chapter thirty‑one

He awoke to the sound of running water; he was cold, cramped and his left foot was wet. He opened his eyes and peered about him. For a moment he was revolted by the thought that he was still inside Henry's mouth. But, in fact, he was curled up against the wall of a small cave, a dim grey‑green light was filtering through the mouth of the cave. It was bright enough for him to make out a small stream running from a dark recess at the back of the cave. The stream widened in the centre of the cave to form a shallow puddle in which his foot was slowly marinating. The puddle overflowed out of the cave mouth. He dragged his foot out of the water and struck his head on the hard rock. Cursing, he crawled out of the cave, pushing his way past a thick growth of ferns, which, from the outside, obscured the cave from view.

Once outside, he straightened up stiffly and began trying to rub some life back into his limbs. He was standing on the side of a large, rocky hill. Small trees and ferns grew from cracks in the rock. The sky was a low heavy canopy of dark grey clouds.

The stream flowed from the cave into a large rock pool. On the far side of the pool, a black stallion was standing, with its head bowed, drinking the water. On the back of the horse was a tall slim man; his hair was black and hung down to his shoulders. He wore a black cape, black trousers and long black boots. The man regarded Andrew warily, his hand rested lightly on a long black sword which hung from the saddle.

"Oh, hello," said Andrew cautiously.

"Who dares to address the Mighty Rampard so disrespectfully?" roared the man, he jerked the reins savagely and guided the horse so that it stood in front of Andrew. "Do you not recognize the black sword of the Roving Reporter's Guild? Tell me your name, that I may add it to the list of fools who have died by my hand."

"Andrew Smith," said Andrew, easily assuming his normal role as the intimidated innocent.

"Smith?" with hardly a hint of movement Rampard had drawn his sword and placed its sharp tip against Andrew's neck. "Are you sure your name is Smith?"

"Positive," hissed Andrew, trying not to move his throat in the process.

"It's astounding; my power is greater than I had imagined!" Rampard smiled with pride. "I can hardly believe that even my subconscious is capable of creation. And yet it must be so. I was witness to your birth from the rock, and no one but I can create Smiths." He shook his head in wonder. "Tell me then, Smith, what is your story?" In one swift motion, Rampard had swung the sword so that the flat of the blade struck Andrew heavily on the shoulder and forced him to his knees. "You must kneel when you address one of my order."

"My story?"

"I would not have created you without purpose; what is your quest?"

"Um ... well, I have to find my friends."

"Hmm," said Rampard, thoughtfully stroking his bony chin, "a little dull, but who knows, perhaps it will develop with time. I'm sure my subconscious has something interesting lined up for you. Very well, you may live and go about your quest."

"Uh, thank you, thank you very much. I don't suppose you could tell me where I might find my friends?" said Andrew as meekly as he could manage.

"If they exist, they are not of my making. You will have to ask the Encyclopedia."

"Where can I find that, um, Sir?"

"Follow this track to the east, the Encyclopedia is in the Great Castle of Knowledge; you can't miss it. But beware; there are many perils on your route. By the way, what's that on your shirt?" Rampard pointed to Andrew's chest with the tip of his sword.

Andrew looked down and Rampard jerked up his blade to slap Andrew under the chin. Rampard laughed hysterically, pulled a black hood over his head, and galloped away.

Andrew stood up and watched the rider receding into the distance.

"Jerk!" said Andrew bitterly when Rampard had become little more than a swiftly moving black dot.

The black dot stopped, along with Andrew's heart. "Not you, me," he said hastily, and the black dot rode on.

Andrew started walking along the track. The clouds were so dense he could not decide if it was early morning or late evening. The track was narrow but well-worn. It wove its way between boulders and around large pools of stagnant water.

Two hours later he reached a bridge which spanned a small but fast flowing river. The bridge was roughly constructed from the same rocks which littered the surrounding area, carved into a large boulder which lay beside the approach to the bridge were the following words:

private property

These grounds are regularly patrolled by Slurgs and other more ferocious beasts. Trespassers will be eaten - Slowly.

Beyond the river, high up on the top of a barren hill, stood a high‑walled castle. There was a break in the clouds above the castle and a column of sunlight shone down, like a spotlight, illuminating the tall spires and battlements.

Andrew stepped onto the bridge, trying to convince himself that the warning was nothing more than a hoax designed to scare people off. As he did so, he heard a loud squelching sound coming from under the bridge. He took another, more tentative step and a Slurg jumped out in front of him.

