14th September 1753.
Yester-day I [illegible] the Library of the Wizengamot, and upon presenting myself at the front Desk was sent to the Reference Librarian, of whom I inquired where I might find the Text of the Statute of Secrecy, after which I was obliged to explain at some length that I had already read the Statute of 1692 and its predecessor of 1689, and wished to examine the original or taproot Law whence both had sprouted.
I was directed by the Reference Librarian to a Shelf, containing no Books, but rather a family of Mice which had clearly not been disturbed for some Time.
Upon making application to the Shelving Assistant, a Trace was run upon the Book, which led me to a Reading Room, in which I did not find it, which room had a Silencing Charm upon it such that I had to register my Complaint to the Attendant by way of Chalk upon a Slate.
After sinking into and rising from contemplation the Reading Room Attendant sent me to the Special Research Room, that aforesaid Attendant intuited that it been removed to, wherein I found neither it nor the Special Research Librarian.
Further queries suggested the Special Research Librarian might be found in the Cook-Room or Galley, and this proved to be very nearly true save for said Librarian's absence due to some recent mishap involving the brewing of an entire Hogshead of Coffee, (not intentional), but after encountering the dampened Librarian in the smallest Room in the Library I was referred to the Shelving Cart Attendant, — not to be conflated with the Shelving Assistant, a fine Distinction that occupied a further Quarter Hour.
The Shelving Cart Attendant assured me that the book had actually been in hand but had been sent in for repair, restoration and rebinding owing to having been dropt in a Hogshead of Boiling Coffee, (not intentional,) and advised that I inquire of the Reference Librarian as to when it might be available.
The Reference Librarian having exited the Library for Luncheon I elected to wait, and, after two Hours, was informed by said Person that the book had been repaired, restored, and rebound and was now on the appropriate Shelf, viz, the one I had found empty to begin with, and which, I determined, was empty still, or rather had been recently filled and then emptied, as the undisturbed Mice I mentioned previously were now indeed disturbed, indeed in very bad Temper, to wit they set about me on Sight and the less said the better, although my Nose is now fully restored.
In pursuit of the book I subsequently made a complete cycle of Rooms once again except in a different order and with side excursions into (2) separate storage Cupboards; the office of the Dust Inspector; and the Geniza.
After I had Alohomora'd my way out of the Geniza, and upon being chided and told that the Library was closing in five Minutes, I ascended to the third-storey Balcony, which provides an excellent View of the Library, and deploy'd a Summoning Charm.
I have now been banned for Life from the Library of the Wizengamot.
Fortunately, (if that is the right Word,) I managed to make a Copy before I was thrown out — in point of fact I dived out a Window, but again the less said the better — and repair'd with the book to Chilver Sporange's All Night Coffee House.
It was an exceptionally [illegible] Book, containing all the Laws of the year in chronological order of passage including their various recursive Amendments, and did I not wish to read the whole of it I should need to know when the Statute had been passed, which I did not, and upon consulting the Index I found that it did not identify the Page of the Statute but rather its Bill Number, and as said Number was issued in order of proposal rather than passage, a second Index, was required to translate Number to Page; yet this secondary Index was not included in the present Volume, and so it was necessary to sneak back into the Library under cover of Invisibility to obtain it, and this I did, altho' my Pursuits were further delay'd by the necessity of obtaining new Trousers, and as a matter of purely intellectual Interest, I wish to record that the Library of the Wizengamot is nightly guarded by a Cerberus, although given its Beaver-like Teeth it might be more aptly named a Castorberus.
Upon returning to the Coffee House at an hour approaching Dawn I resum'd my Labours and eventually determined that there had been some Mis-print, and that the indexed Statute of Secrecy was in fact the Hodge-Podge Act of 1687!
I am now at Home, warming myself before a Fireplace containing a scandalous Inferno of Books, and when I next awake, immediately after Break fast, I am moving to the New World.
— Iain M.N. Adams, Diary.

