Read Online Inferno by Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle
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burn.
We were in a corridor that stretched to infinity in both directions. It was about ten feet high and wide, and there were doors at intervals along it. People hurried in both directions, paying us no attention.
And there were all kinds of people! Men and women in flowing robes, in U.S. Post Office uniforms, in colonial costumes, in the high collars Dickensian clerks had worn, military uniforms, dhotis, Chinese mandarin robes, modern business suits, coveralls with insignia of planets and stars and sunbursts, and a whirl of scurrying humanity shoving past us as if we weren’t there.
Nobody was going to notice us for our funny clothing.
The old man we’d seen outside rushed past us, almost running. He carried a box of fresh mud and poked at it with a stick as he ran. We watched as he turned through a door and out of sight.
Someone had stopped beside us and was laughing. He wore a Roman toga.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“Certainly.” He was still laughing.
“Who was that?” I asked.
The laughter stopped, and the man glared. He was carrying some kind of wood plank with wax on it. There were letters cut in the wax. “You are new here?” he demanded.
“From another division,” Benito said quickly. He lowered his voice. “Special assignment.”
The Roman drew away from us. “Surely you have no interest in Himuralibima? He is our most honored civil servant. Hammurabi’s secretary, you know. Invented record-keeping.”
“Ah,” I said. Hammurabi? Oh, all right, he’s Hammurabi’s secretary. And I am Napoleon Bonaparte . “You’d think after all these years they’d let him slow down a little.”
“But he can’t ,” the Roman protested. “They’ve offered him retirement, but he has to fill out the proper forms, and in his case, of course they’re in cuneiform. And you have noticed how hot it is in here?”
I couldn’t stand it. I tipped my head back and roared with laughter. It rolled out, gales of laughter, choking me, as I thought of that first bureaucrat trying to complete his retirement papers before the mud dried from the heat . . .
. . . Himuralibima’s Bay ?
Benito merely nodded. “Fitting. I am certain you have work, Signor—?”
“Uh, of course,” the Roman said. “Your pardon.” He pushed past us and walked briskly down the corridor. Our clerk came out of his office. The Roman stopped, and they talked in whispers.
“Allen, must you ask unnecessary questions?” Benito demanded.
“I’m a writer. Of course I ask questions!”
“Please do not. Not in here. For the moment we are safe. They think—” He motioned with his eyes.
I turned my eyes only. The Roman had stopped someone else and was whispering to him. The man he’d stopped, a young man in a 1930s U.S. Army uniform, nodded. Pretty soon he stopped someone else and both looked clandestinely at us. They stopped others . . .
“They’re telling stories about us,” I said.
“Yes. Let us hope they are telling the proper ones. Now we must find the supply center.”
W
herever we went we were preceded and followed by whispers. People got out of our way, too. If we wanted to go through a door, if we even looked like we wanted to go through a door, there was a scramble to hold it open for us.
“They sure are scared of you,” I said. “They know who you are.” Which is more than I did.
“I think few of them have the least notion of who I am.”
Oh, really? “You know your way around here.”
“No. I know my way around bureaucracies. This one is no different from any other.”
“You were a bureaucrat once?”
He hesitated. “I suppose you might say so.”
“Exactly what—”
An anguished voice drowned me out. We were passing an open door, and a woman’s voice screamed in rage and pain: “But that form is twenty-seven pages long! All that for one tool?”
I looked in, caught a familiar hawklike profile, turned back and kept walking. “Don’t look now,” I said out of the corner of my
We were in a corridor that stretched to infinity in both directions. It was about ten feet high and wide, and there were doors at intervals along it. People hurried in both directions, paying us no attention.
And there were all kinds of people! Men and women in flowing robes, in U.S. Post Office uniforms, in colonial costumes, in the high collars Dickensian clerks had worn, military uniforms, dhotis, Chinese mandarin robes, modern business suits, coveralls with insignia of planets and stars and sunbursts, and a whirl of scurrying humanity shoving past us as if we weren’t there.
Nobody was going to notice us for our funny clothing.
The old man we’d seen outside rushed past us, almost running. He carried a box of fresh mud and poked at it with a stick as he ran. We watched as he turned through a door and out of sight.
Someone had stopped beside us and was laughing. He wore a Roman toga.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“Certainly.” He was still laughing.
“Who was that?” I asked.
The laughter stopped, and the man glared. He was carrying some kind of wood plank with wax on it. There were letters cut in the wax. “You are new here?” he demanded.
“From another division,” Benito said quickly. He lowered his voice. “Special assignment.”
The Roman drew away from us. “Surely you have no interest in Himuralibima? He is our most honored civil servant. Hammurabi’s secretary, you know. Invented record-keeping.”
“Ah,” I said. Hammurabi? Oh, all right, he’s Hammurabi’s secretary. And I am Napoleon Bonaparte . “You’d think after all these years they’d let him slow down a little.”
“But he can’t ,” the Roman protested. “They’ve offered him retirement, but he has to fill out the proper forms, and in his case, of course they’re in cuneiform. And you have noticed how hot it is in here?”
I couldn’t stand it. I tipped my head back and roared with laughter. It rolled out, gales of laughter, choking me, as I thought of that first bureaucrat trying to complete his retirement papers before the mud dried from the heat . . .
. . . Himuralibima’s Bay ?
Benito merely nodded. “Fitting. I am certain you have work, Signor—?”
“Uh, of course,” the Roman said. “Your pardon.” He pushed past us and walked briskly down the corridor. Our clerk came out of his office. The Roman stopped, and they talked in whispers.
“Allen, must you ask unnecessary questions?” Benito demanded.
“I’m a writer. Of course I ask questions!”
“Please do not. Not in here. For the moment we are safe. They think—” He motioned with his eyes.
I turned my eyes only. The Roman had stopped someone else and was whispering to him. The man he’d stopped, a young man in a 1930s U.S. Army uniform, nodded. Pretty soon he stopped someone else and both looked clandestinely at us. They stopped others . . .
“They’re telling stories about us,” I said.
“Yes. Let us hope they are telling the proper ones. Now we must find the supply center.”
W
herever we went we were preceded and followed by whispers. People got out of our way, too. If we wanted to go through a door, if we even looked like we wanted to go through a door, there was a scramble to hold it open for us.
“They sure are scared of you,” I said. “They know who you are.” Which is more than I did.
“I think few of them have the least notion of who I am.”
Oh, really? “You know your way around here.”
“No. I know my way around bureaucracies. This one is no different from any other.”
“You were a bureaucrat once?”
He hesitated. “I suppose you might say so.”
“Exactly what—”
An anguished voice drowned me out. We were passing an open door, and a woman’s voice screamed in rage and pain: “But that form is twenty-seven pages long! All that for one tool?”
I looked in, caught a familiar hawklike profile, turned back and kept walking. “Don’t look now,” I said out of the corner of my
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