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

champed on my sleeve to no avail: my molars were keen. Only by tapping the baton of my tongue on my
palate could I restore them to order. Zimara signalled at the cord which ran parallel to the crate. "It's
going down instead of up! The string must have snapped on the stalagmite. We've got problems!"

I nodded dumbly. Our only means of ascent had been destroyed. There was also nothing to check our
descent: without a line to grasp, Zimara's glove was useless as a brake. We watched the string slide down
the shaft until the severed end passed us. I cried, "It didn't break! It's a clean cut! Someone has deliberately
sabotaged our mission!" I imagined that an employee of the Tube, a porter perhaps, had stumbled upon the
grotto and resolved to cause some mischief.

Zimara shared my suspicion. "Typical of Finsbury Park station!" But his nervousness quickly cooled and
he regained much of his former poise. I detested his unflappability at such a time and told him so. He laughed
and replied there was little we could do about our situation except stay in the crate and wait to reach the
bottom. I clutched my head between my knees and sobbed, arising only an indefinite number of hours later,
when Zimara slapped me on the back. Our velocity was now great enough to iron smooth the wrinkles of my
years.

He indicated a deep crack in one of the walls. "That's where I came through the first time. Nobody
followed me when I escaped from prison. I don't know why." I was less pleased to encounter a landmark in
the bland environment than I might have been. So preoccupied was I in keeping hold on the edge of the crate
that I barely offered the fissure a glance. Our mission was nearing its end: we would find the phantoms we
sought at the centre of the world. Unfortunately, they would be ours. I closed my eyes as my guide tapped
my shoulder. "Not long now! What's that glow of light down there? Must be the cavern!" I anticipated a
violent demise at the foot of the staircase, but my fears were to be confounded. I can't say for sure what
happened, because I kept my lids battened down, but Zimara later avowed we shot out of the shaft like a
hamper from a cannon. I remember a grotesque screech as the crate sped over unknown terrain. Colours
filtered through the webs of my damp lashes, the first hues to greet me since leaving the surface. After the
green slime of the escalator, they might have soothed my irises like the tongue of a nurse, but I refused to
look. I felt warmth on my cheek, the attentions of tiny sunbeams.

I also recall, with some embarrassment, my infantile whimperings as we suddenly seemed to splash into
water. Only when I felt a shadow cross my brow, did I sneak a look at my surroundings. A toy moon had
traversed the body of a puppet sun... We were drifting in a calm ocean. Before us, jagged and bare, was a
lofty island. I turned to regard a distant coast. A plesiosaur glanced askance and returned below the waves. I
breathed in the salty air and relaxed. High above the spun clouds, a ceiling of rock arched over all. Climbing
plants covered the inner surface and it seemed we were encased in a shell of wild flowers. Zimara was
paddling with one of my spirit-levels, skillfully.

"We were incredibly lucky," he said.

"So I gather. Why weren't we smashed to crumbs? And how can we stay afloat in an unseaworthy
crate?"

"When the string was cut, the final suitcase fell to the bottom and broke open. The bottles of wine spilled
out but somehow remained intact. They acted as rollers when our crate landed on them, carrying us all the
way to the ocean; our momentum helped to propel us toward the isle which was our original destination. The
empty cases tied to our rear work like buoyancy tanks, making it unnecessary to find another canoe. It's
turned out really quite well, I think."

I stood in the prow of the vessel and swayed slightly as we scraped the shallows of a shale beach. First