The Girl with No Soul: The Factory Girl Trilogy, #3

Some Reviews of Stephen Palmer’s Books

"A gonzo homage to the late Victorian/Edwardian British adventure yarn... imagine Michael Palin and Terry Jones’ Ripping Yarns doing a Steampunk episode with a large helping of early 70s British prog-rock psychedelia, some very peculiar flying machinora, and a chocolate train... Stephen Palmer is a writer you should read. His work is unique, original, sometimes challenging, always fresh and sometimes barking... Hairy London is strange, mad, subversive and possibly just a little bit dangerous. You won’t have encountered a vision of London like it." Amazing Stories

Stephen Palmer is a find. Time Out

Stephen Palmer has concocted a beguiling adventure that draws on some of the best sf of recent years for its basic themes... Starburst

Stephen Palmer’s imagination is fecund... Interzone

This latest novel confirms that in Stephen Palmer, science fiction has gained a distinctive new voice. Ottakar’s

Give him a try; his originality is refreshing. David V Barrett

... (a) supremely odd yet deeply rewarding experience. CCLaP

...a thrilling chase across a ravaged Europe, a burgeoning North Africa and balkanised US, interleaving excellent action set-pieces with fascinating philosophising on the nature of consciousness. A gripping read to the poignant last line. The Guardian, on Beautiful Intelligence

Palmer is a writer of unique and remarkable imagination. Teresa Edgerton, SFF Chronicles

The Girl With No Soul

Book 3 of the Factory Girl trilogy

Stephen Palmer

Published by

infinity plus

www.infinityplus.co.uk

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© Stephen Palmer 2016

2nd edition copyright © 2019 Stephen Palmer

Cover © Tom Brown,

with design © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat and The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

The Girl With Two Souls (Factory Girl, book one)

The Girl With One Friend (Factory Girl, book two)

The Girl With No Soul (Factory Girl, book three)

Contents

The Girl With No Soul

About the author

More from infinity plus

Dedication

To the memory of Erich Fromm, whose trailblazing work was my first inspiration; a man of the sane society.

The London Times

16 June 1911

SIR TANTALUS BLACKMORE VANISHES

Industrialist Disappears As Chaos

Overwhelms Northern England.

Police last night confirmed that Sir Tantalus Blackmore, the seventy-six year old engineer, entrepreneur and tycoon, has disappeared. Searches have been undertaken at all his London residences. At his mansion in the outskirts of Sheffield, staff said he had not been seen for a week. It is thought that the tycoon might have taken refuge inside his Factory. The Home Office stated that, as yet, there is no intention of using force against the Factory, but refused to confirm or deny last week’s exclusive Times report that they are considering an armed assault. Manchester and Liverpool were quiet overnight, but armed mobs in Leeds, Kingston-upon-Hull, Grimsby and Bradford caused thousands of guineas of damage in city centres. The fire that swept through Doncaster’s loose-hora warehouse has now been extinguished, but police said local residents must be alert for Marxist and Communist extremists in their area. In Oldham, the newly built church of the Soul-Giver was last night gutted in another blaze. In Sheffield – home to Sir Tantalus Blackmore, and devastated by vandalism last month – police said that local Marxists were whipping up public feeling against horas. In a separate development, railway lines connecting the West Country to the rest of England were damaged by pro-hora activists protesting about the use of Dartmoor Prison to store damaged, malformed, inactive or otherwise surplus horas. Figures obtained by the Times from one pro-hora group suggest that the Factory is now producing approximately fifty thousand horas per week. When questioned about this level of production last week, Prime Minister Asquith said, If the Factory halts production, two million British workers will be affected. Even if production is reduced, one million will be affected. We already have an unemployment crisis in this country – that last thing I want to do is turn that into a catastrophe.

CHAPTER 1

Erasmus stood beside Roka on the bow of the ocean liner Valiant as the red sun of dawn lit Plymouth harbour. It was warm, even this early – in Britain a heatwave covered the land. But the breeze cooled them, ruffling Erasmus’ hair, which had not been cut for some months.

As the liner slowed and turned beside its berth, Mr Merimnao approached. Erasmus turned to appraise the Duloid. They both wore tatty old suits, marked by African weather and African dust, but Mr Merimnao had at least made an attempt to disguise his appearance by purchasing a bowler hat and new shoes. Yet nothing could conceal his artificial face.

