Kara pled with him and at the end used the excuse of wanting to see the machines -- as it turned out that much of the underworld he was allowed to see.

Still, his brothers?It stuck in his mind like nothing else.And then Marsala’s question resurfaced.Why had he not been afraid?

A bell rung in the elevator and its alarm brought the youngster out of his trance.The five-mile trip had taken so long, even for the turbo-lifts, that he had lost himself in his ever-evolving fantasy world.

“We are one hundred feet below the surface,” Marsala announced.Even before the doors had opened the air was already clearly hot and muggy.“Stick by me, son, don’t try to wander off.”

Past the open doors of the car was a long corridor kept at a low degree of light.Glass hatches and multicolored panels adorned the walls. Every so often, at random intervals, the sides were interrupted by the bright intersection of perpendicular halls in which a combination of half-breeds -- engineers by trade -- and foremen conversed freely.

Kara caught scant views of the people only -- the blue, yellow uniforms of the professionals had emblems on the sleeves that designated gradations of field or speciality while the throwbacks wore brown uniforms with red numbers stenciled on their left breasts.Their outfits were clean, tidy, their fur kept prim.Since the foremen had day-to-day contact with the masters, it was thought proper that at least they would be presentable.

As he studied them from quick glances the more he realized that he had in fact -- and not in dreams -- seen such faces before.He saw nothing ugly about them, the Thunderians society had expunged itself of, indeed, he was quite acutely aware of the beauty of their shapely, manly forms.Firm, strong bodies, built from constant toil, it almost seemed as if they had been bred to be supermen in every way.

“Here,” his would-be guide said.“Here’s one of the power generators.”Kara found himself on a balcony, peering into the deeper depths below.Strong spotlights were fixed on the machine that was as large and as vast as the chrome-topped towers of the city of light above.Pipes and vents jetted out from its top and sides, curled behind it and deviated upward to the effective ceiling.The actual form of the dynamo was lost, the bulk of its frame hidden behind long, finger-like shadows for it was mostly buried in rock and the lights were not strong enough to break through the profuse conflagration of secondary structures.Steam puffed out of bellows and heaving pistons.The very ground shook and even the balcony, so far removed from the immediacy of the scene, vibrated in a dense timber.

Little, tiny men, like half-naked, cat-apes, lumbered about the working parts of the gargantuan device, feeding it coal, tweaking its dials, adjusting its levers in a macarbe dance that went on and on around the clock.

“Don’t they ever rest?” the lion asked.

“Once every ten hours.”

“Ten hours!”His eyes widened in a gasp of shock all their own.He followed a train of workers as they inched up the iron façade of the generator.

“No need to worry, it’s been that way for centuries and everything is still in working order.”

“What does Caesar do here exactly?”

Up at the apex of the large, inverted ‘u’ that bounded the invisible parts of the machine, was a column of mercury and an array of spinning governors.A dial on a pedestal near the thermometer regulated the excess heat produced by the throbbing behemoth.A single worker had his hands on the control turning it left, right, ever so slightly, to keep the conditions below maximal operational tolerances.

“Well, his is a humanitarian group that runs a hospital.They take care of injured workers and fit them for new uniforms.He tries to use his influence to better their conditions.”

“Does he keep company with them?”

“I suppose so -- but, well, dealing with them wouldn’t be like the way we do things.Theirs is a different society, if you can call it that.”

A single worker, clad in sooty, shredded cloths, filed past the two.Marsala tried to act as if nothing had happened but Kara took notice, letting his eyes wander.Below the ashy surface, beneath the grime --

“It’s like a whole new world’s been opened to me.”

“Hahahaha!” a dry throat laughed, masking in its cackle the sound of a salt sprinkling upon the pool’s turbulent waters.

“It isn’t meant for you,” the Master of Activities said, turning to the cub.“You must think of higher things, better things than this underworld.”

“I wonder if Caesar could use help.”

“Kara, you don’t yet realize your importance.You are a Thunderian noble, this is no place for you, no matter how well-meaning your intentions might be.”

“I’m a Thundercat, we’re supposed to help, Marsala.It’s in our code --”

Marsala sighed -- how was he to explain it -- “You are only young, that’s all, you’ll soon see the ways of this world.What can and cannot be done.”

The throwback in charge of the thermometer had slipped on a puddle of condensation -- the smoke and haze had obscured the sight, the distance and ambient din had masked the sound of his piercing screams as he fell.Without him at his post the temperature ran up unregulated, exponentially.In response the pistons jammed, sparks arced across the air from one stack of coils to another.

The ground rumbled.The two on the overlooking balcony ducked down as a plume of gray haze puffed up from the depths.Frantic shouts followed.Kara leaned forward amid the chaos that ensued around him.Marsala tried in vein to hold him back.Unprepared workers were ejected from their posts or were just knocked out cold by the intense blasts that came later in rapid succession.Flickering bands of red-orange crackled in the pits around the machine and, as the hoards of innocents backed in the hellish fire, it seemed to the lion that the generator -- no more than a man-made, earthly device -- had been transformed by the flames into a beast of satanic dimensions, a horrific demon that with its pipes and dangling wires dragged the unsuspecting, malformed Thunderians into the chewing teeth of its metallic mouths to their doom.

He screamed in terror as he turned back, just as the vision faded into the fog.Fire extinguishers had subsided the flames and already a new workforce was on the scene to continue the machinations of the dynamo.Spare men were busy collecting the wounded and the mangled bodies of the dead.

Kara collapsed into Marsala’s arms in semi-embrace that was not fought off or rejected.The man patted his mane as though to comfort him.The lion-cub whispered: “Take me to my father.”