A small drum took up a beat, and the slaves strained and
tugged in unison. Ever so slowly, the enormous block of stone began to
move, while the ropes drew tighter.
Hanson checked the rigging with half his mind, while the other half
raced in a crazy circle of speculation. Mandrakes and mandrake-men,
zombie-men, from the past and multiple revivals! A sky that fell in
great chunks. What came next in this ridiculous world in which he seemed
to be trapped?
As if in answer to his question, there was a sudden, coruscating flare
from above.
Hanson's body reacted instinctively. His arm came up over his eyes,
cutting off the glare. But he managed to squint across it, upwards
toward what was happening in the cracked dome. For a split second, he
thought that the sun had gone nova.
He was wrong, but not by too much. Something had happened to the sun.
Now it was flickering and flaming, shooting enormous jets of fire from
its rim. It hovered at the edge of a great new hole and seemed to be
wobbling, careening and losing its balance.
There was a massive shriek of fear and panic from the horde of slaves.
They began bellowing like the collective death-agony of a world. Most of
them dropped their ropes and ran in blind panic, trampling over each
other in their random flight for safety. The human overseers were part
of the same panic-stricken riot. Only the mandrakes stood stolidly in
place, flicking each running man who passed them.
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