Mr Merimnao gestured at Roka, then wrote on his blackboard. You will have to remove that mechanical parrot from your shoulder.

Roka turned to face him. Really? Why?

Erasmus said nothing. It was remarkable how even Roka’s feisty speech had transferred into the Duloid formerly known as AutoRoka.

Because anything unusual may be spotted by our enemy.

Roka nodded. I s’pose you’re right. Shall I wear a hat?

And more!

What d’you think, Erasmus? Do I need a disguise?

Erasmus cleared his throat. His voice was deeper now than it had been when he departed Britain, and he was still getting used to it. I do not think it a necessity at the moment, he replied. We have been abroad for so long.

Do not be over-confident. A cataclysm approaches, and everything is yet to play for. We are wanted persons!

Erasmus shrugged. His heart felt dull and heavy. Even the smell of Plymouth docks reminded him of all that had happened during the previous year... with Kora.

Kora who was no more. How would he tell Frank the news?

Roka tapped him on the shoulder. Erasmus? Are you day-dreaming again?

He shook his head and smiled, though it was a wan gesture. Not really, he replied. "But Mr Merimnao is correct about one thing. We are wanted, and Sir Tantalus has all the tenacity of a bloodhound – and the money to back up his desires. We must think about our behaviour now we are back home. Let us not forget that our opponent is a murderer."

He ordered his men to shoot you in Sheffield! So that makes him an attempted murderer too.

Erasmus glanced at Roka. Indeed, he said, without enthusiasm.

A few minutes after the liner came to rest, they disembarked. Erasmus took a few moments to reacquaint himself with the sensation of solid ground, then pointed to a telegraph office beside the furthest jetty.

I shall send Frank a telegram at once, he said.

Will you tell him about me? Roka asked, as they began walking.

No! Erasmus replied in his sharpest tones. Nor about Kora. Please, be sensible. Frank will be distraught. It is no news for a few written sentences.

Frank will be thrilled to see me. Anyway, we could get a train up to Exeter at least, to speed our journey north. Though... we’re a long way from Sheffield.

Do be quiet, Erasmus muttered.

Erasmus?

Yes?

I think that white-haired man is following us.

Erasmus turned to glance over his shoulder. Fifty yards behind them a tall, elegant old man with a shock of white hair walked in the same direction as them. He’s just going the same way, he said.

I know the signs, Roka insisted. He watched us in a particular way, like the crooked men did.

Shhh! You imagine Sir Tantalus would have a man waiting every day at every dock across all southern England? Nonsense. Besides, that gentleman is not crooked and is clearly a person of means.

Mr Merimnao leaped to his side. Do not underestimate the enemy.

Erasmus brushed the Duloid aside as he strode into the telegraph office. Behind the desk stood a fat, red-faced man smoking the butt end of a cigarette.

I should like to send a telegram, said Erasmus.

The man nodded, stubbing his cigarette out on the counter. Right e’nuff, he said. Where to?

Erasmus gave the address, then took a piece of paper and the stub of a greasy pencil to write.

’Ee’ll not get far in that direction, the man said as Erasmus wrote.

Why not? Roka asked.

Trains all done in, came the reply. Hasn’t ’ee heard? Transport strikes, never mind bloody Marxists ripping up the tracks.

We don’t read the newspapers, Roka replied without hesitation.

Well ’ee bloody well should, the man replied. To Erasmus he said, Tuppence, that’ll be. Telegram should arrive well before noon for ’ee.

Thank you, said Erasmus. In the telegram he had declared Exeter to be his destination. He glanced up, then added, Are there no railway services out of the Westcountry?

The man shrugged. What’s ’ee asking me for? But it’s a rum scene. I never seen the like. Bloody Marxists.

Erasmus took Roka by the arm and led her out of the office before a fight developed. Marxism was not a creed to be insulted in Roka’s presence.

Listen, both of you, he said. "We should perhaps make some effort to disguise ourselves, not least because the country is in uproar. Roka, you and Mr Merimnao stand out more than me, being Duloids."

I could wear a dark dress and a hat with a net veil, Roka replied. "And what about a vizard to conceal my face? My face is well known in Sheffield."

