Highway of Eternity Read Online Free PDF Page A

one with all the questions. So start hunting for the answers.”
    He looked around the room in which they found themselves. The furniture was strange—familiar as to form and function, but very oddly structured. Against the farther wall stood what could have been a fireplace, but which, he told himself, probably wasn’t one. Above it hung a rather massive rectangular form that could have been a painting. But it was so far beyond even the wildest, most twisted works of the latest artists he had known that he fought against the thought that it could be a piece of art.
    The room seemed to be on a steady keel; it did not sag or shift. And how could that be? It had been somehow attached to the building that now was in the process of crumbling into an unsightly, shattered pile. Yet seemingly it held in place. Without the support of the blasted building, it still kept position, some hundred feet or more above the street.
    Boone moved swiftly to a window and looked out. In the faint light of the street, a billowing cloud of mortar and plaster dust swirled above the surface of the pavement, while broken bricks, splintered wood, and shattered marble skittered along the sidewalks. There was no doubt that the old hotel had fallen or was in the process of falling.
    The room in which he stood lurched suddenly, one end dropping, then regained its steadiness, while a shiver ran through it. Boone spun back from the window, holding his breath.
    The lurch had unhinged the painting or whatever it might be, and it was swinging back to uncover a black panel set into the wall. The face of the panel was filled with gleaming instruments. In the center of it, a red light was flashing on and off.
    Corcoran stood spraddle-legged, staring at the panel. The red light kept on blinking.
    A voice came out of the panel, speaking gibberish. It kept on speaking gibberish. It spoke fast and angrily.
    â€œSpeak English!” Corcoran roared at it. “Speak English. Don’t you know the language?”
    The red light ceased its blinking and the voice said in English, a rather strangely accented English, “Of course, we know the tongue. But why speak in English? This is Martin, is it not? Where have you been? Why have you not answered us?”
    â€œThis is not Martin,” Corcoran said. “Martin is not here.”
    â€œIf you are not Martin, then who are you? What business have you answering? How come you are in Martin’s place?”
    â€œFriend, whoever you may be,” said Corcoran, “the story is a long one and there is no time to tell you. The hotel has been razed, and here we hang in Martin’s place, suspended in thin air and about to crash at any moment.”
    The speaker from the panel drew his breath in sharply. Then he said, “Don’t get excited. We can set things right.”
    â€œI am not excited,” Corcoran said, “but I think we may need a bit of help.”
    â€œWe’ll help. Listen carefully.”
    â€œI am listening carefully.”
    â€œYou see a panel. You must see it. It’s activated when the screening cover is unhinged. It must be unhinged.”
    â€œDamn it, it is unhinged. Cease this kindergarten silliness and tell me what to do. The panel’s here. What does it do? How does it operate?”
    â€œOn the lower left-hand corner there is an array of—I suppose you could call them buttons. On the bottom row, starting from the right, count three and push the third button.”
    â€œIt’s pushed.”
    â€œNow count two up from that third button and push the second button.”
    â€œIt’s pushed,” said Corcoran.
    â€œNow—but don’t do this until I tell you. Count upward at an angle to your right the space of three buttons. Do you understand?”
    â€œI understand. I have my finger on the designated button.”
    â€œDon’t push it yet. I have to know when you are about to push it. When you do push it, you give