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Roger Zelazny. Lucifer

     Carlson stood on the hill in the silent center of the city whose people had died.

     He stared up at the Building--the  one  structure  that  dwarfed  every hotel-grid,  skyscraper-needle,  or  apartment-cheesebox packed into all the miles that lay around him. Tall as a mountain, it caught  the  rays  of  the bloody sun. Somehow it turned their red into golden halfway up its height.

     Carlson suddenly felt that he should not have come back.

     It  had  been  over two years, as he figured it, since last he had been here. He wanted to return to the mountains now. One  look  was  enough.  Yet still  he  stood  before  it,  transfixed  by the huge Building, by the long shadow that bridged the entire valley. He shrugged his thick shoulders then, in an unsuccessful attempt to shake off memories of the days, five  (or  was it six?) years ago, when he had worked within the giant unit.

     Then  he  climbed the rest of the way up the hill and entered the high, wide doorway.

     His fiber sandals cast a variety of echoes as  he  passed  through  the deserted offices and into the long hallway that led to the belts.

     The  belts, of course, were still. There were no thousands riding them. There was no one alive to ride. Their deep belly-rumble  was  only  a  noisy phantom  in his head as he climbed onto the one nearest him and walked ahead into the pitchy insides of the place.

     It was like a mausoleum. There seemed no ceiling, no  walls,  only  the soft pat-pat of his soles on the flexible fabric of the belt.

     He  reached a junction and mounted a cross-belt, instinctively standing still for a moment and waiting for  the  forward  lurch  as  it  sensed  his weight.

     Then he chuckled silently and began walking again.

     When  he  reached  the  lift,  he  set off to the right of it until his memory led him to the maintenance stairs. Shouldering his bundle,  he  began the long, groping ascent.

     He  blinked  at  the  light  when he came into the Power Room. Filtered through its hundred high windows, the sunlight  trickled  across  the  dusty acres of machinery.

     Carlson  sagged  against  the  wall,  breathing heavily from the climb. After awhile he wiped a workbench clean and set down his parcel.

     Then he removed his faded shirt, for the place would soon be  stifling. He  brushed  his hair from his eyes and advanced down the narrow metal stair to where the generators stood, row on row,  like  an  army  of  dead,  black beetles. It took him six hours to give them all a cursory check.

     He  selected  three  in the second row and systematically began tearing them down,  cleaning  them,  soldering  their  loose  connections  with  the auto-iron,  greasing  them,  oiling  them  and  sweeping  away all the dust, cobwebs, and pieces of cracked insulation that lay at their bases.

     Great rivulets of perspiration ran into his eyes  and  down  along  his sides  and  thighs,  spilling  in  little droplets onto the hot flooring and vanishing quickly.

     Finally, he put down his broom, remounted the stair and returned to his parcel. He removed one of the water bottles and drank off half its contents. He ate a piece of dried meat and finished the bottle. He allowed himself one cigarette then, and returned to work.

     He was forced to stop when it grew dark. He  had  planned  on  sleeping right  there, but the room was too oppressive. So he departed the way he had come and slept beneath the stars, on the roof of a low building at the  foot of the hill.

     It  took  him  two more days to get the generators ready. Then he began work on the huge Broadcast Panel.  It  was  in  better  condition  than  the generators,  because  it  had  last  been  used  two  years ago. Whereas the generators, except for the three he had burned out last time, had slept  for over five (or was it six?) years.

     He  soldered  and wiped and inspected until he was satisfied. Then only one task remained.

     All the maintenance robots stood frozen in mid-gesture.  Carlson  would have  to  wrestle a three hundred pound power cube without assistance. If he could get one down from the rack and onto a cart without breaking a wrist he would probably be able to convey it to the Igniter without much  difficulty. Then  he  would  have  to  place  it within the oven. He had almost ruptured himself when he did it two years ago, but he  hoped  that  he  was  somewhat stronger--and luckier--this time.

     It  took  him  ten minutes to clean the Igniter oven. Then he located a cart and pushed it back to the rack.

     One cube resting at just the right height, approximately  eight  inches above  the  level  of  the  cart's bed. He kicked down the anchor chocks and moved around to study the rack. The cube lay on a  downward-slanting  shelf, restrained  by a two-inch metal guard. He pushed at the guard. It was bolted to the shelf.

     Returning to the work area, he searched the tool boxes  for  a  wrench. Then he moved back to the rack and set to work on the nuts.