Erasmus turned to Mr Merimnao.

Mine is not.

Erasmus scowled. He trusted Mr Merimnao only up to a point. But they retained more than enough money to help them make their way home. We shall take a hansom cab into the city, he said, and there purchase a few essential items.

Then the train to Exeter? Roka asked.

Yes – where a hora-driven landau should arrive, come evening.

Erasmus glanced around the jetty and the harbour exit. There was no sign of the old man. He ran over to a cab line, then instructed a hora driver to take them into the centre of Plymouth. He bundled the Duloids aboard.

Hurry! I want to be at the railway station by the time we take our elevenses. It has been an age since I tasted a decent pasty.

As they rode into Plymouth, Erasmus noted the signs of local disturbances: broken placards littering the pavements, glass fragments fallen from shop windows, and much by way of masonry dust and smashed wood. He leaned out in an attempt to read some of the discarded placards.

HORA RIGHTS – MIGHT IS RIGHT. HORA LIVES ARE OUR LIVES. WORKING MEN DEMAND JUSTICE. EMPLOYMENT FOR ALL.

It was the same old struggle, then – the battle of the ordinary man for work. The newspapers he had read on the ocean liner spoke no word of a lie. He sat back with a sigh. Mr Merimnao could be correct. A cataclysm was approaching, its focus the Factory.

He dared not think what Sheffield might now be like. Perhaps a war zone. Perhaps impassable. Either way, they would know on the morrow, when they saw it with their own eyes.

They walked the rubble-strewn streets of central Plymouth looking for costumiers. At a likely shop Erasmus viewed theatrical vizards, pretending he was in need of one, though looking with Roka in mind, at length buying a pale pink vizard with something of an androgynous appearance. At the same shop he acquired a veiled mourning hat and a cloth bag for Roka to transport the mechanical parrot and a few other possessions. Grimacing, he watched as she placed Kora’s copy of Amy’s Garden into the bag.

Outside, Mr Merimnao put a hand on his arm. What of us two?

We look like ordinary men, Erasmus replied. I believe our clothes are just tatty enough for us to blend in here.

Your face is known in the north.

Erasmus nodded, acknowledging the point. But we are not yet in the north.

What if that old gentleman was an agent of Sir Tantalus? He could recognise you.

You exaggerate. Erasmus looked up and down the street, to see amongst the press of cabs, pedestrians and horas no sign of the white-haired man. He is gone. We are yet safe, and Sheffield is hundreds of miles away. I am not convinced even that Sir Tantalus knows we left Sheffield on an airship. He will be quite baffled by our vanishment, I assure you.

Perhaps...

Erasmus grinned at the use of ellipsis. Mr Merimnao worried too much.

"He will have wasted month after month seeking us in England, Mr Merimnao. Africa will not even enter his wildest dream. And if truly he is holed up inside the Factory, as the London Times claims, he will not be able to direct this legion of agents you imagine placed in every port on the south coast."

Like as not. What now, then?

The railway station, and my elevenses.

To enter Plymouth Railway Station they had to force their way through a double line of pickets. The noise and commotion was constant.

Ban the hora! Workers’ rights! A fair wage for fair men! Automata lies!

The placards were as forthright: SMASH METAL JOBS. MEN’S LIVES FOR A HORA LIFE. ALL’S FAIR FOR HORA WAR.

Erasmus pulled Roka through the press, leaving Mr Merimnao to find his own way. The station was busy, but he noticed that nine out of ten on the concourse were horas – people few in number. He glanced down at the morning headline in the Plymouth Daily Post: TRANSPORT STRIKE LOOMS.

He threw a penny at the vending lad, taking a copy of the newspaper then stuffing it in his jacket pocket. At the sales office he bought three single tickets for Exeter; at a vittles shop he bought a cheese and onion pasty.

The train was due to depart at a minute before noon. He sat back. He felt relaxed.

Then Roka nudged him with her elbow. That man again.

Erasmus sat up. She was looking at the far side of the concourse. He crossed his legs and leaned into the side of the bench on which all three of them sat, trying to appear nonchalant. All he could remember about the man was that shock of white hair. Are you certain? he asked.

Yes! It’s him alright. He’s shoved his hair into a bowler hat.

