The Star Below

I

Thorinn, son of Goryat, stood in the darkness and listened. Stone hung heavy over his head, leagues of stone and earth, stretching upward black and silent.

Behind him the sound of the cataract down which he had floated to this place had receded to a dull murmur, and he could hear the gurgle of lesser streams running away somewhere below him. The falling curtains of water were all around Him, ghostly silver and silent, pricked with the jewels of floating droplets. Drifting water-points burst on His lips with tiny cool kisses.

There were gaps in the falling curtains, tom by the irregular stone above. He put his Head through the widest of these openings, saw other broken slabs, other curtains of water beyond.

Following the cool air, He made his way among the gray and silver curtains that hung everywhere from the ceiling. Rivulets ran toward Him underfoot among the slabs of stone, and he knew by this that the floor was slanting upward. At length the falling curtains of water grew less numerous, and the sound diminished to a mournful pattering behind him. Ahead, the cavern broke into a tortured complexity of shapes in which he found a narrow passage leading upward. He paused to tip out the water from his wallet and to dry His Hair as well as he could with his hands; then he followed the passage. It coiled away ahead of him, always upward, always rounded, irregular, dry and empty in the glow of his light-box.

He followed the passage, and at length it widened into a greater darkness. Thorinn stepped out into it cautiously, found himself in a narrow cavern half-choked with a pile of fallen stone. Beyond, in the far wall, he saw a jagged opening.

He climbed the heap of stones and peered in. Light glimmered back from objects whose forms He could not make out. A breath of air came from the opening, but it was slow and stale. He hesitated a moment, then climbed through the gap in the wall and dropped to the level floor below.

Silence pressed in upon his ears, a silence more profound even than that of the passage behind him. On every side stood massive objects piled one on another, with slender rods between them. The floor he stood on was perfectly level and as smooth as ice. It was not stone, but some gray, greasy material which seemed faintly warm to the touch. The air was dry and warm. The huge columns stood in rows; their tops disappeared in the darkness.

Thorinn moved between the columns, touching them curiously as He passed. The rods, of cold metal, were racks on which were piled bundles and bales, and other things for which Thorinn had no words, all covered with some cool, water-smooth substance. He began to realize that He must be in some giant’s storehouse, and he paused, listening; but the silence was unbroken.

He slid his hands curiously around one of the bundles. It was so smooth and heavy that it was hard to find any purchase on it, but he dragged it out at last and lowered it to the floor. It was almost as broad as his arms could span, vaguely oblong but with all its comers rounded, like a huge gray cheese. He looked in vain for any seam or opening; the smooth surface was unbroken.

Next he tried to cut it with his sword. At the first touch, the covering opened like a mouth. Thorinn put his fingers under the edges, marveling at the thinness and transparency of the stuff, finer than the skin of an onion. He pulled, and the tear lengthened easily. The covering split and tore without resistance, and he peeled it off in great rustling sheets. Underneath was a gray soft substance like bread dough; he could push it in, but the hollow filled out again at once, nor could he tear it with his fingers.

Again he used the sword. The gray stuff cut readily, but would not tear like the other. When he pried at the gash he had made, sticky-looking fibers at the bottom clung stubbornly together. He slashed it deeper, and at last it gave way, opening in a slit as the transparent stuff had done, and he saw something else beneath it: a gleam of russet and gold.

He tore away the gray substance in lumps, threw them aside. In the glow of his light-box a bundle of cloth lay revealed, and he caught his breath. Rich and soft beyond belief it was, russet and gold and scarlet in shimmering patterns that were not printed on the fabric but woven into it. He unfolded and unwrapped the cloth, spreading it out on the floor as he went; it covered the whole width of the aisle, and still there was more. Thorinn dropped it and stared at it in helpless wonder. Such a piece of stuff was beyond price; he could ask what he liked for it. This one bale had made Him rich. And what was in all the others?

He attacked a second bundle, found it contained another cloth like the first, colored in deep purple, royal blue, peacock green. In a fury of impatience, he ran to the next aisle, found a rack of smaller bundles, some of which, no bigger than his Head, Bad fallen to the floor. He chose one, slashed it open. Inside was a glittering device of brass and ebony, beautifully made, though he could not imagine its use.