The Slurg was an exceptionally nasty-looking one. Many people say that they can't tell one Slurg from another, that, in fact, all Slurgs look alike. These people are lying, since no one has ever lived long enough to see more than one Slurg. This is not due to the scarcity of Slurgs, but, rather, to their healthy appetites. This particular Slurg was about the size of a small hatchback. Andrew's first impression was one of a mass of teeth, as indeed were his second, third and fourth impressions. The overall shape and texture is that of a slug, hence the name. It has a mouth, which runs for virtually the length of its body, like an alligator's; it has four small crooked legs, also similar to those of an alligator, and it is continuously excreting slime from all parts of its body. It stood on the bridge drooling, and panting heavily. A long flexible stalk protruded from the top of its body, at the end a single eyeball goggled myopically at Andrew.

"Ah ... My name is Smith," said Andrew when he had regained the use of his mouth; his legs were still firmly frozen in fright.

"Not Andrew Smith?" said the Slurg in a very slurpy voice, as it spoke slime sprayed out from between the gaps in its teeth.

"Well, I could be," said Andrew evasively. "What if I was?"

"If you were, I'd say: 'It's about time you got here'."

"Alex!"

"Do you know any other Slurgs who wouldn't have eaten you by now?"

"Now I know it's you; I can see the resemblance to your former selves."

The Slurg advanced menacingly towards Andrew.

Andrew jumped back, laughing. "Lost our sense of humour, have we?"

"You'd have lost yours, too, if you'd met that asshole, Rampard," slurped Alex.

"But I did."

"How did you get away?"

"I don't know. The guy is a raving loon, I think he thought I was a figment of his imagination."

"But you didn't tell him that you thought he was a raving loon?"

"No."

"I did, and look what he did to me. The first time I actually get a decent body and some maniac comes along and turns me into this!" Alex turned, hopped off the bridge, slid down the muddy bank and splashed into the river. Moments later he returned, dripping. "I have to keep doing that or my skin dries out and, according to Rampard, the mighty anus, I die."

"Hey, where's Alice?"

"I've no idea. The first day we arrived, she went to bathe in one of the pools, I offered to come along but she didn't trust me to look the other way. She never came back."

"Well, didn't you look for her?" asked Andrew angrily.

"Of course I did, but I couldn't find her."

"Oh, then, I guess, we'll still have to go to the castle."

"Not we, you. I can't leave this river until you get me changed back."

"How do I do that?"

"How the hell should I know?" snapped Alex spraying Andrew with slime.

"Oh, yuk! Don't do that," said Andrew stepping back in disgust.

Alex jumped back in to water. "Well, off you go," he gurgled.

"Haven't you got any words of advice; isn't there anything I should know?"

"Listen, I've been stuck under this bloody bridge for the past week. You're the first person I haven't eaten, so I haven't exactly had time for my normal extensive fact‑finding. This time, you're on your own."

"Oooh wow wee, my big chance," said Andrew as he strode across the bridge.

"Yeah, well be careful," said Alex quietly, from beneath the arch.

"What?"

"I said, hurry up," shouted Alex.

Andrew walked along the path which led up the hill towards the gleaming white castle. He couldn't decide whether to be depressed by the gloomy landscape or excited by the majestic castle ahead. Then he remembered the warning and opted for just plain scared.

The path became steeper and wove its way between much larger boulders which leaned precariously overhead. Andrew emerged from a particularly complex set of twists and turns into a small clearing. The clearing was bounded on either side by steep-sided walls of rock. In the centre was a brownish‑red mass of swaying tentacles which resembled a very large sea‑anemone. Andrew paused and scrutinized the creature with suspicion. It could easily reach the walls on either side of it; there did not seem to be any way through without risking being caught by the tentacles.

"My name is Andrew Smith," he said, as if it were some kind of password.

The creature did not respond.

Andrew, recalling previous encounters with the rock‑pool cousins of this creature, picked up a large rock and hurled it at the centre of the writhing mass. The tentacles reacted quickly; they wrapped themselves around the stone and then threw it straight back. Andrew stepped to one side and the rock sailed harmlessly past him. He searched the ground for something organic to feed to the anemone, in the hope that this would distract it long enough for him to run past, but he found nothing but rocks. He removed his shoes and tossed one into the undulating fronds in the hope that 'genuine cowhide' was more palatable than 'genuine granite'. The tentacles gathered together giving the appearance of a daisy which had closed up for the night.

