~
“Ah, Master Sato!” George said, his usual jovial self, when Sato entered the room. Even though it was August, large flames licked and spit at the air inside the stone fireplace, warming the room to an uncomfortable level. A couple of nice leather couches hugged the walls; an armchair was set at the perfect angle for someone to sit by the fire and read a book. But at the moment, the only other two people in the room were standing next to the small window that overlooked the canyon river far below.
George stood to the right of the window, dressed in his Tuesday Suit, which only varied from his Monday Suit in that it was a very dark blue instead of a very dark black. One of his hands was outstretched toward Sato, the other toward the stranger standing to the left of the window. “Sato, I would like you to meet a very dear friend of mine, Quinton Hallenhaffer.”
The man bowed his head in greeting, and Sato couldn’t believe the guy could take himself seriously. He wore a twisty turban on his head made up of no less than ten different colors, all of them bright and swirling in a whirlpool pattern so that it looked like Mr. Hallenhaffer had ribbons for hair and had been caught in a tornado. The rest of his clothes were no different—a loose robe with dozens of colors splashed about with no definite pattern, purple gloves, and red shoes that appeared to be made out of wood.
Sato gave a curt nod. “I’m ready for the debriefing.”
George’s face flushed redder than usual. “Er, yes, Sato—though I think we could show our guest a little more, er, courtesy . . .”
“Oh, it’s all right, George,” Quinton said, waving at the air as if to swat away gnats. He had a trilling, lilting voice, like he couldn’t decide whether to sing or talk. “The boy obviously means business, which is what we need in the new Realitants, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed,” George replied, giving the slightest frown of disapproval. “If Sato is anything, he is straight to the point.” George clapped his hands once. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you two alone. Quinton, please fill Sato in on any information you may have gathered since we last met. I have other things to attend to.”
After George left the room, Sato sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for Mr. Hallenhaffer to sit across from him on the other couch. Once settled, Sato asked the question he’d been asking first ever since the fourth such interview, when a common theme had become evident.
“Are people going insane in your Reality? Lots of people?”
~
Rutger was spouting off at the mouth before Mothball could say one word upon entering the kitchen. “I tell you, that boy is an insolent, inconsiderate, rude—”
“Calm yerself, little man,” Mothball muttered, grabbing the milk bottle from the fridge. “’Eard enough of yer gripin’ for one day, I ’ave. We all know he’s a bit rude, no need yappin’ off about it one second more.”
“A bit rude?” Rutger sat at the large table, munching on something that looked suspiciously like Mothball’s cheesecake leftovers from the night before. “A bit? That’s like saying you’re a bit tall.”
“Well, I am, now, ain’t I?” Mothball pulled out a chair and sat beside her oldest friend, pulling the plate away from him. “Pardon me, but I don’t quite remember givin’ ya the go ahead on eatin’ me hard-earned sweets.”
“Sorry,” Rutger said, head bowed in shame. “You know I get . . . kinda hungry sometimes.”
“Ya reckon so, do ya?” Mothball let out a laugh. “That there’s like saying Sato is a bit rude.”
“Touch?,” Rutger muttered.
A long pause followed. Mothball had enjoyed seeing her fellow Realitants come to the Center over the last few days—many of them she hadn’t seen in years—though the reunions were somewhat bittersweet. The reason for the gathering
was not a good thing. People going bonkers everywhere, Chi’karda getting loopy here and there. Something very strange was happening.
“Can’t wait to see Tick and the others again,” Rutger said.
Mothball couldn’t stop a huge smile from spreading across her face at the mention of the boy, Atticus. “I hear ya, there. Goin’ to give ’im a big ’ug, I will. Paul and Sofia, too.”
“I just wish it were under better circumstances.” Rutger sat back in his chair, hands resting on his round belly. “All this time we spent worrying about Mistress Jane and the Thirteenth, and then this comes along. Nasty stuff.”