if, having played them over in his own mind, he had reached an impasse—a wall beyond which he could not foresee making any personal decisions. Khren at times seemed unwilling to believe that these plans meant any more to Jebrassy than they did to him—intriguing but empty talk.
“What did your visitor leave behind the last time?” Khren asked, savoring a final drib of tork. Jebrassy had kept his friend company in drink through two previous tumblers, but no more—he needed a clear head for tomorrow. For the meeting he knew couldn’t possibly happen.
“He’s a fool,” Jebrassy muttered. “Helpless. He knows nothing. An aaarp .” He belched to emphasize that degraded status. The concept of insanity did not exist among the ancient breed. Eccentricity, whims, and extremes of personality, yes, but insanity was not part of their mix, and therefore no one accused another of having lost touch with reality—except as a vague concept, an uncomfortable joke—suitable for belching.
“Well, did he tell you anything more?”
“I wasn’t there. When he comes, I go. You know that.”
“The drawings on the shake cloth.”
“They never make sense.”
“Maybe your visitor has met her visitor, and that’s how she knows so much about you.”
“You’ve talked with him. You know him better than I do,” Jebrassy said, slumping deeper into the cushions.
“You—he—could barely talk at all,” Khren said. “He looked in my mirror and made sounds . He said something like, ‘They got it all wrong!’—except slurred. Then he—you, your visitor—just stumbled over and sat right where you are now, and closed his eyes—your eyes—until he went away.”
Khren waggled his finger. “If that’s what straying is all about—better you than me, mate.”
TEN ZEROS
CHAPTER 9
Seattle, South Downtown
To pass the long gray time, as the rain patted and blew against the skylight over the shadowy, high-ceilinged room, Virginia Carol—Ginny to her friends—paged through a thick, sturdy volume called The Gargoyles of Oxford , by Professor J. G. Goyle, published in 1934. And was Professor Goyle’s middle name Garth, or just plain Gar?
The remains of a half-eaten sandwich, still in its waxy wrapper, awaited her attention on the bare brass table beside a high-backed reading chair. She had been hiding in the green warehouse for two weeks, waiting for an explanation that never seemed to come. Her fright had faded, but now she was growing bored—something that two weeks ago she would never have thought possible. The pictures in the gargoyle book were amusing—leering, perverse figures designed, scholars said, to scare off evil spirits—but what caught her eye was a grainy photo embedded in a chapter on the university town’s older buildings. On the inside of a stone parapet high in a clock tower, someone had clearly incised, in proper schoolboy Roman majuscule, cutting through a centuries-old black crust of grime and soot:
DREAMEST THOU OF A CITIE AT THE END OF TYME?
And beneath that, 1685 . Another inscription below the date, presumably a name or address, had been vigorously scratched out, leaving a pale brown blotch.
Conan Arthur Bidewell pushed through the door at the far end of the room, carrying more books to be returned to the high wooden shelves. He observed her choice of reading. “That’s a real one—not one of my oddities, Miss Carol,” he said. “But it does reflect unpleasant truths.” His cheeks were sunken and thin wisps of hair covered a leathery, shiny pate. He resembled a well-preserved mummy, or one of those people found in bogs. That’s it, Ginny thought. And yet—he’s not exactly ugly. She showed him the picture. “It’s like the ad in the newspaper.”
“So it is,” Bidewell said.
“This has been going on for centuries,” she said.
He peered through his tiny glasses. “Far longer than that.” Under his arm he carried two folded newspapers— The Stranger and The Seattle
“What did your visitor leave behind the last time?” Khren asked, savoring a final drib of tork. Jebrassy had kept his friend company in drink through two previous tumblers, but no more—he needed a clear head for tomorrow. For the meeting he knew couldn’t possibly happen.
“He’s a fool,” Jebrassy muttered. “Helpless. He knows nothing. An aaarp .” He belched to emphasize that degraded status. The concept of insanity did not exist among the ancient breed. Eccentricity, whims, and extremes of personality, yes, but insanity was not part of their mix, and therefore no one accused another of having lost touch with reality—except as a vague concept, an uncomfortable joke—suitable for belching.
“Well, did he tell you anything more?”
“I wasn’t there. When he comes, I go. You know that.”
“The drawings on the shake cloth.”
“They never make sense.”
“Maybe your visitor has met her visitor, and that’s how she knows so much about you.”
“You’ve talked with him. You know him better than I do,” Jebrassy said, slumping deeper into the cushions.
“You—he—could barely talk at all,” Khren said. “He looked in my mirror and made sounds . He said something like, ‘They got it all wrong!’—except slurred. Then he—you, your visitor—just stumbled over and sat right where you are now, and closed his eyes—your eyes—until he went away.”
Khren waggled his finger. “If that’s what straying is all about—better you than me, mate.”
TEN ZEROS
CHAPTER 9
Seattle, South Downtown
To pass the long gray time, as the rain patted and blew against the skylight over the shadowy, high-ceilinged room, Virginia Carol—Ginny to her friends—paged through a thick, sturdy volume called The Gargoyles of Oxford , by Professor J. G. Goyle, published in 1934. And was Professor Goyle’s middle name Garth, or just plain Gar?
The remains of a half-eaten sandwich, still in its waxy wrapper, awaited her attention on the bare brass table beside a high-backed reading chair. She had been hiding in the green warehouse for two weeks, waiting for an explanation that never seemed to come. Her fright had faded, but now she was growing bored—something that two weeks ago she would never have thought possible. The pictures in the gargoyle book were amusing—leering, perverse figures designed, scholars said, to scare off evil spirits—but what caught her eye was a grainy photo embedded in a chapter on the university town’s older buildings. On the inside of a stone parapet high in a clock tower, someone had clearly incised, in proper schoolboy Roman majuscule, cutting through a centuries-old black crust of grime and soot:
DREAMEST THOU OF A CITIE AT THE END OF TYME?
And beneath that, 1685 . Another inscription below the date, presumably a name or address, had been vigorously scratched out, leaving a pale brown blotch.
Conan Arthur Bidewell pushed through the door at the far end of the room, carrying more books to be returned to the high wooden shelves. He observed her choice of reading. “That’s a real one—not one of my oddities, Miss Carol,” he said. “But it does reflect unpleasant truths.” His cheeks were sunken and thin wisps of hair covered a leathery, shiny pate. He resembled a well-preserved mummy, or one of those people found in bogs. That’s it, Ginny thought. And yet—he’s not exactly ugly. She showed him the picture. “It’s like the ad in the newspaper.”
“So it is,” Bidewell said.
“This has been going on for centuries,” she said.
He peered through his tiny glasses. “Far longer than that.” Under his arm he carried two folded newspapers— The Stranger and The Seattle
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