All that had been raging within him subsided in the gold and blue aura of the paintings that stood upon a long table in Harry Penn's office, leaning at a slight angle that made Peter Lake and Beverly seem to look into the distance.

A crown of color emanated from the life-sized portraits, in rose, yellows, and blues that boiled in the air, perpetually unfurling, like the sunlit spray of a wave that hangs in the light. To Peter Lake and Harry Penn, it appeared that the two figures were actually alive. The dark background with its slight radiance (as if a strong beam of light were pa.s.sing through invisibly except for a few telltale glimmers of the dust) was in no way flat, and even though it was merely a few millimeters of paint, it led the eye far and deep. Beverly seemed perpetually to be reaching a smile. She had not only the look of grace and forgiveness common to those who stare from the past, but she seemed to be br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with the knowledge of something excellent and good. In his portrait, Peter Lake seemed unsure, uncomfortable, and not as well initiated in the brilliant mystery that surrounded Beverly with such force and confidencea"despite the tentative way her left hand touched the folds of blue silk that billowed from her shoulder and were tied by a silver clasp. But he was, obviously, soon to learn. In her right hand, she held a folded fan against the pearly gray of her dress. Though it was not apparent in the portraits, they had been standing almost together when the artist hadpainted them, and her left hand was reaching to touch Peter Lake Though their hands were not together, one would, if one were to know the circ.u.mstances of the sitting, see them on their way.

They were alive. To say so is not just a figure of speech a device, or a metaphor. They were alive, and, what is more, she had seen everything.

"Your name is Peter Lake. And that was my sistera"Beverly, " Harry Penn offered.

Peter Lake held out his hand as if to say, "Shhh! I know. Of course I know." And he knew, as well, exactly what he had to do, though he didn't know how he was going to do it.

With a last look into Beverly's eyes, for courage, he turned from the portrait and left the room, with Harry Penn hard on his heels.

Harry Penn could only just keep up with him, and Peter Lake didn't turn when he spoke."We sat for that portrait on a very beautiful day, " he said."I wanted to be outside, but she made me stand beside her from morning until night. Sometimes when I got tired of standing, I knelt on a little stool in back of her. I didn't see the sun once that day, but only a perfectly blue sky through the upper part of a north window.

"Later, at night, I was quite surprised to find that my muscles were pleasantly sore, and that my face and arms were sunburned.

"She said it was my reward, and that it was only a part of what was to come. I didn't know then what she meant, but now I do know."

Harry Penn stopped, and looked after Peter Lake as he disappeared down the stairs. The old man had done his part, and he returned to his office to direct The Sun.

FAT, gentle, slit-eyed Cecil Mature was in a rage."Do this! that! Do this! Do that!" he said furiously to a desk littered with bushels of request slips, materials orders, looseleaf papers, queries, demands, and several dozen bright red and blue memos from Jackson Mead that had all arrived at the same time bearing the following inscription: "Most urgent, absolute, top, 1,000% prioritya"if I werea king in ancient times, I would lop off your head were you not to deal with this immediately."

He clenched his fist until it resembled a small stack of bagels, and slammed it hard against his huge desk, causing half a dozen cathode-ray screens to flicker in effeminate protest. Seething with an anger that threatened to compromise his extraordinarily sweet disposition, he tried to lose his temper the way other people did, and to become mean. Edging himself on, as it were, against an edgeless nature, he found himself in a struggle between a hard external voice and an inaudible but omnipotent inner gentleness.

"He just sits there, and doesn't even move, " Cecil said, trying to work himself up."Just commands, commands, commands. His lips hardly part when he talks, all for conservation of energy.'Mr. Wooley, send twenty thousand freight cars to the iron fields of Minnesota. Mr. Wooley, convert the supertankers we are building in Sasebo into carriers of liquid hydrogen. Mr. Wooley, draw up the plans for a t.i.tanium smelter in Botswana. Mr. Wooley, do this. Mr. Wooley, do that.'I can't!"

