CHAPTER 4
Sitting at his desk, Dwllis, Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, surveyed the fifty or so fragments of metal and plastic before him. They ranged in size from one no bigger than his thumbnail to a monster as large as his fist. These were antique memories, their collection and investigation being the task that took up most of his time, though why they were appearing remained a mystery to him and to the authorities he served. They could be found like cankers on street walls, as if they were being exuded by the city itself. He kept to himself the theory that they were the echo of an earlier city.
He stood up and began to walk around his room, hands clasped at his belly. He was a tubby man of medium height, balding at the brow with brown fuzzlocks too long down his back. A pair of pale blue eyes were dominated by thick eyebrows, and there were dark rings underneath them. His mouth was small. With large flat feet, but extravagant jacket and kirtle, he looked like a fop trying to impress but not quite succeeding.
So he considered his position in Cray. Without him, the information carried by the antique memories would stay buried in the labyrinthine worlds of abstract data present in Cray’s networks, data so profuse that the libraries of Noct stood by it as a speck of dust before a cliff. But he, a historian at heart, could not complain of their existence. Without him, the reification of Cray’s memories would go unexamined, unnoticed even. Yet in the mass of ancient administrative minutes and undated weather reports he was sure he had found something important. How could he convince the authorities of this?
Perhaps he should use the tradition surrounding the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, an ancient position, with himself the eighteenth incumbent. Alternatively, he could point to the fact that some Crayans brought him antique memories and thereby stress his relevance to the city. Or he could just carry on being ignored.
He glanced at the thousands of disks, blocks and pyramids lying dust-covered on the shelves of his study. The collection was the work of centuries. He and previous Keepers had tried to explore the historical knowledge contained in these lumps of memory. Surely that must be worth something? It upset him that his position as guardian of Cray’s history was ridiculed, and although he dimly perceived the low status of academic research in a city threatened with destruction, he nonetheless thought people should value tradition.
At length, unsettled by his inability to raise his spirits, he departed his study. From the hall of the Cowhorn Tower he heard a tapping. He stepped outside and looked up at the tiled exterior of the tower, to see that the tapping had been made by a family of dust-birds nesting where the rightmost extrusion met the main body. With irritated gestures their chisel beaks pecked at the tiles, in one place exposing the polythene superstructure. Tutting to himself, Dwllis searched the blue sward below the nest and retrieved three tiles, each a square of white and brown plastic with the texture of canvas. He pocketed these, glared up at the birds, then returned to the hall.
Inside, door shut, he paused. ‘Etwe? Etwe?’ he called in his cultured baritone voice. ‘Etwe, those damnable birds are pecking off the tiles again. Three of them this time.’
No reply. The Cowhorn Tower was silent. Twenty yards above him, where the bulk of the tower swelled out into an array of galleries served by a central staircase, Etwe should be building a memory interface.
‘Etwe? Are you there?’
There came the sound of a door opening, and then, leaning over the wrought iron rail that ensured safety on the lower levels, he saw Etwe, a slim, striking beauty dressed in mauve silks. Free flowing blonde hair tumbled around her pale face as her grey eyes gazed upon him.
He blew her a kiss. ‘Look,’ he said, exhibiting the tiles. ‘It’s those birds again. I’m tempted to requisition a team of Triader lackeys with a ladder, I am. Get them to put the tiles back and get rid of the pests.’
‘You do that,’ Etwe said.
‘Damnable birds.’
There came a clunk from the entrance, and the thrum of the city penetrated the tower’s soundproofing. Somebody had opened the front door. Dwllis turned, and was astonished to see before him a gnostician carrying a knobbly gourd.
It was a young male gnostician, fiery purple of skin with a fine coating of ginger hair. His chin tentacles were limp, like drooping whiskers, and his eyes were hooded, the round mouth above both these features clamped shut. His body hair had been shaved into a herringbone pattern. Gnosticians, apparently following bizarre mating rituals, shaved patterns on to themselves with remarkable precision. Dwllis knew that under the loose, grey shawl that the creature wore the pattern would continue. This one also wore wicker sandals and a floppy hat that, when he looked closely, seemed to be present for no other reason than to conceal a number of recently healed scars.
The gnostician approached with the characteristic loping gait of its kind. Knowing that some were intelligent enough to follow simple signs, Dwllis signalled to a cup of water, then made drinking motions. ‘Good morning, my fellow. Drink, drink?’
