Ben Tiggle was dreaming. Or was he? There was just blackness. His eyes itched, but he couldn’t scratch. His limbs were numb and immobile. How many days had it been? That smell was in the room again, a sickly sweet floral cologne, which meant that the voice would come too, and there it was, that polite Southlander twang:
“Mr. Tiggle…. Ben Tiggle.”
“Unnnh. Morning.”
“Oh, morning, is it? Well, perhaps it is. Perhaps not. You were telling me about the money, Mr. Tiggle. How much money does Anton Takk have?”
“I dunno. Dunno.”
“You gave him money.”
“A hunnerd … hunnerd ‘n’ fifty centimes.”
“That’s hardly enough for a long-distance trip, Mr. Tiggle.”
“He said it was a loan. Skipped out on me, the pig shit.”
“A small loan, Mr. Tiggle. Not enough to get upset about. Are you sure it wasn’t more?”
“Maybe someone else…”
“Did you teach Anton Takk to read?”
“I can’t read!”
“Oh, come now. We can all read, some, can’t we? Isn’t it just a matter of degree? I can read….”
“You’re Government.”
“We’re all Government.” The voice paused. “Now, I suppose you can read numbers, right? To do your books. You run a warehouse, so you must read crate labels…”
“I just open the bastards.”
“…and fill out requisitions…”
“Nah. I just take what they send me.”
“Did you help Mr. Takk steal the truck? It was a Supply truck, last known to be at your loading dock.”
“Anton’s loading dock.”
“He just helped himself to your warehouse and you knew nothing about it?”
“Yeah. Told ya, he works there. Worked there.”
“Where did he go?”
“Dunno. Probably he just went for a ride. He’ll be back sooner or later. He’s crazy like that. But this is the craziest.”
“Do you think Anton Takk is crazy? Um, unbalanced?”
“Yeah … well, no. He’s usually real quiet, a good kid. Real quiet, good kid. Then one day he’ll do something stupid.”
“Is Anton Takk stupid?”
He exhaled heavily. “Nah. Naïve.”
“The day he disappeared, a Badger named Krieger was found dead—beaten to death in his bed.”
“A sour bastard. Lots of enemies. Lots.”
“We think Takk might have done it and then panicked. Perhaps he hadn’t had the nerve to run until he’d murdered a Badger.”
No answer.
“Do you think Anton Takk might need special treatment?”
“Like I’m getting?”
“Do you think Mr. Takk might need hospital care—for emotional disorders?”
No answer.
“Did you raise Anton Takk?”
“Some. His father, John Justin Takk, disappeared…”
“Died.”
“…died. Long time ago.” Tiggle shook his head. He had lost his equilibrium and felt as if he were reeling through darkness. He wanted to rub his eyes. They itched. He thought of sappy pine needles pressed to his face.
“So you would play with him at free time?”
“Yeah.”
“Dress him for bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe tuck him in and read him a story?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is the press, Mr. Tiggle?”
“The press?”
“Printing press. Anton Takk had access to a printing press. Where is it?”
“In Camp Blade? Ridiculous. Look around. Where would we hide it?”
“We?”
“Anyone.”
There was silence. After a few minutes Ben Tiggle’s head lolled to one side and his breathing became slow and steady.
“Mr. Tiggle.”
“Oh. Hmn. Good morning.”
“Morning, is it? Perhaps. Mr. Tiggle, would you like to see again?”
“Please. My eyes itch. Let me up.”
“Mr. Tiggle, do you know what happens when someone has his eyelids sewn shut? When tiny incisions are made across them…”
“What?”
“The human body’s healing process is amazing, Mr. Tiggle. The eyelids grow together. A graft. It takes a week or ten days.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You were telling me about the money….”