The Faculty Club Part 33

"The old one," I said.

"The new one," she said.

"Exactly." Miles rubbed his hands together. "It's not just about some boat. It's about what it means to be something." He pointed at the smashed wood on the floor. "Is that still a chair? Is that still a mirror? Are you the same person you were a year ago? Is this boat the same one you found on that shelf?"

I threw my hands up.

"Great. Typical philosophy. We could debate all night, and we'd still have no idea what to do."

"I have an idea," Miles said. "Take those d.a.m.n planks out and drop it in the water."

"Are you crazy?" Sarah snapped.

"It makes perfect sense," Miles answered. "Think about the V and D. What they're doing. They don't want the s.h.i.+p to change. They want the same old s.h.i.+p to keep sailing, forever and ever. They don't want to turn the voyage over to a new crew, a new s.h.i.+p, new planks. You put those pieces in, the philosophy's all wrong."

"But the physics is right. My boat won't sink. Yours will."

"Trust me."

"This from the guy who smashed the mirror."

"I'm telling you."

"We get one chance," I said. "It's twenty feet down."

"You're right," Miles said. He sighed. "Let me just see one thing."

He took the boat from my hands. He pulled out the brown slats of wood.

"Hmm . . ." he said, thinking hard, or rather pretending to. Before I could say anything, he took a ma.s.sive step and dropped the boat right into the split.

"YOU b.a.s.t.a.r.d!".

We ran to the edge. The boat went down with a splash then sank underwater.

"You f.u.c.king arrogant p.r.i.c.k," Sarah shouted. "How dare you? People's lives are at stake. Maybe you don't care about them, but don't you care about yourself?"

"I have self-esteem issues," Miles said.

"Shut up and look!" I shouted.

The boat had hit the water and submerged from the force, but now it popped back up and rocked its way in the slow current toward the far end.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Miles said.

I started to get excited, but then I saw the bubbles escaping the boat. I could imagine the water flooding into the hull.

"Oh s.h.i.+t."

The boat started to sink.

"NO.".

It was still moving, slower than we needed. Halfway down the stream, it was halfway submerged.

"s.h.i.+t," I said. "s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. Come on."

"Go . . . go . . . go . . ." Sarah called.

"Oh no," Miles said.

He was looking at the far end of the stream.

"What?" I slid toward the end with him. "What is that?"

There was a tunnel at the end of the stream, tall enough for the boat to pa.s.s through, sails and all. But what Miles saw was spanning the length of that entrance: a wire, pulled tight across the pa.s.sage, near the top of the opening.

A wonderful phrase from my childhood adventure books suddenly came to mind: b.o.o.by trap.

"Miles," I said, "what do you think happens if our sail hits that string?"

He shrugged. All the smugness was gone. He met my eyes and made a motion with his hands that said: ka-boom.

Sarah was a couple of feet away, her eyes locked on the boat, chanting: "Float . . . float . . . float . . ."

"Sarah."

I showed her the wire.

Her eyes went wide.

She looked back at our boat and chanted: "Sink . . . sink . . . sink . . ."

I joined her.

What else could we do--run out the way we came in?

Miles was already there. He tried the k.n.o.b and cursed.

The boat was inches from the end. It was almost three-quarters underwater, still drifting in the current, the sails still high enough to hook the filament. The bubbles were pouring out the sides.

"Sink . . . sink . . . sink . . . SINK . . ."

The s.h.i.+p hit the end, sputtering air, drowning, and by a fraction of an inch the sail cleared the wire.

The boat disappeared into the shadows of the pa.s.sage.

This triggered a rumbling that began far below and worked its way up to us. It seemed to be inside the wall. There was a clicking sound, and the bar slid across the ma.s.sive door, back into its socket. Moments later, a panel clicked open in the bookshelf, and the boat was deposited back in its spot.

Miles marched to the door and gave it a heavy push. It swung open.

He shot us a victory smirk and strode through.

I looked at Sarah and shook my head.

"You know, he's right half the time. The problem is, we don't know which half."

She took my hand and smiled wearily.