Occulting materials conceal: occulere, to cover up, hide
but may also fertilize or care for: occultus, oc- towards, cultus care.
— Perenelle Flamel, Notes.

...The Doctor is the Western Australian vernacular term for the cooling afternoon sea breeze which occurs during summer months in south west coastal areas of Western Australia.
— Wikipedia.

...the doctor has to put something tangible and helpful on the table or he is no doctor.
— C.G. Jung.

#

Westward Ho! (7c: I Was Not Expecting This).

It is well to remember, thought the Tutor, doffing his cap reverently, when you set out to cross a mysterious threshold into a world of wonder and adventure...to bring a torch.

He waited two heartbeats, during which he spun around and registered an indeterminately-sized space full of obscure shapes, cubical shapes in the main, all lit solely by the dim light from the alley; the light penetrated into the room as though through a very thick screen, although the space in the wall that allowed the light in was completely empty; the space was wide enough for two doors, neither of which was in evidence, not even on the floor from a nasty knock.

He felt the space where there was no door and found nothing, no glass, that was good, could have been quite bad, walking into walls, piercing through the pane — door theft a rather specialised trade I should think—

His train of thought was interrupted by a sneeze caused by the dust he'd spun up, a sneeze so enthusiastic that it caused him to step backwards into what felt like a box of tools — and then sideways into what felt like a painter's ladder, dislodging from its top something that, once it had bounced off Harry Potter's head, felt like a small can of oil with no cap.

Hmm, thought the Tutor, after an additional two heartbeats had elapsed. Give us a Lumos, Harry?

Harry delivered a daylight-level Lumos with the Zelkova wand. It transformed the mysterious space of unknown potential into...

...a musty storage room full of dusty boxes.

Yes! said the Tutor, giving a fist pump with the free hand. I love a good box!

It was an excellent room in which you could have lost any number of arks, provided they were fairly small, and full of excellent boxes that might well have contained any number of arks. They were labeled and relabeled with exotic shipping and address labels of many colors from a wide variety of countries and states, stamped and restamped with the stamps of postal services from around the world, and one even had a bumper sticker sticker on it reading 102 KRQ. Bills of lading and bits of random paperwork were expertly scattered everywhere. Empty display cases, stacks of shelving, something, drop cloths, lots of drop cloths...no, hang about...

He went back to the something. It was a nine-foot-tall scale model of the Chrysler Building, so ludicrously out of place that he hadn't immediately seen it.

The Tutor pulled the lids off a few containers — imported from Lwów and bearing the promising initials H.P.L.D. — and found them full of trombones, jars of green marmalade, teddy bears, platinum glockenspiels, golden earmuffs, mixed collectible coins and jewelry and a lot of hats that had been stylish under Edward VII and smelt strongly of peppermint.

A small box marked LOT 190 #11 / SALOMON A. LEVIN / BENSALEM PENNA contained a pair of sunglasses so impressively cool that with them on he didn't even recognise himself, an advertising catalogue from Muggins Motors showing off the exciting new 1963 Simurgh motorcycle, a sort of wizard calculator with an alphanumeric keypad that responded to every entry with a paper tape message reading "Unobstructed Light Suffusing the Ten Directions", an announcement that the Horngate Society of Friendly Ringers would welcome new members at its meeting on the first Tuesday of the month (which month was up for guessing), a partial page from an estate sale catalog, and a framed print of a two-story Colonial Revival mansion that was captioned GRACELAND.

The page fragment read:

11 - Metaphorical Painting Of Liberty Lighting The World.
Titled "The Liberation Bearer", the work is recorded as being dedicated to the proposition that "Time's last empire ought be its noblest". An unusually fine example of the artist's work. Oil on canvas, 20 x 26", in contemporary ash frame.
12 - Still Life Of A Cracked Bell.
Titled "The Word In The Tone". Oil on canvas, 16 x 24", in contemporary ash frame.

{ I've got oil in my hair, } said Harry conversationally.

Sorry, said the Tutor guiltily, replacing contents of the boxes. Perhaps it'll stay down now — stop!