Andrew took his chance and sprinted around the creature, giving it as wide a berth as possible. Well out of range, he slackened his pace and was immediately knocked to the ground by something flat and flexible which struck him on the back of the neck. Unhurt, he stood up, picked up the 'genuine plastic' sole of his shoe and continued walking down the track.

He rounded a large boulder and was confronted by another anemone, this one was larger than the first, but in no need of nourishment. Spreadeagled in the midst of the creature was a man struggling futilely against the many tentacles which wrapped around his limbs. The man was dressed in a suit of polished armour; he was broad‑shouldered with a jaw like a snow‑plough. A few feet away, lying in the dust of the track, was a sword of shining steel.

"Brian!" gasped Andrew standing helplessly out of reach of the creature.

The man looked up, a gleam of hope in his eyes. "Quickly, my sword," he shouted.

Andrew rushed forward, picked up the heavy weapon and placed it in the trapped man's hand.

"No, you fool, you use it!" screamed the man.

Andrew took the sword and began hacking at the tentacles which bound the man's arms and legs. The tentacles were soft and easily cut, but, no sooner had he severed one, than it was replaced by another. He swung the sword faster and faster, forsaking accuracy for overall effect, and occasionally heard the ring of metal as the blade struck the man's armour. The detached tentacles fell to the ground and wriggled away like snakes to the safety of a crack in the rocks. Andrew continued to cut and slice for what seemed like hours, until the man at last fell free. They both scurried past the now bald anemone and ran a few yards down the track beyond.

"Thank you," panted the man. "Your bravery saved my life."

"Oh, anybody would have done the same," said Andrew leaning on the sword for support while he got his breath back. "It was nothing really."

"Speak to me not of reality," said the man sternly, "for it was that which almost took my life."

"Yeah, well it usually is, isn't it?" said Andrew beginning to wonder if everyone in this place was suffering from an infested belfry.

"Not at all; more people die in fiction than were ever born in fact."

"Oh, well, I'll try to remember that," said Andrew frowning. "Anyway I'd better be off now," he added, anxious to leave this demented man.

"Wait, do you not know what I am?" asked the man incredulously.

"Uh no ... Sir," said Andrew sinking to his knees with a look of resignation on his face.

"I assume that you tread this perilous path in search of the knowledge of the Encyclopedia."

"Yes, do you know where it is?"

"I am a Guardian of the Truth," announced the man pompously.

"Well good for you," said Andrew, irritated, "but do you know where the book is?"

"Do you speak so bravely from arrogance or ignorance?"

"Look," said Andrew, "I'm in a bit of a rush, okay? A friend of mine has been turned into a giant jelly with teeth, and another is missing, presumed drowned. All I want to do is find the Encyclopedia and save my friends. Now, if you can help me that's fine, but if you can't, then I'll be on my way. I've just saved your life so I think the least you can do is to drop all this Who do you think you're talking to bullshit and give me a simple answer."

"Let's just assume it's ignorance, shall we?" said the man, eager to pacify Andrew without losing face. "You are right, of course. I am indebted to you. I will take you to the Encyclopedia of Knowledge and there you will learn what you need to know."

"All right then, good, I'm sorry if I offended you," said Andrew in an effort to make amends for his angry outburst. "My name is Andrew Smith," he held out his hand.

The man stared curiously at Andrew's outstretched hand. "You should not give up your name so easily; it is safe with me, but others may contrive to use it against you. You may call me what you wish since Guardians of the Truth have no name that is utterable by man."

"If no one can say it, I can't understand why you bother having one," reasoned Andrew. "What you wish is a bit of a mouthful," he added, trying to break the ice, "If you don't mind, I'll call you Brian."

"There is clearly much that you do not understand," said the man ensuring that the ice didn't suffer even so much as a hairline fracture, "but remember this, if nothing else, names are dangerous things; they can be used to link fact to fantasy."

"Okay, I'll remember that, very profound, if I might say so, I'm sure it will come in handy. Here, have your sword back and let's be on our way."

"Thank you, I'm afraid we must proceed on foot, my horse was eaten by the Slurg on the bridge."

"Really?" said Andrew suppressing a chuckle.

