Ora seemed nervous about being in the cottage, went on about apparitions, and suggested Macao might like to stay with her a while. Whatever devilry Digger might have imposed, it didn’t stop the two females from eating. And then they were gone, with no indication what step Macao would take next.
The pickup still provided a clear picture of the ceiling.
NOT KNOWING WHAT else they could try, they simply waited it out. A large insect buzzed the pickup. The shutters were apparently open because there was plenty of daylight. After a while, the light became dimmer, and they heard rain on the roof.
“She’s gone to see somebody about it,” said Kellie.
It was possible she’d gone to the governance building, T’Kalla. The chief executive in Kulnar was the booglik. I’m on my way to T’Kalla to talk to the booglik. It sounded almost normal.
He was still sitting, staring morosely at Macao’s overhead, at Mac’s overhead, when he heard the door open. By then the rain seemed to have stopped.
“Did you get it?” Ora’s voice.
“Right here.”
Footsteps moved across the planks. “No sign of him?”
“No. We’re alone.”
“Good. Listen, save some of the kessel for me, Mac.”
He heard sounds like a knife cutting through onions.
“I thought you didn’t believe it would work.”
“No. I said I don’t trust it to work. But there’s nothing to lose by trying it.”
The cutting continued. Then: “There, that should be enough.”
“Where do you want to put it?”
“In the doorway. Just block the threshold with it.”
“All right. You’re putting it in the windows too, right?”
“And in the fireplace. Just in case.”
Bill broke in: “I have a reference to kessel.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Kellie.
“It’s a common herb, found throughout the Intigo. Sometimes ground into grains and used as a seasoning. It’s also thought to provide a bar against demons and other spirits of the night.”
“A bar?” said Kellie.
“That’s why they’re putting it in all the entrances. Keep the demon out.”
“What good’s a sliced vegetable going to do?”
Digger was tired of it all. He was tempted to go back to the Jenkins and just sit tight until help arrived. Let somebody else deal with these loonies. “Think garlic,” he said.
“WHAT DO WE do now?”
Digger was ready to call it off. “Only thing I can think of, other than conceding we are not going to get through to these yahoos, is to go directly to the head guy. There must be somebody in this town who isn’t afraid of goblins.”
“I’m sure there is. But I doubt it’s the gloobik.”
“Booglik,” he said. “So who do you recommend?”
“Don’t know. Maybe the captain on the round-the-world voyage. What was his name?”
“Krolley.”
“Maybe we could get to him. He’s got to have some sense.”
“He’d have to be willing to turn around.”
“You don’t think he’d do that?”
“I don’t know him. But I suspect we’d have a better chance with somebody local.”
Kellie looked discouraged. Digger was beginning to realize she’d thought, as he had, that they’d won Macao over. “Even if we’d succeeded with Macao,” she said, “she’d still have had the problem of convincing the authorities. Macao didn’t think she could do it. And, despite the way things turned out, I don’t believe she was playacting.” She closed her eyes. “I think we need a different approach.”
“What do you think will happen with her?”
She thought about it, and smiled sadly. “When the cloud closes in, I think she’ll fix herself some sandwiches, grab a tent, and head for the high ground.”
“Taking no chances.”
“That’s right. Maybe she’ll take a few friends with her.”
Digger saw no way out. Other than going directly to the booglik and trying to persuade him. “We need some of Collingdale’s costumes. If we could at least fix ourselves up to look like the locals, we might have a chance.”
Kellie looked discouraged. “Face it, Dig,” she said, “What we need is some divine intervention.”
They had returned to the Jenkins and were on the night side of Lookout. Clouds below were thick, so he couldn’t tell whether they were over land or sea. He was becoming familiar with the constellations, and had even made an effort to learn them by their Goompah names. Tow Bokol Kar, the Wagonmaker, floated just over the rim of the world. And there was T’Kleppa, the Pitcher. And just beside it, T’Monga, a bird that had probably never existed. Its closest cousin in terrestrial mythology was probably the roc. It was reputed to be able to carry off Goompahs.
“How about,” said Kellie, trying to shrug off her mood, “staying inside the lightbender when we talk to them?”
“You think that’ll scare them less than the zhoka?”
“Can it scare them any more?”
He shook his head. It wouldn’t work. Disembodied voices never work. It’s a rule.
“Maybe there’s another possibility,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“Why don’t we try using an avatar again?”
He shook his head. “Can’t synchronize their lips to match the dialogue. It’s okay if the avatar goes down with a prepared speech, delivers it, and clears out. But the first question somebody tosses at him, like, where did you say you were from, and we’re dead.”
“It’s a shot,” she persisted.
“Won’t work.” He could imagine himself in the booglik’s quarters, playing a recording to match the previously prepared lip movements of the Goompah avatar. And the booglik breaking in, hey, wait a minute, while the avatar either galloped on, or stopped dead and picked up again where he left off no matter what question got asked.
They were catching up with the sun. The long arc of the world was brightening.
His circadian rhythms had been scrambled. Moving constantly between the shorter days and nights of the Intigo and the standard twenty-four-hour clock on the ship had left them both uncertain what time of day or night it was. But even if dawn was coming, he was hungry. “How about some dinner?” she suggested.
TWO HOURS LATER they sat in the long stillness of the Jenkins. There were times when Digger thought that if he put on the infrared goggles, he’d see Jack’s ghost drifting through the corridors. He heard echoes that hadn’t been there before, and whispers in the bulkheads. When he mentioned it to Kellie, she commented that now he might understand a little of what Macao had felt.
“The noises,” she added, “are made by Bill. Sometimes he talks to himself.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Really. He holds conversations.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you ever asked him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Ask him yourself.”
Digger was reluctant. It seemed intrusive. But that was silly. You couldn’t offend an AI. “Bill,” he said. “Got a minute?”
A literary version appeared, world-weary with high cheekbones and a white beard. He was seated in the chair that Jack used to favor. “Yes, Digger. How may I be of assistance?”
“Bill, sometimes I hear voices. In the systems.”
“Yes. I do, too.”
“What are they?”
“The systems communicate all the time.”
“They do it by talking?”
“Sometimes.”
“But don’t you control the systems?”
“Oh, yes. But they’re separate from me. They have their own priorities.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let it go.”
Bill vanished.