{ Stop what? } said Harry.

Me! said the Tutor. I missed something. What did I miss? Screamingly obvious thing to miss.

He spun around again and stuck a wand-hand index finger in the mouth. While he wondered why he'd done that, he put the papers in the the box where they belonged, returned the can of 3-in-1 to the top of the ladder where it didn't belong, and leaped to the opening to the alley to pick up one of the jars that were located to each side of it.

When is a jar not a jar? asked the Tutor rhetorically, using the non-wand hand to rotate the jar in the dim light while holding the wet index finger of the wand hand up in the air. When it's a spittoon. Nice spittoon! Not what I was expecting on the other side of a mysterious portal, loving the contrast. Some people never dare boldly seize the rewards of the fantastic from the realm of the undetermined, and they totally miss out on excellent spittoons like this.

It was gleaming brass with white ceramic powder coating decorated with red illustration of cowboys on horses leaping over fences, bas relief with gold-foil highlights.

Very upscale spittoon, spittoon's not really the word for it, want another word, better word, hide the blarghing part in a different language — cuspidor! That's a good one cuspidor strictly for high-style cusping, cusping with bon ton (unless that's a kind of mackerel) — not for gob-hocking, you'd go find a window for that. Decorative cuspidors, that's what I missed!

{ ...Did they have a lot of decorative cuspidors where you came from? } said Harry politely. { I can see why you might miss them, they're very nice. }

What? No, of course not! said the Tutor, using the index finger on the cuspidor hand to point at the index finger of the wand hand. Well, a few. Wind, that's what I was missing. He pointed at the gap in the wall. If this storeroom is part of Kirkus Square, and Kirkus Square is a created space like Merlin's esplumeor and doesn't actually have an outside — he moved the finger to point in the opposite direction, further into the darkness of the room — why's there a breeze coming from that direction?

He advanced into a narrow pathway between boxes — sorely tempted to hold the lit wand like they did on The X-Files, but refraining on the grounds that it would not premiere for another two years and he didn't want to explain why he was doing it — until he found, yes, a door, and not a locked door either, a door that led into another room, just as dusty but much more brightly lit: a room with a great big plate glass window with red-edged gold lettering on the inside, lettering that, once you mentally reversed it, read

H.M.T. Stieglitz III
Esoterica • Desiderata • Estates
By Appt.

Ah, so that's the kind of shop this is! An occasional shop, a curio shop, a curiosity shop, a dealer in antiques!

And he was in its showroom. There was a desk and a chair in one corner, a stopped wall clock above them, and nearly as much in the way of cardboard boxes as the storeroom, and a windowed door with a BACK IN 5 MINUTES sign posted on its inside — a rather yellowed and curled sign, although, given the brightness of the sun outside the window, weathering was no proof of the age of the paper.

The brightness of the sun outside the window, that was an interesting brightness, because the brightness of the sun outside the window was qualitatively unlike the brightness of the sun in the alley.

He advanced upon the window and looked out.

Then he backed up and blinked.

A large delighted grin appeared on the face of H. Potter as though someone had thrown it through the window wrapped around a brick.

I really shouldn't do this, he totally failed to think, and in one fluid motion he jumped over to the door and unlocked it and opened it and stepped into the sun.

The grin spread, not because what he was facing wasn't particularly interesting in itself, being a rather bland and dull-faced building, but because the sun that was shining on it was a different sun than they'd stepped out of — and then again the sun was suddenly a lot less interesting than the air, because the air was full of a smell, a smell that was like a promise, only bigger, and it sparkled. Could smells sparkle? It sparkled.

He looked giddily down and then up and then left and then right, and right was definitely the direction to go, so he went it — starting at a trot down the bright, sunny pavement (or was it a pavement, no, it wasn't, not pavement, not here), accelerating past an alleyway into a canter that would have hit the full ¡al galope! except for the sudden four-way intersection, where he skidded to a stop to avoid the traffic.

