Page 30 - Unlikely Stories 3

Gaea Omphalos

attack, and gasped out that I had to get to a bathroom. Before they
could say a word or stop me, I stumbled through the wrong door
into (I think) Alexa’s room. They came after me quickly, turned me
around—rather roughly—and pushed me into the bathroom. I closed
the door, locked it behind me, and caught my breath. I had seen
something very weird, a dressing table draped in red cloth and
covered with a series of strange objects—including a large silver bowl
and some plastic ferns. I groaned and flushed the toilet, but kept my
ear to the door.

They must have signaled Foucault, for I heard his voice mixed with
theirs after a minute. They were obviously deciding what to do with
me. Suddenly I knew where I had seen him before: he was one of a
group of defendants I had testified against in a case of Medicare
fraud. The man was a chronic offender, a servant of the highest
bidder and utterly without scruples. I had a totally different look back
then, pure bureaucrat with steel-rimmed glasses and a wedge cut. But
maybe his memory had been jogged, too. I became panicky,
claustrophobic in that small enclosure, and made the decision to
escape. I knew the layout of all the Aquadome structures. The hatch
over the shower gave access to a crawl-space for electrical and
plumbing conduits. I pushed it up and prepared to hoist myself up—
then stopped. There, just beyond the hatch opening, was a canvas
bag, jammed between two pipes. I had considered using just such a
hiding place myself for this notebook, but it had seemed too obvious.
I reached up, opened the bag, and grabbed the first thing at hand. It
was a large journal. I took it down into the light. After flushing the
toilet again and making more sounds of abdominal distress, I began
scanning the book. Speed-reading was one of the things an agent-
auditor has to learn, and it came in handy last night! After what
seemed like fifteen minutes but was probably closer to five, I finished
the last page, put the book back in the bag, and tried to leave
everything as I had found it. Then, after one last flush, I came out.
Foucault was gone. I told them I felt much better and wanted to go
lie down in my own bed. They looked positively demonic. I was
afraid they were going to attack me right then and there; I could
probably have handled them in hand-to-hand combat, but it was their

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