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>rub gel on rock
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the rock. With an audible SPLORT, the rock becomes Brock. He looks a bit haggard to me, but I don’t think anything too horrible has happened to him. So perhaps you can stop worrying.

Brock stands, dusting himself off. He looks us up and down without expression, without any sign of recognition. “What day is it?” he asks.

“Still Serial Comma Day,” you say. “Brock, it’s me. And Alex, but I’m here.”

The waxen look melts and he grins. “Thank god. It’s harder than you’d expect being a rock.”

I’d like to suggest we get out of here, complain about Brock’s recklessness, or rejoice that Brock is okay. Then again, we could just get to work so we can be out of here faster.

Hey, troll is a good one I didn’t think of!

>rejoice
“That was a lot narrower than I like,” you say. To my horror, we are tearing up a little. “I thought you might be in Cold Storage already.”

“Hey, hey. I’m here.” He puts an arm around our shoulder, hugs uncertainly.

I’m inclined to claim to be fine. Maybe it’s not worth it, though.

You have a fleeting thought of how it started with Brock.

>remember how it started with brock
Brock’s Stateroom
Brock had tied your wrists to the headboard and your left ankle to the corner of the bed. He had a thesaurus open and was writing, with a paintbrush, across your stomach.

“Floozy?” he asked.

You giggled, so he painted the word above your navel, smiling, giving the Y a big flourishing curlicue.

“Let’s see, what else. Fornicator?”

You drew in your breath sharply. Remembering an angry lesson read from the lectern.

“Okay,” he said. “Not that one, yet,” and licked away the F he’d begun to paint.

Then we’re back in the present.

>put roll in t-inserter
“Let me get that for you.” Brock fishes the tale out of the T-inserter. He tosses it in the corner.

There is a loud and satisfying pop from the machine as it turns the roll into a troll.

Grey skin, yellow teeth, green eyes. Legs as big around as tree trunks. A pot belly, speaking of a great deal of food eaten raw.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the troll is a faint, greenish image of a roll.

He eyes the members. “Oh for a homonym paddle.”

The troll gets out of the T-inserter machine.

I’d like to suggest we get out of here, complain about Brock’s recklessness, or discover why Brock got stuck here. Or, then again, there’s always finishing the job.

Sorry, I forgot “suggest”.

>suggest
“You’ve been a lump of igneous all day,” you say. “It’s getting dark out there. If we don’t get out now, we’re going to get caught by some janitor with a privative affixer.”

“I didn’t have time to run the tests I wanted to run on the T-inserter. It’ll take three minutes and then we can go. We need to do abstracts, animates, and a stability check.”

The troll stares at us. Brock steps to the side to make room for the troll.

My response would be to complain about Brock’s recklessness or discover why Brock got stuck here. Or, then again, there’s always finishing the job.

>discover
“How did this happen?”

“How do you think? I hung back after a demonstration earlier, trying to collect the extra information I needed, but before I could finish, they’d noticed I was missing from the group and sent someone back to look for me. And better to go inanimate than to be definitely caught in human form.”

He’s looking at us, but when I look back, he cuts his eyes away. “I’ve half a mind to explore a little while we’re down here just about unsupervised,” Brock says reflectively.

I glare at him.

“I know there’s no time,” he says. “But there are supposed to be all sorts of things in the Bureau sub-basement that have never seen the light of day. DCL projects that went wrong, secret government experiments, possibly a buried command center.”

We could complain about Brock’s recklessness or ask what buried command center he heard of. Or, then again, there’s always finishing the job.

>complain
“This was rash, even for you,” you say. “Wandering into the heart of the Bureau with no back-up and no escape plan, when we had a timed extraction to complete? You could’ve taken me and Slango down with you.”

“Sweetheart, don’t,” Brock says. “Don’t do this now. You’re not yourself.”

He knocks on the top of the T-inserter. “First we need to look at the stabilization performance,” Brock says. “Inserters sometimes run into trouble if there’s a case where the same base word could be expanded to multiple derivatives — for instance, if you S-inserted CREAM, it wouldn’t know whether to make CREAMS or SCREAM or SCREAMS.”

>i
We are equipped with the following essentials: a backpack, a flash drive, your K-remover (upgraded to handle animates and abstracts), a monocle, some Origin Paste, a pan (really the smuggled plans in disguise), and a tub of restoration gel.

We are also carrying some asparagus, a ball, a band, a bandana, a pair of Britishizing goggles, a clock, a coat, a cross, a crumpled cocktail napkin, a draft document, a funnel, Guidebook to Anglophone Atlantis, a jotter, Journal of Third-World Economics, a keycard (which opens the small door), a leaflet, a letter, lime, a map of Slangovia, some members, a pass, a pearl, a pic, a poppy, a ring (which opens the sturdy iron gate), a seer automaton, a shopping bag, a shrimp tail, a shuttle, a silver platter, a stick, Studies in Primary Language Acquisition, a stuffed octopus, a tale, a watch, a wig, a word, and a yam.

Of that collection, the flash drive, the leaflet, and the Origin Paste are packed away in the backpack, which is gaping wide open so everyone can see what’s inside.

We are wearing the monocle, the bandana, the ring (which opens the sturdy iron gate), and the wig.

Both seer and ale do the trick.

>put seer in machine
There is a loud and satisfying pop from the machine as it turns the seer automaton into a steer automaton.

Real leather covers a framework of wood and steel, making an alert and surprisingly lifelike model steer.

The steer automaton is currently switched off.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the steer automaton is a faint, greenish image of a seer automaton.

