Zelazny, Roger - Lucifer

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Roger%20Zelazny%20-%20Lucifer.txt

Roger Zelazny. Lucifer

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

had died.

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

hotel-grid, skyscraper-needle, or apartment-cheesebox packed into all the

miles that lay around him. Tall as a mountain, it caught the rays of the

bloody sun. 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

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

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

it six?) 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,

wide doorway.

His fiber sandals cast a variety of echoes as he passed through the

deserted offices 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 in his head as he climbed onto the one nearest him and walked ahead

into the 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 reached a junction and mounted a cross-belt, instinctively standing

still for 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

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

the long, groping ascent.

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

through its hundred high windows, the sunlight trickled across the dusty

acres of 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 soon be stifling.

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

to where 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

them down, 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 his eyes and down along his

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

vanishing quickly.

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

cigarette then, 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

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

of the 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

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