Across the street, because this was the kind of place where they called five lanes a street, above a traffic light currently glowing red, was a blue and white sign, and the sign said

OCEAN

To its left the road that crossed Ocean led under a great arched marquee, and the curved lettering on the marquee read:


SANTA MONICA
* YACHT HARBOR *
SPORT FISHING * BOATING
Cafes


The traffic light turned green, and the Tutor put the trainers...sneakers...in gear and bounced across the crossroads — no, intersection, this was a definite intersection.

Splink! said the Tutor.

{ ...what? } said Harry.

Splink! repeated the Tutor with glee. That's my new swear. After three months, all this "Merlin's Object!" is quite getting me down. I mean, what kind of rubbish swear is 'Merlin's appendix!' 'Splink!' That's my idea of a swear! ...Okay, 'Merlin's appendix' isn't bad. But never swear by people, always swear nonsensically!

{ You're...excited, } observed Harry.

And why wouldn't I be? Look where we are!

{ Where are we? }

Calaf— Calis— California! The eureka state, vacation home of the goddess Minerva, and an excellent place to dig holes.

{ Dig holes? }

Well, that's what the state seal claims, I have no grounds to deny it. He directed squeeful attention at key features of the world around them. Look at that mountain! Look at those trees! He semicircled around a man kneeling on the pavement, sidewalk, who was using a box of multicoloured — no, strike that, multicolored — chalks to draw a turkey emerging from a cornucopia. It was a strangely inspiring sight. We've stepped out of an alley in London into the most conspicuous state of the most conspicuous country on the planet!

{ What, are you a fan? } said Harry.

Oi! protested the Tutor. Just cos my enthusiasm is palpable doesn't mean you have to squish it. He set rightward course for a nearby pedestrian overpass, what was it, oh yes, the Pacific Coast Highway pedestrian overpass, and jogged past a clump of palm trees. (Imported palm trees, he noted to himself, not native.) Off to the left the sun flashed on ultramarine water; he blinked away blue-purple-yellow-red after-images, and briefly wondered if they'd invented oceans because an ultramarine sea would be a beyond-the-sea sea. Almost recursive.

{ You seem to know your way around, } said Harry. { Maybe you're from here. }

What, California? No no no, oh no. Just an occasional visitor. Although I do have a strong suspicion I went so far as to leave a heart in San Francisco.

{ You remember being here! }

More sort of remember remembering, said the Tutor. It's rather like reading random pages of my own diary, and it's been professionally typeset. The palm trees definitely ring a Liberty Bell, though.

He paused to hug one. Imported palm trees, he reminded himself.

America, Harry! Where you stick a feather in your cap and call it...Kraft Dinner!

(Or was that Canada? Well, no matter.)

He arrived at the overpass and swung himself around by the handrail, both feet off the ground, ooh, stairs, lots and lots of stairs, down we go, bippity-boppity, oh look! A parking lot!

He thudded to a stop at the bottom and paused to let three witches rattle by on roller skates. Probably witches. Certainly ought to have been witches, they were all wearing pointy black hats, and one was wearing a Steely Gran t-shirt. Possibly they might have just been up from Venice Beach, one of the others was wearing most of the contents of an occult accessories shop. (Interesting place, Venice Beach, apparently it had a hostel that let you pay for your room in artwork.)

{ It's a bit sunny here, } said Harry, dourly.

Yes! said the Tutor, completely ignoring the subtext and hopping on one leg for what he presumed was good reason. Brilliant weather, this weather! Well done, weather!

There was so much to see! Volleyball! palm trees! buildings of various kinds, and skyscrapers, and mountains behind them — and...far, far, far beyond...

He walked backwards across the tarmac and let his thoughts get lost in the sky for a moment…

...had he lost a couple of hearts in New York too?

Or just temporarily mislaid?

How many hearts did a person have, anyway...?

As many as people are willing to give you, I suppose.

#

He was midway up an artificial sand dune when a sudden distressing thought bounced through his mind, and he splinked with disappointment.