The next was a pretty jug with a handle and a spout to pour from. He tilted it to see why it was so heavy, but only a single drop of moisture came out.

The next was a black-and-red-patterned box in which, nested in purple velvet, lay dozens of tiny bright figurines of men and ladies.

Stunned with joy, He ran to the next aisle and found other outlandish engines; the next: Yen-metal knives smaller than his finger, with tiny blades sharper than his sword; the next: Hammers, wedges, no bigger than the knives, and other tiny tools whose use he could not guess.

The fever to open more and yet mare bundles made him forget weariness, cold, thirst and hunger. He found clothing — wide-skirted robes, heavy with brocade; tunics and breeks of gossamer stuff; shoes, marvelously thin and supple. He found more engines, some with parts that turned, some that did not move at all. He found rings, bracelets, ropes of jewels that spilled in a flood across the floor. Riches piled up around him, and still he was aware that he Had barely begun to loot this incredible treasurehouse.

Once he paused long enough to gather all his trove into one place and, sorting through it, to try to decide what he would take with him, for it was obvious that he could not carry even a tenth of what he had uncovered so far. Then the blank gray faces of the unopened parcels drove him to frenzy again, and against all common sense he attacked bundles larger than any He had yet opened, gray oblongs taller than he was, ripping open their fronts without removing them from the racks, merely to see what was inside them. (Cabinets of polished wood inlaid with nacre. More engines. Chairs with arms curved like serpents. More bales of cloth, ten times larger than the others.)

Then for weariness alone he forebore awhile and sat with his head on his heavy arms. Hunger and thirst returned. He tipped up his wallet and drank what little water was in it, but it was not enough. He began to think of finding some container and going back through the caverns for water. The wallet would do, but he wanted to keep that dry to hold his treasures. He could put some of the smallest things in it, the jewels perhaps, and for the rest make a bundle to carry on his back. But before that he must sleep, and before sleep he must have water to quench his thirst. So he turned the problem back and forth, a little thick-headed in his weariness, and came to the same conclusion ten times over, but did nothing because it was so much pleasanter not to move.

Then he remembered the jug, and opening his eyes, which he had closed in order to think better, He saw it at the edge of the pile he had made on the floor.

He got up wearily, thinking of the long way back through the tunnels. When he took up the little jug, it seemed to him that it was heavier than before. He shook it, and it gurgled. Without thinking, he tipped it over. Water splashed on his feet.

Thorinn righted the jug and stared at it. He shook it again, and it still gurgled. He put the spout cautiously to his lips, tilted it up, tasted. It was water, cold and pure. He put his head back and drank in great gulps until the jug was empty.

To make sure, he held it upside down. A single drop fell, then another, then no more. He set the jug down, sat by it and watched it awhile, but nothing happened. He picked it up, turned it over: water ran out, a thin stream that stopped almost at once. But how could there be any, when the jug had been dry a few moments since?

He put the jug down again and set himself to watch it, resolved to wait longer this time so that there could be no mistake. But he grew impatient and, telling himself that the jug would do well enough by itself, he turned his back on it and opened another bundle. This contained an engine of some sort — a gray box with rounded edges, one thicker than the others. It had no lid; it was open but not quite empty. The bottom of the box was filled with a smooth bulge of glass or crystal. It was well made, but not especially beautiful, and he had engines enough already. Perhaps it was time to go and look at the jug? No, he had left it alone longer the first time. He picked up his light-box and walked down an aisle he had not yet explored. There were many small bundles here. He took one at random and opened it. Inside the nest of gray dough-stuff there were dozens of little boxes with bright markings on them, green, violet, yellow, red. He found the trick of opening them — you put your thumbnail under one edge of the lid, and the box sprang apart. Inside was an oblong piece of some cheesy substance. Thorinn sniffed it, then tore off a crumb and tasted it. It was cheese — bland, with an unfamiliar flavor, but undeniably cheese. He ate the whole piece in two bites, then opened another box, and another, and ate until his belly was full. Weariness forgotten, he carried the rest of the boxes back to his treasure heap.

He picked up the little jug; it gurgled. He could not see inside it very well, but it seemed to be at least half full. He drank deeply, set the jug down. The water still remaining made a pleasant splash.

