We went out by the door at the rear, and Sporr respectfully gestured me upon a metal-plated platform. Standing beside me, he tinkered with a lever. We dropped smoothly away into a dark corridor, past level after level of light and sound.
"Our cities are below ground," he quavered. "Whipped by winds above, we must scrabble in the depths for life's necessities—chemicals to transmute into food, to weave into clothing, to weld into tools and weapons—"
The mention of food brought to me the thought that I was hungry. I said as much, even as our elevator platform came to the lowest level and stopped.
"I have arranged for that," Sporr began, then fell silent, fingers combing his beard in embarrassment.
"Arranged food for me?" I prompted sharply. "As if you know I had come? What—"
"Pardon, great Yandro," babbled Sporr. "I was saying that I arranged food, as always, for whatever guest should come. Please follow."
We entered a new small chamber, where a table was set with dishes of porcelain-like plastic. Sporr held a chair for me, and waited on me with the utmost gingerly respect. The food was a pungent and filling jelly, a little bundle of transparent leaves or scraps like cellophane and tasting of spice, and a tumbler of pink juice. I felt refreshed and satisfied, and thanked Sporr, who led me on to the next room.
"Behold!" he said, with a dramatic gesture. "Your garments, even as they have been preserved against your coming!"
It was a sleeping chamber, with a cot made fast to the wall, a metal locker or cupboard, with a glass door through which showed the garments of which Sporr spoke.
The door closed softly behind me—I was left alone.