Dumb, the gnostician glanced between man and cup before offering up the gourd. Dwllis accepted it, then heard a rattling sound. Something inside. It was a pencil of silicon punctured by twenty metal insert points: an antique memory. This was the first time a gnostician had brought him one. It must be a magpie creature, copying the actions of human beings.
He smiled and said, ‘I shall call you Crimson Boney, on account of your colour, and being so thin.’
The hairs on Crimson Boney erected and he dipped his head. Diffidently, he glanced around the hall in which they stood. When Etwe began to descend the staircase he backed away, but he did not leave when she approached. The gnostician remained before them, alternately bowing and bobbing his head.
Dwllis turned to Etwe. ‘This charming gnostician has brought me an antique memory.’
Etwe took the device. ‘Standard silicon, probably found in the Old Quarter. I could manufacture an interface for that.’
Dwllis nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He returned his gaze to the creature. ‘What are you doing here, mmm? I’ve not seen one of your kind in here before.’
‘Do you think this is an intelligent one?’ Etwe asked.
‘Possibly. Go and carry on with your work.’ Dwllis took the hot hand of the gnostician and led it gently into his study, where he indicated the antique memories lying on shelves. Once Etwe’s footsteps had ceased, he tried to interest Crimson Boney in the memories, shaking and rattling them, even connecting one up to a liquid screen in order to show a display of architecture. The gnostician seemed to comprehend that it was attending a show, and Dwllis found himself both mortified and excited that at last he was not being treated as an eccentric. If only his fellow Crayans could cultivate such an attitude. In conclusion, he took the gourd, rattled a few antique memories inside it, then firmly handed back the emptied gourd and led the creature to the door, and outside.
‘Go find more!’ he said. His voice was deep and loud enough for it to penetrate the moderate din. He possessed a good pair of lungs, as many friends had pointed out. ‘Find more, Crimson Boney. Good boy.’
Crimson Boney hesitated, then gazed out over the expanse of the Rusty Quarter. From this altitude it stretched out in shadow, pulsing veins of light marking the wider streets, here and there a cluster of pink or yellow lamps. Then he loped off down the track to Sphagnum Street. Dwllis wondered which of the colonies outside the city it had come from. Perplexed, he returned to the Cowhorn Tower.
Gnosticians had appeared on Earth some five hundred years ago – so suggested the little historical information that he had so far collated – and the sanctuary of Cray had apparently been built in response to what was perceived as their threat. But the creatures were peaceful, and only xenophobes attacked them. Yet Dwllis found himself troubled by Crimson Boney’s appearance. In those deep parts of the Earth from which gnosticians had sprung, were there leaders with enough intelligence and malice to desire war? Was war even a concept they understood?
~
The afternoon passed by quietly enough.
It was because he never expected to see the gnostician again that he was taken aback when, at dusk, as diurnal shadows fled under fiery evening light, there stood inside his front door a hunched figure carrying a gourd.
‘Crimson Boney?’ Dwllis switched on a lamp and walked across to the gnostician. ‘Good evening, my friend... it really is Crimson Boney, isn’t it?’
Dwllis took the proffered gourd and extracted another antique memory, a lump of gallium arsenide this time, only two wires visible for connecting an interface. Dwllis, amused, rather impressed, crouched in front of the gnostician and shook him by the hand, saying, ‘Good boy. This is really fine. We could make a team, us two, we could make a damned good team.’ He sighed. ‘If only you could tell me where you stole these from, eh? What are you up to, loper?’
He rose to his feet. Crimson Boney scampered about then stood waiting at the door. Dwllis found himself intrigued by this gnostician. He must find out what was going on.
Keeping the gourd back, he visited Etwe’s workshop. ‘Etwe,’ he said, handing her the memory, ‘look what Crimson Boney’s brought us. Listen, I’m going to follow him when he leaves, see what he does, where he goes. You’ll deputise for me.’
‘You’re going out into the city?’
Dwllis frowned. ‘I’m not tied to this place.’
Chastised, Etwe looked at the floor. Dwllis busied himself before a mirror, dusting off his black brocade jacket and blue kirtle, arranging his fuzzlocks to his satisfaction, then applying a little powder to spots on his face.
