Free The Digging Leviathan by James P. Blaylock

know you have. I didn’t drive over here today in that storm to chat about common knowledge. There’s information Latzarel hasn’t got. Nor can he get it! He knows nothing of a race of people—very wonderful people—living at the Earth’s core. Has he mentioned them to you? I think not.”
    Jim heard the sound of Pinion slapping something again—a tabletop or the arm of his chair. Pinion paused, cleared his throat, and let the last bit of information settle.
    “I was contacted by an emissary of these people. An interesting gentleman, to be sure. He had—how shall I say it?—certain physiological qualities that put me in mind of you. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was gilled. A merman, if youwill. And, if I’m not entirely amiss, one of your relatives. You and your family, I mean to say, are exiles from the land within the Earth. A paradise of natural beauty and riches. Gemstones for the plucking. Rivers running with gold. Vast subtropical forests ripe with fruit through the unvarying seasons. There’s no winter there, boy! Think of it. Only perpetual spring and summer.
    “It’s a land out of mythology—Ultima Thule, Atlantis, Shamballa, Agharta, Pellucidar! All the ancient mysteries explained. And you, my boy, exiled from that land of eternal sun, you and your unfortunate father …. Alas!”
    Jim could imagine Pinion shaking his head, perhaps fondling Giles’ shoulder—the lying old hypocrite. Approached by an emissary! Why would an emissary approach John Pinion? Why wouldn’t he approach Giles Peach? Why would he approach anyone at all? To encourage lunatics like Pinion to invade the land beyond the poles? Jim was aghast. Would Giles swallow all this? Of course he would. He was nine-tenths of the way there before Pinion’s arrival. Why shouldn’t he? Uncle Edward had. Professor Latzarel had. And when Jim considered it for a moment, he had too. He didn’t half believe in Pinion’s emissary, but Ashbless had been right at the Newtonian Society meeting. Pinion would outdistance them all. He hadn’t their honesty, their integrity. But he’d very soon have Giles’ machine.
    The front door shut with a suddenness that nearly toppled Jim into the ape coat again. It was Velma Peach, home for lunch. He could hear her there, a foot away. Through the crack between the door and the jamb he could see a hand gripping a raincoat. Surely she wouldn’t hang it in the closet. She was only home to eat lunch. He shut his eyes, waiting, considering and discarding speeches. The closet was far too small to hide him.
    “What are you doing here?” demanded Mrs. Peach. For one desperate moment Jim was sure she was talking to him. But then the hand and the coat disappeared. Jim could hear her feet scraping away toward the living room. It was John Pinion she confronted.
    “My good woman …” he began.
    “What do you want here?”
    “I’m interested only in your son’s welfare.”
    “You’re interested in some slimy business, I’d warrant. Ifyou want to talk to Giles, ask me first.
I
know who you are. Giles has enough ideas in his head without your shoving in.”
    “Giles, perhaps, is the best judge of that,” Pinion replied in an abruptly icy tone. “You’re about to be outvoted by history. Take my word for it, my good …”
    But he hadn’t time to finish before Velma Peach began to shout that she would “good woman” him out the door; Jim, in a wild rush, slid out of the closet unseen and fled down the hall, out through the kitchen and into the back yard. The front door slammed, Pinion’s truck rumbled away, and Jim idled casually along toward home, looking over his shoulder twice, fearful of being caught out and thinking wildly about Pinion’s Atlanteans and Mr. Hasbro’s car and of stealing Gill’s journals. How much of the day’s events could he tell Uncle Edward? All of it might be of vast importance. He’d make up some story of overhearing Pinion. And if it seemed a good idea, he’d