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the right mix of other products, I could cobble together what I need. For example, three sheets of aluminum foil dissolved in horse shampoo with a liberal application of baking soda will, after a fortnight, congeal into a serviceable bar of underarm deodorant. Trouble is, I don’t have these ingredients at hand. Nor do I have a fortnight to spare. The door pounding gets louder, more insistent. I do the only thing I can. Grab my penknife and quickly raze my chin, making sure not to chafe my skin. That would be a fatal mistake. Then I grab my shades and head to the front door. Just in time, I catch myself. My clothes. They’re creased from being slept in, a telltale sign that I didn’t sleep in the sleep-holds. I run to the closet, throw on a new outfit. The escort is not happy. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. What’s the matter with you?” “Sorry, overslept. Sleep-holds were comfy.” He turns, starts walking. “Come now. The first lecture is about to begin. We have to hurry.” He takes another glance back at me. “And lose the shades. It’s cloudy tonight.” I ignore him.
The Director of the Heper Institute is as sterile and dry as his surroundings, which is saying a lot. His face has a plastic sheen, and he likes to stand wherever it is dark. He exudes an austere authority that is both quiet and deadly. He can whisper a rat to death with the razor-sharp incisions of his carefully nuanced words. “Hepers are slow, hepers like to hold hands, hepers like to warble their voices, hepers need to drink copious amounts of water. They have an expansive range of facial tics, they sleep at night, they
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