Free Mists of Everness (The War of the Dreaming) by John C. Wright Page A

cable looped around the roof braces. Either he had a confederate on the roof with a winch, or …”
    “Or what?”
    “We don’t know yet how much control he has over the weapon in flight. He may have tied the cable to the hammer, and ordered it to fly up and through the braces. If so, the hammer has a lifting weight capacity we estimate at nine hundred pounds.”
    “Was this while he was carrying his father?”
    “We’re not sure. Personally, I think the cable was just another false trail. I think he slid down the garbage chute into the dumpster.”
    “Any idea why he destroyed the pay phone on the fourth floor?”
    “Something strange there, sir. The coinbox was exploded outward from the inside; there was no entry damage. It may have been the first thing damaged. Here we are. Look here. Uh. This is pretty messy, sir. The medical examiner isn’t quite done yet …”
    “I’ve seen worse. Well, Maybe not. Where was he standing?”
    “Lying, sir. He was here, where he had carved out a niche in the wall. We think it took three blows of the weapon. You see here where the wall is shorn away? There are three layers of melted rock; the rock momentarily liquefies under the impact.”
    “Okay. He was here. There were two squads, one coming down each of these corridors. They can’t see each other. What happened next?”
    “Remember, they’re not coordinated because of the radio silence …”
    “Even so, how do you explain this?”
    “Well, sir, it was also dark. One of the first things he did was knock out the generators and the backup generators. Also, the weapon had already struck among both squads several times.”
    “How? Was he throwing it through the wall at them?”
    “No, sir, he only did that the one time on the third floor. The men say the weapon was turning the corner each time, changing direction as it flew.”
    “He can throw the thing around corners?”
    “With English, I suppose, sir.”
    “Is that supposed to be a joke, Van Dam?”
    “I wish it were, sir.”
    “So all our men shoot each other to pieces in the cross corridor. And that’s how he got away? I don’t understand. How did he get out?”
    “We think it was at that point he threw the weapon through the fence.”
    “How far away would you say the fence was from here?”
    “Half a mile, sir. The alarm went off. Naturally, the men converged toward the breach.”
    “And he was here all the time?”
    “Yes, sir. He and his father were dressed in our uniforms at this point. He just lay among the wounded. You see where he got the idea; the father was still unconscious. When the ambulance crew came, naturally they just assumed …”
    Wentworth shook his head. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
    II
    Miss MacCodam smiled as she walked, for she loved the library. It had been built in a day and age when the local contributors had been generous and showed proper respect to learning. The main desk was in an atrium surrounded by tall Greek columns, and the light from the setting sun shined through the tall, green glass windows.
    Behind the desk quiet aisles led back among towering stacks. Miss MacCodam imagined, in that profound silence, the deep wisdom of the ages meditated. In her mind’s eye, these stacks of book were erected to the memory of the geniuses long dead, the monuments to the giants who had built civilization, or, if not monuments, then walls—walls holding back the tides of ignorance, barbarism, and decay, that each generation, rose up in new forms to pull down the pillars of society.
    She breathed in satisfaction. When the library was closed, it was so solemn and quiet here. The silence of a thousand sleeping stories, dreams, records, experiments, accomplishments …
    A slight snore rippled across the silence.
    Miss MacCodam halted in shock. She swung her eyes about. There, in the small room set aside for children, she saw a figure slumped over the tiny table. It was a shaggy-headed bulk in a long, black coat, now faded,