? Impossible
to say, but as the alien’s eyes turned upward toward Ramon, he was seized and
shaken by the force behind its gaze, by the harsh authority it exuded. He
noticed, with another little shock, that the creature was physically connected
to the pit - things that might have been wires or rods or cables emerged from
its body and disappeared into the smooth metal walls, forming an intricate cat’s
cradle around it. Some of the cables were black and dull, some were luminescent,
and some, glossy red and gray and brown, pulsed slowly and rhythmically, as if
with an obscene life of their own.
The hot orange eyes considered
him. Ramon felt his nakedness acutely, but refused to bend to this alien’s will
even to cover himself. The great pale head shifted.
‘Noun,’ the alien said. ‘Verb
form. Identifier. Semantic placeholder. Sense of identity.’
Ramon stared at the alien,
fighting to keep surprise from his face. It had spoken in Spanish (Ramon also
spoke some English and Portuguese and French, as well as, of course,
Portuglish, the bastard lingua franca of
himself slowly learning to anticipate them.
Away from the chambers, in the
tunnels, it was close and dark and silent. The lead alien’s back gleamed pale
and faint in the phosphorescent glow of the rock, like a fish in dark water,
and, for a moment, it seemed to Ramon as if the markings on its flesh were
moving, writhing and changing like living things. He stumbled, and
instinctively clutched the alien’s arm to keep from falling. Its skin was warm
and dry, like snake skin. In the enclosed space of the tunnel, he could smell
the alien; it had a heavy, musky odor, like olive oil, like cloves, strange
rather than unpleasant. It neither looked behind nor paused nor made a sound.
The three aliens continued to walk on imperturbably, at the same steady pace,
and Ramon had no choice but to follow after them or be left alone in the chilly
darkness of this black alien maze.
At last, they came to a stop in
another garishly lit chamber, Ramon almost walking into the wide back of the
alien in front of him. To the human eye, there was something subtly wrong about
the proportions and dimensions of the chamber: it was more a rhombus than a
rectangle, the floor was slightly tilted, the ceiling tilted at another angle and
not of uniform height, everything subliminally disorienting, everything off, making Ramon feel sick and dizzy. The light was too bright and too blue,
and the chamber was filled with a whispering susurrus that hovered right at the
threshold of hearing.
This place had not been made by
human beings, nor was it meant for them. As he entered the chamber, he saw that
the walls streamed with tiny, crawling pictures, as though a film of oil was
continuously flowing from ceiling to floor and carrying with it a thin scum of
ever-changing images: swirls of vivid color, geometric shapes, mazy impressionistic
designs, vast surrealistic landscapes. Occasionally, something recognizable
would stream by: representations of trees, mountains, stars, tiny alien faces
that would seem to stare malignly at Ramon out of the feverdream chaos as they
poured down to be swallowed by the floor.
The alien who’d escorted him
gestured him forward. Gingerly, Ramon crossed the chamber, feeling uneasy and
disconcerted, unconsciously leaning to one side to correct the tilt of the
floor and putting his feet down cautiously, as though he expected the chamber
to pitch or yaw.
In the center of the chamber was
a deep circular pit, lined by metal, and at the bottom of the pit was another
alien.
It was even taller than Ramon’s
guides, and much fatter, the lower part of its body bloated to four or five
times the circumference of the other aliens, and its crest and quills were much
longer. Its skin was maggot-white, and completely free of markings. White with
age? Dyed white as an indication of rank? Or was it of a different race? Impossible
to say, but as the alien’s eyes turned upward toward Ramon, he was seized and
shaken by the force behind its gaze, by the harsh authority it exuded. He
noticed, with another little shock, that the creature was physically connected
to the pit - things that might have been wires or rods or cables emerged from
its body and disappeared into the smooth metal walls, forming an intricate cat’s
cradle around it. Some of the cables were black and dull, some were luminescent,
and some, glossy red and gray and brown, pulsed slowly and rhythmically, as if
with an obscene life of their own.
The hot orange eyes considered
him. Ramon felt his nakedness acutely, but refused to bend to this alien’s will
even to cover himself. The great pale head shifted.
‘Noun,’ the alien said. ‘Verb
form. Identifier. Semantic placeholder. Sense of identity.’
Ramon stared at the alien,
fighting to keep surprise from his face. It had spoken in Spanish (Ramon also
spoke some English and Portuguese and French, as well as, of course,
Portuglish, the bastard lingua franca of
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