Mr Porist and I then followed Lady Quixtactictle to her mansion — a term of endearment in this case, as the Grand Junction was simply not large enough to contain a residence of the size people of Lady Quixtactictle’s status are accustomed to. As such, Lady Quixtactictle’s domicile on the third level of the Grand Junction was merely fifteen rooms large, and somewhat humble in terms of decoration and extravagance.
Oh, how suitably named is the Grand Junction; a place of a thousand wonders and delights. From all across the Myriad Worlds come travelers seeking new lands on which to place their feet, free from the confines of their old lands and cultures. They mix freely with each other like masters of their own destinies. Exotic Foods are exchanged along with foreign coin. Soft steel is traded for hard silk. Songs are sung, and even if the words are all wrong and the tune is not right, the song is clearly the same.
The door opened to Erin’s office. She entered, followed by Jack shaking the last few drops of rain water off his coat as he wiped his eyes, and looked carefully around the darkened room. A split second later the heat/motion sensor near the door flicked the lights on, bathing the room in a soft white sheen, and turning on the picture-wall to reveal Erin’s collection of photos. A soft violin concerto filtered out from the wall speakers, filling the room with its soothing melody, and the wall behind the couch faded into a huge window to let in the first thin rays of morning sun.
“Oh?” Mr. Porist turned to look at his own shoulder as best he could. “And what manner is that?”
At Mr. Porist’s request, the Twist did leap up into the air, and perform a most magnificent spin before landing once more on the wooden deck of the barge. Darting about like a nervous frog, the Twist did tug at ropes and push at wheels, performing no end of complex navigation that was quite beyond my understanding.
I awoke to the sight of a childish face staring down at me. The face was small, kind, and unashamed. Wound about with colored cloth, the skin was covered with slanted parallel lines, a strange scar or tattoo I had never seen before.
I sat up, most uncomfortably, as my various limbs had chosen to become quite stiff and sore. The face moved backwards, and in motion were the scars made clear: they were no tattoos but breaks in the papery skin, shifting back and forth as the little thing danced away, half like a child and half like a dancing ribbon tied the end of a stick.
The rest of the evening passed without notable event. Sir Juhrooz was, in fact, a rather dull dinner companion, of a kind with Mr. Porist. He ate very little, and spent most of his conversation speaking most shamefully about various bloody battles and bristling confrontations with any number of villainous and bestial foes. It might have indeed been a most interesting and delightful conversation, had I not heard similar from half of all the soldiers I had ever met.
Due to overwhelming medical and economic concerns, two lobbies form a joint petition to Congress, demanding extensive regulation of Nanocule Inc, and the creation and marketing of IANs.
The Medical Practitioners Lobby cites the current high cost and scarcity of medical grade IANs as being prohibitive for family practitioners. The Pharmaceutical Lobby claims that in the future, no drug company will be able to compete with the incredibly cheap and prolific IANs using conventional drug manufacturing methods. Both lobbies claim Nanocule Inc. must be considered a monopoly, and therefore dismantled. The irony does not go unnoticed in the media.
We took dinner, Mr. Porist and I, on the outer deck; a favorite place of mine on every Golden Howdah. The Velvet is a romantic view for those who are not used to it, and so it is always the most interesting of characters who find themselves wandering the decks, staring out at the effervescent void, leaning with causal admiration against the braces, or pressing hard against the railing.
Of course, there are a great deal of interesting people who avoid the Velvet, but it was merely the first day of travel, and those who were adventurous enough in spirit to brave the outer decks were my particular taste that evening.
I am not particularly against Mr. Porist, and I find his pookay quite a dear. Nevertheless, there is a reason we of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists try to keep ourselves separate from a particular personality of person. To be clean, clear, and open to the sensations that surround us, it is good to have, as it were, a clean palate.
Mr. Porist is a charming man, with a great many qualities that make him an excellent traveling companion. He is quiet, considerate, tidy, and above all, small. However, in spite of his relative restraint and reserverance, one cannot help but be aware of the man. His tan suits are forever being pulled and poked by his orange fingers. His long nose is forever audible, and the semi-regular snipping of his shears — a requirement if his ears are to remain under control — cannot help but distract.
Now of course, I didn’t believe a word of what my dear Captain said. The High on High never involved themselves with anything without the firm insistence that their busybodying would prevent, or at least hinder, some catastrophe to the Myriad Worlds themselves. I, of course, rarely believed their prattle, but to release the Torquates…well, let me just say that I had experienced their incessant intensity before, and I was not willing to brush off their involvement so casually as my dear Captain wanted me to.