He sat down with his back against one of the bales of cloth. The box-shaped engine lay nearby on the floor. Thorinn lazily reached for it with one foot and hooked it nearer. It slid, checked on some irregularity in the floor, then tipped forward on its heavy edge and stood upright. Inside, the crystal seemed to flicker with colored light for an instant.

“Here, that’s odd,” said Thorinn, sitting up.

The box flickered again, and a voice spoke.

Thorinn was on his feet without knowing how he had got there. His sword was in his hand. He whirled, looked wildly this way and that, then circled the heap of treasure and peered behind the columns, looked down the aisles. He listened, heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart.

He went back to the box and stared at it dubiously. “Was that you?” he demanded.

The voice spoke again, incomprehensibly. It was a man’s deep voice, calm and measured; but where was it coming from?

“Are you in there?” Thorinn asked, stopping to peer into the box. The voice replied. The dark crystal lighted up. Thorinn saw a confused pattern of light and shadow; then part of it moved, and he saw a tiny crouched figure, dressed in stained leather, with a sword in its hand. When he moved, it moved.

“Is that me?” he cried.

The voice said, “That me?”

Thorinn looked at the box with deep distrust, withdrew a little and sat down facing it. The crystal Had gone dark; now it lighted up again, and he was looking as if down a long tunnel at the same figure, with a column of stacked bundles behind it. It was like looking at oneself in a mirror. Yet when he raised his sword in his right hand, the figure raised its sword in its right hand, not its left, as in a proper mirror.

“You,” said the voice.

“Yes, it’s me,” Thorinn replied. “How do you do that?”

The crystal went dark. “How do me do that?” said the voice.

“Yes, how do you do?” asked Thorinn impatiently. “What’s the matter? Why do you talk that way?”

“Why do me talk that way?” Thorinn felt baffled, “Yes, why do you talk that way?”

The crystal lighted again. “You talk.”

“Well, of course I talk. I talk much better than you.”

In the crystal, the tiny figure seemed to rush forward without moving until its face filled the box. Thorinn fell silent, but in the box he saw his own lips moving. “You talk?” asked the voice. The face rushed forward again, and now he saw only the mouth and chin. “You talk?”

Convinced now that He had to deal with an outlander or witling, Thorinn said, “Yes, I talk,” and gesturing toward his own mouth, he spoke with exaggerated clarity, opening his mouth wide with each word. “I — talk. Talk. You understand?”

“Talk,” said the voice. “I understand.” The crystal darkened, lighted again, and Thorinn saw a hand. It was his own hand, but when he moved his hand, the hand in the box did not move. “That’s my Hand,” he said.

“I said so didn’t I?”

“You said so. Talk.” In the crystal, now he saw only one finger; the rest of the hand had turned all misty.

“That’s my finger.”

“That’s your finger. Talk.” Now he saw his thumb, and he told the voice what that was called— and then his arm, his leg, his foot, his toes, his head, his ears, his eyes and so on until he lost patience and stood up. “You ask too many questions,” he said.

“You ask.”

“All right, who are you? How did you get in that box?”

“Box?”

“Yes, box.” Thorinn squatted, touched the box. “This thing. This box. How did you get in?”

The crystal lighted, and he was looking at the box. A box inside the box. The box was not lighted, and it stood on a yellow surface. “This box,” said the voice.

“Yes, the box. How did you get inside it?”

“I are this box. Talk.” The crystal glowed, and Thorinn saw a man in stiff scarlet robes, with a shimmer of green and gold behind him. “That’s a man. He must be rich.”

The man disappeared, and he saw a woman with fair hair, dressed in similar robes. “That’s a woman. Is it his wife?”

So they went on, and Thorinn told the box what a boy was called, a girl, a tree, a leaf, a branch; but sometimes the box showed him engines or other shapes he had never seen before, and he would say, “What’s that?” or “I don’t know what that is.” At last his head began to droop, and the pictures in the box grew so blurred that he could not make them out at all. “Talk,” said the box. His head came up with a painful jerk, and he realized that he had been asleep for just an instant.

“No more talk,” fie said thickly. “Good night.” The box said nothing. Thorinn, too dizzy to get up, rolled onto a pile of folded cloth, pulled an edge of it over him for a blanket and was instantly asleep.