She dreamed about a drugstore on Earth. She was being refused the opportunity to buy an ice cream cone. The dream transformed and she stood by a blackboard in a large classroom, trying to explain abstruse problems to a sea of unruly students. They began throwing pieces of chalk at her. With an absolute conviction of reality, she watched the chalk hit the equations on the board. Hold it, she cried, Stop! The class ceased its commotion. She picked a piece of chalk off the floor and circled the areas of the equations that had been marked by hits. Of course, she said, these would show—

Carrolson grabbed her shoulder and shook her awake, Patricia pulled aside wisps of black hair and looked up at the woman through sleep-puffy eyes.

"We have to get to the fourth chamber," Carrolson said.

"Why? I'm working—"

"Work's over, honey. There's a truck waiting. The Chinese are going, too. All of us. Move!" Her tone was acid. Patricia picked up her bag and stuffed the slate, memory blocks, multi-meter and processor into it. Carrolson made as if to knock the bag out of her hands, then pulled back, arms clutching her own shoulders. "We don't need those now," she said. "We really don't."

Tears slid down Carrolson's cheeks and spotted the breast of her coveralls. "Everyone's saying it," she continued. "I haven't seen, but there's stuff coming in on that hookup—the one for filching satellite broadcasts."

Patricia clutched the bag to her breast and ran ahead of Carrolson to the truck, cursing under her breath.

How funny she was behaving, she thought in a part of her mind where reality had not yet penetrated. How hysterical. After all, she had known. She should have been prepared.

Carrolson, Wu and Chang climbed into the truck behind her. Farley drove them up the ramp and into the tunnel.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mirsky was terrified. Pushed ahead by the vapor thrusters, periodically trailing a thin and quickly dissipating cloud of hydrogen peroxide, he aimed along the beacon. On every side, ground awaited him; his stomach told him he was falling in all directions. Ahead was a gray-black expanse. Clouds drifted in curving sheaths above, below, behind, before. He could not close his eyes; he had to keep the helmet display centered on the beacon signal.

He caught sight of several fellows, their thruster bursts resembling contrails from the wings of a jet drifting in and out of moist air. How many? he asked. What countermeasures would the Americans have taken?

He had to cross this beautiful horror, this place without top or bottom, and fly down a second bore hole. Only in the second chamber would he be able to drop away from the center and unfold his airfoil/shield, following the simple map that would be projected on his helmet display.