The Prisoner of Chillon and Scattered Short Stories Read online

Elizabeth and I walked by the ocean, inhaling cotton candy. She loved both. The cotton wisps flew back behind us as the water lapped at our ankles. We had talked and talked and talked all day along that walk from the little town.

  “I’m so glad we had nice weather. It would have been sad without the sun by the water.” She smiled as she looked up at the clouds.

  “Me too,” I grinned back at her. It was so nice to walk together again. “The ocean’s calm this time of year. I think it has something to do with the moon.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at me, pulling back her hair. “So many nice houses. What’s that building up there? Looks like one of those walled cities from the old days, doesn’t it?”

  I looked up from the sand. Ahead of us on the left, looming over a seaside cliff, was a monstrous structure, looked a mile or more on a side. “That’s the factory, Elizabeth. Didn’t you read about it? It was written up as the most efficient producer of modern technology around these days.”

  “They make tools and things like that?”

  I was interested in military affairs at that time in my life and knew the impact that this factory was to have if it came time for war again. “They make various munitions and other gadgets. Quite a feat of organization and engineering they say. Somebody back at school said it was interesting to visit.”

  Elizabeth could not possibly have been interested, but I think she knew that I was. “Want to go up there? Think it’s open?”

  “Well,” I paused and looked at the water, away from her, “maybe after some ice cream.” She laughed and knew what I was thinking. Well, I figured, there wasn’t much else to do but look at dull shops - that’s all we ever did.

  The factory was open for visitors and we bought tickets. It was daunting to be inside such a huge, metal structure. Everything was steel, the walls, floors, even the sculptures adorning the entrance hall. Shining, polished, hard metal. A speaker from above announced the coming attractions that we could see as we walked through this testament to industrial efficiency. The Factory was built with steel, molded into fine machinery, and serves today as the dawning achievement of a future in which we can be ready to assert our mechanized power. Whose power? Ours. The power we worship.

  Further along we passed through a corridor lined with the Factory’s marvelous productions, all mounted on pedestals and glimmering back at us with open gears and bold handles. Elizabeth grimaced as she stared down the hole of what appeared to be a mobile grenade launcher but turned out to be a model for a new sort of tool for experimental satellites.

  “You don’t like this, miss?” A tiny man in gray came up behind us. He saw her distaste. “These are the guarantors of the peace of tomorrow. A glorious peace!” He worked for the Factory. The other visitors were nicely quiet about it all.

  “Peace?” she smiled back, touching the end of the dangerous contraption as I stared down the man with the wire-framed spectacles.

  “The peace will follow a war - a war of assertion.”

  She began to laugh. “Who needs that?! And by the way, how do you know so well?” Elizabeth was as opinionated a student as they come, and I took hold of her arm, hoping that she wouldn’t get into another of her heated arguments with this little man with the stern, angry complexion.

  “I know. We all know. It is our destiny. And the Factory will make it possible.” Sounded too religious to me, but looking at the Factory’s productions, I almost couldn’t help agreeing. It may be the time already. The time to unleash war and technological contest to mold the shape of the future. Perhaps.

  “Whatever you say,” she muttered as I pulled her away. “What’s he talking about? We’re doing just fine without all this-”

  “Yeah, seems that way.” I didn’t want to get her started. “Elizabeth, look at that one!” We were facing a large, shining refrigerator. She shrugged.

  “I think there’s a movie starting in a few minutes. Something about the Factory’s history. Want to catch it?” We walked toward the small amphitheater and waited for the film to start. “Let’s not argue any more,” she said. “There’s no point. We don’t have a say in their notion of the future anyway.” Maybe.