Erasmus glanced aside at the Duloid. The crack in the glass of her left eye had lengthened; possibly she was a little blind. How can you remember his face? I only recall the hair–

"I just know it’s him! He’s following us. D’you think he’s an agent and we’ll have to fist fight him?"

Erasmus tried to think back to the scene at the docks. He had taken very little notice of the old man’s face, just his deportment and that shock of hair. The man on the far side of the concourse could be anybody. What do you think? he asked Mr Merimnao.

It might easily be the old gentleman.

Erasmus felt his skin go cold. He had been sure Mr Merimnao would support his view. But are you certain?

Yes! Besides – better safe than sorry.

Erasmus consulted his pocket watch. Eleven thirty, he said. Let us board. Do not look at the man, whatever you do. He must not suspect our interest in him.

They hurried away. At the barrier the ticket inspector clipped their tickets, then waved them on. Exeter! Exeter train now boarding!

Roka said, He’s watched us go through. He’ll know now where we’re headed.

Erasmus cursed under his breath. Now what is he doing?

Hurrying across to the ticket sales office.

Erasmus took Roka by the arm and pulled her close. Do not look. It is probably a coincidence.

I doubt it. You went too early. If we’d boarded the train at five minutes to twelve he wouldn’t have had time to buy a tick–

Stop that! You are imagining it.

They stood now by one of the second class carriages, a few people and a few horas nearby. Roka pulled herself away and said, "I am not! Stop demeaning me. I know what I saw–"

Shhh! Erasmus hissed. Do not make a scene.

Roka ignored both him and the sideways glances of people nearby. "That’s your answer to everything – don’t make a scene. Why not?"

Erasmus pushed her up to the carriage door. Get inside. We haven’t got time to argue.

Inside the carriage they located an empty compartment, where they made themselves comfortable. Erasmus felt jumpy. Though there was plenty of stowage space above his seat, he kept his rucksack on his lap. Surely that old man was not following them?

The station clock struck twelve as the train moved away. Steam clouds shrouded the locomotive; outside the sky was blue. Erasmus loosened his collar as the high noon sun worsened the stifling heat of the carriage. He opened a window.

Roka stood up. I’m going to check for the man–

No.

Why not–

"I shall do it, Erasmus interrupted, standing up. Not you."

Mr Merimnao also rose to his feet. It would be best if I made the search. I am least known of us three.

Erasmus grimaced, then waved his hand in the air in a gesture of impatience. "Oh, go on then. But be careful."

As Mr Merimnao departed, closing the door of the compartment, Roka leaned forward to speak. I thought you trusted me. I thought we’d gone through all that.

There was nobody else in the compartment; he was free to speak. I do trust you, he replied, but we have to avoid frightening ourselves. It would be too easy after all we have been through to live our lives back in Britain like terrified rabbits, afraid of every little thing. We must be realistic. We have been abroad for much of a year, after all.

I bet you Mr Merimnao comes back to tell us the old man’s aboard. Bet you? A shilling.

Erasmus scowled. You do not have to play-act Roka quite so intensively as that, he said.

Roka jumped across the compartment to sit beside him. She grabbed his arm and began clutching it. "I’m not play-acting! How dare you say that again? I told you – I’m Roka. I know I am. Why won’t you believe me?"

"Because you are Dr Spellman’s Duloid, that is why. How can I forget your origin in the Factory? And do not forget – I knew Roka, the girl. I spoke with her, I observed her, I struggled alongside her. You may say you are Roka, you may even believe that, but you cannot be the same. How could you be?"

I’ll prove it to you, Roka replied. "I’ll show you. You can test me any way you like. I’ll show you!"

Erasmus felt anger begin to well up inside him. You are an actress, he declared. You act like Roka, but we are all unique individuals – even Duloids. You cannot be her. Besides... He sighed, feeling a lump in his throat. ... she was a one-off. There never could be another.

Roka shivered, as if also in the grip of fury. And aren’t you an actor, she asked, "also playing out your life story? Isn’t that what you’re doing?"

Erasmus hesitated. There was some validity to the point – that he knew. But he could not admit it. Aware of the irony that to dissemble in reply he must act, he nonetheless said, My life is no story, Roka, like some book of tales.

