Authentic Science Fiction, No. 23 — page 16: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

28 THE SINGING SPHERES pitched so low by comparison that the spheres in their turn heard only the fringes of the higher registers. Consequently. these highest modulations of human vocal chords reached them as “growlings.” After I'd explained the discomfort which arose, Fuzzy- bubble obligingly took measures to quieten his companions, but whistles from other spheres in the vicinity continued, although at lesser volume. “Well, that’s a bit better,” said Hartnell, more briskly. “Now what’s this about a trip to the Grand Halls?” “I gather they mean that tunnel affair we passed just along here.” | “Hope it’s not too dark and narrow,” said Tubby, still in a mood of depression. “I’ve got my claustrophobia to think about—”’ We were all to have much more than that on our minds before very long. We halted at the point where the smooth rounded, funnel- shaped entrance bored into the cliff face and stood staring into the ten-feet diameter of blackness at its end. Fuzzy- bubble and three other spheres preceded us, taking on start- ling brilliance once their natural colours became shielded from the light. They sailed easily and majestically inside. We, for our part, halted on the brink, seeing nothing and wondering along what path we must pass. Hartnell slashed the clear, white beam of his beryllium torch across the aperture, bringing simultaneous gasps from Tubby and myself. It showed no end to a vast, subterranean Space inside. Then he depressed the lamp to ground level and we saw how the rock curved steeply away from our feet to disappear in unknown depths. “Hm,” said Tubby, gesturing to the spheres. “All very well for them—but how in Andromeda do they expect us to get through?” “Climb down with the Karlin lines, I suppose,” said Hart- nell. I started convulsively. “You know I’ve got no head for heights—” He clicked his tongue in mock-disgust. “One with claus- trophobia and another who wants to walk on the flat always. What’s Inter-X coming to?” And all the time—while I watched him uneasily—he was THE SINGING SPHERES 29 taking out the business end of an immensely strong two-mile Karlin line that always struck me as having no more strength and substance than a strand of gossamer, yet which pos- sessed a tested breaking strain of more than two tons. He hitched the fastening to the rocks, heaved himself into the aperture and used the line to support himself in an almost horizontal posture while he walked carefully backwards down the smooth, curving wall. I could tell from Tubby’s set expression that he didn’t like these sort of antics any more than I did, but he hitched the Marless staple of his suit on the line and said, ‘““Well, here goes. At least you'll have something soft to fall on, Pop, if you happen to come unstuck.” Which bright remark, of course, didn’t cheer me much. “Still going down,” came Hartnell’s voice over the inter- com. “Getting on for a hundred and twenty feet. I think the wall’s less steep now.” , Once I had lowered myself a short distance below the rim of that entrance aperture, light from outside became shut off. An incredible way down, Hartnell’s torch cast vague, flicker- ing reflections to the higher part of the line where I clung; up above, the attendant spheres floated like great, multi- coloured moons in a starless sky. Their shrieking inquiry as they obviously discussed our queer method of progression cut through my mind like shrill, mocking laughter. No doubt the telepathy machine might have let me overhear a good deal of amused sarcasin, but I had other uses for my hands than waving a Mattus rod. : “I was right, Pop,” said Hartnell. “I’m practically walk- ing upright now. The floors almost level.” A few minutes later, panting with relief, Tubby and I joined him. Exploring with the torch once more, however, showed how a further curving incline lay ahead, growing pro- gressively steeper. “Why,” I said, “the confounded place is hollow—just like the inside of a sphere!” Hartnell grinned. “We don’t seem able to get away from "em, do we, Pop?” As it turned out, my description was not wholly accurate. However, the curving wall farthest from the entrance proved to rise only a comparatively short distance before producing a further circular aperture, which led into yet another great EComicbooks.com