"You know, Andrew," said the man casually resting the blade of his sword on Andrew's shoulder, "it's not a good idea to question the word of a Guardian of the Truth, we tend to find it ever so slightly insulting."

"Ah, yes," said Andrew gazing nervously at the glittering blade, "I can understand that. It was just an expression; I wasn't doubting your word."

"Rather a superfluous expression, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh yes, definitely."

To Andrew's relief Brian slid the sword underneath his belt and strode away down the path, Andrew trotted along behind.

"Slain any good dragons recently?" asked Andrew conversationally.

"Dragons? Have you seen a Dragon?" asked Brian with concern.

"Uh, no ... I just thought ... I mean you've got all that shiny armour; it's um, traditional isn't it?"

"Yes, the armour is the traditional dress of the Guardians of the Truth, but what has that to do with Dragons?"

"No, you misunderstand me. I'm talking about Saint George, fighting Dragons, rescuing virgins and all that."

"You're a sick man, Andrew. Have you tried any form of treatment?"

"Well, what do you do then? What's a typical day in the life of a Truth Guardian."

"For a Smith, you are appallingly uneducated - Rampard must be losing his touch. As a Guardian of the Truth, it is my sworn task to protect the Truth from those who would use it for their own gain and those who seek to pervert it in the name of evil."

"Yes, but what does that actually mean? What do you do?"

"I've just told you."

"Okay let's take it step by step; you get to the office at ten passed nine, get a coffee, read the paper, start the crossword, what do you do when the boss walks past?"

"I am fluent in forty‑three different tongues and dialects, and yet your words are, at best, incomprehensible. Has Rampard sent you in a pathetic attempt to confound the forces of Truth?"

"All I want to know is how you protect the truth."

"Oh I see. Well, to be perfectly honest, which I, needless to say, always am, I don't. I'd like to, but it's an impossible task. No sooner do I plant a piece of truth here, than it pops up over there, all twisted out of shape. Or in the unlikely event that it remains uncorrupted, it becomes buried amongst so many lies that no one would ever find it. As a last resort, we can always change a lie into a truth, though this is frowned upon by the more orthodox of my colleagues. So I have to resort to spreading the truth on a one-to-one basis."

"So your ultimate aim is to tell everyone the truth?"

"Exactly."

"Well, that doesn't sound too difficult to me."

"But they have no desire to know it. They want to hear the lies and half truths that the Roving Reporters create."

"Oh come on! How can you say that?"

"All right then, I'll give you an example of a truth. The world is not round." Brian paused expectantly.

"Um ... well ... ah," Andrew was fumbling for the words to contradict Brian without invoking the sword‑on‑the‑throat trick.

"You don't believe me? I can prove it. Look at that mountain. How could anything be round with that sticking out of it?"

"Well, no it's not perfectly round, but it is roughly round."

"You see the truth is too precise for most people to tolerate. But, to illustrate another point, I can say that the earth is not even roughly round. It is, however, roughly spherical - a three dimensional object cannot be accurately described by a two dimensional word."

"But you're just splitting hairs, life would be very tedious if everyone went around telling the absolute truth. Supposing I met you on the street and said; In my opinion the atmospheric conditions which we are currently experiencing, taken as a whole, are above my personal expectations for this particular sun‑to‑earth configuration, taking your own independent recollections of previous equivalent periods of time in conjunction with your perceptions of the prevailing climatic picture would you arrive at a similar conclusion? instead of Nice day, isn't it? You'd be half a mile down the street by the time I'd finished."

"That is a facetious example; statements about the weather are subjective feelings, not facts. But the point that you unwittingly made is true; people are bored by the truth; they demand the fantastic, the outrageous and, worst of all, the horrific."

"So how do the Roving Reporters fit in to all this?"

"They create what the people like to hear," said Brian bitterly.

"That doesn't sound too bad; I thought you said they were a evil bunch."

"They are. As I said, the people like to be shocked and horrified but that doesn't mean that they actually want these things to happen."

"But if the Roving Reporters just make things up, then they don't actually happen."

"They do happen because everyone believes that they've happened. Whether an event is true or false is irrelevant; if they believe it is true then, for them, it is reality."

"Okay then," said Andrew doggedly pursuing his argument, "if everyone knows that these guys are just making it up, why do they believe it?"

"Because it is written on the Magic Paper of Persuasion."

"Ah, yes, of course the Magic Paper of Persuasion. You know, for a minute there, you almost had be going with all that crapola."