At the door he gave Crimson Boney the gourd, and the gnostician departed. ‘Do I look well?’ he asked Etwe.
‘Very nice.’
Dwllis peered through a slit in the door to spy his quarry speeding down the gravel path that led into Sphagnum Street. He put on earmuffs, slipped out, and began to follow. Suspecting that the gnostician would use back streets, Dwllis was glad when this guess was proved correct. He soon realised, however, that Crimson Boney was not making for the west wall, but hugging the boundary of the Swamps and heading for the river. People in the street paid Dwllis no attention, but their heads were turned by the sight of the gnostician. Dwllis followed Crimson Boney’s every step. After almost half an hour of wandering, the gnostician began to slow and look about him, forcing Dwllis to hide more than once. The affair was provoking in him an intense curiosity.
They crossed the river. Crimson Boney picked up Marjoram Street, took an alley off Broom Street, then loped south. Dwllis followed, pushing aside cables and ducking under pipes, tripping over the wasted legs of sleeping outers, crunching across heaps of glass. At length, the speed of his flight reduced to a walk, the gnostician scanned an alley both ways – Dwllis was hiding in a doorway – then darted into a passage. Dwllis almost missed it, for here the ground perspex was dim, dead, and there were no house lights. In fact, Dwllis was not entirely sure where he was.
He crept up to the passage and looked around its corner. Crimson Boney, if that shadow amongst shadows was the gnostician, seemed to be standing in front of a door. It was impossible to hear anything through the earmuffs. But then there came a flash of light as somebody opened the door from the inside, and the gnostician was illuminated for brief moments before he leaped inside the building. The door was shut.
After a minute, Dwllis walked up to the door. Above it there lay inscribed a luminous crescent moon.
It was the sigil of the Archive of Selene. This must be the rear of that place. Not a little appalled at what he had discovered, Dwllis walked back to the alley and followed it around to Onion Street. The broad vinyl steps at the front of the Archive of Selene were bustling with those beholden to the moon. Dwllis, waiting at the lower step, found himself studying the arcane designs of luminous plastic stapled to the Archive’s fascia: crescents, circles, even some faces. Mythical stuff, of course, to be taken lightly. Above these he saw the tips of telescopes poking out from the roof.
One of the last to enter, he sat at the back of the public auditorium – a chamber a hundred yards in diameter with a lunar dais at the front and rows of chilly seats to the rear – where he was forced to endure a discourse about the moon changing shape. Dwllis, by nature a follower of traditional tenets, yawned and scanned the galleries, chambers and doors around him for signs of gnosticians, but he saw nothing. When Lord Archivist Querhidwe finished her speech, moving out of the sickly light of Selene’s orb, be tried to slip away before the crush began, but he was stopped by a pyuton who had been standing behind him.
‘You are a new face to our Archive,’ she said.
Dwllis bowed to her. ‘Good evening. Yes, I have never been here before.’
‘We are always glad to entertain new citizens. I could take you to a quiet chamber and give you leaflets, books – maybe a plastic moon on a stick to take home.’
The exits were crowded, offering no chance of escape. ‘That is a most generous offer,’ Dwllis temporised, ‘but I need time to think about it.’
‘But you must be inclined to the lunar to have come here.’
‘The moon is interesting.’
The pyuton smiled. ‘Selene is changing shape. Soon the streets will be choked with excited citizens.’
Dwllis nodded, eyeing the exit. He had heard this statement many times before. ‘How remarkable.’
‘You do not believe me?’ The pyuton whipped out some laminated documents from the pocket at the front of her white gown. ‘This is Selene thirty years ago, full face. And this is Selene ten years ago.’
‘Exactly the same,’ Dwllis said, glancing at the pictures.
‘But this is Selene last year. Do you not see how the face is becoming compressed?’
Dwllis did not.
‘And this is Selene last night, waxing. Look now for the compression, and the extension and division of one of the cusps.’
Dwllis took the picture, and there did seem to be changes. ‘But these,’ he pointed out, ‘could easily be produced by refraction effects of the atmosphere. Recall the shadow covering the city. How can you be certain that it does not distort the images received by your telescopes?’
‘We are certain because Selene’s memoirs describe similar changes.’
Dwllis nodded. The nearest exit was clearing. He said, ‘Thank you for your time, but I must depart now.’
