Dark Rivers of the Heart

when the image was in infrared. The less he was able to detect obvious signs of human civilization, the closer to perfection the planet appeared.
        Perhaps those extremists who insisted that the population of the earth be expediently reduced by ninety percent, by any means, to save the ecology were onto something. What quality of life could anyone have in a world that civilization had utterly despoiled?
        If such a program of population reduction was ever instituted, he would take deep personal satisfaction in helping to administer it, although the work would be exhausting and often thankless.
        The day waned without either the ground or air search turning up a trace of the fugitives. At nightfall the hunt was called off until dawn. And Earthguard 3, with all its eyes and all its ways of seeing, was no more successful than the men on foot and the helicopter crews, though at least it could continue searching throughout the night.
        Roy remained in the satellite-surveillance center until almost eight o'clock, when he left with Eve jammer for dinner at an Armenian restaurant. Over a tasty fattoush salad and then superb rack of lamb, they discussed the concept of massive and rapid population reduction.
        They imagined ways in which it might be achieved without undesirable side effects, such as nuclear radiation and uncontrollable riots in the streets.
        And they conceived several fair methods of determining which ten percent of the population would survive to carry on a less chaotic and drastically perfected version of the human saga. They sketched possible symbols for the population-reduction movement, composed inspiring slogans, and debated what the uniforms ought to look like.
        They were in a state of high excitement by the time they left the restaurant to go to Eve's place. They might have killed any cop who had been foolish enough to stop them for doing seventy miles an hour through hospital and residential zones.
        The stained and shadowed walls had faces. Strange, embedded faces.
        Half-seen, tortured expressions. Mouths open in cries for mercy that were never answered. Hands. Reaching hands. Silently beseeching.
        Ghostly white tableaux, streaked gray and rust-red in some places, mottled brown and yellow in others. Face by face and body beside body, some limbs overlapping, but always the posture of the supplicant, always the expressions of despairing beggars: pleading, imploring, praying.
        "Nobody knows… nobody knows… "
        "Spencer? Can you hear me, Spencer?"
        Valerie's voice echoed down a long tunnel to him as he walked in a place between wakefulness and true sleep, between denial and acceptance, between one hell and another.
        "Easy now, easy, don't be afraid, it's okay, you're dreaming."
        "No. See? See? Here in the catacombs, here, the catacombs."
        "Only a dream."
        "Like in school, in the book, pictures, like in Rome, martyrs, down in the catacombs, but worse, worse, worse…"
        "You can walk away from there. It's only a dream."
        He heard his own voice diminishing from a shout to a withered, miserable cry: "Oh God, oh my God, oh my God!"
        "Here, take my hand. Spencer, can you hear me? Hold my hand.
        I'm here. I'm with you."
        "They were so afraid, afraid, all alone and afraid. See how afraid they are? Alone, no one to hear, no one, nobody ever knew, so afraid. Oh, jesus, Jesus, help me, Jesus."
        "Come on, hold my hand, that's it, that's good, hold tight. I'm right here with you. You aren't alone any more, Spencer."
        He held on to her warm hand, and somehow she led him away from the blind white faces, the silent cries.
        By the power of her hand, Spencer drifted, lighter than air, up from the deep place, through darkness, through a red door. Not the door with wet handprints on the aged-white background. This door was entirely red, dry, with a film of dust. It opened into sapphire-blue light, black booths and chairs, polished-steel trim, mirrored walls.
        Deserted bandstand. A handful of people drinking quietly at tables.
        In jeans and a suede jacket instead of slit skirt and black sweater, she sat on a barstool beside him, because business was slow.
        He was lying on an air mattress, sweating yet chilled, and she was perched on a stool, yet they were at the same level, holding hands, talking easily, as