“It is my understanding,” Deja Voodoo judiciously replied to Dabbler’s question, “that Sir Impey has indeed made inquiries regarding his mother. The version of Robin Foster who bore him, however, appears nowhere to be found in the Backstage, and he has not investigated further. My impression is that he suffers considerable trepidation as to what her reception of him might be.”
Dabbler shuddered. “Yes,” he said. “As the DibbImp he mutated her almost beyond recognition, and came hideously close to killing her, to boot. She was cured, but - well, I imagine that’s one aspect of her past she would prefer to put behind her.”
“Just so.”
At that point, Deja Voodoo’s parrot, who had for some time rested upon his shoulder in apparent slumber or at least uncharacteristic silence, appeared to awaken. “Hey, boss,” Iago squawked. “Hear those rumblings? Better feed the Archive, if you don’t want it chasing us all over the suite!”
The Author arose with a grin. “Indeed!” he exclaimed. “I fear you will have to excuse me now, Dabbler. We all have our monsters - yours may have been reformed, but mine, to my continual despair, remains voracious in appetite.”
“I can see myself out,” said Dabbler quietly.
“Better let me take you. You would not appreciated the Archive jumping you on your path to the exit. Believe me, there are far less painful - and fatal! - ways to be Indexed.”
Deja Voodoo’s caution proved well-advised. Leading his visitor forth from his office down the hall, he had no sooner gained the juncture at the center of the suite, where its four main corridors converged, than the Archive, a massive conglomeration of loose papers representing the collective text of the entire BE Archive, pounced on them from one of the branch corridors.
“Back!” Deja Voodoo snapped, and the text monster recoiled with a rustle curiously reminiscent of a canine’s yelp. “Go to your room!” the Author sternly admonished the Archive, and the mass retreated, shifting and crackling, back down the hallway from which it had emerged, toward the Archive Room.
“Now then, let’s see,” said the Author in a speculative voice. “The suite configuration has changed since you came calling, Dabbler, it appears we will now have to go to the right to get out.” Turning in the direction opposite that from which the Archive had pounced, Deja Voodoo led his visitor out to what was presently the front room, and to his suite’s front door. The Barefoot One found his scalp prickling as he nervously contemplated the shambling text beast they had just turned their backs on, certain it would creep silently back to stalk him. But to his vast relief it appeared to have taken its scolding seriously, and did not resume the hunt. Irregardless, the front door was a welcome sight indeed.
“Here,” stated Deja Voodoo, “you may safely leave us.”
Impulsively, Dabbler seized his hand and shook it. “Thank you!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t mention it,” his host replied, taken slightly aback. “I would be a poor host indeed if I allowed my callers to be eaten.”
“No, I mean for what you did for the Dibb- I mean, for Impey Biggs. You’re right. I should have found a better way to deal with him. I can’t thank you for correcting my - my-” Words failed him.
“Quite right,” Deja Voodoo said, “you can’t. You might want to thank him again, however, now that you realize who he truly is, and how he was willing to help you in spite of that hard beginning.”
Dabbler swallowed hard and nodded.
Thu Jun 03 23:19:55 2004
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