Can I help you? he mouthed, then looked up. He bolted to what would have been his feet, had his legs not terminated in wafts of nothing. He began to shout, silently.
Hemi shouted back.
“Don’t you talk to me like that,” he said. “Yes, she’s living, and yes, I am ‘that boy.’ I don’t care what you think, it’s your job to give information. No she’s not, she’s a Londoner, you idiot.” He rolled his eyes. “No, of course that’s not a banishgun, that’s an umbrella.” Deeba was impressed with how fierce Hemi was.
“Now,” he said. “Tell us what we need to know. Or I’ll report you.”
The fat ghost sat down sulkily. Deeba saw him eye Hemi and say something.
Hemi didn’t react. What had the ghost said? She made the shapes with her own lips, to work it out.
She knew suddenly what he had called Hemi, and she stared at him with dislike. Half-breed.
“Alright, what do you need?” Hemi said.
“The record of all the deadists,” Deeba said. “I need to check if someone’s listed.
“The name is Benjamin Hue Unstible.”
“What?” said Hemi. What? mouthed the ghost.
“What are you talking about?” Hemi said. “Unstible’s not dead. He came out of hiding! He’s doing his whole plan, he’s sorting out UnLondon from the Smog, he’s vulcanizing the unbrellas…”
“I know, I know,” Deeba said. “I’m paying for this, aren’t I? So just do me a favor and look. It’s probably nothing.”
“You are out of your mind,” Hemi chuckled.
The ghost ostentatiously threw up his hands, and opened a filing cabinet by yanking its ghost-drawers, which drew the solid drawer at the center with them. He riffled through papers.
“Nope,” said Hemi eventually, when the ghost shouted something. “No Unstibles in Wraithtown.”
“Okay,” said Deeba slowly. “Well…that’s good.” Have I come all the way to UnLondon for nothing? she thought. The people in the RMetS must have made a mistake.
“What about in Thanatopia itself?” she said. “Is there another file?”
“You heard her,” said Hemi. “Double-check! Chop-chop!” The bureaucrat ghost looked sourly at him but, obviously deciding it was the easiest way of getting rid of them, rose and wafted to a back office, miming wait and mouthing something.
“He says new paperwork gets here from the Thanatopian office every couple of months,” said Hemi.
“Couple of months?” said Deeba. “If I’m right, Unstible might have…moved to Thanatopia in the last few weeks.”
Hemi sighed, then looked craftily around, and spoke quietly. “Well, it’s your money. I suppose we could log into the database on the afternet if you really want. That’d be more recent. You know what red tape’s like. This lot’re still happier dealing in hard copy and its ghost. I bet they only use that thing for playing Minesweeper and bog all else.” He nodded at the computer and its riffling halo of older computer ghosts. “Tell me if he’s coming,” he said, and grabbed the keyboard. Hemi found the officer’s password on a ghostly piece of paper stuck to the side of the monitor.
“Does the afternet connect to…what was it they called it in UnLondon…the undernet?” Deeba said.
“Yeah. And both of them to your internet. But not many people can make the connections work. Ah, here we go.”
Deeba saw the fat ghost closing drawers in the other room.
“Quick,” she whispered.
“Alright,” he said, “so if I just…click here, and feed in a few…there we go. We’re in. Now.” He looked at her sideways and shook his head as he typed. “ ‘Benjamin Hue Unstible,’ ” he said, and hit return.
The screen went blank, then whirred, then flashed up a single entry.
BENJAMIN HUE UNSTIBLE.
THANATOPIAN CITIZENSHIP GRANTED. New immigrant.
CAUSE OF IMMIGRATION: smoke inhalation/poisoning.
There was a very long silence.
“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Hemi.
“I was right,” Deeba said, and clenched her fists.
“Unstible died weeks ago,” said Hemi. “Killed by…the Smog?”
“So…could it be his ghost, handing out unbrellas?” Deeba said. “It doesn’t look anything like any of you lot…”
“No,” said Hemi. “If he were a ghost he’d be listed as having moved to Wraithtown. Unstible’s passed over completely. Whatever that thing is, whatever it looks like, whatever it’s doing…it’s not Benjamin Unstible.”
45. Nasty Rain
Hey! the ghost mouthed, seeing them on the computer. It scattered the ghost-papers it held, and floated towards them shaking its fist.
“Print it!” said Deeba. Hemi stabbed at the buttons. “Quick!”
The chubby ghost reached for the paper as it emerged, but Hemi snatched it and gave it to Deeba. The ghost banged on the keyboard and the screen went blank. What you doing? he bellowed silently as Deeba and Hemi ran.
The paper was hard to read. The typeface was surrounded by whorls of ghost-print, a flickering of all the fonts once used on official forms. And the paper had obviously been recycled. Its previous forms— scribbled messages and newspaper pages— floated around it.
But through all the spectral interference, Unstible’s name and the details of his “immigration to Thanatopia”— his death— could be made out.
“That proves it,” said Hemi, pausing in the building’s entrance. Deeba folded the printout carefully into her pack.
“I told you,” she said.
“Alright, alright,” said Hemi, shoving her towards the door as behind them a crowd of irate bureaucrat ghosts appeared.
When they emerged, the UnSun had dawned. Deeba stared at the strange, familiar shape.
“We got to tell Brokkenbroll,” said Deeba urgently. “And the Propheseers.”
“Whoa, whoa,” said Hemi. He looked behind him nervously as they walked through Wraithtown. “ ‘We’? This is your thing. I’m sorry, but I did what you paid for. Good luck, I’m gone.”
“Wait, what?” Deeba stopped and stared at him. “You can’t. You’re joking. It isn’t Unstible who’s doing things. Don’t you see? Something’s really wrong. I need to get to the Pons Absconditus. Can you help?”
“Its touchdown’s nowhere near here,” Hemi said. “You could get a bus but…” He seemed to sniff the air. “It’s a Rogueday. I don’t know how often they run on a Rogueday.”
“Hold on,” Deeba said. “Rogueday. You remember where I first met you?”
“’Course,” he said. “I was breakfast shopping.” Stealing, Deeba thought. “In the market, just up the way.”
“I’ve got a friend there who might help us.”
“There’s no us,” Hemi said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I cannot get involved.”
“But…don’t you care?” Deeba said. “It’s UnLondon…” She stopped suddenly. She’d never seen him so agitated. She realized that it wasn’t that he didn’t care— it was that he was overwhelmed. And she remembered what had happened to him in the market.
She needed his help. Deeba almost despaired. One thing that stopped her was that though Hemi kept acting as if he was about to walk away, he didn’t. She thought quickly. He obviously had to fend for himself.
“Look,” she said, thinking carefully. She took out the rest of the money she’d brought. “This is all I have. It’s yours, all of it, if you’ll help me. I can’t do this on my own.” Her voice almost caught.