Chapter Sixteen, Part One: Countinghouse BluesMature

“As you well know, as of this morning I am Cardinal, merely Cardinal, so I assume no responsibility for such matters, Lord Pasmodius! There is nothing to be gained in pointless wastage.” 

 Rassilon slams his fist down on the table, scattering two first year Academy students and a cloud of Namaste Nerada to opposite ends. One of them- a mouse-y Dromiean, he notices, had been carrying a large book.  Pasmodius would never be foolish enough to pass information right in front of him, would he? 

 Would he? 

The Old Man is still seated, still watching- still munching on that disgusting seacress sandwich and dropping bits of long white cress on the floor; to presume otherwise would be like popping up at the GCIA and mentioning any of the three men he wished to rub out by name. 

“Well I think you should! The Library funds are dwindling! Much more of this Post-War Effort nonsense and the Namaste Nerada may have to turn vegetarian!” Pasmodius taps his long branch-y finger on the rather plain, whitish wood. 

“And do you know why we cannot afford to allow the Archive to appropriate more funds, Pasmo?” 

Pasmo blinks; a mote falls.  He rubs his face, wrinkles rolling everywhere as though he’s overturned a pail full of small sausages. Finally, his fingers eject from the mess. 

The End

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