Uncomfortably Toby said, “But you survived. Lived.”
Nothing we knew could fix the horrible thing that was creeping through me. I . . . lost respect for my body in the end. It became foul and corrupted. This was the only escape we knew.
He had never met this woman before but he could feel in the whispery voice a reservoir of strong emotion. He thought of his own mother, long suredead. “You were right to do it,” Toby said uselessly. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable talking to newly met adults, but this . . .
“So she comes to tarry now and then,” Walmsley said. “Like having a cloud to tea.”
Sing for me, Nigel. It always improves your mood.
Toby was surprised to see Walmsley flush with embarrassment. He had not imagined the flinty old character could.
Come on. You know it makes you feel better.
Walmsley twisted his mouth and muttered, “Mind, this is a favor,” and then launched into:
“Aw-ee laaast mah-ee hawrt een ahn Angleesh gawr-daan,
Whaar tah rawzaz ahv Anglahand graw . . .”
Bravo! More.
Walmsley made a face. “That’s the Welsh accent. Next time, Cockney.” He glanced at Toby. “Always do something in bad taste occasionally. Keeps the muscles oiled.”
“Bad taste?”
“Old Earther concept. Having good taste was like being smart—only better, because once proved, you were done. Me, rather than good taste, I’d rather have things that taste good.”
I so wish I could do more about that. I so want—
“Isn’t there some way,” Toby began, “with all this tech—”
We have come here because there is some apparent incursion.
The Magnetic Mind had returned like a weight. Toby saw it as a glossy sheen between the field lines. His Isaac Aspect said, dry and stiff,
Magnetic waves formed into packets. Beautiful! Much like the basic memory which carries me. Except here the information is analog, not digital.
Walmsley asked sharply, “What kind of incursion?”
Plasma modes I do not know. They descend into this volume. Their pace is quickening. Their dispersion relation has strange roots, in both real and imaginary spaces: v(w)=w(k)/k(w). I have traced back the field lines to their origin. Though derived from the accretion disk, where mine own feet are firmly planted, these undergo some change. They are contorted. Given fresh energies. Written upon.
Walmsley watched the great space above the pyramid. Toby saw quickening field lines gather like smooth blue reeds blown by currents he could not sense. They tangled, snarled—
Silently, the sky split into shadow and radiance.
Half peeled back into eye-stinging brilliance. Along an exact hairline strip bisecting the bowl above, the other half turned dead black.
“Fractured,” Walmsley said.
