Mary Manyrivers entered the large living chamber, the electric lights casting a steady, even glow over the carpet and furniture.  Though Mary's experience of the world was limited, and so she could not know for sure, she had an inkling that some of the furniture was of elegant, European design, perhaps brought by Sir Humbert Terrest himself when he first arrived in the west, while others were more crude, presumably scavenged from abandoned sod huts on the surface left by defeated settlers, while others were stranger still, presumably left by the mysterious builders of this underground city -- who Terrest surmised to be Atlanteans.

For a woman raised on the great plains among nomadic people, accustomed to the tents and lean-tos of her people or, occasionally, the fur trading forts of the white man, the opulence was momentarily staggering.  Father Forcier had spoken of the grandeur of the great cities of Europe, or even those places in the east, such as Toronto, Montreal, Ottawa.  Names only to her.  But now she thought she had an inkling of what those names represented.

"Come in, my dear," said Terrest, standing by what Mary recognized as a phonograph player -- she had seen one once before, carried by a fur trader.  Terrest came up before her and, bowing, kissed her delicate hand.  He was a tall man, and though older than her, there was a power and a charisma about him that she could not quite deny.  After all, had he not set out in search of a personal dream and, against all odds, had he not carved out a life for himself in this, most unexpected of realms?  How could she not admire the man's accomplishments? 

"Do you dance?" he asked.

She cocked her head, listening to the soft, languid notes arising from the phonograph.  It was not like the music of her people, nor the wild, fiddle music she had heard at the forts.  "Not to this," she admitted, shyly.

"I'll show you," he said, taking her in his arms and guiding her around the floor, his boots never once endangering her bare feet.  "Brahms," he said.

She didn't know what that meant, so she just smiled and nodded, "Brahms to you."

He laughed, but without derision.  "I have not danced for many years, not since my wife died."

"Wife?" She looked at herself, at the elegant dress Terrest had provided for her.

He nodded, seeing her glance at herself.  "The dress was hers.  She died in India."

That was all he said, but it was enough.  Mary remembered his tale at the dinner table, relating his experiences in India and how they had led to his disillusionment with his civilization, and how he and the Sikh, Raman Singh, set out to find something better.  He had made no mention of a wife then, but now she was left to wonder just how much her dark and unspoken fate had contributed to Terrest's utter alienation from the world above.

As she swayed in his strong arms, she was not ignorant of the significance of being a woman, here, in the dress of his dead wife, of the role Terrest was clearly casting her in.  And she was not sure what she felt about that.  She had regarded most white men with distrust and suspicion, never imagining that she could love one.  Save for Father Forcier, of course, but he as a dear uncle.  Yet within the last few days she had found herself -- not in love, perhaps, that was too premature -- but attracted to two very different white men: Bram Donlevy and Sir Humbert Terrest.  Two men on opposing courses, heading for a dangerous collision.

"What will you do once you have driven all the white men from the plains?" she asked, not as yet convinced that Terrest could actually accomplish such a gargantuan task.  Yet when he spoke of it earlier, it was as if it was almost a foregone deed, as if his ultimate plan was almost complete.  And if he could accomplish it, was that not something to be encouraged?  she wondered.  Had not many of her people dreamed of just such an act?  Yet, at the same time, would that not be its own monstrous act?  After all, could such a thing be done without bloodshed?  And were there not white men who had laid down roots, built homes?  Were there not white women and children who would suffer? 

He stopped in mid-turn and looked at her soberly, as though pained, his eyes softening.  "I don't think you understand, Mary.  In order to build Utopia, I must start with a clean slate.  It is not just the white men who have proven themselves corrupt and barbarous, but the Indian people as well.  As an Indian yourself, you must be as aware as anyone of the failings and iniquities in your own culture.  No, it is not just the white man who must be purged from the land above our heads, Mary."

Then, boldly, he leaned down and kissed her on the lips.  She did not resist, but her eyes were cloudy with thought.

Father Forcier walked through the eerie, unnatural streets of this lost, sub-terrestrial city, the strangely organic buildings rising up about him like canyon walls.  Around his legs swirled the playful children of the mole people, curious about the priest in his black cassock.  He smiled at them, reminded of when he had first come west to the Indians, many years ago.

He had been able to provide little to the Indians, his spiritual succour of little use against material woes.  But here?  In this world of eternal darkness?  He might be able to provide something, not just for the sub-terrans, but for Terrest himself, who was clearly a troubled, bitter man.  And, in return, he could learn so much, this ancient realm a treasure trove a mysteries and answers.

Terrest pressed his cheek to Mary's and said, breathlessly, "Anything you ask is yours."

"That vessel of yours, the Charon," she said flatly, "show me it again.  I've never even been on so much as a train and I'm curious how it works."

He looked into her eyes, a smile touching his lips beneath his mustachio, glad to see her taking an interest in his world.  He seemed not to recognize the coldness in her voice.  "Of course.  Come."

As Bram and Miles and their group of mole people filed back into the city, Bram glanced back the way they had come.  A second group seemed headed toward the tunnel they had been working on, a group headed by the mute Sikh, Raman Singh.  He stopped, frowning.  This second group appeared different than the first.  They did not carry picks or shovels, but instead sported bundles upon their backs.  And what was so significant about that particular tunnel, a tunnel that seemed to carry on for miles, seeming with no end? 

He could not be sure, here, in this world of twilight, but he had a strange sense that the tunnel headed eastward.  Did it reach as far as the Ontario border itself?  Did it have something to do with Terrest's vow to drive every man, woman, and child from the surface above?