Conversation · Lena, the Cryptozoologist's wife

"It's the spring of '51."

"That's right, dear! How splendid!"

Her relief is palpable. She was getting pretty worried about you there, but now she relaxes her shoulders...

"That's right, dear! How splendid! Here, take this pen. Knowledge should always be rewarded."

"It's totally '43."

"Oh no, dear! It's the early spring of '51."

She leans back in her chair, alarmed by your answer.

The lieutenant tries to pretend he's not hearing it and is out of the conversation.

"Sure. It's the year 973."

"You're joking. Try again, one more time. What year is it?"

"All I know is: we are approaching the end times."

"Perhaps, dear, perhaps. But for now it's just the spring of '51."

She is perturbed by your not knowing what year it is -- but not by your mention of the apocalypse. It must be the end times.

The lieutenant studies you, rubbing his chin.

I'm beginning to suspect that you might indeed be completely adrift in this reality, thinks the lieutenant. How can it be that bad? Never mind -- we're in this now.

"It's a bad year in my late forties, or fifties? I don't even know how old I am."

"There, there. The year is '51, and spring has only just started. I'm sure there are better days ahead."

She looks flustered, her hands smoothing out the creases in her blanket even as she attempts to reassure you.

The New was in the Thirties, and two decades have elapsed since The New, so it must be the Fifties now.

That tape you picked up said '43. You seem to be a hip modern man who listens to hip modern records, so it must be '43.

"Honestly, I don't know diddly-squat about Revachol. What kind of place is this?"

"How would I even begin to tell you?" Her grey eyes widen. "Revachol is the most beautiful city in the world. We're fortunate to be here, you and I."

"I haven't seen very many other cities personally, but everyone says so. Revachol is a rare jewel. This city used to rule the world... Though it has seen better days." There's a pause as she studies your expression. You must look quite lost.

"Mhm, okay."

"Yes -- and Revachol...?" She examines you.

"See -- I have no idea."

"We're in the city of Revachol, dear." She flashes you a worried look.

"The edge of civilization."

"In... Revachol?"

"Yes, indeed. We are in the fine city of Revachol."

"In hell. We're all in hell."

"On Insulinde?"

"Yes, but, more specifically -- on the coast of the city of Revachol, in the district of Martinaise."

"We're in Revachol."

"That's right! In a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, to be precise."

"A war zone. At the edge of the world."

"It does still look like that in some parts of the city, doesn't it..."

"We are in a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, dear. And the Whirling itself is in the city of Revachol."

"I don't really know... some seedy hotel?"

"A seaside hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags, to be precise. And the Whirling itself is in Revachol."

"We're dead. Haunting each other. We're ghosts."

"Now, now." She tilts her head as she looks up at you with maternal solicitude.

"We are alive -- in a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags. And the Whirling itself is in the city of Revachol."

"We're in Martinaise."

"That's right! We're on the coast of the city of Revachol, in the district of Martinaise."

"I hope you're right. I hope it's not too bad..."

"You know where we are, right?"

"Yeah, I'm blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Forget I said anything."

She nods, but still looks worried.

"I've gotta get going now." [Leave.]

"Of course, dear. Good luck with your case!" She gives you a small wave.

"Are you okay? I am very sorry I crashed into you earlier. I don't know what got into me."

"Oh, I'm perfectly alright! I'm more worried about you. What was that?"

"That cafeteria manager is a bad man, a man without honour or compassion."

"What do you mean?"

"He was tormenting me with outrageous demands for money."

"He's just on edge because of the lynching. Don't judge him too harshly. Anyway, I'm glad you weren't injured."

"It was like my body had a will of its own. I was running, my torso turned, my hands made this lewd gesture... I'm sorry you had to witness it."

"Don't beat yourself up over it too much, dear. People do strange things when the old fight-or-flight kicks in. I'm just glad you weren't injured."

"Yeah, what was that?"