  The lights dimmed and a melody that seemed like one of Bruckner’s came over the speakers. A majestic voice proclaimed its welcome to the steel Factory and was followed by a gray man in overalls. “I’m so glad you came to visit my Factory. The wonders you will see here will amaze and startle you, amuse and frighten you, make you happy, make you ambitious, make you patriotic. Our great land made these wonders possible and our ever-expanding frontiers will be the backbone upon which their use will be mastered and converted into greater living for all of us.” The man spoke with a wide smile. He was pictured in a workshop. “I am truly charmed every time I walk through the corridors that you are shortly to examine at your leisure. These contraptions were previously never imagined feats of science and technology - but it was our destiny to produce them and it is our destiny to see them used for the greater good of us all.”

  I couldn’t see Elizabeth in the darkness but I knew she was rolling her eyes. The camera panned through the corridor we had already walked through, stopping for the man with the majestic voice to make a comment or two about the manufacture of these several wonders. Then the gray man in overalls was back, sitting in his workshop, discussing a blueprint with some very rigid engineers in white coats. He turned to the camera. “I try to oversee all the operations of the Factory, but it is the men who have mastered the science behind the technology who make these imagined goals a reality.” The engineers nodded and left the workshop hastily, holding computers under their arms. The camera dove downward into the recesses of the Factory, where enormous steel machines churned out steel manufactures. With the credits, the short film ended and the lights came up. There was a murmur among the people and they slowly started to file out.

  Elizabeth? Where did she go off to? I looked all around, but she had indeed left. I hated it when she did that. She must have gone on ahead, I figured, so I left with the group of tourists and continued through the corridors of steel. She was nowhere to be found on these floors, and I proceeded to the lower levels where the machinery was visible behind glass barriers. Shafts, gears, conveyor belts - all shining steel. Monstrous combines and loud, pounding, automated hammers. But no workers. Somebody had to prepare the steel sheets, I figured, but then again, what did I know?

  I stopped one of the silent Factory guards as he moved at a quick, staccato step past me. “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone who got ahead of me and-”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the Central Overseer Department.” He rushed on past me, eluding my hand on his shoulder. I stopped another, who looked oddly similar to the first, and he replied with the same answer, although this time curtly informing me with the hint of a grin that there was no such thing as any Central Department of anything. Thank you very much.

  I moved along the steel corridors, looking less at the marvels the Factory had set out for me and more and more for Elizabeth. I stood outside the ladies bathroom for a while, but someone told me there was no one inside. I pushed on past a small cafeteria, and back toward the machines. This time I stopped, but there were still no workers to be seen. I looked up and down, climbing onto the ledge to see over the wall of machines and stooping down to see under the conveyor belts - there was another row of monumental contraptions behind the first.

  Now I was certainly beginning to lose my temper. Was she hiding? No, she didn’t play games for this long, never. I moved on through the main corridors, this time taking a turn off the beaten path. It was much more stark in these parts, the only visions to challenge the mind were reflections off the polished steel. There were wires above me now, glimmering ones. I examined them for an instant and was shocked to find that they blinked the news of the day down to those passing beneath them. With no windows and scarcely a video screen, this faint flickering was the only tie to anything outside the Fa
ctory. The news started, the news stopped, it started again

  A group of engineers was heading my way. They looked to be the same exact ones from the movie, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and white coats. They were looking at each other and at the floor, never straight ahead to see me and never upward to see the blinking wires above. I stood in their way but before I could speak they rushed on by me. What was that on their necks? No, not that.

  I continued down the corridor until there was only one room visible at the end of the hall with a light on. That light flickered and bounced all the way down the dark, steel corridor to me and it seemed like the only hint of civilization within these monotonous, shiny tunnels. I moved closer and closer and the brightness of the light felt in the darkness like the tug of a visible gravity through opaqueness. I knelt on one knee on the side as a group of engineers, followed by tour guides, walked past me in the dimness. I continued, for nothing, not even Elizabeth, called me forward more pressingly than this light.

  This was the workshop. The same as that in the movie. All was silent except for the persistent pattering on a keyboard. I made no sound, but a voice emanated from inside. “Come in, young man.” The voice was strident, almost shrill like a cawing bird yet silvery as a muted french horn. “Please, you can come and take a look. You came this far.” I hesitated and stepped in. There was the gray man, sitting at the computer. The same workshop, the same tools, the same overalls. “Got a bit away from the tour,” he smiled and laughed a little. “No matter. Please, sit down.” He pressed a button and a stool rose up from the floor behind me. He stood up and walked toward another computer, typing something in. “What do you think of my Factory?”

