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No one had expected it to happen. Of course only few knew it ever had; public knowledge of the incident would likely have caused fear, panic, would have strengthened wild rumor and superstition already rampant among the common populace.
No, only the most learned, most important had been let in on what had come to pass on that day; the soldiers, officers, officials, the scientists. Only those who needed to know, who were responsible for upholding society, for keeping order.
For thousands of years, civilization had been stable - some might even go so far as to say stagnant. The struggles and conflicts common in Earth's early history were a thing of the past - other concerns troubled its inhabitants now than petty bickering for territory or the dominance over such and its natives. Natural resources - water, minerals, metals - were the deciding factors now, not manmade borders.
The latter had become obsolete, an almost ancient concept.
Civilization had grown together - not unified mentally, perhaps, but geographically. It had been forced to. For as science advanced and lifespans increased, so did the population. Closer together they built at first; true soil, a spot of land under the sun, unobstructed by cement or steel ceilings became a rarity, unaffordable to ordinary folk.
Soon, there was no more soil to be had, and people built higher and higher, leaving the lower regions to the poor, the 'place in the sun' to the wealthy and influential.
If one were to cut a cross-section of the Earth and its planet-wide metropolis now, one might be able to read it like the rings in the trunk of a long extinct tree: there were thick sections where civilizations had flourished and built ever higher and faster to accommodate their own, and then there were small, thin ones which spoke of famine, conflict, poverty.
It was all still there, silent remnants of the past, nearly undisturbed, for no one dared venture too far into the depths. There was talk of monsters, mutants, spectres roaming the lightless caverns. They were the stuff of the new legends, of the stories parents told their children at night to instil into them caution and obedience.
'Sleep now, or they will come and snatch you, and drag you down with them.'
Few adults lent credence to such beliefs. The lower strata were dangerous enough as it was - teeming with the demented, the diseased, and the lawless seeking to avoid the authorities. Nevertheless, the numerous maintenance shafts and tunnels - used to inspect and ensure the structural integrity of the ever-widening globe - had been filled up, effectively blocking access to all but the more recent levels. No one knew quite when this had happened or who had ordered it done, but equally few people lamented the fact - save for a few scientists who still pressed for exploration of the foundations.
No one descended beyond a certain point, and quite surely no one ascended, either.
At least not until, one day, a security guard posted at a maintenance elevator near the northern pole contacted his superior to inform him that a cabin was making its way up. That in itself was hardly unusual. Countless crews were sent to the first few dozen levels below the 'surface' for repairs every day. Now, however, the guard assured anxiously, none were scheduled to be below, and no crews or workers were missing. And what was more, the guard added with mounting nervousness, none would be coming up from that far below.
For on the display of the old elevator flashed an angry red 'zero'.
The ground level.
They soon came, all those who were considered useful - or important - enough, and crowded around the scratched metal doors, watching, observing as the numbers grew to double, triple, quadruple digits. Loud proclamations of disbelief, accusations of forgery and deceit and the call for protective arms quieted with the growing of the numbers, until there was nothing but a tense hum in the air, a symphony of bated breath.
There was no acoustic signal when the metallic doors finally slid open, save an involuntary collective sharp intake of breath. Weapons were lowered, raised again, only to be forgotten altogether.
In the elevator's cabin stood a lone girl, perhaps five years old, an almost angelic vision of cornflower-blue eyes and streaming locks of barley. A simple white summer dress hung loosely on her skinny frame, a small doll dangled from her right hand. Unimpressed by the immense welcoming party, she swept her gaze over them unhurriedly and eventually extended her left hand, palm facing upwards.
The crowd - all the important and useful - understood her wordless plea: 'Come with me. I want to show you something.'
It was then that the deliberation began, the bargaining and strategizing. The girl should be detained, requested some, questioned, studied, analyzed, amended others. None dared accept the invitation, answer the beckoning.
Eventually, barely noticed at first amid the frenzied debate, a small woman stepped forward and eyed the girl. Blue eyes met their equals, transmitted understanding beyond the spoken word.
And so, calmly and quietly, she stepped forward and took the little girl's hand.
No one dared interrupt or intervene as the pair stood next to each other, linked by a gentle hold.
The child smiled sweetly, first at the woman at her side, then at their audience and finally gave a nod.
Without a sound, the cabin's doors slid shut and the red numbers began to dwindle. Soon, quadruple digits would turn into triples, doubles and eventually, singles.
Everyone waited for a long time, even when the number zero had long vanished from the display.
Again, there was deliberation, bargaining, strategizing. Finally, soldiers were sent, again and again, only to return empty-handed each time, with no trace of the little girl and her companion.
They never once descended past the first few dozen levels. For from there on, the way was blocked, the shaft filled up as it was supposed to be.
No one ever descended to the depths again.
And no one ascended either.
Not even the little girl with the cornflower eyes and barley hair.