What choice did I have, lacking contact with our ship or crew, and with no higher authority to appeal-to? At least, by assisting Commander-Artificer Nomlin to complete her project, I might try to restrict the finder’s programming and scope, so that it would only seek the place that our captors desired, and nothing else. As if that sort of limitation was known to work, very often.

Anyway, I knew that Nuts would find some way to make my life a living hell, if I didn’t distract her with the camaraderie of work. So long as I was contributing to a joint project, she’d overcome her habit of tormenting me. Otherwise, I’d certainly be subjected to a series of imaginative “jokes,” from itchy powder to short-sheeting, to skin-whitening. Demmies can be like that, if one takes a fierce dislike to you.

So we fine-tuned her marvelous, hand-built, makeshift finder – lovingly constructed out of primitive, local parts – and set it to the task of locating “Obtainia” – a secret enclave where (legend told) the people of this long-suffering planet might find salvation from their curse. Dr. Katske helped by combing the archives for clues, both in the Golden Palace and across the river, in dusty Cal’mari libraries, where an underground network of Standard-human Squidians struggled to maintain their ancient cause.

To reclaim the planet for the living.

Gradually, I came to appreciate the difficulty of their situation, far more exacting than most resistance movements. After all, how do you maintain security when, at any moment, a member of your cabal might die – and thus be recruited to the other side? Generation by generation, Standard humanoids developed devious methods – especially pre-emptive cremation.

Twice a day, Katske arrived, presenting documents or other objects for the finder apparatus to sniff and peer at, like a hound seeking a scent, while Nuts fine-tuned her calibrations and I struggled to keep the makeshift device focused on the task at hand.

On the third day, something abruptly changed. The finder quivered over the latest sheaf of yellowed papers, then whirled about with an exhilarated clack, aiming several glowing dials and two fingers of a salvaged glove. Toward the southeast. A direction chosen not out of logic or evidence, but rather, the very distilled essence of intuition. A quintessentially demmie approach to dealing with reality. The technologization of hunch.

Nuts let out a joyous yelp. Inspector Coalshack grunted with tentative satisfaction. And, for the moment, I agreed, nodding with eagerness to follow those pointing fingers. Anywhere. Anything to get out of that place, away from the constant, thrumming vibrations of a kitschy castle of corruption. Besides, they hadn’t even let us out to take in a floor show.

“We’ll leave at once,” Katske announced. “All is prepared.”

“It’s late in the day,” the policeman showed the luminous dial of his watch.

“All the more reason to hurry, then. Let’s go.”