“No!” he squeaked. “Don’t pull—push.”
“Breath out. I’ll do my best.”
The little galago’s feet thrust against her hand. She knew it had to be her imagination but already the air in the hole seemed stale. Would she die in here, the air inlet plugged by Fluff?
Then suddenly he popped out like a champagne cork. She heard him land.
“Are you all right?”
“My dignity, she is bruised. Otherwise I am intact. And now—I go!”
Silence followed; a long, long silence. Virginia understood now how Cathy Earnshaw must have felt, exiled from Heathcliff. Bleak desolation.
Despite the downloaded Brontë, Virginia was basically a practical girl. She had made do for herself, largely, during the years after her accident. Later, after the Korozhet soft-cyber implant had returned her intelligence, she realized that the servants had neglected their brain-damaged charge in the knowledge that Virginia could not report their slackness to her mother. But even then she had not done so; nor had she requested new servants. Truth be told, Virginia preferred lazy servants. Less bothersome.
So, after a few weepy moments she got to her feet, bumped her head again and began to make a systematic examination of her prison, by feel. She had just concluded that Fluff was right about the lack of door or any other exit except the air hole, when he returned.
“Virginia.” Never had the sound of her own name been so sweet.
Relief! “I was so worried, Fluff! Come and give me a hug.”
“I don’t think I can.” There was real misery in the galago’s voice. “I might stick fast forever. There is no one to push me through on this side.”
“Oh no!” Virginia felt more deserted than ever. “What are we going to do?”
“I am just glad to be back near you, Virginia,” said the galago, sounding piteous. “I was so scared I would not find my way. These tunnels! There are so many of them, and they are all so alike.”
“Fluff! You must mark the way somehow.”
“With what, Virginia?” he asked.
She was at a loss. “I suppose . . . I could tear pieces off my blouse.”
“The Maggots might spot that. I scratched little marks. I just found them hard to . . . find.”
“Did . . . did you find any food or any water?”
“Indeed I did.” There was pride in the galago’s reply. “Great store bins of grain, and things all thrown into huge pits.”
“And a drink . . . I’m parched.”
The galago was silent for a few moments. “Yes. Although . . . short of bringing it in my cheeks . . . but I will make some kind of plan.”
Chapter 8: We who are about to die give you the finger.
Naturally, Maggot-mound construction played havoc with existing watercourses. And stripping the ground bare did not make for gentle runoff. Whatever the Maggot equivalents of civil engineers were, they had got it wrong in this space between their tunnel-mounds. Dry gullies turned to raging watercourses. True, thought Chip, it was probably a temporary situation. The tunnel-mounds were obviously still being built, and getting wider. Eventually the Maggot engineers would just use up the wasteland altogether and join one tunnel-mound to the next. Chip had once seen an orbital photograph of the Magh’ scorpiaries. They looked like red cow patties with spiralling arms.
Chip had been glad when the rain started. His water bottle had been nearly dry. For food he was down to an “energy bar,” which took more energy to chew than it provided. But he supposed if the worst came to the worst he could eat Maggot too, like the rats and bats. He was sure that if he could have cooked it, he could have made it edible—even tasty. A little garlic, some spices and a fire and it would have probably fetched four hundred dollars a portion at Chez Henri-Pierre, especially if called Navarin de Magh’ au poivre vert. At present, however, Raw Maggot was the only choice on the menu. And that did not appeal, no matter what Fal said about it. Not even calling it Magh’ Sushi de elementare could have sold it.