‘Wait,’ the pyuton said, grasping the cuff of his jacket. ‘Don’t you work in the Rusty Quarter, at the Archive?’
Dwllis coughed, embarrassed, but also annoyed that he would now have to divulge his identity out of politeness. ‘Madam, I am none other than the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, Senior Historical Adviser to the Reeve.’ He bowed and left the Archive.
Thoughts bothered him as he walked north along Feverfew Street. Had the pyuton really not known who he was? That pricked his esteem. It must be that she was toying with him, making him state his own identity. Well, the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower would not be going there again.
Back home with Etwe, having heard that no more gnosticians had appeared bringing antique memories, he decided to go to bed early. By the light of a glow-bean he read a pamphlet distributed by the Archive of Gaya, advocating rights for lessers. But sleep did not come easy. At midnight he rose from his bed at the top of the Cowhorn Tower and descended to the lower bowl, wandering the galleries there for ten minutes before, irritated and wishing for tranquillisers, he hurried down to the base of the tower, and the outer door. There, wearing thin earmuffs, he took in the sights and sounds of the city.
Night impenetrable covered the southern quarters, but he was able to glimpse pyrotechnics along Sphagnum Street, the cosy pink lamps of his local courtyard, the Copper, and, at the edge of vision, that macabre, glutinous light that emanated from parts of the Archive of Gaya.
Then he looked east.
At first it seemed some freak of the seething atmosphere, but it was too spherical. It came closer, and it seemed to Dwllis that he watched a glass lens of awesome dimensions rolling through Swamps fog; and yet he could see through it, to some other place that was bright, yet softly illuminated. The thing came near. Huffing and puffing he stepped backwards. Through it images started to form, then were lost.
Suddenly a man’s leering face appeared. ‘Noct save me!’ Dwllis yelled, before he slammed the door shut, locked it, and, gasping for breath, clambered to the top of the tower. Fear had taken control of his limbs. Etwe had heard his cries and was standing dressed in a gown at her workshop door. He hugged her.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘I saw a thing over the Swamps,’ he muttered. When he recalled the scene, he trembled. ‘Damn it! I saw a thing rolling in off the black slime, against the wind.’
‘Let’s check,’ Etwe said in comforting tones. She ran to fetch a shallow tray, poured in a few drops of liquid, then attached pyuter wires. The tray became a glowing screen, which she activated using the fishtail code-key strung around her neck. Speaking the names of pyuter routines, she turned the door camera eastward.
‘Nothing,’ Dwllis said, peering at the screen. He looked up at the wall of the chamber. ‘What a relief this tower has no windows.’
‘You must have imagined it,’ said Etwe. She took him by the shoulder, in a light grasp. ‘Shall we go to our room?’
Dwllis hesitated.
Coyness took Etwe. ‘Have you been chewing...?’
‘No,’ he said sharply. He glanced at her, then looked away.
‘I believe you.’
‘It is the truth. Etwe, you retire to bed. I am just going to check the front door of the tower.’
Dwllis descended to the ground, taking his time, trying to think of a useful weapon, for he intended peeking out into the night to see if the apparition was still abroad. He knew he had not imagined it. But as he shivered by the front door both hands were as empty as his mind. He opened the door.
The sward outside, like the air and the sky, seemed clear and calm. With no earmuffs Cray’s clamour attacked his eardrums, though being so close to the Swamps and the Cemetery the noise was of medium level compared to that of southern districts. His ears reported no otherworldly sounds. No rank smells, as allegedly accompanied spectres, spoiled the air. Moving slowly, he left the safety of the tower and stepped out.
Still nothing.
He followed the polythene wall for half its circumference before spotting something. Away north shimmered a sulphurous blur. It was the lens, images flickering in its lensing centre. As it returned south Dwllis swore and with thumping heart ran back to the door, which again he locked.
Etwe was waiting. ‘There is a... a lens-like object in the Cemetery. Don’t go out. It saw me. It may return.’
‘It saw you?’
Irritated, Dwllis waved a hand at her. ‘So it seemed to me. May I not have my perceptions?’
‘We’re safe in here,’ was Etwe’s cool reply.
He nodded. ‘We need protection,’ he said. ‘I need to make a picture of the object to show the Triad officials.’
‘Will you do that tonight?’ asked Etwe.
