Footsteps approached the door.

“Digger Dunn,” he said.

“Who?”

“I was at your slosh in Brackel, and I listened to you speak at the launch. Could I ask a question, please?”

A bolt was thrown, and the door swung out. Her eyes locked on him. He’d expected a screech in those first moments, screams followed by bedlam, neighbors on the way, animals howling, torches in the night, God knew what. He was prepared at the first indication of panic to hit the switch and wrap himself again in the lightbender.

But she laughed. And when he stayed where he was, half-shrouded in darkness, she reached back and produced an oil lamp. She held it up to inspect his face. And the laughter died.

“Is that real?” she asked, staring and beginning to breathe irregularly. She was gripping the door, hanging on to it for support.

“Roblay culasta.” I’m a friend. He didn’t budge. Did nothing she could interpret as threatening. “Macao,” he said. “I know my appearance is strange. Frightening. I’m sorry. I come from very far.”

She stared. Her mouth worked but nothing came out.

“From beyond the sea,” he said. “It’s important that we speak.”

She sighed and staggered back into the room. She wore a bright yellow blouse with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of red shorts that hung to her knees. Digger hesitated, edged forward, saw that she was on the verge of collapse, and reached for her arm.

She did not react.

He took hold of it and eased her into a chair.

“Still got the old charm,” said Kellie.

Macao needed a couple of minutes. She opened her eyes, looked at Digger, and instinctively turned her face aside as though he were too horrible to behold. He tried his most winning smile. “I won’t harm you, Macao,” he said softly. “And I’m not a zhoka, even though I look like one.”

She quailed in his presence. “Don’t hurt me,” she said, in a tiny voice.

“I would never do that.” He eased the door shut, found cups and a flagon of wine on a table, and poured some for her. She shook her head no. He was tempted to try it himself. “No,” she said. Her voice was barely audible. “Lykonda, protect me.”

“I, too, have great affection for Lykonda,” he said.

She simply sat there, limp as a wet towel, staring at him, as if she’d retreated into some far corner of her mind.

“Macao, I’m sorry to frighten you. But it’s important that we talk. About T’Klot.”

Her jaw muscles tightened, and he again thought she was going to pass out.

“I’ve come to try to help you.”

It was a pleasant home. Fireplace, several chairs, plank floor, a looking glass, a table, and a shelf with several scrolls. The shutters were flanked by thick blue curtains. A second room, opening off the back, was dark. “I will leave in a few minutes, Macao. Because I know that is what you wish. But first I need you to listen to me.”

She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a friend.”

She got her breathing under control. And finally looked directly at him. “I did not see you,” she said, “at the slosh.” And she laughed. The sound touched a few notes that sounded hysterical, but she held on. “Why have you come?”

“The hole in the sky,” he said, forgetting himself and using English. “T’Klot.”

“Yes.” She glanced past him at the door. It was supposed to be furtive, he thought, but maybe Goompahs weren’t good at that sort of thing. “Is it the creation of Shol?”

“Who’s Shol?”

“You are Shol.”

“No. No, Macao. I am Digger, and Shol didn’t create the hole. But it is very dangerous.”

“If you are not Shol, not a zhoka, what are you?”

“I’m somebody who’s come a long way to help you, Macao. Let me tell you first that, in Brackel, you were right. The world is round.”

“Is that true?” A light came into her eyes. And she seemed to recover herself. “Is that really true?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s really so. But it’s not why I’m here.”

She started to ask the obvious question but, probably fearful of the answer, stopped.

The chairs were made from interwoven strips of hide on a wooden frame. They were a bit low for Digger, but they were more than sufficiently wide. “May I?” he asked, glancing at a chair facing her.

She made no move to say no, so he lowered himself into it. “The Hole presents a serious hazard. To everyone in the Intigo.”

She glanced at the cup of wine and he passed it to her. She took it, gazed into it as if assuring herself that it would not snatch away her soul, and put it to her lips. “You may have some,” she said, “if you wish.”

The universal. Share a drink with someone and bond. Would it prove to be true in all cultures? He poured a few drops into a second cup and raised it to her. “To your courage, Macao,” he said.

She managed a smile.

He held the cup to his lips and tasted the brew. It was bitter. “It’s actually a cloud,” he said, “a vast storm. It will arrive in ninety-three days, and it’s going to wreck the eleven cities.”

Ninety-three of the shortened days at the Intigo. Eighty-six standard days on board the Jenkins. The target date was December 13.

