one of you chance to come to harm, the other will be able to continue directing the expedition. Professor Vinnagar has many backers in the department—and among alumni and donors—who all render his presence on this mission essential and non-negotiable. Although he will of course assume subordinate status to you, since it was your discovery that prompted this whole affair.”
Merritt watched Arturo’s face cycle through a whole spectrum of emotions, from frustration and irritability through rage and jealousy, before settling on wounded resignation. He stepped forward and thrust out his hand.
“Vinnagar, I’m counting on you for sensible support. No ideological feuding.”
Vinnagar grinned, and took the offered grip. “You have my word—by Vasuki’s tail.”
In the wild welter of the following few months, Merritt was kept exceedingly busy arranging all the thousand-and-one details of the Vayavirunga Expedition. She even learned to liaise with journalists, who maintained a constant appetite for all news relating to the Jungle Blocks. Merritt took to fabricating the most egregious tall tales, careful to label them speculative. But of course, her modest disclaimers were always the first things dropped from the subsequent coverage.
“Vayavirunga home to a fierce creature called the bonasus!” “SwazeProf hears voice from Vayavirunga over radio!” “Crimson sex slaves await virile bike boys!”
Although often falling into bed exhausted well before midnight, Merritt was thrilled and stimulated and engaged as she had never been in any other professional situation. She felt she was using all her talents and skills—although, to be sure, her actual polypolisological knowledge was in somewhat scanty demand. But even that deficit, she was sure, would be remedied once she reached Vayavirunga.
Arturo Scoria definitely approved of her performance, claiming she exhibited a natural flair and showmanship. “How I could have used you during my rough time with the Schnellageisters, Mer! We’re a great team!”
Merritt felt proud and appreciated by a man she esteemed.
(Although she still could not quite see herself and Arturo as forever soulmates.)
As the day of departure neared, Merritt made a special effort to break away from her duties and visit Edgar Chambless at the NikThek, to say thank-you and farewell.
Entering the big old pile felt strange to Merritt. She would have sworn she held no especial fondness for the museum. But a transfixing and ennervating wave of nostalgia and melancholy overtook her nonetheless, as soon as the familiar smells of the artifacts of deep time and far off exotic Boroughs overtook her. “Soul abulia,” people called the sensation, from Diego Patchen’s famous invention of that term in his Dictatorship of the Emotions .
Chambless sat in his cluttered office, employing a magnifying glass to study a crumbling clay tablet indited with wedge-shaped runes. He only slowly registered Merritt, but seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“Ah, Miss Abraham! I’ve been following your exploits with great pleasure. I’m certain that when you return to our halls, you’ll bring with you vast new experiences that will aid you in our curatorial mission. For instance, what do you make of this?”
Chambless handed her the tablet, and Merritt studied it.
“Lower Marmolejo, perhaps? Three centuries old?”
Chambless took the tablet back. Without warning, he dashed it to the tile floor! It crashed and shattered.
“Try ‘the forgers of Orsinwalls, six months ago.’ Let this be a lesson in appearances for you, Miss Abraham. The authentic and the fake are often hard to tell apart.”
Merritt nodded humbly. Chambless began to rummage among the litter of his desk.
“Now, where is that gift I had for you? I put it right down here just a week ago….”
He came up with a scabbarded dagger, exhibiting richly worked case and handle, and tendered it to Merritt.
“I took this myself off a
Merritt watched Arturo’s face cycle through a whole spectrum of emotions, from frustration and irritability through rage and jealousy, before settling on wounded resignation. He stepped forward and thrust out his hand.
“Vinnagar, I’m counting on you for sensible support. No ideological feuding.”
Vinnagar grinned, and took the offered grip. “You have my word—by Vasuki’s tail.”
In the wild welter of the following few months, Merritt was kept exceedingly busy arranging all the thousand-and-one details of the Vayavirunga Expedition. She even learned to liaise with journalists, who maintained a constant appetite for all news relating to the Jungle Blocks. Merritt took to fabricating the most egregious tall tales, careful to label them speculative. But of course, her modest disclaimers were always the first things dropped from the subsequent coverage.
“Vayavirunga home to a fierce creature called the bonasus!” “SwazeProf hears voice from Vayavirunga over radio!” “Crimson sex slaves await virile bike boys!”
Although often falling into bed exhausted well before midnight, Merritt was thrilled and stimulated and engaged as she had never been in any other professional situation. She felt she was using all her talents and skills—although, to be sure, her actual polypolisological knowledge was in somewhat scanty demand. But even that deficit, she was sure, would be remedied once she reached Vayavirunga.
Arturo Scoria definitely approved of her performance, claiming she exhibited a natural flair and showmanship. “How I could have used you during my rough time with the Schnellageisters, Mer! We’re a great team!”
Merritt felt proud and appreciated by a man she esteemed.
(Although she still could not quite see herself and Arturo as forever soulmates.)
As the day of departure neared, Merritt made a special effort to break away from her duties and visit Edgar Chambless at the NikThek, to say thank-you and farewell.
Entering the big old pile felt strange to Merritt. She would have sworn she held no especial fondness for the museum. But a transfixing and ennervating wave of nostalgia and melancholy overtook her nonetheless, as soon as the familiar smells of the artifacts of deep time and far off exotic Boroughs overtook her. “Soul abulia,” people called the sensation, from Diego Patchen’s famous invention of that term in his Dictatorship of the Emotions .
Chambless sat in his cluttered office, employing a magnifying glass to study a crumbling clay tablet indited with wedge-shaped runes. He only slowly registered Merritt, but seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
“Ah, Miss Abraham! I’ve been following your exploits with great pleasure. I’m certain that when you return to our halls, you’ll bring with you vast new experiences that will aid you in our curatorial mission. For instance, what do you make of this?”
Chambless handed her the tablet, and Merritt studied it.
“Lower Marmolejo, perhaps? Three centuries old?”
Chambless took the tablet back. Without warning, he dashed it to the tile floor! It crashed and shattered.
“Try ‘the forgers of Orsinwalls, six months ago.’ Let this be a lesson in appearances for you, Miss Abraham. The authentic and the fake are often hard to tell apart.”
Merritt nodded humbly. Chambless began to rummage among the litter of his desk.
“Now, where is that gift I had for you? I put it right down here just a week ago….”
He came up with a scabbarded dagger, exhibiting richly worked case and handle, and tendered it to Merritt.
“I took this myself off a
Similar Books