"As I said before, your mode of speech is sometimes hard to follow. I do hope," said Brian fingering the hilt of his sword, "that you were not expressing disbelief."

"Oh, no, not at all."

"Look around you; this is not reality. This world has been created by the lies of the Roving Reporters and their evil leader, the Editor."

"But why don't you write the truth on this Magic Paper stuff?"

"No one would read it because it's so boring," Brian pulled a folded sheet of paper from a small pouch slung around his waist. "Here, read this," he said handing the sheet to Andrew, "but don't show it to me."

"Five families drowned by freak flash flood in Flatland," read Andrew. "Oh god, that's terrible," he commented.

"Yesterday there was no such place as Flatland. Today, it exists but half the population has been drowned," said Brian sadly shaking his head.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's all down here in black and white. Look," said Andrew and held the paper under Brian's nose so that he could read it.

"Oh, yes, you're right," said Brian with a slightly puzzled look on his face, "what a catastrophe."

"It says here, that a young boy tried to save his drowning baby sister but got swept away himself."

"Tragic," agreed Brian.

After a long walk up the steep incline to the castle the two men stood, bathed in sunlight, in front of an enormous wooden door set into the high stone‑walls. Brian banged on the door with the jewel encrusted handle of his sword. A small slit in the door opened and a pair of eyes peered cautiously out. The eyes were replaced by a mouth which said; "What is the password to the Castle of Knowledge?", the mouth was replaced by an ear.

"I don't know," said Brian as if he did.

"Correct," said the mouth which had rapidly appeared in place of the ear.

"Cute," said Andrew.

They stood for several minutes listening to the sounds of keys being jangled, chains being rattled, and bolts being drawn, then with a creaking groan the massive door swung inwards. Brian stepped through the gap and Andrew followed.

They were standing at the edge of a large courtyard. Apart from the man who had opened the door, it was deserted. In the middle was a tall cylindrical tower with a single archway at its base.

"The Encyclopedia is in that tower," said Brian, "I'll wait for you here."

Inside the tower was a narrow spiral staircase, the stone steps were illuminated by sunlight which shone in through vertical slits in the wall. Andrew was exhausted by the time he had reached the small room at the top. The room was circular and contained nothing more than a chair, a table and a large dusty book. The book was bound in thick leather and sat on the table in a shaft of sunlight which emanated from a small window set high in the wall. Andrew collapsed onto the chair and opened the book.

the encyclopedia of all knowledge

getting started: How to use this book

Each page of this book contains one question and a list of possible answers; beside each answer is a page number.

Think about each question carefully, then choose the most appropriate answer from the given list of alternatives. Once you have chosen an answer turn to the page number specified. If you get lost, start again at page one.

Q: Do you understand how to use this book?

A: Yes   (2).

A: No    (1).

Andrew turned to page two.

Q: Which of the following best describes your question?

A: How.        (4).

A: What.       (5).

A: Where.      (6).

A: When.       (7).

A: Who.        (8).

Andrew turned to page four.

Q: Which of the following best describes your 'How' question?

A: How do I?        (9).

A: How is it that? (19).

A: How much?       (29).

A: How are you?     (1).

Andrew sighed. This was obviously going to take a long time, he turned to page nine.

Q: Which of the following best describes your 'How do I' question?

A: Become rich and famous.        (102).

A: Attract sexual partners.       (307).

A: Improve my personality.        (412).

A: Stop people making fun of me.  (237).

A: Find the answer to my question.  (1).

A: Save my friend Alex who has been turned into a Slurg by a Roving Reporter.  (3).

Andrew turned, dubiously, to page three.

Q: How do I save my friend Alex who has been turned into a Slurg by a Roving Reporter?

A: Go to the Editor and get him to drop the story written by the Roving Reporter.

Frowning, Andrew turned back to page two and then on to page six.

Q: Which of the following best describes your 'Where' question?

A: Where is a person?             (134).

A: Where is a place?              (248).

A: Where is an object?            (756).

A: Where is the start of this book? (1).

A: Where is the toilet?          (1595).

Andrew turned to page one hundred and forty three.

Q: Which of the following best describes the reason given by your partner for their lack of interest in oral sex?

A: I don't like the taste.       (1786).

A: You're ugly.                  (1643).

A: You are what you eat.         (2245).

A: I did once but it made me sick. (75).