It was the most painful conversation of Digger’s life. Macao was terrified, and the news wasn’t helping. “It’ll bring tornadoes and lightning and high water and rocks falling from the sky and we don’t know what else.”

In spite of everything, she managed a half smile. If you don’t know, who would?

She was struggling to control her emotions. And he found his respect for her growing. How many of the women back home could have sat more or less calmly conducting a conversation with a demon?

“Rocks cannot fall from the sky,” she said.

“Believe me, they can.”

“Then why can I not see them?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“There are no rocks in the sky. If there were, surely we would see them.”

“The rocks are very far away. And hidden in the cloud.”

“How far?”

How to translate 30 million or so kilometers into a number she could understand? “Very far,” he said.

“The sky is only a shell. What you are telling me is incomprehensible.”

“Macao,” he said, “what are the stars?”

“Some say they are the light from the celestial realm, which we can see through holes in the shell.”

“But you don’t believe it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It does not seem to me to make sense.”

“Good for you. What do you think the stars are?”

“I do not know.”

“Okay,” he said. “I want you to take my word that the hole in the sky is dangerous. That, when it comes, it will bring great suffering. Your people, the people across the Intigo, must get away from the cities, must get to higher ground. If they cannot do this, they will die.”

Her eyes cut into him. “Despite your words, you are, after all, a manifestation of evil.”

“I am not.”

“If you are not, then stop this thing that you say is coming. Surely you are able to control a hole. Or a cloud. Or whatever it is.”

“It’s a cloud.”

“Only a cloud? And you, with all your power, cannot brush it aside?”

“If I could do that, do you think I would be here asking for help?”

She looked at him and shuddered. “I don’t understand any of this. Who are you, really?”

“Macao,” he said, “in Brackel you talked about lands beyond the seas. And about giant falloons and attack groppes and flying bobbos—”

“Bobbos that attack and groppes that fly—”

“Pardon?”

“You had it backward.”

“Sorry. Memory fails.”

“Bobbos do fly.”

“Oh.”

“Ordinary bobbos fly all the time. They are in the trees outside at this very moment.” She injected an adjective after ordinary that he did not understand. Probably something like run-of-the-mill. “How could you not know?”

“That bobbos fly? Because I’m not from around here.” He gazed intently at her. “I wouldn’t know a bobbo from a seashell.” He put the cup down. “You talked, in Brackel, about the city from which people can see the past and the future.”

“Brissie,” she said.

“Yes. Brissie.” He leaned forward, watched her push back in her chair, and immediately retreated. “Macao, we are looking at two possible futures now. If you are willing to trust me, you can save your people. Or, if you cling to the superstition that brands me as something out of the dark, then you and all that the Korbikkans have built, will be destroyed.”

“In ninety-three days, you say?” Her voice shook.

“Yes.”

More wine. “And I am to do what?”

“Warn them.”

“They will not believe me.”

“Who will not?”

“Everyone. People are afraid of T’Klot, but they would not believe that a supernatural messenger has come to me with this news.” She looked at him carefully. “Of all persons here, me especially.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I am a professional storyteller. An exaggerator of considerable reputation.” A bit of pride leaked into her voice.

“I will go with you.”

“No!” It was almost a shriek. “That would be the worst thing you could do.”

Time for another tack. “Do you know the mayor?” The booglik.

“I’ve met him once.”

“Can you get in to see him?”

“Possibly.”

“Do so. Tell him what I’ve told you. Tell him, when the time gets close, he has to get his people out of Kulnar. Have them take several days’ supply of food and clothes. And blankets. Go to high ground. Any who fail to do so will almost certainly be lost.”

She folded her hands in the manner of one praying. “It’s no use,” she said. “He won’t listen to me. It’s ridiculous.” A tear ran down her cheek. It surprised him to realize she had tear ducts.

“Digger Dunn,” she said. “Is that really your name?”

“Yes.”

“It is a strange name.”

He fumbled in his jacket, and found Kellie’s necklace. “I have something for you.” He held it out to her. “It will bring you good luck.”

She looked at it uncertainly, as if it might bite. Gift from a zhoka. But at last she took it, and while she drew the necklace over her head, Digger tried the most harmless smile of which he was capable. “It looks lovely,” he said. “Like you.”

“Thank you.” She pressed her fingertips against the pickup. “I have never seen anything like this. What is it?”

“There is only one in the world.” In a sense, it was true. “It was made especially for you.”