"Rhys Hughes - The Singularity Spectres" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Rhys)

In the smoke which filled the office, a mirage of my wife congealed and wagged a vaporous finger. I stood
and reached for my hat and coat. I had the impression even my guest was startled by my compliance.
Gripping the cigar between his teeth, he opened the door; we stepped out into the corridor, avoiding the
crevices which yawned through the building to the basement. At the bottom of the deepest, something
shuffled. When we took the external fire-escape and finally gained the pavement, Zimara set off toward the
railway tracks. Gutters slurped puddle-soup as I followed him up the Benwell, Hornsey and Tollington Roads,
alternately cursing myself and the Dean for my gullibility.
 My breathless questions were ignored as we snatched the rain out of the air, mimicking sponges all the
way to Finsbury Park. My patience was exhausted and I gasped, "I refuse to take another step unless you
reveal our destination!" He turned and gestured at the entrance to the station, which nonplussed me. "The
Tube?"

"Of course! Did you expect me to guide you to the rim of a volcano? This isn't a French novel, Professor! I
haven't got any change on me. Do you mind buying two tickets for the Piccadilly Line? Come on, don't be a
cheapskate. It's an investment."

Muttering, I dipped into my pockets. We groped into the grubby dark of the underground, buying our
tickets from a capricious vending-machine and passing through the automatic turnstiles into the organised
chaos of the commuter landscape. Zimara led me down a corridor at an angle to the main flow of humanity;
halfway along this, we took another side-passage. We trudged an interminable number of deserted tunnels,
each narrower and more crooked than the previous one. The quality of the lighting began to deteriorate; the
electric lamps were dimmer and spaced further apart, as if illuminating the past. Finally, gas-mantles took
their place, lashing our shadows on the mouldy walls.

Above us, behind the flaking plaster of the roof, trains rumbled on unseen tracks. We were far below the
normal platforms. I shivered with a sudden realisation of my predicament. It was too late to go back now, so I
remarked that pick and shovel might be a quicker method of ingress. My companion ignored my sarcasm and
placed a finger to his lips. We emerged into a damp chamber spiked with stalagmites: he scurried to the far
end, where a single escalator smoothly descended into infinity. I reached his side and peered into the chasm;
hot air dried the moisture on my cheeks. Prepared for most situations, I removed a collapsible telescope from
one of my deep pockets and opened it.

The bottom of the escalator was beyond the power of the instrument. The walls of the shaft were coated
with a phosphorescent slime and there was enough light to observe the moving staircase at maximum range.
While I silently marvelled, Zimara plucked at my sleeve. "Well here it is, the ninth wonder of the underworld."

"Who on Earth designed it?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It might have been the Victorians. They were obsessed with ambitious
projects. Didn't they try to build a tunnel under the Atlantic? It doesn't matter. This is our means of entry to
the world's core. Four-thousand miles!"

"How do you know it goes all the way?"

He smirked. "I've come up it. A terrible journey! Imagine having to run the wrong way for that distance...
Each time I rested, I lost ground as the blasted thing carried me back down. Luckily, I was able to stitch a
balloon from my prison overalls and hot air rising up the shaft lifted me the remainder of the voyage."

I found his sense of humour somewhat obscure. "Prison overalls? You convinced me you were honest. If
the Dean finds out I'm in league with a reprobate, my contract will be terminated."