Conversation · Morell, the Cryptozoologist

"Ha ha, nothing like the gratitude of a good woman. Now, then, what can I do for you?" He gives you a gruff pat on the shoulder.

He tries to play it cool -- remain professorial -- but inside, this man is itching for some news on those traps.

"I couldn't possibly shower thanks on you as enthusiastically as my wife has," he says with a friendly nod. "But I am grateful for your assistance, officer."

"It's great to see you again, officer!" He grins, bowing awkwardly. "My wife can't wait to thank you. Go on, talk to her."

"We'll be on our way soon." He gets up. "Thank you again for lending a hand."

"Hello hello!" He gets up. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"If you see Lena, tell her I won't be long," he says, getting up. "I'm so close to being done here..."

This is a man possessed, always on the brink of some breakthrough. He won't leave if there's a sliver of hope the Great Find might happen today.

"Sir, your wife is waiting for you."

"I just have to do one more round, see if the phasmid has taken the bait... Then we're going." He refastens a bit of netting that has come loose in the wind.

His hands are large and weather-worn, but also used to delicate, precise work.

For all his passion, this man is diligent and patient. You could learn things from him.

"Hello hello!" He gets up. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"You're not here to hide a dead body, are you? I've been seeing a lot of dead bodies."

"No, officer. You've got the wrong person. I deal with living organisms."

"I'm Morell, a cryptozoologist. I'm out here looking for a rare insect called the Insulindian phasmid. I'd shake your hand, but..." He displays his gloved hands, which are glistening with silt and sewage.

The way he said the word phasmid made it sound full of mystery -- this is a very special word for him indeed.

"I hope you haven't been littering here. This is unspoiled wilderness."

"Wilderness?" He looks around. "You must be joking, officer."

"You got me. But what are you doing here?"

"I'm looking for a rare insect, the Insulindian phasmid. Field work -- nothing quite like it..."

He's the kind of robust man who feels most at home outdoors, doing strenuous work in places where most people wouldn't venture.

"Morell, cryptozoologist. I'd shake your hand, but..." He displays his gloved hands, which are glistening with sewage and silt.

"I'm serious. I am here to make sure adventurers aren't disturbing nesting areas."

"I'm not an adventurer, I'm a scientist. I know how to tread lightly and clean up after myself."

"And we're not really the wildlife protection services."

"You must be Lena's husband, Morell. That's why you're here."

"Yes, yes, I am." He looks at you with mild surprise, then quickly recovers --

"Are you doing some kind of science here? You look like a science person."

"'A science person'?" He snarls. "The so-called science community hasn't accepted me as one of their own quite yet."

Doesn't sound like he particularly wants to be lumped in with them either. His is a scientific community of one.

"Here we go. Nice and easy. No way out, little guys, not out of this jam..."

There's a cylinder on the ground in which the man is arranging some netting. It looks like some kind of trap. He notices you.

"Who's there? Oh, the police. Hello, officers."

His self-conscious enthusiasm renders his movements ungainly. He looks like your understanding of a scientist.

"You must be Morell, the cryptozoologist?"

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

That's sarcasm. He takes no pleasure from your appearance.

"You don't seem too happy to see the RCM."

"Oh no, it's alright. I'm just busy." He glances at the cylinder. "What's this about?"

"Man to man, you shouldn't leave your wöman unattended in a cafeteria surrounded by communists."

The lieutenant sighs at your flagrant misogyny.

The cryptozoologist's companion says nothing but nods approvingly in your direction.

"Ack, so that's what this is." He ignores your jab. "Lena sent you. Can't say I blame her -- we've been here for days. That damned water lock is broken, and we can't go under the 8/81..."

"Yeah. That was me. I broke the water lock with my motor carriage. But it's fixed now. You can go back."

"You broke the water lock with a motor carriage? But there was a billboard in the canal..." He looks south. "Not a vehicle. It said 'Samaran Butter.'"

"No, no, it was all me. I caused your delay, and I'm sorry. But you can return now."

"DID HE SAY WE CAN GO BACK NOW?"

"YES, GARY! WE CAN GO BACK SOON!" He turns to you. "If you see Lena, tell her I won't be long now."

"YES, GARY! WE CAN GO SOON!" He turns to you. "If you see Lena, tell her I won't be long."

"I guess you're right. It was really the sign's fault. Anyway, you can go back now."

"No, see, I jumped over the canal in my motor carriage, tearing through the Samaran Butter Sign, which fell into the canal, blocking the gates. I used the pawnshop as a launch ramp."

"Why?" He spreads his arms in disbelief.

"I'm sorry. I don't know."

"Because I'm insane."

"Insane. Yes. Okay. Good." He quickly comes to terms with it. "But you said the water lock is fixed now, so we can go back..."

"Because I needed to drive into the ocean."

"Sure." He quickly comes to terms with this. "But you said the water lock is fixed now, so we can go back..."

"It was an experiment to gauge the Coupris 40's aerial performance. I'm something of a gentleman scientist."

"Scientist. Yes. Okay." He quickly comes to terms with it. "But you said the water lock is fixed now, so we can go back..."