  “Uh,” I stuttered, “well, it’s been very interesting and the Factory seems very nice, and, uh, but. . .”

  “But?” He turned and lifted a darkish eyebrow, without a smile. “Any doubts?” I didn’t know what he meant. He walked to a door on the side and pressed a button. A small man in wire-rimmed spectacles entered as the door slid open. He stared at me, as if concerned and at the same time confident that he had seen me before and knew I was easy prey for his frown. He waited. “Gerhard, bring in my darling pooch, I think our visitor would like to meet him.” The man nodded and left through the door, after what I could have sworn was a bow or a clicking of the heels. “Come on, please, sir, tell me what you thought of my Factory. I get little chance to talk with visitors. All my own people say yes this and yes that - no opinions.” He laughed and I almost smiled with him.

  “Well, actually, I’m here on another matter. You see, I lost-”

  “Oh,” he chuckled, “we’ll get to that. But now, I am intrigued. You look like a bright young fellow - go to school?” I nodded quickly and tried to get a word in, but he continued. “What do your little school buddies think? Do you have colleagues who speak of my Factory?”

  “Well, yes, but we don’t really get a good idea at home about the ideas behind the Factory. But really, I have to find-”

  My words were cut short by his open, harsh laughter as he rose to type something into the computer, grin at me, and receive his dog, some sort of German shepherd type, at the door. He bent on one knee to pet the dog under the chin while his assistant betrayed the glimmer of a smile. “What ideas?! What do you mean?” he laughed as he looked back at me.

  “All this stuff about the future and war and peace. - too omnipresent here.”

  “There is a reason for that, my friend.” He was no longer smiling as he led the dog by the collar back to his work station. “I am not spouting idle promises when I declare that the use of the Factory’s production for the good of the nation is our destiny. Do you think this is idle wording?”

  “Well, I,-”

  “The young still do not know, my lovely Schiller.” He talked to the dog, then looked back to me. “Words are too abstract, aren’t they? Actions will make them burn . . . and live.”

  I had had just about enough of this and knew I had no time to waste. “Sir, I’d love to talk with you, but,” the dog growled at me, "I have to find my friend who’s-”

  “A friend? Where is this friend?”

  “Well, actually, she’s kind of disappeared. We were together at the movie but she left in the middle.”

  He looked back at the dog, away from me. “Well, the Factory’s a big place. I’m sure you’ll find her.”

  I was ready to tell him right then what I thought of his curt reply, considering it was his Factory, but I realized that it would be of no use. “Well, sir, I have to go.”

  “Very well. I hate to miss talking to you, young man, but if you must go I can’t stop you.” He smiled at the dog and at me. “If there’s anything I could do, please-”

  “Actually, it would seem that you could do something, wouldn’t it?” I probably sounded fully perturbed for he seemed to pull away from me a bit, and tighten the strap on his overalls. “You wouldn’t happen to have some way of finding out where she could be? Some sort of PA system places like this usually have.” I was furious at his calm grin. He shrugged and turned back to his computer. I walked out.

  Back in that steel corridor, facing the other direction, away from the light, the narrow path seemed a pit into which I was descending, and the only escape was the still accessible light above me - the man in the overalls. I proceeded, ducking to the side as engineers moved toward and away from the light which seemed more gray with distance.

  There was something funny going on. Something strange. I looked back to the wires above and they blinked repeatedly the news of the day. But I noticed how they dimly stuttered, almost struggling to issue their message to the Factory. In the darkness, only the wires provided light, only the wires provided guidance of which way was which, which up, which down. Only they, as well, delivered any message external to that of the gray man in the overalls behind me.