{ What now? }

I just remembered, it's 1991 — the Pan Pacific Auditorium burnt down two years ago. I'd have quite liked to show you that...well, maybe we can come back later...earlier...

{ ...Pan Pacific Auditorium, } prompted Harry.

One of the finest examples of Streamline Moderne architecture outside of East Finchley Tube Station! Well worth a visit.

{ And are we going to stop at East Finchley Tube Station on the way home? } said Harry with strange pointiness.

Hadn't thought about it, really, said the Tutor. (And way up to the north, he thought to one side, you had all those Cupressus macrocarpa — those clearly needed visiting.) (Hopping on one leg again, really ought to look into why I'm doing that, whoops, never mind, hopping on the other one again.)

Harry snorted, which was an interesting sensation not unlike an unexpected burp. { You are a fan, } said Harry.

The Tutor stopped at the top of the sand dune, rather stung by the implied criticism (but also rather touched by Harry's home loyalty) and turned away from the ocean for another view of the majestic purples.

Fan of what? he said. People are of two minds, and so are the countries they make. He began a controlled slide down the far side of the dune. Someone, I can't think who, called this a fine young country with a great deal of potential. They may have duck's-backed most of the grace God shed on them, America — but they end their national anthem in the form of a loaded question. Are we free? Are we brave?

That element of uncertainty, that touch of self-awareness that allows a narcissist to perceive and close the gap between idea and reality, potential and existence, is not to be casually dismissed. Not to say they do, did, will, or even would — but there is a little bit of grace left in that shadow of a doubt.

The world would be a different place if Tom Riddle had been so lucky as to hold on to a doubt like that.

He turned around at the bottom of the dune and advanced across the sand. Also, I'm something of an ideas man.The conception —taking that one small step towards uniting the governed with the governors — e-pluribussing the soldier, the king, and the farmer into one Cincinnatus — making a nation where not even being vice-president will get you out of road-clearing duty — the New World as in the place you can be new, a stranger among strangers where everybody's different and nobody knows your name — the land of second chances, the beacon for everyone who ever woke up in the morning wondering Do I really have to be me for the rest of my life? A country where even a changeling can change...

(—A country where revision doesn't merely mean review but correction, and recall implies repair.—)

Of that America, I'm a fan. It may not be real, but few of the best things are. An image more inspiring than reality is something I can relate to personally.

As a matter of policy I go through life being amazed that people aren't worse. If I didn't I'd have...quit by now.

He continued forward until something made him stop.

It was a thought. Exactly what thought it was remained to be seen as his mind was in tangle of loose socks mode. He flexed meditative toes while he waited for it to appear, whatever it was.

{ ...What are you doing? } asked Harry after a while.

Exfoliating your feet.

{ Oh. }

He'd almost had it. It was like trying to pry loose a raspberry seed lodged in one of his teeth...

Maybe he could sneak up on it.

#

Close eyes. Count three.

Turn three-sixty.

Plant feet firmly.

Hear the cries of seagulls, open eyes to see them wheel...

He got an double eyeful of unbounded robin's-egg blue so intense that he saw an orange sky when he blinked.

Below the sky, spreading out to the horizon: La Mer, the Pacific Ocean, ultramarine Mother of Rivers.

It was all...entirely satisfactory.

Far out to sea a whale breached; he couldn't make out what kind even with Harry Potter's quidditchy eyeballs. He dug the toes into sand soft and squishy yet more solid than ground and looked up at the the daytime moon.

Harry, he said, this is not a pop quiz: what kind of werewolves would you get on an Earth that had rings instead of a moon?

{ ...I have no idea! }

Something to think about, though, isn't it? There are any number of worlds out there, and they all run differently. Good solid mythology, you just don't quite dig the conditional.

Out of the robin's-egg emerged a dot, a jet coming in from out of the farther and/or further west, the west so west that it was east. Wings flashed gold in the sun.

He frowned. It was a strangely consistent gold for a reflective effect, considering the...jet...was moving. It was a peculiar consistency. It was a peculiar jet.

