0187: Complete Misunderstanding

Ziggurat #95

Milo regarded Clifford incredulously. “The tower is the center of God’s will, then?”

Clifford lifted a finger instructively. “The tower is the apple of God’s eye.”

“What the devil does that mean?” asked Captain Carter.

“For untold eons, though she slumbers, she has kept it safe,” Clifford explained, his voice taking on a wistful quality. “That’s what I was told. Nothing can harm us when we are there.”

“God forbid that one should loiter outside, though,” Lamont murmured darkly.

“I think perhaps she does,” Clifford agreed sagely.

“She? God?” Amila stammered. “Who is she?”

“She is the one who sleeps. She is the one who listens and dreams of her return,” Clifford intoned.

Amila pursed her lips tightly. “It doesn’t sound like we’re thinking of the same God,” she admitted.

“I doubt she minds,” Clifford assured her. “All will be made clear in time.”

The chief of operations waved her hands as if she were swatting gnats from around her head. “We don’t have time for this,” she concluded. “Mr. Ashton’s conversion notwithstanding, I don’t see any new evidence to suggest that our people are in physical danger.”

“But don’t you think…” Lamont began to interject. 

“I agree,” said Captain Carter, cutting the newspaperman off. “Our highest priority is repairing Westward. We can’t justify any further delays.” He pinched the side of his wrist radio before lifting it to his mouth. “Mr. Long, will you please assemble the second group?”

“They’re already here, captain,” Came Lazarus’ voice over the small speaker.

“Very well,” Francis replied. “Mr. Townsend will be down shortly.”

“Finally,” sighed Clifford with visible relief. “I’ll dash to my quarters to get dressed and will be there in three minutes.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Ashton,” Amila said, holding out her clipboard so that its edge pressed into Clifford’s scrawny chest. “We never said that you were going with them.”

“But I have to!” Clifford objected in a tone approaching panic. “There’s so much to learn! We’ve only scratched the surface—”

Francis stepped closer as if ready to physically interpose himself between Clifford and Amila. Chivalrous, Lamont thought, although he had little doubt that the diminutive senior officer could dispatch Ashton without so much as wrinkling her skirt. “I know that you’re an archeologist,” the captain explained to Clifford, “but you’re an engineer first, and we need you here. Besides, you still have explaining to do.”

Ashton appeared to be on the verge of tears. “How can I explain what I don’t fully understand? I need more time!”

“That,” Carter said, setting his jaw, “Is something we do not have in abundance.”

“You completely misunderstand the situation,” Clifford hissed. His gaunt body crouched as if he were about to make a run for the door. “There’s nothing for us here. The only function of Westward was to take us there! You’re only—”

His pale eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as the gnarled hand of Doctor Faust clamped over his mouth and nose, holding a folded white cloth. His body crumpled like a ragdoll into the waiting arms of Milo, who transferred him with surprising ease onto the examination bed behind them. The air was filled with a saccharine smell that compelled Lamont, in his somewhat oxygen-deprived state, to steady himself against a countertop.

“Was that really necessary, Milo?” Carter asked.

“Can’t be sure,” the gnomish doctor admitted, tucking the cloth into his mint green coveralls. “But chloroform is best used preemptively.”

“I’m deeply terrified of you now,” Lamont observed.

Chief Santana spun on the heel of her white boot and walked briskly to the door. “Let’s keep things moving,” she snapped. “I’m sure we can all use some air.”