  I moved more rapidly as the light from the exhibition galleries ahead became clearer. The voices from the tours began to reach me, but my destination was the machine floors. The tourists moved through the steel corridors calmly, saying nothing and showing no concern for the continuing patriotic rambling of the tour guides and the video shows. They could not denounce it and they could not approve either. They hardly noticed me rushing through toward the escalators that sank into the depths of The Factory.

  Down below I could again hear the rushing and grinding of the turbines and I stopped to stare at that wall of shifting, turning, sliding, biting steel monoliths. Still no workers.

  My impatience was getting the better of me and I headed into the men’s restroom to wash my sweating face. Even the mirrors reflected a dim light on these lower floors, more opaque than on the floors above. I touched them, rubbed them. Murmurs. Voices.

  I spun around to see a guard. He said nothing, washed his hands, and left with a smile. Why the sound? It came again, this time deeper, more penetrating, yet for a moment high-pitched, like a squeal of a pig with its tail smashed.

  It came from below, from the air vent near the floor. I opened the door to make sure no one was coming and knelt down to listen. The voices were unintelligible, but nervous, afraid, and angry. They stopped abruptly and I waited. There was movement in the hallway so I turned again to the sink, only to hear a man rush in behind me. He was tall and dressed in dark brown, shoes torn, face roughened by a short grey beard. He nodded meekly and began to wash his hands. They were strewn with cuts, as if from a blade, both old and new. He winced as they dried under a hot fan and left after looking at himself in the mirror. Or maybe at me. I turned toward him to speak, but he was gone. Following his shabby figure into the hallway I found that he had indeed vanished.

  There were no doors, no windows, no screens, only solid steel walls. I heard voices again to my left, and rushed toward the large picture windows looking onto the gallery of machinery. Still the clanking and clawing continued without a trace of humanity to gild the silver.

  But now there
was movement. Movement behind the conveyor belts on the left, where the sheets of metal poured into the cutters and the molders. A hand, an arm, a torso emerged. It was far and the glass was dirty, but I could make out the shabby man I had seen in the bathroom. He looked at me, his eyes long and open and stiff. He opened his mouth and I heard nothing, only the more present grinding and shifting of the motors. His arm flew up in the air and he was pulled backward, out of sight. I saw him no more.

  I pounded on the glass and it gave as if I were punching a block of smooth wax. I hit again, and again, and my imprints were manifold but my objective no nearer. I turned and pounded on the steel behind me, the pores in the metal digging into my knuckles. I heard shouts from the vents in the bathroom, and rushed in to hear their fury grow louder and then disappear.

  Running back into the hallway, I fell to my knees in agony as I slipped on the shiny floor. A tour guide was walking in my direction and I arose to run or to hide, but there was nowhere to go, and I faced him.

  “Please, sir, I must speak with you.” He did not stop. “Sir, I must have a word with you, a word with someone!” He smiled and very politely said hello, asking me if I were lost. “Lost?! How dare you?” I growled at him. As I gripped his shoulder he gently removed my hand and informed me in the most pleasant of accents that the exhibition floors were directly overhead and the stairways could - “You don’t understand! There are people-” I pointed to the glass and then instantly fisted my hand and struck him. He paused, and then continued on his way, saying no more.

  I knew where the escalators were and raced for them, bounding up the steps as the motors pushed me forward. I escaped through the exhibition floor and into the dark, windowless corridor again, this time at a run. I did not hide from the engineers nor did I shirk from the blinding light - only the wires were too daunting an obstacle. So fascinating they were. The news of the day blinking down like tropical fish in the depths of the North Atlantic. I stopped and stared, reading their message, realizing that there was a world outside this Factory, realizing that there were minds free of this abyss. But the message stopped, it blinked, it stuttered more and more. And finally a new message became intertwined in the blinking - “The news of the day is made possible by THE FACTORY. The news of the day is a part of-“ Then it stuttered again and again, and finally the real news of the day resumed, as strong as before. More interference, and then continuation. I continued to run. This time the hallway seeming longer and brighter. I stopped, panting. No breath.

