Narrator 1: The Consector’s soldiers are assembling—amassing outside the Mission at the Stationary Hill post office.

Narrator 2: Lark glances at them warily from down the street as she threads her way through an intersection, being sure to keep plenty of pedestrians and wagons between her and them.

Narrator 3: The media contingent is there as well; a broadcasting tent and a dais are being set up. Jedidiah Pom, the voice of the teletheric transducer, is there. Even the Consector himself is afoot, his cape aflutter, armor gleaming, speaking to his company with that Notary woman beside him.

Narrator 1: Lark does not wait to watch. She is through the crossing, down the road, headed swiftly for the garage. There’s no delaying any longer.

Narrator 2: They are surely here for HER. For her capture. Which means it’s time she packed her bags and got the hell out of here.

[Theme music.]

Narrator 1: Welcome to Goe’s Garag! This is Goe’s Garag, here, slightly further down the hill. Down the road from the top of Stationary Hill. Goe’s Garag is an excellent garag.

Narrator 2: Well, it’s a ‘garage’. A bocular vehicle servicing station. You know.

Narrator 1: A garag, now, because the ‘E’ fell off years ago started calling it a ‘garag’ instead of a ‘garage’ and it stuck and Goe thought it was great!

Narrator 2: It’s kind of a Stationary Hill in-joke.

Narrator 1: Goe’s Garag! His teletheric jingles are catchy, to say the least. Lark is here. Her motorcycle, if you can call it that, is here, too. She is working on her motorcycle, giving it a somewhat urgent tuneup because she intends to take a somewhat urgent ride on it a somewhat long distance very soon.

Narrator 2: The garage is not really meant for self-service, but Goe makes a special exception for Lark. They have some kind of deal worked out. So he leaves her alone and she tinkers there and makes use of the garage’s tools.

Narrator 3: He trusts her. She knows what she’s doing and how to do it.

Narrator 1: Lark is currently lying on her back underneath the chassis of the cycle, tinkering, making a swift oil change.

Narrator 2: She’s keenly aware that, where she’s going, there are no garages. So she’d better get her vehicle in tip-top shape before she has to skip town.

Narrator 3: The garag doors stand wide open, exposed to the street outside and the thronging crowd that seems to be assembling just outside.

Narrator 2: It really IS thronging.

Narrator 1: Yeah, who cares, though? This motorcycle needs a tuneup.

Narrator 2: She works feverishly, aware that time is short. She doesn’t know exactly HOW short. She just has a feeling. It’s short.

Narrator 2: Whatever they’re up to up there on the hill… it can’t be good. Soldiers are never good in Lark’s experience. Someone is calling her name and HAS been calling her name for a minute now. She turns around. Tzila is there. “Lark!” she says. “I’ve been calling!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Can’t hear you out there.”

Narrator 1: Tzila looks like she’s on her way. She’s half in and half out of the garage. (The ‘garag’.)

Narrator 2: Lark only spares her a sidelong look, but even that is enough to tell her that something has unsettled the girl. Something’s wrong.

Narrator 1: Tzila makes up her mind. She IS coming into the garag. She is NOT on her way past the garag. She comes forward, approaching Lark. “Lark!” she says again, sort of unhelpfully. That doesn’t really tell Lark much of anything. This IS her name.

Narrator 2: Lark just looks at her, acknowledges her presence. Goes back to working on her bike. “Tzila, I know we had plans, but I don’t have time right now. Go find your dad.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I will! That’s where I’m going, but… Lark… did you hear?” Tzila is right there. Very plaintive. This is very annoying. What does she want? “Fuze is dead!”

Narrator 2: Lark puts down the tool she’d been working with.

Narrator 1: Don’t look at Tzila. Nope. Not gonna look at her.

Narrator 2: Uh-uh. [Negative.]

Narrator 1: Gonna work on this motorcycle.

Narrator 2: “Oh,” Lark says.

Narrator 1: That seems like the right thing to say right now. She twists some valves.

Narrator 2: She reviews the tone of her voice in her mind. Was that sufficiently casual?

Narrator 1: Tzila is on the other side of the motorcycle now, looking at her from across the seat. “He’s dead! I… was there.” Lark is immediately on guard.

Narrator 2: She works on her bike all the more intently. “You were there, huh?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Yeah. He’s really dead.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Why? Why were you there?”

Narrator 1: “Well…” Tzila is leaning on the motorcycle. This is a really bad time for this. Why does she have to be here right NOW? How does she KNOW? [Tzila: ] “The… the Adsecla guy grabbed me and… well, I took him to Fuze’s house. And Fuze is dead. And I’ve been with them in their ship all morning. I just got out. They were questioning me. They wanted to know everything.”

Narrator 2: Tzila can’t see what Lark is doing there underneath her motorcycle-thing, which is a good thing: Lark isn’t really doing ANYTHING. She’s just kind of staring at the underbelly of the vehicle.

Narrator 3: More troubling, though: had Tzila mentioned something about the Adsecla?

Narrator 2: (Lark) “How’d he die?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Well, I don’t know! They were asking ME that and I don’t know anything about it. I just was there at his house and he was dead and the… it’s like he got… somebody killed him, they think. That’s why they were asking me ‘do I know who did it?’ Do I… why… why… how do I know Fuze? They knew… they knew that I KNEW Fuze… cuz I delivered a note for him. And they found out and found me.” Ah. It’s all coming together now. SHIT.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Note? What… what note?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I don’t know! I didn’t read it. I was just walking past and he was coming out of breakfast and he was really nervous and he just gave it to me and told me to deliver it. He’s… Lark…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Did you read it?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Who could kill Fuze?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I… I don’t know. Did you read the note?”

