Compasssmith v. Composer

The body of the College President is stripped of jewelry, of which there is a good amount. The Compasssmith watches. He asks whether her possessions will be returned to her family. Pepple takes a long drag from the cigarette dangling from his mouth and blows smoke through his nose.

By contract, he says, it's mine.

This causes consternation on the part of the Compasssmith. He feels he should have left his South Pointing Marmot back at his workshop.

Why does every compasssmith have the exact same fear? asks Pepple, fingering through the College President's purse. Always fear that the world will suddenly demagnetize, putting them out of work.

It seemed like a reasonable fear at the time, admits the Compasssmith.

Pepple takes out a folded set of bills from her purse. He pockets the money.

If it's not on you when you fall, he clarifies, it's not subject to my immediate possession.

The Compasssmith nods.

When the composer arrives, he wakes the Compasssmith, who lies sleeping in the shadow of his machine. The Compasssmith starts.

Shh, hisses the Composer. Listen.

The Compasssmith listens. He doesn't hear anything particular.

The crickets. An atonal loop, the Composer whispers.

The two men listen to the crickets - which, admittedly, the Compasssmith hadn't heard previous to the Composer's command - for several minutes. One tone, one pitch - though with flickers of intensity, as some crickets ended their call, and others began.

Gentle Terpsichore - eternal, ubiquitous, the Composer sighs, his eyes shut.

Several yards a way a small finch alights, skewers several crickets, shakes them down its throat, then cocks its head - and flies away.

They raise their guns, their guns go off.