The return march to Upper Air-flow Conduit Twelve was conducted in total silence.
Qiao Ming walked three paces behind the two students, his horn lantern held low so its beam lit up their stumbling feet. Brother Lin led his blinded friend by the elbow, guiding him over the raised marble curbs and avoiding the slippery drainage gutters with wild, desperate care. Neither student spoke. The sight of Qiao Ming’s calm, impassive dark shape in the shadows had broken whatever defiance remained in their hearts.
They climbed the spiral stairs of Entry hall 176, emerging once more onto the high terrace before the breached air-flow grate.
The cold air blowing down the circular chimney pipe was harsh, smelling of burnt kerosene and outer void-smog. Outside, far above the thick black glass hull of the Ark, the dying cosmos was freezing in its end-post winter. Inside the safe hall, the air was warm, sweet with the scent of wet lime and ancient stone.
Qiao Ming stopped at the foot of the channel.
The climb through the spiral staircases of Entry hall 176 was a slow, painful pilgrimage through cold stone.
Brother Hu had to be guided step by step, his calloused hands feeling along the damp limestone wall while Brother Lin hauled him from above. Every fifty steps, they stopped on a narrow stonework landing, their breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps that smelled of tiredness and dried blood.
