Jarre heaved a sigh. Now, Limbeck thought, we’re getting somewhere.
“Oh, Limbeck,” Jarre said, half-irritable, half-sorrowful, “why did you have to go and tell those ridiculous stories during the trial?”
“Stories?” Limbeck’s bushy eyebrows shot up into the roots of his curly hair. “What stories?”
“You know-the ones about the Welves being dead and books with pictures of heaven in them-”
“Then the newssingers sang them?” Limbeck’s face glowed with pleasure.
“Sang them!” Jarre wrung her hands. “They shouted them at every scrift change! Those stories were all we heard-”
“Why do you keep calling them stories?.” Then, suddenly, Limbeck understood. “You don’t believe them! What I said in court was true, Jarre! I swear by-”
“Don’t swear by anything,” Jarre interrupted coldly. “We don’t believe in gods, remember?”
“I swear by my love for you, my dear,” said Limbeck, “that all I said was true. All those things really happened to me. It was that sight and the knowledge it brought-the knowledge that these Welves aren’t gods at all, but mortals just like us-that gave me the inspiration to start our Union. It’s the memory of that sight which gives me the courage to face what I am facing now,” he said with a quiet dignity that touched Jarre to the heart.
Weeping, she threw herself into his arms again.
Patting her comfortingly on her broad back, Limbeck asked gently, “Have I hurt the cause a great deal?”
“No-o-o,” hedged Jarre in a muffled voice, keeping her face buried in Limbeck’s now-tear-sodden tunic. “Actually, uh . . . You see, my dear, we let it … urn … be known that the torture and hardship you suffered at the hands of the brutal imperialist-”
“But they haven’t tortured me. They’ve really been very nice to me, my dear.”
“Oh, Limbeck!” cried Jarre, pushing away from him in exasperation. “You’re hopeless!”
“I’m sorry,” said Limbeck.
“Now, listen to me,” Jarre continued briskly, wiping her eyes. “We don’t have much time. The most important thing we’ve got going for us right now is this execution of yours. So don’t mess that up! Don’t”-she raised a warning finger-“say anything more about dead Welves and suchlike.”
Limbeck sighed. “I won’t,” he promised.
“You’re a martyr for the cause. Don’t forget that. And for our cause’s sake, try to look the part.” She cast a disapproving eye over his stout figure. “I believe you’ve actually gained weight!”
“The prison food is really quite-”
“Think of someone besides yourself at a time like this, Limbeck,” Jarre scolded. “You’ve got only tonight left. You can’t look emaciated by that time, I suppose, but do the best you can. Could you manage to bloody yourself up?”
“I don’t think so,” Limbeck said abjectly, aware of his limitations.
“Well, we’ll have to make the best of it.” Jarre sighed. “Whatever you do, try to at least look martyred.”
“I’m not sure how.”
“Oh, you know-brave, dignified, defiant, forgiving.”
“All at once?”
“The forgiving part is very important. You might even say something along those lines as they’re strapping you onto the lightning bird.”
“Forgiveness,” muttered Limbeck, committing it to memory.
“And a final defiant shout when they shove you off the edge. Something about ‘WUPP forever . . . they’ll never defeat us.’ And you returning, of course.”
“Defiance. WUPP forever. Me returning.” Limbeck peered at her myopicalty. “Am I? Returning?”
“Well, of course. I said we’d get you out and I meant it. You didn’t think we’d let them execute you, did you?”
“Well, I-”
“You’re such a druskh,” Jarre said, playfully ruffling up his hair. “Now, you know how this bird thing works-”
The whistle-toot went off, its blast resounding through the city.
“Time!” shouted the turnkey. His fat face pressed against the iron bars of the door to the visitors’ vat. He began to rattle the opener in the closer.
Jarre, a look of annoyance on her face, walked over to the door and peered through the bars. “Five more tocks.”
The turnkey frowned.
“Remember,” said Jarre, holding up a formidable-looking fist, “that you’ll be letting me out.”
The turnkey, muttering something unintelligible, walked away.
“Now,” said Jarre, turning around again, “where was I? Oh, yes. This bird contraption. According to Lof Lectric-“