Of course, there were other options there: the T-inserter could have made two words. But it seems to be disambiguating to the steer automaton. The question now is whether it would do so consistently or whether its behavior is underdetermined; we don’t have time for a really thorough trial set, but checking a couple more times may be indicative.

He’s studiously looking around the room. “We’re going to need to install stadium seating in here,” Brock comments, nodding at the troll.

>ask about buried command center
That doesn’t seem to be a topic of conversation at the moment.

>get steer
We take the steer automaton.

He runs his fingers over the surface of the machine, checking for hot spots. “Some inserters,” Brock goes on, “have controls to let you insert the minimum or maximum possible number of letters.”

> rub gel on steer
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the steer automaton. With an audible SPLORT, the steer automaton becomes a seer automaton.

> put seer in machine
There are two small pops from the machine as it turns the seer automaton into a setter automaton. It’s a little like one of those Japanese robot dogs, only substantially more old-fashioned and artisanal. Its bright glass eyes watch us expectantly and its ruddy fur is thick and lustrous.

The setter automaton is currently switched off.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the setter automaton is a faint, greenish image of a seer automaton.

There now: the T-inserter has constructed both steer automaton and setter automaton. Not very stable, it seems. Slango will be interested to know that.

“Check,” says Brock. “And that’s all we need here. Now…” He hesitates. “One person escaping is easier than two, I suppose.”

You start to object, but I say, “Yes, you’d better return to petrified form.” You know I’m right. He’ll be easier to carry.

A little grimly, he produces his own letter-remover and repeats the B-removal that made him in the first place. We’re alone with the troll.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now eighty-two.]

or the trick with the ale:

>put gel on tale
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the tale. With an audible SPLORT, the tale becomes an apple.

He’s studiously looking around the room. This is like a very surreal blind date.

He’s looking at us, but when I look back, he cuts his eyes away. “We’re going to need to install stadium seating in here,” Brock comments, nodding at the troll.

>wave p-remover at apple
We reset the device to p. The apple gives way to the now-familiar ale.

He stands back, regarding the T-inserter thoughtfully. “Some inserters,” Brock goes on, “have controls to let you insert the minimum or maximum possible number of letters.”

>put ale in machine
There are three small pops from the machine as it turns the ale into a tattle. It is non-physical, but it sounds like a waspish playground voice recounting the sins of another child.

There is a dismissive blatt from the monocle, and transposed over the tattle is a faint, greenish image of an apple.

There now: the T-inserter has constructed both tale and tattle. Not very stable, it seems. Slango will be interested to know that.

“Mommy, David put restoration gel on grandma but it didn’t work,” tattles a childish voice.

“Check,” says Brock. “And that’s all we need here. Now…” He hesitates. “One person escaping is easier than two, I suppose.”

You start to object, but I say, “Yes, you’d better return to petrified form.” You know I’m right. He’ll be easier to carry.

A little grimly, he produces his own letter-remover and repeats the B-removal that made him in the first place. We’re alone with the troll.

[Your score has gone up by three points and is now eighty-two.]

>e
We can hardly leave Brock here.

“Daddy, David says he’s going to turn my cake into caca,” whimpers a small child.

>get rock
We take the rock.

An excited child’s voice says, “Freddy made an underage twine purchase.”

>e
The troll would probably give us away if he followed us. Best take care of that first.

A child’s voice from the tattle says, “Mom! Timmy took the R out of my rice!”

>rub gel on troll
We dip out a pea-sized quantity of gel and rub it gently onto the troll. With an audible SPLORT, the troll becomes a roll.

An excited child’s voice says, “Freddy made an underage twine purchase.”

>e
We get the roll.

Bureau Basement Secret Section
The heightened security on this side of the door is obvious everywhere we look. The floor is tiled in paisley tiles. The light fixtures give off pale pink light. The walls are covered in frog leather. The doors are locked with padlocks the size of handbags, locks decorated à la Louis Quinze, combination locks made of solid gold. There is not a bare noun in sight.

The cute security door at the south end is solidly shut.

The hallway runs from south (comparatively normal) to north (deeply frightening). Just west is the equipment testing room.

“Alex.”

I can’t help it: I stop and turn. It’s too ingrained in me. And it’s my father’s voice.

He’s wearing his ordinary work clothes, but he looks strained to the point of fracture. And someone could come out of any of these doors at any moment.

“Your mother told me about meeting your supposed girlfriend at your apartment. She was puzzled by that, but I knew what must have happened,” my father says, in a very low voice. “I deleted the record of your unauthorized synthesizer draining the power grid, which, by the way, could get me dismissed.”

We could deny everything.

>deny
“You must have me confused with someone else.”

He sighs. Not deceived even a little; weary that we tried.

Footsteps sound far away down the hall, but no one comes this way.

“I didn’t tell your mother what I suspected, but when it comes out you’ve… defected… I won’t be able to keep this from her. And you’re giving up your career. Mine too, possibly; we’ll all be under suspicion, I suppose.

“It’s pointless. You could have done a great deal for the Bureau from within. I was trying to help you see that.”

I’d like to lay out our reasons or be comforting.

>lay out
“I want to do something that matters,” I say. “I don’t see my work making a speck of difference here.”

“You mean you don’t see my work as important,” he says. “Got that from your mother, I imagine.”

Somewhere down the hall a clock ticks loudly.

“So your partners in crime are, what, smugglers? Industrial saboteurs? That’s wonderful. Finally some role models.”

We could quibble or deny being a spy.