The Vagabond

Slowly, ever so ponderously up out of the inky depths comes the iron chamber. Like a tiny globular elevator in some vast, unpartitioned building, it rises through the water. From its top swirl several strands of seaweed which have twined themselves in the lifting chain with friendly tentacles, and which now hang loose like sparse hairs on the otherwise bald pate of the diving bell. A swirl of the dark current and these few strands, looking grayish in the gloom, drift away, leaving the head completely scalped. From the bottom of the chamber sprouts a sticky brown-black beard which runs up the side several feet--a beard of ooze and slime which has spread over the iron skin of the globe in the weeks it lay on the clammy bosom of this watery abyss.

Inside this head-shaped ball, which cilmbs like some lazy bubble toward the surface, is compacted all the intricate machinery which labors to keep its actions under control. In a little cubicle reserved for him amid all this mechanism is the sole human occupant--Vag. There is room for only Vag there. He sits motionless at the single grilled window, staring out vacantly as he has done ever since The Descent early in January. His straight-focussed eyes gaze out through the crisscross grill which makes whatever he sees appear as if viewed through some huge bloodshot eye.

The Ascent, Vag muses, is little better than The Descent. The numbness which has held him in thrall all this time--and which has been the only thing to make life possible at all in the long torturing weeks of the Biannual Heat--now stubbornly refuses to depart. Everything--mind, body,--seems permanently, albeit painlessly, frozen with the icy breath of the Great Fear, which is said to be the odorless exhaust generated by one of the machines which throb all around Vag. Once or twice since The Descent began, Vag has been able to rouse himself from this lethargy, but his efforts have been isolated, heroic, ineffectual.

A fierce, misshapen reptile--possibly a Dodatmor throwback--slithers up to the window and stares maliciously at Vag with evil eyes. He opens his well-toothed jaws and measures the distance to Vag's head. There is a metallic crash as teeth meet the iron skull. Vicious fool, you cannot get Vag. See, Vag does not even blink. This is mere phantasmagoria compared to The Four encountered on The Bottom. They were truly fearsome, especially to one numbed with the icy breath of the Great Fear, one who cannot fight back. The Four had come at him--zing, zing, zing, zing--like that. Vag had blinked four times, and flinched--

But what's this? Water getting lighter, lighter; sunshine streaming through. A whole school of happy, normal-looking fish frolic past, inviting, luring, beckoning with their tails. A svelt mermaid wriggles by. Vag thaws a bit. Lighter and lighter. Then the upward motion stops, and the water drains off the window for the first time in a month. Heavy wrenches clatter against the door bolts. It loosens. A whisper of new air comes in. A whisper, then a hiss, a roar.

As rejuvenated Vag steps out on deck again, four congratulatory postcards are shoved into his hand. He reads them--queer code. Cee, cee, cee, dee. He sighs contentedly, then yawns. Pressure's off.