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And then Lucky waves the torch away, and Arledge's hand hangs fully visible in midair. "And so the truth is revealed— I hope you were watching, Ms. Fawkins, Gil. This place is a malevolent illusion. It is all but certain we are <span class="mu-i">actually</span> still trapped under the lake of goo Ms. Fawkins so brilliantly steered us toward, and that this door is a product of wishful thinking at best and a lure at worst. I suggest we each—"
"Of course it's a product of wishful thinking. Is that supposed to be a dig?" Arledge is wiping his gooey hand on his pants. "And this isn't real? Water's wet, Dib."
"I suggest we each take the precaution of purging ourselves of the goo's influence. The procedure couldn't be simpler. Are you listening?" He's waving the torch in your and Gil's direction. "Hold this to your face until the goo expels itself. That's it. I'd be happy to start."
"A real sado-masochist." Hand wiped, Arledge is now sliding a toothpick from a small box. "Not even bothering with the door. Just straight ahead to the—"
"The door's illusory," Lucky says dismissively. "But sure, if you're so <span class="mu-i">eager.</span>"
By now you've puzzled out Lucky's logic, you think. Possibly. It took a little bit. "And so the truth is revealed"— the torch isn't generating the white and blue stuff, it's exposing it. Peeling back layers. Underneath the pagan temple is goo. Underneath <span class="mu-i">that</span> is whiteness. Right? (You are reflexively looking for a second opinion. There is none for you.) ...Right.
Which is why it's confusing to find the wooden doorframe intact, no matter how close Lucky shines the torch. You're unsure what this means. (There is noone to tell you what it means.)
"Looks real to me," Arledge says. "It just doesn't lead anywhere anymore. Maybe the collapse took out the connection."
Lucky swings the torch away again. "Yes, well, you think on that," he says— is that a note of contempt?— before stalking off to stand under a graven buxom eel-woman. "While <span class="mu-i">I</span> purge myself."
"Open," you say under your breath. Gil glances at you.
Something else can open bigger doors than this one, if you can get your mouth around the syllables. You've only just realized. "Open."
It's not right. What's not right about it? (You smell smoke.) It's not as though you're pronouncing it wrong. (Is it the torch? It doesn't smell like wood.) You're missing something right at the core, something difficult, something crucial— it's cigarette smoke. That's what it is.
Nobody's smoking. You look closely to double-check: Arledge's toothpick is unlit, Gil is too alert, Lucky is too busy expectorating goo. But there is cigarette smoke in your sinuses. You mumble "Open."
(2/4)
