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It is. You hide a siphon in the jungle-themed bathroom, fastened on the rockwork behind a boiling waterfall. ("I-I-I guess that's supposed to be the shower?") You hide one in a room with a large, sunken, strangely marked table— <span class="mu-i">for air hockey,</span> Virginia informs you, though you haven't the slightest what that means. Is there earth hockey? Fire hockey? What is a hockey? You thought that meant a globule of spit. You stick a mini-siphon underneath the table, nevertheless. You also attempt to hide one under the bed, only to discover that there is no "under the bed": the penthouse's king-size bed is flush to the ground, and it jiggles unnervingly when you poke it. It's <span class="mu-i">a waterbed,</span> apparently, which only barely helps. Would your cot also be a "waterbed"? Ha ha. Richard would tell you that you're not funny.
You settle for sticking the last siphon inside the suspiciously normal wardrobe— you search it up and down, and even enlist Gil in doing so, but can find no button to make it play music or turn striped or anything. Maybe they ran out of ideas. The wardrobe is also where Virginia's tossed all her clothes. You dig through the pile (what a mess!) and emerge victorious: she's tossed them atop a crumpled duffel bag, which you show Gil immediately. "Your ride, sir."
"That'd be plenty of room," Gil appraises, "but wouldn't i-i-it still be kind of... conspicuous? I-If anybody recognized you, they'd be wondering what you were doing with it, and i-i-if they made you show what was inside, i-it'd just be—"
"God! You're such a negative thinker!" You lower the duffel bag. "It's what we have, okay? It's better than beetles out in the open. Or, what, where else— down my shirt? I don't think that'd be better. Imagine somebody seeing my shirt, and it's <span class="mu-i">moving,</span> because there's a bunch of big fat beetles—"
Gil swallows. "Um, yeah. I-I-I-I-I'm not saying, um... how about your backpack?"
"My backpack? My... you mean my rucksack?"
"I-it's a backpack, but yeah. I-I don't know if it's big enough to fit all the beetles, but I'm not all the beetles, so it should be—"
"Gil! Did you know I had that all along? I— not that I forgot I had it, but—" But he shouldn't be remembering things you don't!
"Um, no. I-I-I just remembered, since it's— it must be plocked, I guess. Because of the... you having the lady's body. I-I wasn't thinking about it before this."
"Oh," you say, mollified. "That's fine, then. Plocked?"
"Um, sorry. Plocked. P-locked. I-I think 'possibility-locked'? Like... you have it, but it's not really... you don't have it, until you think about it enough, then you do. Plocked. Or unplocked, I guess." Gil pauses. "I-It might be a jacker word. Sorry."
"I don't care about your old job. Do I have...?" You feel your back. There is a rucksack undoubtedly on it. "Huh. Okay. Get in."
(2/3)
