“The tower seems to have been designed to transcend common limitations. Mass and gravity. Time and space.” He paused significantly. “Life and death.”
“You seem awfully unconcerned with the fate of the tower’s earlier visitors,” Lamont murmured, a note of menace in his voice.
“I don’t mean to be,” Clifford insisted earnestly. “It’s just that I came away from my experience with a sense of absolute well-being. Not just for me, for all of us. The tower seems to have been designed to transcend common limitations. Mass and gravity. Time and space.” He paused significantly. “Life and death.”
Lamont felt a sting of pain. He had inadvertently bit his lip. “Designed by whom? When?”
“I would very much like to know that myself,” The engineer admitted. He lowered himself to the floor, standing mere inches away from Lamont now. His lanky frame was somewhat taller than Lamont’s, even in stocking feet. “One thing seems clear: The tower is a communication device. Somehow it communicated with me, and I think with you too. I have to believe that if we give it time, let it speak, then any questions we have will be answered.”
“And the fact that it has us as a literal captive audience,” Lamont asked flatly, “don’t concern you at all?”
“It does!” Clifford insisted, sidestepping the newspaperman and heading toward the counter of the medical bay. “At least, I know it should. But perhaps we’ve been brought into something beyond our present sensibilities. A higher purpose.”
Lamont watched the engineer cagily. “And what purpose is that, mate? A giant radio tower, pointed into empty space, using the mass of a moon to block interference. Who’s it for? Us?”
Clifford strolled with careful casualness to the counter, which held a water basin and a variety of medical apparatus. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “It brought us here so that we could help. Add our voices to the Chorus.”
His back was now between Lamont and the sink, so that the newspaperman couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands. Lamont tensed, balling his fists. Who’s idea was it to leave Clifford unsupervised? “And the Chorus is meant to—what was it? Rouse the Sleeper.”
Clifford turned around, holding an object in his hand. It was a small cup. He raised it to his lips and drank with evident relief, then set it on the counter and folded his arms. “That’s what I was told,” he agreed.
Lamont exhaled, forcing himself to relax. “And who is that?” He asked.