‘I must, I must.’
Feverish, and determined to capture the apparition’s image, Dwllis hunted drawers and cupboards for a portable pyuter with a lens, which Etwe linked to one of her pyuters by radio. He was ready. For the third time he stood quaking by the front door of the tower, listening. He commanded Etwe to remain at the opposite side of the room, beside her pyuter. Creeping out, he first ascertained that the lens was not close, then made around to a position from where he could survey the Cemetery. There the object shimmered, drifting south. Starting to tremble, he fed images to the pyuter as the apparition closed, moved east, then with a sound of clanging bells surmounted the Swamps wall and disappeared into the gloom. He ran back.
The images were good. They stored them, then made for bed. It was almost dawn when Dwllis dozed off, but three hours later he was awake and ready to depart for the Nocturnal Quarter, where, at Triad Tower, an official had agreed to meet him.
Dwllis did not approve of pedicians or aericians. A flying carpet being beyond his means, his only option was to walk. But he would wear no filmy cover. There was such a thing as style.
Today he wore clothes he imagined suitable for the interview, a brown and blue striped kirtle, a black velvet frock coat and a red shirt. His fuzzlocks he caught up in a sack hat in order to offer respect to officialdom. So attired, he walked down the main streets into Eastcity, arriving hot and bothered at a building in Eel Row attached to Triad Tower, where he announced his name to a fish-masked guard.
‘Wait here,’ he was told.
Some minutes later a genteel officer dressed in a brown cloak with a dorsal fin arrived to lead him into an ante-room. As he sat, another Triader, of high rank judging by her orange carpskin-trimmed robe, arrived, waving away the first with a fluttering gesture. She drew up a chair and sat opposite Dwllis so that their knees almost touched.
‘Good morning, madam,’ he began.
‘Good morning, Keeper. We received your message. You have been troubled during the night?’
‘I have,’ Dwllis replied. ‘I’m here to ask for protection.’ He handed her the sheaf of images. ‘I took these last night, and they very clearly show an object. I could be in danger. Anything could emerge from the Swamps, madam, anything, and being so close I feel I need some sort of…’
Dwllis ran out of words. The pyuton looked sympathetic. ‘I quite understand. Of course you are an official of the city and so may demand your right, but you may find that too many of our Triaders are out performing their civic functions.’
She rose and left the room, taking the images with her. Unsure of how well he had performed during the brief interview, Dwllis waited impatiently, tapping the floor with the toes and heels of his boots, walking around it twice, then sitting and brushing dust off his coat. When an achlorician came to remove some leaves that were turning green (for autumn was approaching), he watched the process.
Fifteen minutes later the pyuton returned to say from the open door, ‘We’ll send protection up. It’ll be along presently.’
‘Thank you,’ an uncertain Dwllis said.
The pyuton disappeared and the brown-cloaked officer arrived to show him off the premises. A little surprised, he found himself standing alone back in Eel Row. Perhaps it was just the manner of officials. Before heading back, he decided to make a detour east.
The Copper Courtyard, the smallest in Cray, was little known, its position by the Swamps bringing a ghoulish reputation to those who had heard of it. But Yardkeeper Cuensheley had cooked and brewed for Rhannan’s predecessor, her mother being a recorder of Gaya, and the quality of her provisions was unsurpassed. In addition, she knew few equals as a singer.
Dwllis stood upon the burnished copper floor. The quadrangle around him was set with dwarf trees in pots, the edges of their leaves turning from blue to green just like those of the plant he had seen earlier. Soon, the city would be swarming with achloricians. Amidst cushions, low plastic tables were set, while above there hung a net, and below that were strung lamps on wires. A score of Crayans presently relaxed at the hostelry.
Dwllis, spotting Cuensheley, waved at her. She approached. She was of slender build and medium height, but her long blonde fuzzlocks tied with rainbow ribbons, and her round, blue eyes set slightly too close elevated her out of mediocrity. Her skin was poor, though, too wrinkled for a woman of forty. She wore pale flowing garments that trailed along the floor.
‘Dwllis,’ she said in her melodious voice, ‘it’s been too long since I saw you.’
She pointed out empty cushions where they could sit, but Dwllis refused, saying, ‘Good evening, Cuensheley. No, I am not staying tonight. I wondered, though, have any of the regulars mentioned seeing anything unusual last night? Or this morning? Has there been talk of odd things?’