  I did not enter the workshop. That would have done no good. I stopped and looked upward along the corridor, striving to create a maze where there was only a direct path. No vents, no boards, no light fixtures, only steel. I jumped. It was too high. I scraped at the floor on my hands and knees. It was too smooth. No hinges, no doors. Only corners, seamless? No. I dug into the minute cracks separating the floor from the walls. I dug in and blood seeped out under my nails. I pulled and the wall board began to crack open. I pulled more and my hand could fit underneath. Soon I could prostrate myself and my arms could fit under, pulling with my full force until the seemingly solid steel wall gave with a shearing screech.

  I struggled in and found myself in a crawl space that ran along both sides of the corridor, and perhaps on top of it. I scurried forward again, toward the workshop, only stopping as footsteps approached and continued down the corridor. But the crawl space eventually ended and I was faced with what I thought to be a much thicker wall. Nowhere to turn but backward.

  The voices I heard this time were more tempered, more focused, and less afraid. I did not move a muscle. It was the man in gray, certainly still wearing his overalls and certainly petting his lovely pooch. He was talking to someone subordinate, someone whose life’s ambition was only to listen and execute, probably Gerhard.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the man gruffly purred as I heard him ruffling papers and typing into a computer. “Still no success with the wires? I don’t want static and interruption any more, my incompetent fool. I want it eradicated.”

  “But sir, it seems that -”

  “It will be done. The news of the day is still strong in their blinking. The people, my people, will begin to know, will begin to understand. Once they do-” He said no more as I heard more footsteps entering the room. The ensuing discussion was of a sort more germane to the workings of an ordinary factory - presumably he was talking with his engineers. Once they left, the gruff voice resumed and the talk of wires and The Factory’s victory and the news of the day ensued as he continued to type into the computer constantly, evidently trying to program the wires, or perhaps his own servants. He pounded on a table in frustration. “By this evening I want nothing but the beautiful message of my Factory, the beautiful message of truth and the future, to appear on the wires. Nothing else” He slammed on the table again and I could hear the steps of the other man leaving. The man continued to mutter to himself rapidly and I could not make out his words, something about the destiny of the people, the evil elements . . .

  I turned slowly and painfully in the narrow crawl space and made my way in the darkness toward my secret entrance to the gap. As I emerged, the dim light from the workshop was blinding and I grasped my eyes to shield them as I rolled onto the floor. Minutes passed as I moved slowly through the corridor toward the exhibition galleries, praying that somewhere in the mess of steel I would find the key to the Factory’s solution and to saving Elizabeth. I thought little of ideology, little of his truth, little of his intentions, and only of my objective. Seeing no further way to arrive at the machine rooms, I raced toward the escalators. The wires above continued to blink, but the news of the day was so dim by now that I could scarcely make it out. The tour guides and guards looked at the wires and moved more forcefully, more obediently. Finding the lower hallways closed off by a new steel barrier, I searched along adjacent corridors for another entrance into the machine area, finding none.

  What was holding those steel doors shut? The men who closed them. If I could convince the men, I could open the doors. I raced back toward the dark corridor and the gray man’s workshop. There had to be a diversion somewhere, a way to evacuate the room, even for an instant. Fire. The source of ancient fears and desires. People would run from it and people would run toward it. My hands still raw and bleeding, I reached under the area of wall I had weakened earlier and struggled back into the crawl space, leaving my shoe in the crack to mark my position. If I did not escape on time, fire would be my deadliest ally.

  But steel did not burn. What was beauty to some and horror to others was that The Factory was devoid of organic matter - except for the humans locked within. Only we could burn.

  I grimaced as I searched my memory for any clue to the Factory’s openings. It seemed that there were none and had never been any, except for the news of the day flashed on the wires, however slowly and unclearly. With a slap across my forehead I vaguely remembered how the Factory looked as Elizabeth and I first faced it from the beach. It was massive and silver, but weren’t there trees growing on its roof? My memory seemed so foggy that I couldn’t easily trust myself, but it was my only chance. If only I was on the top floor of the building. If not, there would be no way.

