The second time it was the entomologist.
Half a year had passed since Fox had led me to the Special Unit to see Cracker’s motionless body and then nearly done himself in. Back then I had had to go up to the guard and ask him to call a doctor; they only just managed to resuscitate him. When he came to he could not explain how and why he had ended up on the Blacklisters’ level. He stared at me in surprise and licked his dirty lips spitefully. The cameras didn’t help either: there was a spontaneous recording malfunction. The only witness, the guard, confirmed that Fox had come of his own will and had even insisted on visiting his ‘sick friend’. They diagnosed it as ‘over-exhaustion’. His song became a hit on FreakTube.
His health soon improved, and only once, a few months after the incident in the Special Unit, did Foxcub have another small attack. He was found unconscious on the Available Terrace.
And on that same day I found something else there on the terrace. In the box with the paper rubbish: I was asking everyone to throw any unwanted cellulose in there – envelopes, used tissues, sweet wrappers or unwanted draft letters for Renaissance, so they could be used as feed for my termite… On that evening, when Foxcub collapsed in a faint, I fished out of the box a piece of paper folded over three times, with two skewed, uneven diagrams full of uncertain, shaky lines. Under one of them something was written in pencil in the trembling handwriting of someone without Happy Fingers installed: ‘plan for getting cerebron from chatterbox’. Under the second there was: ‘plan for installing cerebron on zero’.
I was scared. I was angry at Cracker. I hated him. A crazy risk. Putting me in danger. Putting Foxcub in danger. I was drenched in warm sweat, thick like rancid oil, which smelled so strong that I thought: they’ll catch me, they’ll unmask me and they’ll put me in the Special Unit, even without figuring out what’s going on. Just because of this smell of curiosity and fear.
I decided that I should feed the drawings to my termite immediately, right that minute. But instead I tucked the drawings under my clothes. Then put them back in the box.
Using the paper feed box as a hidey-hole was typical of Cracker: ‘hide in plain sight’. It was dangerous but much less dangerous than carrying the drawings round with me.
They didn’t catch me. Either the camera had another ‘malfunction’ that day or Fox’s scrawl didn’t look suspicious to whoever processed the data.
…Half a year had passed since Fox had taken me to see motionless Cracker. In that half a year Fox had not remembered anything. In that half a year I didn’t go to the Special Unit to visit Cracker once. In that half a year I had memorized the tiniest details of the two wiggly diagrams and fed the drawings to my termite.
Half a year had passed, and the entomologist came up to me:
‘No death. Friend. Need to talk. Follow him. In silence.’
The entomologist proved to be a much more durable medium than Foxcub, and more gifted: he gave voice to Cracker’s words for a whole hour, occasionally even with expressions and gestures, and he didn’t faint – all he did was go slightly pale and try to yawn – and he left the Blacklisters’ level of his own accord. True, he didn’t turn out to be as obedient as Fox. In the middle of the ‘séance’ he even found a way of throwing Cracker out, but not for long: he just had time to ask ‘What’s going on…?’ and then collapsed back into unconsciousness.
‘His cell is resisting,’ the entomologist said through gritted teeth, jabbing his forehead. ‘Good defence system. But it is still nice to work with him. He has more functions than that cretin Foxcub. Lots of layers. Lots of possibilities. I will make him help you.’
As if not agreeing with what he was saying, the entomologist twisted his lips. There was boredom in his eyes. He opened his mouth wide and crooked and tried to yawn, but couldn’t.
The Butcher’s Son stared unhappily at us from his chamber. He wasn’t sucking a dummy anymore, not falling over, not squinting into the light and not crying. He was watching. His face was smooth with chubby cheeks and his eyes looked very old.
This time, under the correcting light, under the fixed gaze of the Son, my friend Cracker laid out his plan to me via the entomologist’s bloodless lips and twisted mouth.
The plan for my escape.
This time, when I had heard him out, I said:
‘Cracker. You are completely insane.’
‘I am a genius,’ the entomologist replied and was overcome with yawning. ‘I will work this miracle.’
He started laughing, a little gruffly, but overall realistically.
‘They will see fire.’