A Princess of The Linear Jungle by Paul di Filippo Read Free Book Online Page B

heart endorsing the emotion entirely, at other times finding the description overwrought. As for soliciting the expression of same from Scoria, she knew better than to demand or tease.) But in public he was nigh insufferable, preening and posturing and expostulating.
    They lay in bed talking half-pottedly one night, after returning from a bibulous party at the home of Charlotte Waybridge, a famous fashion designer. (Amidst all the decorative, emaciated and sleek female clothes-racks, Merritt had felt like a burlap bag of potatoes draped in a painter’s floorcloth.)
    “Arturo, is this really the way you’ve mounted all your other expeditions?”
    “No, it’s unprecedented! The level of public interest and enthusiasm is tremendous! And I’ve got total funding from the University without any codicils or caveats, whereas before I’ve had to beg for every bull and wife from the Board. What’s more, I’ve already signed a contract with Parsonage and Pickler for the book recounting our trip. An advance in the low six fig—”
    “‘Our trip!?!’”
    “Why of course, Mer! You’re coming along as my assistant! I’ve even arranged your leave from the NikThek. Old Chambless balked at first, but I talked him into it. Didn’t I tell you yet? I’ve been so busy—”
    There was no further conversation that night.
    In the morning, Merritt half-believed that the news of her promotion to expeditionary intern and factotum had been a drunken dream. After all, every polyp in the department would’ve killed for a chance to go along on this trip. But at breakfast a curt, absent-minded word from a tabloid-scanning Art affirmed it. And in fact her duties were to begin immediately.
    “I’ve got to finish my teaching stint for the spring semester first. It’ll be a tedious bore, anticipating what’s ahead, but the administration insists. And we wouldn’t want to leave during the bad weather anyhow. I’m aiming for an April departure. That seems like a long time off. But believe me, there are a thousand thousand details to attend to. It all starts with a meeting tomorrow at four.”
    “But I don’t get off work until five.”
    “Your leave of absence starts today, remember?”
    No more uncrating dusty relics and typing up informational cards, eating cheap egg-salad sandwiches in the cafeteria while swotting up that night’s reading for class? How could she have predicted any of this in May, as the Samuel Smallhorne pulled into its Wharton Slip?
    Suddenly the past seven months of curatorial drudgery and classroom diligence seemed nostalgically delightful. Even crusty old Chambless assumed an aura of saintliness. He had watched over her in his gruff fashion, she knew. A visit to the fellow was in order before departure, and she added it to a mental list of chores she knew would only grow longer and longer.
    The Board Room in the Cutajar Building held seven eminent men when Merritt and Scoria arrived: the steering committee of the University, plus President Ogallala. Impeccably dressed in three-piece Upthegrove suits, the Board members—they resembled a matched sextet of bookends, thought Merritt—were outshone by the President, sleek in his ensemble of pearl-gray shagreen.
    In his rough-and-ready explorer’s garb, Arturo Scoria seemed unintimidated by this fine haberdashery. Merritt’s throat, however, had gone dry, and she resolved to let Art do all the speaking. She flipped open her notebook and poised her pen intelligently over the page.
    After greetings, marked by smiles of varying degrees of sincerity, Arturo took the floor.
    “You all know that a lot is riding on this expedition—my personal reputation as well as that of the University, not to mention the advancement of polypolisological studies in general. Therefore, we must take every precaution to make our venture into the Jungle Blocks a success. As the veteran of many similar field trips—although none more challenging or unpredictable—I have given