Northern California Views

Luke trudged up the long road just like he always had, his equipment kit banging his backside in a now all-too-familiar rhythm. Slung over his shoulder, pieces of his ancient leather bag flaked off with the occasional misstep or shift of burden. The bag still was good enough to carry what he needed, though.

No one else ever came this way anymore, but the path remained well worn, scored by his own journeys back and forth thousands of times up and down the steep hill over the 30-some years he had been on this planet. His great-uncle Gerald had asked him long ago to come here and take over for him doing what he had called “the most important task you will ever know.”

It had made sense at the time.

Luke and his uncle had worked together about six months before Gerald died suddenly and painfully of terminal constipation, leaving Luke with this, his questionable inheritance. Gerald’s endorsement had guaranteed him the position as replacement, and ever since the small but regular state service pension had sustained his modest needs.

Throughout their relatively short time together, Uncle Gerald had been almost rapturous about the responsibility, like some lonely priest guarding a great temple or oracle. His enthusiasm had been infectious and lasted a while even for Luke. But for years now Luke had found the task monotonous, repetitive, constant. It bored him, actually. In fact, he thought he hated it. Whenever he bothered to think.

“It’s a job,” he once told a stranger at a bar. This was about as profound a conclusion as he ever reached.

Besides, no one anywhere ever asked him to do anything else.

At the last turn on the road Luke let his kit slip off his shoulder; and he stopped for a moment like he always did, partly to stand in awe of his charge and partly now to catch his breath. He was not getting any younger. Before him stood the two now-familiar large, perfectly spherical buildings, each towering over 2400 feet above him and covered at the base with a wiry array of ivy and shrubs. Inside, Luke knew each had some 200 floors, mostly empty now after all these years. The exterior elevations were covered with an orthogonal pattern of concave dimples. Each dimple in turn had its own narrow slit-like window, which provided ambient light for the interior. The overall impression was rather like a pair of very large golf balls. Or maybe walnuts. Surrendering to the latter image, Luke had taken to calling the spheres just “nuts.”

The “nuts” were indeed impressive, but they in turn were dwarfed by the main attraction: The Obelisk. That is the only name people ever called it. Eight hundred feet thick at the base and tapering to a peak reaching nearly a mile high, it had been there for centuries, built by someone or some beings long lost to memory. At least lost to Luke’s memory. The huge thing could be seen virtually from anywhere in the region; but one of the best views was from where he stood, breaking out of the trees, a half mile away, looking from an angle that captured best the obvious phallic impression. His uncle had told him that the top of the tower used to have a spurting fountain, but that the plumbing had long since calcified into uselessness. Luke had a hard time believing that anyone could much care about a fountain no one could really see. It occurred to him then that some really big egos had to be involved here, as his numbed brain strained to reach for another thought.

He studied the structure for a moment, deciding where to proceed next. His job actually was quite simple: keep the whole structure swept. Keep it tidy. Keep the lights on. Keep the occasional vandal or graffiti-monger away. But given its size, the structure had to be maintained one part at a time: a portion of a floor one day, several sets of stairs the next, a recheck and service to a maintenance area for a third. For one man, it took over two years to cover the entire structure. That at least offered some variety. And job security.

Then it struck him: when was the last time he was in the so-called “center compartments” of the Left Nut? He couldn’t recall. Had he missed them on his normal cycle of routine some two years ago? Perhaps. Yes, probably.

Decision made, he picked up his kit again, slung it over his shoulder, and proceeded onward. Shortly he made the usual left turn, followed the narrowing path to the Left Nut’s main entrance, and fumbled for the pass card to unlock the door.

He didn’t notice the faint flickering light at a window far above.

Like its twin next door, the interior of the Left Nut was dark and gloomy, almost medieval, with high ceilings, heavy Doric columns and broad functional rafters supporting each floor. Also like its twin, the Left Nut had the feel of a stoic museum, but there were no displays. Any artifacts had long since been removed or crumbled to dust, which Luke (or his uncle) had dutifully swept up.

Given its size, the structure was entirely of steel and reinforced concrete. It was extremely strong as a building, with thick walls and floors that were meant to last, as they had, for centuries. Although the interior walls were surfaced with varying patterns of black and white marble and a gilded trim, the overall effect actually was quite ugly. It showed baroque and bloated at the same time, like a Stalinist Tammy Faye Baker on steroids. The builders may have felt considerable pride in its construction, but they had abysmal artistic taste.

Despite the gloominess, the slit-windows provided just enough ambient light during the daytime to see in the cavernous rooms; but Luke switched on the electric artificial lighting anyway. Power came from massive solar panels outside, so the energy source for light was the same, yes? Besides, it helped confirm that all important systems—lighting, environmental controls, security, food transmogrifiers for his lunch—were operating properly.

Access to all the upper floors could be had by a concentric series of grand sweeping stairs along the outer walls. Luke never used these, however, other than to clean. He preferred to use one of the twelve lifts, which were positioned in two sets of six, facing each other in a phalanx at the center of the building. Much faster indeed, and easier on his aging legs. Luke headed to lift number 8, which he knew was one of the four that would take him directly to the upper floors, bypassing the lower ones. He entered, punched the button that read, “101,” and watched the doors close behind him.

Precisely 21.3 seconds later, Luke pinched his nose to clear his ears, then stepped through the opening lift doors onto the 101^st floor. What he saw stunned him.

The 101^st floor was similar to other floors, except most of it was entirely empty and its ceilings exceeded 40 feet in height—the tallest in the complex. The floor was also unique in another way: its open areas could be accessed only via the circular stairwells along the outer walls. The lifts could not be used for access because the center of the floor, a circular area about 240 feet in diameter, was completely enclosed, floor to ceiling, by a gray-green false wall with no doors or other passages between the core of the building and the main parts of the floor. Instead, only Lift 8 could be used to access this center area. And when one exited Lift 8 into the center, only blank black walls could be seen, masking where the other elevator doors might have been.