Mootfowl glided up from nowhere."He wants you to find out about the progress of the fire. It's coming down from the north at a fast pace, and he says you ought to get close to it, scout around, and try to pick up some information about the Short Tails."

"What about all this stuff?" Cecil asked, referring to the stack of "urgent" memos."What about the charge fluctuations at Black Tom, the polarity reversal at Diamond Shoals, the switches that have to be changed in South Bay? How's that going to get done?" "He says not to worry." "Not to worry? After all those years? You mean he's not worriedhimself?"

"He isn't."

Cecil was astonished."What about you? Aren't you a little tense? G.o.d knows, I am. The city's burning; we're pressed from all sides; the harbor's so turbulent I don't see how in the world the lenses will remain stable, and they've got to be completely immobile for the beams to concentrate perfectly, since the ice lenses are gone, and...."

"I wouldn't lose too much sleep over that, Cecil, " Mootfowl said."I'm not going to."

Cecil couldn't believe his ears."How can that be?" he asked "You? You, the most nervous, jumpy, stiff, keyed-up divine that ever lived? We're so close!"

"Cecil, do you understand what happens if we throw that bridge and it takes?"

"Eternal salvation, heaven on earth, the sight of G.o.d's face, the golden agea"everyone slim and trim, " Cecil answered in a sort of reverberatery awe.

"That's right, " Mootfowl confirmed."And what's left for us?"

"Wha?" said Cecil, nearly rolling off his chair.

"We'd be out of a job. If everything were bliss, there'd be no need for us, would there?"

"Don't you want it that way?"

"Quite frankly, I don't. I've changed my mind. And he's having second thoughts, too. We like it the way it is. We're enjoying the oscillating balances, the ongoing war between good and evil, the wonderful small triumphs of the soul. Perhaps it's too soon to end all that. Perhaps we need some more time to think things out."

"Another hundred years?" Cecil inquired.

"We were thinking about the excellent times that we've had, and we decided on maybe another thousand... or two."

"What about Peter Lake?"

"Must his triumph be absolute? None of the others had that, not Beverly Penn, nor any of the ones before, though when it's his time to act he may far outshine the others, and take the matter out of our hands."

"They don't do that."

"They haven't done it as yet. Who's to say that he won't? By the way, it's all working out very well with him, as far as we can tell."

"You've found him!"

"At about two o'clock this morning, " Mootfowl said, "sleeping against a bank of machinery. / trained him to that."

"Like h.e.l.l you did, " Cecil snapped."Don't you remember where you grabbed him?"

"Well, yes. But I sharpened his sense of the machine's nature. You do recall, don't you, that he thought they were animals?"

"Where is he?"

"You were always loyal to him, much more than to any of theothers."

"He's been through a lot."

"They've all been, " Mootfowl said."The last I heard, he was at The Sun. Don't be too long. We're going to throw the bridge in a few hours, and if it takes, if it takes... I imagine you'll want to be around."

PRINTING House Square was crowded with dazed survivors looking for the people they loved. For fear of creating too great a contrast with those who were lost and alone, families whose members found one another suppressed their joy, which made it all the stronger. The Marrattas met Asbury, Christiana, and Jessica Penn just inside the doors of The Sun. They sat down together by a bank of palms illuminated by a number of spotlights in the ceiling. The Sun's steam engines beat and hissed in a muscular rhythm to provide power for the presses and the light. But across Printing House Square, The Ghost was as black as pitch. Its employees stared at its triumphant rival, and their faces, illuminated alternately by flamelight and by the light of The Sun itself, were sad, moonlike, sallow, and held in hands that had nothing to do.

When Peter Lake reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw the Marrattas across the lobby, and went toward them. Just before he reached the bank of palms, he clutched his side in response to a sudden pain that nearly toppled him, and stood quietly, hoping for it to pa.s.s. They were talking. Hardesty and Asbury were speaking about the vault where Hardesty had left the salver. With the salver's several pounds of gold, the huge and powerful horse, the launch, and the many skills and strengths that the Gunwillows, the Marrattas, and Mrs. Gamely possessed, they could make a new beginning in the city, whatever its shape, when the fires died down and the morningcame. Peter Lake emerged from the palms. Just as he did, Cecil Mature scurried into the lobby of The Sun, breathless after pushing his way through the crowds. When he saw Peter Lake, his hardly visible eyes filled with tears. Peter Lake, too, felt a surge of brotherly affection for Cecil, and when he spoke his voice broke with emotion "Have you got the tools to blow a vault?" he asked.