A: I'm asthmatic.                (3421).

Andrew turned, reluctantly, back to page six and then on to page one hundred and thirty four.

Q: Which of the following best describes the person you are looking for?

A: A rich husband/wife.      (329).

A: A rich husband and wife.  (329).

A: Someone to make fun of.   (862).

A: Who ever stole my wallet. (357).

A: Alex.                     (221).

A: Brian.                    (952).

A: Alice.                      (3).

Andrew turned angrily back to page three.

Q: Where is Alice?

A: Beyond the Magic Forest in the Land of the Endless Dream‑Time.

"Where else!" muttered Andrew to himself, he turned to page two and was only vaguely surprised to find that it had changed.

Q: How many questions can I ask the Encyclopedia of Knowledge?

A: 2.

He flicked through the rest of the book but all the pages were now blank.

Returning to the courtyard, Andrew found Brian sitting at the terrace of a small cafe, which had apparently opened during his absence.

"This is very pleasant," said Andrew as he sat down at Brian's table.

"Thank you," said Brian lazily sipping a beer.

"Oh is this your cafe?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"You mean you created it? Isn't that a bit unethical?"

"No, it's a legitimate perk; it doesn't do any harm inside the castle," Brian looked over his shoulder towards the indoor bar. "Waiter."

A man hurried out to their table, he was dressed in black with a white apron. Andrew couldn't help thinking the waiter's eyes, mouth and left ear looked very familiar.

Turning back to Andrew, Brian said; "What would you like?"

"A coffee, please. White with one sugar."

"Real or healthy?" asked the waiter.

Andrew looked bewildered.

"Real coffee," explained the waiter, "contains caffeine, which is bad for the heart, cholesterol, which clogs the arteries, and sugar; which is bad for practically everything. Healthy coffee, on the other hand, is decaffeinated and made with non‑dairy whitener and an artificial sweetener."

"Oooh, I'll take a real one, please," said Andrew, "I always like to live life on a knife‑edge," he added as an aside to Brian.

The waiter pursed his lips in disapproval. "Very good, Sir."

"So," said Brian, "I presume the great book of Knowledge answered all your questions."

"Almost, it only allowed me two questions, so I couldn't ask it where to find the Editor."

"Ah, yes I forgot, it's on a work‑to‑rule."

Andrew ignored this statement; the whole thing was ludicrous enough already without delving into striking encyclopedias. "I don't suppose you know where I can find him?"

"Yes, he lives-" Brian was interrupted by the waiter bringing Andrew's coffee.

Andrew examined the cup which had been placed in front of him. Written around the base in large black letters were the words: 'Warning: The Imperial Alchemist has determined that this stuff will kill you - Dead.'

"Um, waiter?" called Andrew. "Can you bring me a beer?"

The waiter nodded smugly and returned to the cafe.

"As I was saying, the Editor lives in Newstown."

"And where's that? Just outside Printersville? Down the road from Paperburg?"

"You're ranting again," cautioned Brian. "It's on the other side of No‑Man's Land, but of course you can't go that way."

"No, of course not ... Why not?" asked Andrew and immediately regretted it.

"The area is controlled by a group of feminist extremists - another Roving Reporter's invention - they do some pretty gruesome things to anything even vaguely resembling the male genitals."

"So how do I get there?"

"Across the Marshes of Dissimulation."

"No doubt this is an area shrouded in mist, full of perils for the unwary, where, without knowledge of the only safe route, I would wander hopelessly lost until I died of starvation or was driven completely insane?"

"You've been there before then?"

"No, it was just a lucky guess."

The waiter returned with Andrew's beer. Andrew thanked him, deliberately ignored the black script around the base of the glass, and took a long draught.

"Mmm, that's good stuff," said Andrew appreciatively. "So, when do we leave?"

"We?"

"Yes, we, as in you and I. As in you whom I rescued from certain death," said Andrew pointedly.

"You're certainly milking this one for all it's worth; most people would have been satisfied with a simple thank you."

"Yeah, well most people don't have to cross the Marshes of Dyslexia."

"Dissimulation."

"That, too."

"Well, okay, I'll take you to the Editor, but then my obligation to you is fulfilled."

"It's a deal. Let's go."

"Before we go, write your name on the back of that paper I gave you."

"I know I shouldn't ask, but why?"

"In case you forget it."

"Right, silly question really."

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