"Let's just get through this, okay? Then we can go somewhere, get a nice little house, have kids, grow old. What do you say?"

"Where would we go?"

"I don't know. How about Jamaica?"

"What do you think of Texas?"

"Texas?" She gave a why not? shrug. "I've never been to Texas."

She kept holding my hand, and we walked under the arch.

35.

We found ourselves in a room that was somehow vast and claustrophobic.

Vast, because the far wall--and the only other door--stretched away from us like a hallway in a bad dream. The kind that keeps extending the more you run.

Claustrophobic, because the side walls and low ceiling loomed in on us. Every few feet I saw narrow slots that ran from the floor up the side walls and across the ceiling. There were elegant sconces with candles on the walls. Miles pulled out his Zippo and lit a few.

To my left, I noticed a bizarre mosaic on the wall, made out of tiny slick tiles. It traced the form of a demon, a grotesque creature with ma.s.sive lips and hands, and an odd phallus that hung limp.

Miles walked up next to me.

"Ugly little f.u.c.ker," he said.

Sarah was across from us, examining a mural on the opposite wall. This one resembled a subway map but with no stops labeled. She studied the branching paths.

I put my hand on the demon and let my fingers trace over the tiles.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"It's a totem of some kind. A G.o.d from some ancient religion."

"Which one? What does it mean?"

Miles squinted his eyes.

"South American, maybe. Or Pacific Islander . . . Looks like one of those Easter Island heads."

"You guys have no idea what you're talking about," a voice said from behind us. It was Sarah. She was laughing.

She started walking toward us, and her foot came down on a floorboard that sank inward with a series of sickening clicks, like an old man cracking his knuckles. Sarah's head jerked up at us. Her eyes were wide.

"What did I just do?" she asked.

Before we could guess, there was a grinding noise from within the walls. My fingers were still on the tiles. I felt a vibration pa.s.s in a wave under my hand. There was a tremendous noise, like a machine rumbling to life, and then there was a release--the noise a carnival ride makes after it's raised you up ten stories and the claws suddenly spring open.

We heard a screaming metallic cry. It started slow and then accelerated, rising in pitch. Then there was a flash of mirror and the blade--as tall and wide as a man--came tearing out of the slot with blinding speed. It arced down, sliced a hair above the floor in the center of the room, then disappeared into the slot on the far wall. The screaming slowed, then stopped.

Then it built up again, and a moment later the blade tore back across the room, straining its cable like the pendulum of an asylum clock.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Sarah said.

The blade swung back and forth at the far end of the room, in front of the lone door.

"It's okay," I said. "It's okay. It's not that fast. We can time it."

"Time it wrong, and you're salami," Miles offered.

Every pa.s.s of the blade made a palpable whomp, a pulse of wind that reached us. I counted from the time it disappeared into the slot until it reappeared and ripped across our path. At least three seconds. No problem.

"We can make it."

No sooner had I spoken, than the noise roared louder and a second flash of silver released from another slot in the wall--this one about a foot closer to us. Now two pendulums were slicing past each other, out of phase.

"s.h.i.+t."

I counted again. They were off, but the cycles were steady--I could hear the motors grinding above. The noise was terrible, and the smell of burnt oil was filling the room. But there was a moment of opportunity, once the blades crossed paths. One or two seconds, but long enough. If we took turns, we could make it, one by one. We just had to be patient.

I started to say so when the third blade fell, a foot in front of the second and closer to us. It came tearing out and cut a lunar path across the room.

Now three blades were crossing; it was getting harder to see the door behind them. The cables whined and the motors squealed like animals being branded.

"I no longer think we can make it," I announced.

"That," Miles said, staring at the walls, "really isn't the issue anymore."

I saw what he was looking at.

The blades came out of slots, all about a foot apart. I hadn't paid attention before, but the slots continued from the far end of the room, where the blades were swinging--all the way to us. In fact, there were only six inches between the door we came through and the first slot. Miles was more than six inches thick. So was I. Maybe Sarah could suck in, but then what? Spend infinity watching a giant pendulum slice past your nose? Plus or minus a few toenails?