"How far?" he wondered. "A half a
mile? A mile? More?" The lights looked almost like stars, placed in the
strategic joints and balconied work areas of the monstrous iron
latticework.
The refugees from Lurton Zimbardo's prison had been walking through the
power plant for some time-long enough to have covered at least a mile,
and probably closer to two. Though the surroundings were obviously
nothing more than the power station of the asteroid, the men were as
hushed as if they were in a cathedral. They were small figures in an
enormous place, reminded of their smallness and overwhelmed with a
sense of the numinous.
Mark sifted through his memories to a time when he was a child of about
six, and his parents had brought him to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico.
He had stood in an immense room below ground, large enough to contain
several football fields. He had exulted then, identifying for the first
time his restlessness inside, his search for something larger than
himself, something that could fill a universe.
He spoke aloud to no one in particular. "When I was in Carlsbad Caverns
about a dozen years ago, the ranger told us that the temperature inside
the caverns was constant. This is like that."
"Sure," responded Joe. "This is a kind of cave. Look at the floor.
Perfectly smooth, like glass.
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