Avon Fantasy Reader No. 9 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

far as the threefold parting, where the central valve was slowly opening. Cau- tiously we flew to it, passed through, and looked down. We gazed into a deep, smooth-walled shaft seemingly burned out of the black rock of the plateau, so smooth was its bore. For miles it extended below us, down into the heart of the planet. And somewhere, down there in the depths of the shaft, was the source of the rose-glory that flooded all its smooth cylinder of black and coral and crimson, revealing the branching corridors of the ventilating plant, and lower a broad inclined plane that ran from the level of the Splateau, the level of the great green gates, down into the roseate mist below. “They must walk, as we do,” I yelled to Doc. “Um. Maybe. But you needn’t yell. Use the ‘phone. Come on.” He vaulted over the low railing that closed the end of the corridor, and, his helicopter whirring to break the fall, drifted rapidly down past the black corridor openings. I dove after him, bringing up with a jerk just above his head, and we floated down together. At the plateau level we halted, and entered the corridor that led to the north gate. Straight to the great green slab it ran, dark and polished, its level floor thick with dust. No living creature, as we knew life, had passed here for long years. Weird blue-green light came in through the pale oval and lit the desolate vestibule dimly. It had odd mechanisms in abundance. “Automatic apparatus,” Doc grunted. “They’ve left the outside for good, apparently, have no use for it, though it may be different somewhere else, at some other ventilator. J admit that this black desert isn’t especially attrac- tive.” “You're right,” I agreed, “but we'll never find out about that if we stay up here in the attic. Let’s go downstairs.” From the plateau level, the pit ran smooth and unmarred, except for the spiral plane. More than ever we gained the impression of a hole melted through black wax by a welding flame. Examination of the plane bore out this impression also, for at the edge nearest the wall it showed a decided jointure, as if it had been dovetailed into the wall after the pit was bored. Yet there were no visible joints in the plane itself. It was just another mys- tery, another paradox in this queer world. For perhaps five miles the pit ran down, and for a major part of the time that we fell down its bore, the source of the rose-flame was visible through the mist. It filled the entire bottom of the pit, a great, still pool of fire, seemingly, yet one that gave no_heat. And as we sank deeper and deeper into the crimson mist that filled the lower part of the shaft, there came a queer, half-familiar tingling in those parts of our body that were exposed. Following Doc’s example, J drew on the long gauntlets that hung at my belt. “What is it?” I asked. : “T can’t tell,” came the answer over the phone, “but there is some sort of radiation. We had best be careful.” | 28