Philip continued to read his book for hours. Afterwards it described him looking through the telescope at hand and seeing Spica, bright as a bell, like he was back in the northern hemisphere and far away from that dreaded Southern Cross. Back to studying the Spica variable star and the precession of the equinoxes, similar to one of his major heroes Copernicus did before him. Our Second Lyfe’s sun, hmm, he then ponders, wondering if it could possibly be reachable by rocket ship. What is in the centre?
—–
By this time, Marion Harding was back down on the ground — grounded — and seeing Capitol City straight and for what it really was again. Bland and boring. The others of his gang were suppose to meet him in Raven Manor’s main dining room at 7:00 (more leftovers from the great spread he had prepared 2 nights back now), but since they both were usually a little late, he decided to drag his feet this time as well. He takes a detour to that recently found ice fishing shed over in Horizons-Spica, part of the sci-fi retro sub-continent where land can be rented so cheaply (thanks Veyot!). Ahh, vacation, he thinks. Could it be possible soon? Perhaps after the one last big bank heist in Farmington. Or was it Bennington?
He teleports to the shack using the landmark created last night. An angler is positioned just a bit down the bank from him, seemingly of the female variety. “Hello?” he says. No answer — but this might be problematic. He wanted to be alone and smoke his grass and talk to his fantasy creations: Peanut Cop, Golden Josephine, and the rest. Away from that nonsense babbling Kid and tough talking Philip, somehow the best of buds now despite their different natures. He doesn’t want other fishermen — or fisherwomen — in his way. Who does own the shack? He desires it for his own, his own centre of the universe, he realizes, at least for a little while.
He decides just to ignore the problem for now and poke around inside again. Chess, he remembers…
He finds himself laying down on the far couch against the colorful throw pillows.
“Fishing,” he murmurs, relaxing, letting it all go. “Fishing for fish. Fishing for answers. Fishing for…”
“Pitch,” the fisher lady then calls from outside, puzzling him. “Pitch. Time to wake up. Wake up.”
—–
“It was awful, Mary. I dreamed I was back in Buster and I’s killing shack, but I was the victim set up this time. I was to be sacrificed!”
“There, there,” Mary comforted, stroking his white forehead. “Only a dream.” Then they laid together. It was like old times.
Sunklands 