  I began struggling with the corners binding perpendicular plates above me as I had with the boards in the wall of the corridor. With painful labor I managed to create a crawl space that led up over the wall of the workshop, so I could rest on its ceiling with a good bit of standing space above me. If this were indeed the top floor, there was a high empty space between it and the roof. I found a ladder along the side wall, its rungs still finely polished despite what should have been periodic use by maintenance crews. At its peak was a hatch that opened easily, with a little shoulder power, to the roof.

  The air rushed in on me with the force of cold, thin oxygen. I breathed in deeply, almost feeling my ears pop, and climbed with new vigor onto the roof. My memory had not failed me - my only friend - a
nd I found myself in an orchard. Unfortunately it seemed to be immaculately groomed, and I jumped up to pull down a large branch with my full weight. The wood was dry and it crashed down quickly, only sheltering its fall by landing on me.

  I wasted no time in tossing some twigs and grass into the open hatch followed by the branch. As I climbed down, the concerned, angry voices beneath me were unmistakable. I pried open another wall panel of the attic space to reveal a nest of wires. I wrapped a few of the twigs, some grass, and leaves into my handkerchief and ripped open one of the fuse boxes. The sparks shot out, biting at my fingers as I shoved the full handkerchief in. With a few gentle puffs it lit and I put it down by the hot wires and lifted the branch. I smashed the sharper end down onto the ceiling below me. It gave only slightly. Aiming my spear between the steel boards, I could feel the floor beneath me shaking, it’s bindings coming loose as I pounded harder and harder, the flames behind me still smoldering quietly and the voices beneath me calling for help. With a final thrust - it certainly felt like the last I would be able to manage - the board fell through. There was a bench below, I could see, and I plunged the spear into a computer monitor, grabbing the hot handkerchief bundle as the burns seemed to heal my wounds, and dropping it onto the open circuits. I pulled back as the monitor and computer beneath it exploded. The man in gray was still in the room, but as the fire grew two of the engineers pulled him out of the workshop to safety. I catapulted myself over the low burning computer and raced to find the one linked to the Factory wires. No time. I grasped the hot spear and smashed each computer terminal as quickly as possible, hoping that every circuit, every chip could be destroyed in my rampage.

  The flames grew too hot and I rushed to safety in the corridor after stealing the last piece of paper I would need - a schematic blueprint of the Factory. With no idea how long the flames would live I ran toward the exhibition hallways, past the wires which now blinked so brilliantly the news of the day, clear, convincing.

  The tour guides stopped, the engineers did not move. They all stood and stared and nodded. No one tried to stop me and one even opened the steel doors leading to the machine floors. The gray man’s voice came over the loudspeakers, as the visitors rushed back and forth in confusion. “Halt there!” he shrieked. “All my guards, seize him!”

  I threw myself at the escalator, tripping down half the distance. The machines still ground and screamed, their noise rising in a magnificent crescendo as the gray man resumed control of their operation in another workshop within the Factory. I did not care, for the wires above gleamed and flickered and blinked the news of the day over and over again, not halting, never faltering.

  The gears cried out at me, telling me that their might was unconquerable, that their mission was one for eternity, destined never to fail. I pounded on the wall panels, feeling the steel exposing dents beneath my fists. A door slipped open, I know not how or by whose instigation. I walked, this time slowly for the steaming air collided with my face, holding me back but only for a sweating instant. The machines were to my right and the noise was more than deafening. Screaming had ceased to bother me. Words were mere sounds.

  I ran directly into the work area behind the machinery. The guards stood and stared at me, and then back at the wires. The workers, old, dirty, begging, stared also, smiles spreading over their faces with the exuberance of a major chord to end a minor movement. I screamed for Elizabeth, but my voice seemed to curl and return to me in the dense heat. Along the back wall she was chained to one of the heating pipes and I grasped her from behind. “What have they done? Why? Elizabeth?!”