Roka sat back. They’re the same thing, and you know it. In Africa you told me you thought a Duloid is an automaton that believes itself to be a human being–

"A human, I said! Not one particular human. And I said believes, like religious people believe. I did not say is."

Silence fell across the carriage compartment.

Ten minutes later Mr Merimnao returned.

What did you find? Erasmus asked.

He is here, three carriages behind us. The man with the shock of white hair.

~

A mile before Totnes, the train coasted to a halt. Erasmus leaned out of the compartment window to see men fighting with bare fists up and down the line.

He sat down. He felt his limbs go weak.

What is it? Roka asked.

Some kind of disturbance on the track.

Roka stood up, opening the compartment door as a coal-stained man in a flat cap walked along the corridor. Gaffer! she shouted.

Erasmus stood up as the train gaffer entered the compartment. The train was a hora-run service, he knew, this man the only person aboard.

What is occurring outside, sir? he asked the gaffer.

The gaffer grunted, chewing the smouldering cigarette butt in his mouth. Some kinda fight. Been a lot of trouble in Totnes – too near Dartmoor Prison, I’ll be bound.

Erasmus recalled the London Times report of the previous day. What do you mean, sir? he asked.

Whole county’s taken leave of its senses, the gaffer replied, leaning back to glance up and down the corridor. Horas do good work, and they got rights – yea, they has indeed. Confounded Communists stirring up trouble.

On the railway track itself? Erasmus said.

Yea! They’re trying to stop the folks up on the moor – in the prison, like – from storing all them horas. Totnes is the stopping-off point, see.

Erasmus glanced at Roka. But what about this train?

You’ll be walking up the line. We’ll put a second train on for you in Totnes town.

Walk?

The gaffer chuckled. Get some backbone, lad. Yea, walk! T’ain’t raining, is it?

With that, the gaffer departed.

D’you think our follower arranged this? Roka asked.

Erasmus shook his head. Impossible in the time he had. Come along, both of you. We must hurry to Totnes.

Out on the line, two score other passengers were already walking up the tracks, gravel scrunching beneath their feet; double that number of horas carrying their luggage. Erasmus spied the old man a few yards behind. They locked glances. Erasmus muttered a curse, turning away.

Moments later the old man walked at his side. ’Scuse me, he said.

Erasmus glanced aside. Yes?

I do believe I know who you are.

I doubt very much that we are acquainted, Erasmus replied, increasing his stride, since we have never met before.

The old man kept pace. Erasmus noted locks of long white hair escaping the bowler hat. But I do know you, came the reply.

Erasmus feigned irritation. I am simply trying to make for Totnes in difficult circumstances, he said. Good day to you.

The old man reached out, stopping Erasmus by gripping his wrist. My name, he said, is Henry Franklin Fox of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. I think I need to ask you a few questions, young lad.

Erasmus stared. Questions, sir? he said.

Fox nodded up the railway track. Move along, as you were, he said. They began walking once again. Yes, my lad... some questions.

What about?

But before Fox could reply there came a volley of stones from the side of the track. Erasmus crouched low, to see a long line of what appeared to be local farm workers pelting the horas with rocks. At once Mr Merimnao grabbed his hand and drew him away, while Fox ducked, fell, then tried to scramble to his feet.

Stay farthest back, with train horas. Got an idea.

The message was scribbled – hardly legible. Erasmus nodded, dodging back to join the trailing train horas, who numbered at least a dozen. Fox also ran back, to join them as they sheltered in the lee of the rock volleys.

Local anti-hora protestors, the old man gasped.

Erasmus nodded, saying nothing. The hail of rocks continued, clanging against the metal automata. Women further up the line wailed, and there came the sound of an infant screeching. The line of locals numbered at least fifty.

Where are you headed? Erasmus asked.

Fox glared at him. "Wherever you are going," he replied. Then he grinned. It was a grin of triumph.

But then Fox dropped: a rock to the back of his head. Specks of blood spattered Erasmus’ collar. He whirled around to see Mr Merimnao hastening forward, gravel spitting from beneath his feet.

No police man. Agent. Hurry!

Stunned into immobility, Erasmus stared at Mr Merimnao. "But he... he said he was a police officer–"

Fool! A man may lie!

But... he would not impersonate... he dare not...