(And then, unexpectedly and from nowhere in particular, he felt that, no, no it wasn't, it was a perfectly ordinary jet.)

Hmm.

He looked, very carefully, at the horizon instead of the perfectly ordinary jet, did a bit more work with the toes, and thought, also very carefully: Do Airbus A330s come in gold?

(And he promptly felt a feeling that, expressed in words, went something like: why, yes, probably. They probably did. Very likely, almost certainly. It would be strange if they didn't, really.)

As feelings went it was the kind that ought to be run through a bass pedal to give it a bit of echo, or flange, or...

Set phaser on confuse, he thought, and looked at the horizon, and totally accidentally caught the gold Airbus A330 in the corner of his eye. He very slowly turned around to face the beach again, never quite looking at it directly, or critically, or suspiciously, merely askance, and in the process did manage to notice that motion-wise it certainly wasn't bound for LAX, LGB, SNA or indeed any airport other than maybe FOO.

Harry, he said, look up in the sky. I know it's not a bird, and I don't think it's a plane. Is that by any chance a dragon?

{ Yes, why? } said Harry.

Oh, just wondering, he said. Ha, yes, there it was: now he could see it. Quite a nice dragon, too — golden scales with scarlet edging, and with glinting emerald eyes, lazily curling through the air. I thought it was odd for an Airbus A330 to be chasing its tail, he added, especially a year before the Airbus A330 comes out.

He flexed the toes again and after a moment he felt as though something had bitten one of them —

—and the last piece fell into place, thought complete.

"Ah," he said, and contemplated his thought while abstractedly stroking one of Harry Potter's sneakers — trainers — the ones that were hanging around Harry Potter's neck by their tied-together laces. Which he had tied without noticing. This was part of his thought. Another part had to do with what he was currently doing, i.e., standing, and more particularly where he was doing it.

Harry...

{ Yes? }

...I'm standing up to your knobbly knees in the Pacific Ocean, aren't I.

{ Yup, } said Harry Potter, and it was quite striking how much "You didn't notice?" that Harry Potter could cram into a "Yup".

Were the trouser-legs rolled? Socks tucked neatly into the trainers? The Tutor looked down. They were? Well, good.

He raised one of the feet, and waved it through the water — 20°C (68°F), quite warm for 28 November — to dislodge the small crab that had clamped onto the large toe, and then replanted both of the feet deep into the sand. They weren't soggy yet, those toes, so that was all right. And in fairness he was only up to the knees; he was not in in fact in over his head. Although, now come to mention it—

He bent over for a brisk head-dunking.

{ ...Why? } said Harry, on account of having his head swished vigorously in the Pacific.

Salt water, Harry, good for removing oil. Remember to wash it again later, though — the ocean, it's full of piscine animals, you're in for trouble of some kind or other.

{ Uck! }

The Tutor returned to an upstanding position, turned around again, regarded the prospect of Greater Los Angeles — [Los Angeles Mayores? ¿Los Mejores Angeles?] —and sighed. You could talk of the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, but neither of them had a giant donut. It gave him a pang.

He stroked the inadequate chin of H. Potter, and regarded the single trail of small bare footprints leading from the artificial dune into the sea; the water around him started moving in rather than out, and the sea-change formalised (formalized) his decision.

I, he thought to himself, am a breaker of bounds, flouter of keep-out signs, and mild nuisance to park-keepers everywhere...and I have very wide feet.

Harry, he said.

{ What? }

We are standing, he said, on the shore of a whole country of undiscovered possibilities. The next excellent adventure is there in front of us waiting to be had.

And do you know what happens next, Harry James Potter?

{ What? }

What happens is...

Between the mountains and the curvature of the Earth it was impossible to see London five thousand miles away, but he did it anyway through sheer force of will.

What happens now is, I pick up your absurdly tiny feet and march them straight back to Kirkus Square.

{ ...oh. }

I have never, Harry Potter, been one to let "I dare not" wait upon "I would".