  She turned and her face was strewn with cuts and soot. Her smile was luminous. “I’ve been naughty again,” she whispered into my ear. “Naughty, bad girl. They punish.”

  “Guard, please!” He did not hesitate, but opened her chain and petted her gently on the head.

  “We can do no more,” he growled down at me. “Go.” His face was so empty, his eyes somber, as if missing something, not understanding.

  “Frederich, we can’t leave him. My friend.” She pointed at an old man lying on the floor nearby, diligently polishing a shaft holding up one of the machines. We would leave no one.

  “Elizabeth, you must gather everyone because there is one more thing I must do.” I looked around at the workers, all of them so weak, so wrinkled, so thin. These vibrant youths, these healthy men and happy women. “Where are all the others? Are there more?”

  She looked up at the lights and then glanced at me as if I truly understood nothing - and she was right. “No organic matter here.” She paused and looked around like an infant observing its first sunset. “Energy. Only we can burn.”

  I sat down hard on my knees, staring into her blank expression. “Then the oil. Where is it?” She didn’t understand, muttering about burns and fire. The same guard pointed up to the ceiling, and there I saw a gas tank. “Get them all together, we need to make a move toward the exhibition gallery.” I helped her to stand atop her gentle legs, and slowly she moved around the warehouse, gathering the workers together as the guard showed me a latch that would open into the hallway, a short run from the escalator.

  I was no architect, but the line bringing fuel into the factory and directly into the machine shop was clearly indicated on the blueprints. A fuse made from a rope doused in oil would be able to convey the flames of the workshop along a tiny crawl space to one of the smaller pipes.

  While the guards stared at the wires and Elizabeth entreated her companions to follow her toward the escalator, I grabbed a crowbar sitting on a bench and returned to the pit, to the smoldering workshop. The wires meant no more to me than light to guide my way as I ran toward the dimmest of brilliant hues, hauling a rope from the machine shop behind me. Easily prying open one of the wall panels, a short climb led into the crawlspace with the oil pipe on my left and the tight path leading to the workshop on my right. Without room to swing my arm, breaking open a hole in the pipe with the crowbar was a long, but vital endeavor. Oil spurted out onto my face as I shoved the rope in, pushing and pulling to soak it. I squeezed my sore body into the steel tunnel and scraped and clawed my way along those hot and smoking twenty-two feet toward the workshop. I heard voices shouting beneath me and I knew I had climbed over the secure room to which the man in gray, wearing his overalls, had escaped. I coughed and spat out sooty grime for that distance as the heat grew stronger and the light from the flames ahead grew more splendid.

  Reaching the workshop was like arriving at the brightest light and the warmest den in a cave of ice. I jumped down into the burning room, the flames scorching my leg before I rolled along the floor to put them out. I turned to throw the rope back into the crawl space, but it had already lit and was steadily burning toward the pipe.

  Racing the flame. As it smacked and hissed and whispered its searing hot message along those twenty-two feet of cold steel I ran down the dark corridor, not looking back at the light which pushed me harder and harder toward the exhibition gallery with the force of an enormous piston nor at the wires which continued to sing the news of the day.

  Elizabeth was still in the exhibition hall, helping the weaker ones out toward the tourist entrance - amid the throng I could still see tourists looking at the Factory’s inventions calmly while being pushed toward the door. “There’s no time,” I cried to her, “we have to leave now!”

  She smiled calmly back at me. “Yes, there is no time. We must get everyone.” She continued to push and pull the men and women and children out toward the entrance hallway while the guards stood by idly, some shuffling out as well. Carrying the last small children out, we ran toward the pasture, running through the high weeds thrashing at our legs and arms. We stopped, fell, panting.

  We could feel the factory burst open at its many seams and the flames rise high into the night behind us with its heat emanating to the heavens. A guard near us stood and pointed at Elizabeth. “It is your fault.”

  Bas
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