Cecil nearly collapsed with happiness at the sudden and perfect resumption of their old ways."I can get them, " he answered, overjoyed.

"We've got braces and hammers at The Sun, " Peter Lake said "but the metal in these machines is soft. What I'll need from you are diamond bits of all sizes, nitro, variable chucks, and safecracker's probes. I'll bring the rest."

"I can get *em easy!" Cecil yelled as he left."Wait here."

Peter Lake turned to Asbury."Tell me about the horse that you were talking about. Is he really huge, so that you almost need a ladder to get up on him? Is he as white as snow, and more beautiful than any equestrian statue? Does he fight as you wouldn't think a horse could ever fight, with his forelegs twirling and his head swinging back and forth like a mace? And does he have a tendency to take extremely long strides, which, if he has his way, become flight? I don't mean retreat. I mean flying."

"Yes, it's all true, " Christiana answered.

"You have my horse, " Peter Lake said in such a way that Christiana lowered her eyes for having lost him once again. But Peter Lake then turned to Virginia."Where's your little girl?" he asked.

"She's dead, " Virginia answered."You saw yourself."

"But where is she now?"

"We buried her on the Isle of the Dead, " Hardesty said.

Peter Lake closed his eyes and thought. Then, shaking his head in the affirmative, as if he had just convinced himself of something, he opened his eyes, and he said, "Dig her up."

"What are you saying?" Hardesty replied, suddenly angry.

"What am I saying? I'm saying that you should go to the Isle of the Dead, and dig her up. Disinter her, if that's what you want to call it. Remove her from the grave."

"But why?" Hardesty asked, not knowing what to think.

"Because she's going to live, " Peter Lake said quietly."Andthat I know because of Beverly." He held up his hand."Just do as I say. I'll take the horse, since he's mine anyway, but I'll open the vault and retrieve the salver for you in return."

"You spoke of Beverly, " Hardesty said to Peter Lake."Do you mean Beverly Penn?"

"Yes, " Peter Lake answered, "Beverly Penn."

"Then I know who you are, from the pictures in the archives. You're the man who stood next to her in all the photographs, and was never identified. How is it that in all this time you haven'taged?"

"I'd like to know that myself, " Peter Lake said."It's been perplexing me for quite a while. But now Cecil Mature is back. If you'll tell me the location of the vault and the number of the box, we'll go get the salver, and leave it in place of the horse. Where is the horse?"

"Mr. Cecil Wooley, " Cecil corrected, even though he was breathless from hauling a heavy leather sack full of diamond bits and t.i.tanium probes."Remember?"

"I do remember, " Peter Lake replied."Mr. Wooley, would you like to crack one last vault?" Cecil beamed, and bashfully swung his right foot to and fro as he stared down at the ground.

Hardesty told Peter Lake the number of the box and the location of the vault."I know that one, " Peter Lake said, "from back then, when it was the ne plus ultra of vaults. With modern tools and techniques, it shouldn't be that difficult."

"Do you want the combination of the box, and a key for a padlock that holds down the lid?" Hardesty asked, pulling out his key ring, and then, realizing that he had insulted Peter Lake, putting it back in his pocket.

Christiana told Peter Lake where to find the white horsea"in a courtyard on Bank Street. He could see that she didn't want to part with him."I'm not going to keep him either, " he said."He's goinghome."

During these exchanges, Mrs. Gamely had been sulking unnoticed on a bench. Peter Lake approached her."Sarah, " he said."I'm deeply sorry for having been so rude to you a little while ago. I didn't really remember. Will you forgive me?"

"Oh yes, " she answered."You're Peter Lake, aren't you."

He nodded his head.

