The Descent

The  camp woke to tremors  on the last day  of summer.

Like  the  rest,  Ali  was  asleep  on  the  ground.  She  felt  the  earthquake  work  deep inside her body. It  seemed  to move her bones.

For  a  full  minute  the  scientists  lay  on  the  ground,  some  curling  in  fetal  balls,  some clutching  their  neighbors'  hands  or  embracing.  They  waited  in  awful  silence  for  the tunnel to close upon them or the floor to drop away.

Finally some wag yelled out, 'All clear. It  was  just  Shoat,  damn  him.  Wanking  again.' They   all  laughed  nervously.   There   were   no   more   tremors,   but   they   had   been reminded of how minuscule they  were.  Ali braced for an  onset  of  confessions  from  her fragile flock.

Later  in  the  morning,  several  in  a  group  of  women  she  was  rafting  with  could  smell what  was  left  of  the  earthquake  in  the  faint  dust  hanging  above  the  river.  Pia,  one  of the  planetologists,  said  it  reminded  her  of  a  stonecutters'  yard  near  her  childhood home, the smell of cemetery  markers  being  polished  and  sandblasted  with  the  names of the dead.

'Tombstones? That's  a pleasant thought,' one of the women said.

To  dispel  the  sense  of  omen,  Ali  said,  'See  how  white  the  dust  is?  Have  you  ever smelled  fresh  marble  just  after  a  chisel  has  cut  it?'  She  recalled  for  them  a  sculptor's studio  she  had  once  visited  in  northern  Italy.  He  had  been  working  on  a  nude  with little success, and had begged Ali to pose for him, to help draw the woman out from his block of stone. For a time he had pursued her with letters.

'He wanted you to pose naked?' Pia was delighted. 'He didn't know you were  a nun?'

'I was very  clear.'

'So? Did you?'

Suddenly, Ali felt sad. 'Of course not.'

Life  in  these  dark  tubes  and  veins  had  changed  her.  She  had  been  trained  to  erase her  identity  in  order  to  allow  God's  signature  upon  her.  Now  she  wanted  desperately to be remembered,  if only as a piece of sculpted marble.

The  underworld  was  having  its  effect  on  others,  too.  As  an  anthropologist  Ali  was naturally  alive  to  the  entire  tribe's  metamorphosis.  Tracking  their  idiosyncrasies  was like  watching  a  garden  slowly  grow  rampant.  They  adopted  peculiar  touches,  odd ways  of  combing  their  hair,  or  rolling  their  survival  suits  up  to  the  knee  or  shoulder. Many  of  the  men  had  started  going  bareback,  the  upper  half  of  their  suits  hanging from  their  waists  like  shed  skin.  Deodorant  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  you  barely noticed  the  body  smells,  except  for  certain  unfortunates.  Shoat,  particularly,  was known  for  his  foot  odor.  Some  of  the  women  braided  each  other's  hair  with  beads  or shells.  It  was  just  for  fun,  they  said,  but  their  concoctions  got  more  elaborate  each

week.

Some  of  the  soldiers  lapsed  into  gang  talk  when  Walker  wasn't  around,  and  their weapons  suddenly  flowered  with  scrimshaw.  They  carved  animals  or  Bible  quotes  or girlfriends'  names  onto  the  plastic  stocks  and  handles.  Even  Walker  had  let  his  beard grow  into  a  great  Mosaic  bush  that  had  to  be  a  garden  spot  for  the  cave  lice  that plagued them.

Ike  no  longer  looked  so  much  different  from  the  rest  of  them.  After  the  incident  at Cache II,  he had made himself more scarce. Many  nights they  never  saw him,  only  his little  tripod  of  glowing  green   candles  designating  a  good  campsite.   When  he  did surface, it was only for a matter  of hours. He was retreating  into himself, and Ali didn't know  how  to  reach  him,  or  why  it  should  matter  so  much  to  her.  Maybe  it  was  that the  one  in  their  group  who  most  needed  reconciliation  seemed  most  resistant  to  it. There  was another  possibility,  that  she  had  fallen  in  love.  But  that  was  unreasonable, she thought.

On one of Ike's  rare  overnights  at  camp,  Ali  took  a  meal  to  him  and  they  sat  by  the water's  edge.  'What  do  you  dream?'  she  asked.  When  his  brow  wrinkled,  she  added,

'You don't have  to tell me.'

'You've  been  talking  with  the  shrinks,'  he  said.  'They  asked  the  same  thing.  It's supposed to be a measure  of fluency, right? If I dream in hadal.'

She was unsettled. They  all wanted a piece of this man.  'Yes,  it's  a  measure.  And  no, I haven't talked with anyone about you.'

'So what do you want?'

'What you dream about. You don't have  to tell me.'

'Okay.'

They  listened to the water.  After  a  minute,  she  changed  her  mind.  'No,  you  do  have to tell me.' She made it light.

'Ali,' he said. 'You don't want to hear it.'

'Give,' she coaxed.

'Ali,' he said, and shook his head.

'Is it so bad?'

Suddenly he stood up and went over  to the kayak.

'Where  are  you  going?'  This  was  so  strange.  'Look,  just  drop  it.  I  was  prying.  I'm sorry.'