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “That would be rude! Anyway, they were asking me questions all morning. It was like they wanted information that I… I didn’t know.”

Narrator 1: (Lark) “They?”

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “Well, yeah, it wasn’t just the ‘Secla guy. It was like the Consector?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila, cont’d) “But anyway, I don’t… I didn’t know anything and I… they… I guess they believed me when I told them that and they let me go.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Huh.”

Narrator 1: That is about as close to a sigh of relief as Lark ever really gets.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Have you told your dad this yet?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No, I just got out of there when they were… they’ve just let me go. I was gonna go find him now.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Well, you’d better get going. I’m sure he’s worrying about you.”

Narrator 3: It’s actually getting harder for the two of them to hear each other speak as the hubbub and din of the street outside spills into the interior garag.

Narrator 1: They’ve almost been borderline shouting at each other this whole time, and now they realize this. [Tzila] “What is going ON?” Tzila looks around. There is a massive THRONG?

Narrator 2: Lark scoots out from underneath the motorcycle.

Narrator 1: People in the streets. They are… everyone’s there! Everyone’s on the move. There’s some kind of migration; everyone’s shouting and—

Narrator 2: People are full-on RUNNING and congregating and yelling.

Narrator 3: A lot of them have sheaves of paper clutched in their hands. A lot of them have copies of the same book.

Narrator 2: The mood of the crowd isn’t panicked. It’s excited? Jittery?

Narrator 1: Tzila doesn’t know WHAT it is. She looks briefly terrified. [Tzila] “Does this have something to do with Fuze?”

Narrator 2: Lark shrugs. [Lark] “I don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

Narrator 1: Some of the mechanics in the garage come out of side offices. [As a mechanic: ] “What the HELL is all this? I can’t even hear my—oh my GOD.” They see out into the street.

Narrator 2: All the mechanics and customers in the garage are congregating by the open door, looking out, scratching their heads, muttering to each other.

Narrator 1: Some people in the street are looking into the garage and beckoning. [As a person in the street: ] “Come on! Now’s your chance!” [As a mechanic in the garage: ] “What are you TALKING about?” People are just yelling at each other everywhere. This is crazy.

Narrator 3: (as a mechanic) “Oh, I wonder if this has something to do with the…” One of the mechanics goes over to the teletheric sitting on the workbench of the garage and, cranking it on… “They’ve interrupted my normal shows! There’s some other kind of… announcement. It’s like on LOOP.”

Narrator 1: And he turns the teletheric way up. It shrieks and squawks and… “How long’s this been goin’ on?” somebody says. And another person there who, well, also has been in shouts: “That’s not even live anymore, that’s just on loop now. Narrator 20 minutes or so ago. You’re already LATE.” And, yes, there is a broadcast.

Narrator 2: The unmistakable voice of Jedidiah Pom echoes into the garage: 

Narrator 3: (as Jedidiah Pom, on the teletheric) “Good afternoon, dear listeners! This is Jedidiah Pom speaking to you from the lovely town of Stationary Hill on the remarkable islet of Midst here on the razor’s edge of the mediun between the Fold and the Un! It is my distinct honor and privilege today to announce the Trust’s purchase of Midst from its owner, the Baroness Kozma Laszlo, and the islet’s designation hereby as a public holding and territory of the Trust! With this acquisition, it is decreed that the citizenry of the Trust be now WELCOME to benefit from Midst’s bounty! Effective immediately, ALL Trustees, be they denizens of the Un or of the Fold—ANYONE with Valor to spare—are invited to take part in Midst’s considerable worth. CLAIM an affordable share of ownership in this singular islet and join us in the cooperative growth of its booming economy!”

Narrator 1: Tzila is listening, her brows knitted. She looks at Lark with total confusion.

Narrator 2: Goe takes off his cap, mops his forehead, and sinks down into a chair. Lark looks the same as ever, which doesn’t mean that her mind isn’t in turmoil.

Narrator 3: (Jedidiah Pom, on the radio, continued) “Speak with your local Notary to secure your timely investment! For those NOT of the Trust, there is NO better time than NOW to open a new account! And for the indefatigable inhabitants of Midst ITSELF, in particular, CONSIDERABLE—I daresay near-OUTRAGEOUS—conversion discounts for first-time accounts are available! Hurry, hurry, hurry! Rates are rising by the minute and Notaries are standing by in person and by wire! Midst belongs to YOU! CLAIM OWNERSHIP!”

Narrator 1: And the mayhem suddenly makes complete sense. Midst has been SOLD… and is further FOR SALE to EVERYONE HERE. And everyone is rushing to get a piece of the pie.

Narrator 2: About five of the mechanics drop what they’re doing, shout “Oh my GOD!” and go sprinting for the street outside. Others who are more confused about the Trust and the way it works just…

Narrator 1: … look at each other. Shake their heads.

Narrator 2: What are we supposed to do now? What does that mean? Midst was … SOLD?

Narrator 1: The broadcast continues to loop. [Tzila] “Well, I… wasn’t expecting THAT,” Tzila says.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Neither was I,” Lark says, almost smiling, guarded relief flooding through her. “I wasn’t expecting THAT… at all.”