He and Mr. Cecil Wooley, as Cecil preferred to be called (since he thought that, unlike the heavy-set syllables of "Mature, " "Wooley" sounded very thin and graceful) left to crack the vault.

AFTER they leaned through the transoms and had the mechanics pa.s.s them the other tools they needed, they left The Sun for the bank that Hardesty had chosen years before because it had looked n.o.ble responsible, and burglarproof.

If by will, imagination, and desire, one can cross from one time to another, Peter Lake and Cecil Mature did so on their half-mile walk. They existed in the present only with a great deal of sufferance anyway, and they suspected that they were soon to rise and actually fly out of it. Hanging on to the modern age by only a thread, they could almost hear the choirs of voices, the tremulous sounds that would shake the ground, and the tones that would come from beyond the swirling smoke. They sensed very strongly the imminent marriage of chaos and order which seemed to be on its way to the turbulent city surrounded by calm blue bays.

They saw images projected from afar into the billowing eruptive smoke, and Peter Lake quickly surmised that the record of all things, though rushing away into uncharted infinity, could still throw back a strong and indelible reflection. They saw, briefly unfolding, the flowering of the city they had once knowna"the horses straining at their wagons, the snow dumpers hard at work, the firemen and their urnlike engines, the ice-hung maze of telephone wires, the old silks and diamond lapels, innocent and fleeting expressions born to light an unknowing face for the rest of time. They heard hoofbeats, the mourning whistles of many-stacked ferries, the clatter of harness peddlers' calls, and wooden wheels on the cobbles. And Peter Lake knew that these things were nothing in themselves but the means by which to remember those he had loved, and to remind him that the power of the love he had known was repeated a million times a mil-lion times over, from one soul to anothera"all worthy, all holy, none ever lost. He glided through the illusions that flashed bravely on thesmoke, and he was touched very deeply by the will of things to live in the light.

The bank was a looming old stone building. Every window and door was covered with Spanish ironwork that looked as delicate as lace. But the bars, far from being frilly tendrils, were hardened steel as thick as Craig Binky's head.

"Now there's a bank to be admired, " said Peter Lake, pointing to the motto engraved in four-foot letters across the architrave: "Neither a borrower nor a lender be."

"We never did a job like this, not even close, " Cecil said apprehensively.

"I did, " he was answered."Quite close. Some of the private vaults I opened were probably almost as big as the one that's in here. All you need are the right tools, patience, and a little practice. It'sonly metal."

"How are we going to get in? The front door?" "We could use the front door, since there aren't any cops around, and it's dark. But banks always concentrate their strengths in the places that the public sees. We'll save fifteen minutes if we go through a second-story window in the back."

They went around the corner and climbed to a wide ledge which formed the sill of a window that was itself behind thick iron bars."In the old days, " Peter Lake said, "we'd have had to cut or blow these bars, or use a jackscrew as big as a telephone pole. But now, thanks to diligent metallurgists, we've got these wonderful little creatures." He reached into his bag and pulled out two silver jacks, each about the size of a loaf of bread. They were comprised of a gearbox in the center, and something that looked like a combination of a threaded shaft and a ratchet post. Peter Lake fixed them between a set of bars, and then attached folding cranks which he and Cecil Mature began to turn. After a minute of furious circling, hardly anychange was visible.

He explained that hundreds of wafer-thin alloy gears were packed in so densely as to give a mechanical advantage of two thousand. Though it would take a lot of turning, it would work, he said, and pointed to little cracks where the bars met the stone. There were even battery-powered models, he informed his partner, but what wasthe point? What could you do while the thing was working, sit on the ledge and eat your lunch, or read Field and Stream? The idea was to work with the machine.

Soon the bars began to sing like old Irishwomen who tend sheep in the fog. Ten minutes later they had spread far enough apart for Peter Lake to reverse the jacks, pull them out, and step through However, Cecil became wedged firmly between them, and was only able to get inside after Peter Lake plastered him with graphite and pulled at him. The exertion reopened Peter Lake's wound, and he bent double with pain.

"I'm all right, " he declared."Let's move on."

