Hitherby says, seriously, "I am a servant of the Word of Animals. Explain to me how this makes me a creature of Heaven, where there are none?"
Pat says "You have said it yourself. You are a servant. Do not confuse the laborer for the labor."
Sephar says "Are there machines in Heaven? Yeah. I guess so. Eli's model of the World..."
Sephar is a tool, what frees a laborer to do more. Hrm. Keen.
From outside comes the tread of the postman.
Hitherby turns up her nose. "You are utterly unreasonable," she says, which may be taken as tacit concession of the argument but not of your point, if you know her well or use her Resonance.
There is a rattle as some post comes cascading through the door.
Pat shakes his head, walking to the front door of the apartment and scooping up the envelopes, cards, and other assorted postal detrius.
Sephar says "wow. snail mail."
Among the post is one letter in a _good_ envelope, hand-addressed.
Sephar peers from the TV.
Hitherby does not ever associate with her dear friend Sephar, of course.
Pat has a TV, yes.
Pat sets the rest of the papers aside, retaining only the envelope. He turns it over in his hands as he walks back. "Hm."
The envelope is very nice paper, and is first class post.
Hitherby wanders over with the intention of peering at it.
Pat returns to his seat, picking up a letter opener from the end table and slitting open the envelope. He glances up at whichever Hitherby is approaching. "Yes?"
Hitherby's human host shrugs. "It's pretty. Can I have it?"
The letter inside is of similarly good paper, watermarked, with a short message on it in copperplate.
Pat slides the letter out and unfolds it. "I'd prefer to read it first." And with that, he does so.
Hitherby makes a face. "Oh. It's one of those."
Dear Sir, I would be grateful if you could join me for coffee this afternoon at 3pm at La Trattoria, on (plausible address in central DC): I would also be grateful if you could ask any appropriate associates of yours to join us there, as I have business that will be of interest to all of us. Yours sincerely, Terence Mubin, Civic Architect
Hitherby knows how to read, of course, as part of that default angel local language package, but wouldn't be caught dead doing something so gauche :)
Pat says "Appropriate associates? Could the man be any more vague?"
Hitherby considers, not having seen the letter yet. "Maybe if he'd said 'inappropriate associates'?"
Sephar statics for just an instant.
Pat's eyes slide to the television, and he holds the letter open in that direction.
Hitherby says, "Yum!" for no clear reason.
Sephar blinks the screen once on scanning.
As you hold the letter up to the light, a complexity in the watermark becomes evident.
Pat squints at the back of the letter, looking at in the glow of Sephar's cathode ray.
(in the watermark of the paper is entwined the Enochian script for _Terethel, Mercurian of Stone_)
Pat makes a soft sound of comprehension. "That does clear up some of the vagaries."
Hitherby idly surveys the ceiling.
Hitherby's rabbit carefully devours a carrot.
Pat turns the letter back from the television, folding it and sliding it into the envelope again. He looks at Hitherby. "You are far too young to be drinking coffee."
The rest of the mail is junk circulars and the like.
Hitherby frowns. "It's a carrot, Pat."
Hitherby says "Is that one of your clever Inquisitor trick questions?"
Hitherby grins.
Hitherby says "Well, trick statements."
Hitherby thinks. "Trick sentences?"
Pat walks to the coatrack, slipping the envelope into a pocket of his overcoat. "I was referring to this afternoon. I believe you are what was referred to as an 'appropriate associate'."
Sephar blinks a cel phone to life.
(Pat) A man, plain of face and simply clothed. He is not overly tall, nor heavily built, and his features are of the distinctly unmemorable sort. His hair is mouse-brown, covered when outdoors by a black felt fedora, slightly the worse for wear. His suit is untailored but still the proper size, and the dark grey wool is only moderately rumpled. His overcoat is a lighter grey and significantly more rumpled, a few waterstains lingering on the shoulders and hem.
(Hitherby) Nine gleaming dragonflies in formation. Currently a girl, a rabbit, and dragonflies.
(Sephar) A pile of random gear: a cel phone, a Pilot, a voltmeter, a set of stereo speakers, and a slender girl with eyes the color of highly oxidized silicon.
Hitherby looks fairly confused.
Sephar 's TV murmurs, "I'll go with, too, Pat, if you'd like. Just take the cel phone...."
Hitherby says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Pat nods to the television, and looks at the young girl. "One of David's is in the area. Apparently, he feels the need to speak with us."
Hitherby miffles, OOC. Her parents are calling her to dinner. (Sorry; she didn't have time to make this Friday really available.) "I'll find someone appropriate," she says, airily, as she leaves.
Pat says "Meet us here at two."
Hitherby says "'Kay."
Sephar 's TV blinks quietly off.
Pat picks up the cellphone, eyeing it for a moment. "Is it going to be a problem if I make a few calls?"
The celphone's speaker says softly, "No. It works just fine. I take care of my own."
Pat nods. "Good." And numbers are punched.
The celphone acts like any other celphone.
Pat will be calling Rambiel, at the very least, and anyone else appropriate.
Demiurge hms. You know Rambiel, you might know Squire's character (Seraph of Michael) and Kallen's (Ofanite of Marc) and Eslin's (Cherub of Yves).
Pat considers them all to be appropriate associates, and therefore notifies any of them he knows. Then calls La Trattoria
There is a click as the phone is picked up, after four rings. "Good afternoon?"
Pat puts on his professional voice, an assured tone. "Hello, I'd like to correct a reservation please, the name is Mubin?"
There is a shuffling of papers. "When is the reservation for, please, sir?"
Pat says "Three in the afternoon."
The shuffling of papers stops. "I have it here, sir. What particulars would you like to change?"
Pat says "We're going to need a larger table, I believe. I can't quite recall, do you have more segregated rooms? Some of us haven't seen each other in quite a while, and we'd hate to disturb the other patrons."
There is a brief pause, and some muttering, then the voice replies, "I'm afraid that we can't give you a larger table than the eight-seater, sir, unless you would care to book another table as well. And we already have you booked for the inner room."
Pat says "Hm. I honestly wish they would discuss these things with me when they change. Eight will suit. Thank you for your time, and my apologies for the inconvenience."
"No trouble, sir." The voice oozes courtesy, and the phone clicks down.
Pat looks at the phone. "Hm."
The cellphone just blinks its power on LED at the usual rate.
Pat shrugs, sets the phone down, and settles in to wait for three.
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