“How’s it making a perfect circle?” Paul asked.

Sofia answered. “It must be shooting out some kind of scaled laser.”

“Ooh, like a light saber,” Paul said.

“But—” Tick stopped.

The red color faded from the projected, spinning disk, replaced by a large image of Master George, dressed in his dark suit, standing in front of a fireplace, staring out at them; he caressed Muffintops the cat in his arms. The picture quality was perfect—as good as any theater—it was just . . . round.

“My fondest greetings to the three of you,” Master George said. The sound of his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, though slightly warbled. Tick couldn’t help but wonder what kind of speaker could have such power and still be so small—they certainly hadn’t noticed anything when they studied the Spinner a few minutes earlier.

Master George held out a hand. “Don’t attempt to reply—I assure you it will be a waste of your breath. This is only a recording, you see. Quite nice, don’t you think? The Spinner comes in handy when you get a bit depressed and want to watch an old black-and-white. It’s one of my favorite things. Although, it’s a bit difficult to use when you’re in a forest—particularly when you’re being chased by wolves . . .”

Tick exchanged a look with Sofia, both of them trying to hold in a laugh.

“Oh, dear, I’ve already gone off on a tangent,” Master George said, clearing his throat and growing very serious. “My apologies. There is a point, you see, to my sending you this Spinner. I must show you footage of something very frightening—something you must see and prepare yourselves to study with the greatest vigor. I want you to remember two words—entropy and fragmentation. These two things serve as our greatest challenge when studying the Realities; they are also the source of much heartache.”

Master George paused, looking past the camera or whatever was recording him. “Rutger, please put down that pastry—get ready to cut to the footage you filmed in the fragmenting Reality.” Master George focused back on Tick and the others. “No wonder I constantly find sticky goo on my camera. Now, I want you to watch closely. We have no sound, as Rutger had to get in and out very quickly and almost ruined the film entirely. I will narrate as you observe.”

The image on the circular screen changed. All three of them sucked in a quick breath when they saw Tick huddled next to a tree, shivering, his terrified eyes darting back and forth, looking all around him.

Tick swallowed. He was filthy in the film, his clothes ripped to shreds. Wind tore at his shaggy hair, and his bare feet were covered with grime. Of course, it couldn’t be him—it had to be someone who just looked like him. It had to
be . . .