Mirror Space - Marianne de Pierres [114]
The dawning of possibility quickened his heartbeat. ‘Y-you would help me?’
‘Could do. Could do.’ She returned to chewing her cigarillo while Thales waited. The woman seemed quick-witted enough, though uneducated. But why would she help him?
‘Kinda feel sorry for you,’ she said, as if answering his thoughts. ‘What with all the ugliness on yer face, and on account of yer bein’ a bit simple and having yer ID nicked.’ She gave a phlegmy chortle. “Ere, ‘elp me up.’
He put out his hand and pulled her. She was light and wiry and at full standing height she only reached his shoulders.
‘Come on, then,’ she said.
She led him down the same corridor that he and Mira Fedor had emerged from earlier, but instead of entering one of the adjoining passages she walked on until she came to a blind corner. She turned to face a grubby section of the wall.
He waited again, wondering if she had simply been teasing him; or was she, perhaps, demented?
But the woman positioned herself side-on, and laid a thin, knobbly finger against a seam in the titanium. The seam parted and slid open.
She entered the hidden lift and beckoned him. ‘In ‘ere, Mr Big Words.’
Thales hurried to join her and stood watching the level counter while she continued to prattle.
The trip to the top of the station passed in an agony of inane remarks as Thales felt the claws of claustrophobia sinking into him. The lift stank of cleaning fluids and stale cigarillos, and the proximity of the old woman made him edgy.
Small spaces. The cabin on Farr’s ship, the refrigerator container, the sleeper unit and now this. He had a sudden longing for the vast, inky night skies of Scolar, unlit by any moon. He wanted to breathe unfiltered, real-world air and feel cool wind. He wanted . . .
“Ere we go, luvvy.’ The door finally opened into a corridor just like the one they had left. She waved him into it without ceremony. ‘Luck and all,’ she said.
The door closed on her crafty old face, and he experienced an instant of panic. What did her haste mean? Nothing. It means nothing. He discarded his unnamed fear as paranoia. He was closer to Samuelle, he hoped. That was all that mattered.
Resolutely, he walked down the corridor and found his way to the edge of a large open space filled with ‘esques seated at workstations. He retreated quickly and took another door. This one led to a long, sweeping passage, and past low-lit doorways that had the appearance of more luxurious lodgings than the plaza sleeper units. He listened at several of the doors but heard nothing. It was still early station morning.
Partway along the arc he stumbled upon an open common room furnished with couches and comm-soles and a spread of breakfast pastries and fruit that made his mouth salivate. A Dowdie sucked up the floor dust with a silent extraction nozzle, while a uniformed attendant fussed over the food.
He looked up and down the corridor. Voices drifted towards him; visitors leaving their station cabins to find breakfast. It was possible that Samuelle would be one of them.
Thales ran a few steps in one direction, and then changed his mind and ran back the other way. As quickly as his fumbling fingers would allow, he prised open the door of a fire-hydrant housing and pulled several extinguishers free. He juggled them over to the doorway and put them down. Then he raced back and forced himself into the tiny space, pulling the door closed.
The claustrophobia that assailed him this time was profound. His body heated and he began to sweat. He curled his fingers tight into his fists and tucked them under his knees to keep from flinging the door open. He used his meditation breathing in the hope that the fierce shaking that had beset him would subside.
Voices came closer and passed.
Once. Twice. Three times. Small groups, chatting in quiet tones.
Then he heard a familiar hissing noise. He tried to peer through the crack in the door, but his efforts to control his breathing had become ragged gasps to get enough air in his