Mr Merimnao pulled him away and they began trotting up the line. Roka was already way in front, at the fore of the ragged group of train passengers, as if scouting out the path ahead. Soon they crossed sections of railway track torn up by the protestors. This was how the train had been forced to a halt.

Erasmus felt fear enfold him. Their journey was going to be far more dangerous than he had anticipated. And Britain had changed.

He clung on to Mr Merimnao. Well done for saving me! he said. I owe you a debt of thanks.

Mr Merimnao shook himself free in order to write. You owe me far more than you realise.

Erasmus had neither the clarity of thought nor the breath to query this. He ran.

Totnes lay less than a mile away. Now at the front of the main group of passengers, they staggered into the railway station, the horrified gazes of dozens of local travellers upon them. Erasmus and the Duloids concealed themselves amidst bushes as soon as they could, Roka grabbing the gaffer when later he appeared.

Where is your second train? she asked.

The gaffer shook himself free. I ain’t gonna be spoken to like that by some flit of a gel! he retorted. He shook himself, straightened his jacket, then doffed his cap at Erasmus. Platform two, he said. The white horse locomotive. Best hurry, eh?

Erasmus shouted his thanks as he and two dozen other passengers made their way to this second engine, manufactured to appear as an Arab stallion. Both Duloids followed. Fearful, rushed, breathless minutes passed in the oppressive heat. Erasmus looked back down the line every few seconds, but there was no sign of Fox, and with all the train horas aboard there came the reassuring sound of a steam whistle.

The train carriages were crammed: twice the usual number of passengers. It was late afternoon already. Erasmus led Roka and Mr Merimnao to an alcove at the end of a carriage, where he hoped they would not be observed. Already Mr Merimnao had received a few black looks from fellow travellers.

There followed a half spoken, half whispered conference.

You must disguise yourself better, Erasmus told Mr Merimnao. Local anti-hora men may challenge you, even capture you. I fear now you are the most visible of us three.

Mr Merimnao nodded. But how, in this heat? A scarf and a larger hat would make me even more obvious.

We must do something! Think, I beg you.

What about bandages, as if he was injured? said Roka. And thin gloves.

Erasmus considered this. It is the best we can do in the circumstances. In Exeter I shall purchase bandages. We shall wrap your head, Mr Merimnao, and perhaps fake some bloodstains. I also had better wear thin gloves to conceal my artificial hand.

Yes! Roka said. Amongst all this fighting and turmoil such an injury won’t seem so unusual.

Erasmus nodded. We are set fair, then. All that remains is to await Frank’s landau at Exeter railway station. Most likely we shall be on our way to Sheffield this very night.

D’you need to sit down? Roka asked him, after a brief pause. I worry for you.

He shook his head. At the moment it is more important for us to remain unseen. We shall stay here – our excuse the congested carriages.

The train rolled on. Minutes passed... hours. The train stopped at every station on the line, however small, a fact causing Erasmus to ball his hands into fists out of frustration. Later, to the west, he saw the sun fall behind the high, rolling curves of Dartmoor. There was not a single cloud in the sky.

As evening crept towards night they arrived at Exeter railway station. Gas lamps lit the many platforms, and the place churned with activity, both human and hora. But here too lay the debris of political protest: ruined stalls, smashed placards, broken glass. Erasmus was appalled to see dried blood on one platform, smeared out crimson by brushes that had cleared the detritus away.

But no shops were open, nor any stalls: it was two hours before midnight. Erasmus ran into the gloomy station forecourt to examine the cabs outdoors, but he saw none that he recognised, and no hora approached him. He stopped in the centre of the forecourt, turning around, half expecting the Simian to jump out of the shadows, or even Frank. But nothing. Nobody.

Back inside the station, they debated their situation again.

I am astonished that there is nobody to meet us, Erasmus said. Frank has had all day to act. I know Sheffield is a long distance away, but...

He may have been delayed. Do not fret.

Roka said, Surely he would have sent a landau out the moment he received your telegram? Or hired one down here. Or hired a fuel-driven vehicle. Or...

We are vulnerable out here alone, Erasmus said. Where shall we sit? Where shall we sleep, if it comes to it?

Don’t panic! Roka said, taking him by the arm. Haven’t you ever heard of hotels?

Erasmus sighed. He felt frightened now. The shock of Fox’s appearance was turning into horror. He