Now they were on familiar ground, working together with the old tools on an old-fashioned break-tape window alarm. They drilled a dozen tiny holes through the tape, and connected them together with copper probes and wires. Then, knowing that the current would not be interrupted, they carefully cut a hole through the gla.s.s, and pulled it out with a double suction cup, placing it neatly between the window and the bars. They were careful about the alarms not because they feared the police (who had their hands full), but rather as a matter of pride. They anch.o.r.ed a block and tackle to the bars, maneuvered themselves and their tools through the opening in the gla.s.s, stood in the stirrups of their tackle, and slowly lowered themselves to the floor thirty feet below.

When they touched down, they touched lightly and without a sound. Peter Lake looked into the turbulent darkness high above him."Shhh!" he whispered to Cecil, who thought the police were nearby."Do you hear it?"

"What?" Cecil whispered back.

"The music."

"What music?"

"Piano music, a very soft and beautiful piano. Listen."

Cecil closed his eyes, held his breath, and concentrated deeply. But he could hear nothing. Peter Lake said, "Ah... beautiful! How tranquil."

Cecil took another breath, and tried again."I like music, * he said a minute later, after he had exhaled."But I didn't hear anything."

"It's very faint. It's circling up there, near the top of the dome,like a little cloud."

They slid across a little prairie of madly waxed marble, their way dimly lit by the red glare of the fires, and went down some wide stairs that led to the sepulcher in which the vault had been set. A ceremonial gate of bronze-colored steel bars proved easy enough to pa.s.s simply by punching in the lock with a hardened awl and a sledgehammer. Once they were beyond the gate, they switched on their headlamps and approached the vault.

The door was ten feet in diameter, with hinge pins twice as thick as a fire hydrant. The stainless-steel wheels and rods that were scattered over its front made it look like the interior of a submarine.

But Peter Lake was not discouraged, and immediately lapsed into an a.n.a.lytical monologue the beguiling likes of which Cecil had often heard from Mootfowl as he felt his way through something difficult and unknown."These wheels, here, " Peter Lake said, touching half the capstans as he spoke, "are just to impress the safe deposit customers. They're stuck on to make the thing look like it's impossible to move. They turn, see? But they have nothing to do with the problem."These twoa" " he patted two spoked steel thistles each a yard in diametera""they turn the four bolts. That's it. If we could rotate these, the bolts would crawl from the strikes like woodchucks backing out of their holes. Each bolt is as thick as a small log with roughly the diameter of a dinner plate, in solid vanadium steel.

"In the old days, you could manipulate the locks, even the time locks. You'd have to drill to get to the workings, but you could do it. Now the mechanisms have been retrofitted so that they're controlled by those little silicon things, tea biscuits that are smarter than we are. If you want to outwit them, you've got to be able to deal with individual electrons. Maybe Mootfowl can do that, but it's notmy style.

"So we've got to bypa.s.s the control, get to the four bolts, and destroy them. That means drilling three holes for each bolt, and blasting the bolt itself into the vault, since the back of the door is covered only with quarter-inch-sheet steel that's easy to buckle. The holes have to be placed just right."

He removed a bushel of calipers and rules from the leather bag, and began to etch a Euclidean diagram on the conveniently smooth surface of the burnished steel. He sang while he worked, which delighted Cecil (even though Cecil could not hear the distant piano that Peter Lake was accompanying), for the sound of it was druidic, tantalizing, and vaguely Oriental, and it reminded Cecil of his years as a tattooist. In about an hour, everything was marked out in precise diamond-etched targets. After they drilled anchor holes for tripods that would hold the bits at the proper slope, they set up the bits and braces, and began to drill.

They used the ultrahigh-speed water-cooled electric drills that Peter Lake had appropriated from dental science and adapted to his needs at The Sun. When the shafts had been opened in practically no time, they poured in nitroglycerine from a dozen gla.s.s bottles, sealed the holes with gutta-percha, pushed long copper spark probes through the soft sealant, connected these to an octopuslike distributor, gathered their tools, and ran a wire out of the vault and across the cavernous banking floor.