Cuensheley smiled. ‘Nothing. Is there a mystery? Tell me!’
She seemed sometimes like a girl to Dwllis: too enthusiastic. Occasionally she would laugh and clap her hands out of joy at some happening or experience. Dwllis, who only laughed when somebody told a joke, found there were times when he recoiled from her almost as though her vibrancy were a physical force.
He nodded, as if he had heard what he expected to hear. ‘I would consider it a favour if you would listen out for talk of apparitions.’
‘All right,’ she said, smiling. ‘You sure you don’t want a quick spearmint julep?’
‘Wholly sure.’
‘Are you getting short of–’
‘Hush!’ Dwllis said, glancing at the nearest people. ‘Do you want my reputation in tatters?’
Cuensheley laughed. ‘Please! Are you sure I can’t just get you a small drink? Free, of course, as it’s you.’
Dwllis made to leave the courtyard, waving Cuensheley away.
~
No events of significance had stirred the peace of the Cowhorn Tower while he was away, so he spent the rest of the day trying to tease information out of antique memories. At dusk, feeling a little restless, he decided to give up the struggle, but before he had cleared away his work a knock on the door startled him.
It was a short, solid man, a Triader guard dressed in an orange cloak, the belt around his pot belly boasting a scimitar. He wore a fish helmet and plastic boots. Any hint of power or poise was ruined by the man’s unshaven cheeks and by his ears, which stuck out under the helmet rim.
‘I’s sent to guard you. Name’s Coelendwia, sir.’
This was his protection? Dwllis stared at the man. ‘Good evening to you. You’re here to protect me against Swamp dangers?’
Coelendwia produced what seemed to be a pair of bellows from the pack on his back. ‘This here’s a spark rifle, sir. Known efficacy against dangers.’
Dwllis nodded. This was some official’s idea of a jest. The fellow must once have been a street urchin, since he was no pyuton. The Triad had considered his appeal and must have found it less than worthy. But Dwllis could not go back now since the humiliation would crush him. This person would have to do.
‘What are your hours, my good man?’ he asked.
‘Dusk to dawn, sir, by the clock.’
Dwllis found the ring of that word ‘sir’ pleasing. It was a word with the sort of sound he could bask in. He could even like the stubby little fellow. The rifle at least would be worth keeping. Of course, Coelendwia was lacking intellectually, but that no doubt informed his career choice. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Dusk to dawn it is. Do you own a razor, Coelendwia?’
‘Several, sir.’
‘A freshly shaven face impresses the opposite sex, I have found.’
Coelendwia seemed puzzled. ‘Yes, sir.’
Leaving the tower door ajar, Dwllis asked Etwe to give copies of the lens images to the Triader, so that he knew what to aim at, before sending a message of thanks to the Triader authorities. He returned to tell Coelendwia, ‘The thing we have seen is large, some variety of apparition from the miasmas of the Swamps. It’s nothing weaponous, you understand, but damnably fearsome. It is fifty feet in diameter, Coelendwia, and floats like a bubble.’
‘Is it something you recognise?’
‘No.’
‘Then knowledge be your best weapon, sir.’
‘Yes, indeed, that is the case,’ Dwllis murmured, gazing down on his new aide. ‘Now, good night. Awake me only if the lens approaches the tower.’
‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir, and sleep well.’
Dwllis locked the tower, then retired with Etwe to their chambers, where he ate supper and read books. Later he manicured his nails and brushed the clothes that he had worn during the day. An hour before midnight they retired to bed.
‘Are we safe here?’ Etwe asked as they lay side by side under thin blankets.
‘Of course we are,’ Dwllis replied. ‘The Triader owns a spark rifle. Besides, do we not lock up every night?’
Dwllis turned to stroke Etwe’s blonde hair, which lay flowing over her pillows. Her grey eyes were closed, but he knew she was faking repose.
‘Are you cold tonight?’ she asked. Her voice seemed to quaver around the room.
‘What do you mind?’ Dwllis replied. He took one arm in his hand. ‘There are temperature receptors in this, but no blood. Does a bit of cold hurt you? Or do your polymer nerves relay it just as figures?’
‘I was concerned for you.’
Dwllis lay back. ‘I am well enough. Good night.’