I have never been afraid to get my paws wet in order to get the fish.

But these are not my paws.

So for once in my sorry life I am not going to explore a strange new world. You deserve better than soggy toes and no fish, which is, frankly, what I usually get.

Responsibility, I'm looking into it.

#

He strode out of the ocean and up the beach. Waves continued to roll in, their potential thunder dissolving into mildness on the shore. Overhead, the dragon was roiling, moving with the flexibility of a waving banner; even the twistiest of ferrets would have felt inadequate upon seeing that dragon. As he watched it did a half-twist and successfully caught its tail in its mouth.

Aeroplanes, observed the Tutor, fly only while physics forbids them to fall. Dragons do as they please.

{ Okay, } said Harry, and, after a pause filled with ocean-side noises (e.g. the ringing bells of the arcade and the music of the carousel on the pier, and someone elsewhere on the beach yelling "Philadelphinia Farnaby, you get back here this moment!") added { Does that...mean anything? }

I don't know yet, admitted the Tutor. There was only ever one person who could keep up with me and I'm not either of them. Sounded philosophical though, didn't it?

He plunked the body down at the base of the artificial dune to put socks and trainers back on, and immediately after cinching the second shoelace got an unexpected four-year-old down the back of the neck.

#

Specifically it was a little girl in a Santa Monica Rugby Club t-shirt. She had a dirty face and two clean streaks running down each side of her nose and she was clearly very angry about something, possibly the fact that she was four years old, which would only be reasonable because no-one ever lets four-year-olds do anything.

They both got up out of the sand and brushed themselves off, facing each other.

"Hello!" he said. "Are you mad at the whole world?" That's a pity for someone so small.

"You're older," she said, and looked briefly away from him and at the dune the way you do when you've run away from someone on the other side of it before glaring up at him. "Why are people mean?"

It was an interesting question.

"People are mean," he said, bending down a bit, "because they're stupid, and they're stupid because stupidity really livens things up. If people didn't do things because they didn't know what they were doing, or because they didn't know any better, they probably wouldn't do anything at all."

She gave him an incredulous stare. "That's stupid," she informed him.

"Well of course it is," he said. "Once upon a time, you see, the whole world, the whole everything, was perfect — so perfect that it didn't even exist. And then, whoops! And kerblam, here we are." He waved the arms to indicate, basically, everything. "It might be stupid and terrible, but you can't say it's not interesting."

"That's stupid too," she decided.

He shrugged. "Well, at least you know it's stupid, so that's something. I could tell you the one about taking stupid and making smart out of it, but all you've got here is sand, and you'd really need some glue."

"...I have glue at home," she said.

"Got any paper? Preferably the thick kind in different colors?"

"...yes."

"Well, if you go home and ask someone what to do with sand, glue and paper you might get something out of today."

She stared at him a while.

And then without saying goodbye just got up and climbed up and over the sand dune. Judging by the noises that followed she'd met a parent coming up the other side, which wasn't exactly all right, but it wasn't much of a whupping, and he decided to count it a win of some type.

{ Um. }

You're about to ask if what I said about getting my toes soggy has something to do with being stupid?

{ Mayyybe...? }

He reached up and ruffled the hair. Harry Potter, there is something you need to know about me because it just may save your life: the answer is yes. I'm spectacularly stupid. Unless and until you run across a chap called Zaphod Beeblebrox, I am the stupidest genius you will ever meet. I changed my major to physics because I couldn't handle music theory. I am an idiot. I am far more than just another idiot. I am the king of idiots, the positive ace of nitwits. But not today. I grant you I rushed in, but today I'm going to rush straight back out again, straight back to Kirkus Square.

Straight back to Kirkus Square to see if the chemist's is open yet, cos I've got a craving for an egg cream. Egg cream! That's my human race — negative capability like nobody's business — no egg, no cream, call it an egg cream anyway.

He jogged off for the overpass once again, taking care to get in lots of healthy lungfuls of healthful salt air on the way.


I'm looking for the Doctor.
— The Doctor.