It doesn’t work by wires or radio or anything complicated like that. It just hooks into local space-time.
I have been told that its inside working part is made up of vastly tough, vastly hard giant molecules, each one of which is practically a vest-pocket cosmos in itself. Outside, it looks like a portable radio with a few more dials and some telltales and switches and plug-ins for earphones and a lot of other sensory thingumajigs.
But the Maintainer was gone and the Void hadn’t closed in, yet. By this time, I was so fagged, I didn’t care much whether it did or not.
One thing for sure, the Maintainer had been switched to Introvert before it was spirited away or else its disappearance automatically produced Introversion, take your choice, because we sure were Introverted—real nasty martinet-schoolmaster grip of reality on my thoughts that I knew, without trying, liquor wouldn’t soften, not a breath of Change Wind, absolutely stifling, and the gray of the Void seeming so much inside my head that I think I got a glimmering of what the science boys mean when they explain to me that the Place is a kind of interweaving of the material and the mental—a Giant Monad, one of them called it.
Anyway, I said to myself, “Greta, if this is Introversion, I want no part of it. It is not nice to be cut adrift from the cosmos and know it. A lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific and a starship between galaxies are not in it for loneliness.”
I asked myself why the Spiders had ever equipped Maintainers with Introversion switches anyway, when we couldn’t drill with them and weren’t supposed to use them except in an emergency so tight that it was either Introvert or surrender to the Snakes, and for the first time the obvious explanation came to me:
Introversion must be the same as scuttling, its main purpose to withhold secrets and materiel from the enemy. It put a place into a situation from which even the Spider high command couldn’t rescue it, and there was nothing left but to sink down, down (out? up?), down into the Void.
If that was the case, our chances of getting back were about those of my being a kid again playing in the Dunes on the Small Time.
I edged a little closer to Sid and sort of squunched under his shoulder and rubbed my cheek against the smudged, gold-worked gray velvet. He looked down and I said, “A long way to Lynn Regis, eh, Siddy?”
“Sweetling, thou spokest a mouthful,” he said. He knows very well what he is doing when he mixes his language that way, the wicked old darling.
“Siddy,” I said, “why this gold-work? It’d be a lot smoother without it.”
“Marry, men must prick themselves out and, ’faith I know not, but it helps if there’s metal in it.”
“And girls get scratched.” I took a little sniff. “But don’t put this doublet through the cleaner yet. Until we get out of the woods, I want as much you around as possible.”
“Marry, and why should I?” he asked blankly, and I think he wasn’t fooling me. The last thing time travelers find out is how they do or don’t smell. Then his face clouded and he looked as though he wanted to squunch under my shoulder. “But ’faith, sweetling, your forest has a few more trees than Sherwood.”
“Thou saidst it,” I agreed, and wondered about the look. He oughtn’t to be interested in my girlishness now. I knew I was a mess, but he had stuck pretty close to me during the hunt and you never can tell. Then I remembered that he was the other one who hadn’t declared himself when Bruce was putting it to us, and it probably troubled his male vanity. Not me, though—I was still grateful to the Maintainer for getting me out of that spot, whatever other it had got us all into. It seemed ages ago.
We’d all jumped to the conclusion that the two Ghostgirls had run away with the Maintainer, I don’t know where or why, but it looked so much that way. Maud had started yipping about how she’d never trusted Ghosts and always known that some day they’d start doing things on their own, and Kaby had got it firmly fixed in her head, right between the horns, that Phryne, being a Greek, was the ringleader and was going to wreak havoc on us all.
But when we were checking Stores the first time, I had noticed that the Ghostgirl envelopes looked flat. Ectoplasm doesn’t take up much space when it’s folded, but I had opened one anyway, then another, and then called for help.
Every last envelope was empty. We had lost over a thousand Ghostgirls, Sid’s whole stock.
Well, at least it proved what none of us had ever seen or heard of being demonstrated: that there is a spooky link—a sort of Change Wind contact—between a Ghost and its lifeline; and when that umbilicus, I’ve heard it called, is cut, the part away from the lifeline dies.
Interesting, but what had bothered me was whether we Demons were going to evaporate too, because we are as much Doublegangers as the Ghosts and our apron strings had been cut just as surely. We’re more solid, of course, but that would only mean we’d take a little longer. Very logical.
I remember I had looked up at Lili and Maud—us girls had been checking the envelopes; it’s one of the proprieties we frequently maintain and anyway, if men check them, they’re apt to trot out that old wheeze about “instant women” which I’m sick to death of hearing, thank you.
Anyway, I had looked up and said, “It’s been nice knowing you,” and Lili had said, “Twenty-three, skiddoo,” and Maud had said, “Here goes nothing,” and we had shook hands all around.
We figured that Phryne and the Countess had faded at the same time as the other Ghostgirls, but an
