A Princess of The Linear Jungle

Jungle Blocks. Merritt took to fabricating the most egregious tall tales, careful to label them speculative. But of course, her modest disclaimers were always the first things dropped from the subsequent coverage.
    “Vayavirunga home to a fierce creature called the bonasus!” “SwazeProf hears voice from Vayavirunga over radio!” “Crimson sex slaves await virile bike boys!”
    Although often falling into bed exhausted well before midnight, Merritt was thrilled and stimulated and engaged as she had never been in any other professional situation. She felt she was using all her talents and skills—although, to be sure, her actual polypolisological knowledge was in somewhat scanty demand. But even that deficit, she was sure, would be remedied once she reached Vayavirunga.
    Arturo Scoria definitely approved of her performance, claiming she exhibited a natural flair and showmanship. “How I could have used you during my rough time with the Schnellageisters, Mer! We’re a great team!”
    Merritt felt proud and appreciated by a man she esteemed.
    (Although she still could not quite see herself and Arturo as forever soulmates.)
    As the day of departure neared, Merritt made a special effort to break away from her duties and visit Edgar Chambless at the NikThek, to say thank-you and farewell.
    Entering the big old pile felt strange to Merritt. She would have sworn she held no especial fondness for the museum. But a transfixing and ennervating wave of nostalgia and melancholy overtook her nonetheless, as soon as the familiar smells of the artifacts of deep time and far off exotic Boroughs overtook her. “Soul abulia,” people called the sensation, from Diego Patchen’s famous invention of that term in his Dictatorship of the Emotions .
    Chambless sat in his cluttered office, employing a magnifying glass to study a crumbling clay tablet indited with wedge-shaped runes. He only slowly registered Merritt, but seemed genuinely pleased to see her.
    “Ah, Miss Abraham! I’ve been following your exploits with great pleasure. I’m certain that when you return to our halls, you’ll bring with you vast new experiences that will aid you in our curatorial mission. For instance, what do you make of this?”
    Chambless handed her the tablet, and Merritt studied it.
    “Lower Marmolejo, perhaps? Three centuries old?”
    Chambless took the tablet back. Without warning, he dashed it to the tile floor! It crashed and shattered.
    “Try ‘the forgers of Orsinwalls, six months ago.’ Let this be a lesson in appearances for you, Miss Abraham. The authentic and the fake are often hard to tell apart.”
    Merritt nodded humbly. Chambless began to rummage among the litter of his desk.
    “Now, where is that gift I had for you? I put it right down here just a week ago….”
    He came up with a scabbarded dagger, exhibiting richly worked case and handle, and tendered it to Merritt.
    “I took this myself off a native of Breviary Minor fifty years ago. He generously embedded it in my shoulder before I cracked his skull. Still twinges in wet weather. My shoulder, not the blade or even his putative skull. It’s yours. Methinks it might stand you in good stead where you’re going.”
    Merritt’s eyes grew wet. She embraced the old polypolisologist. He felt like a sheet wrapped around sticks and ropes.
    “All right, all right, on your way now. And don’t come back missing any of your delightful parts.”
    Merritt threaded the scabbard onto her belt. “No, sir!”
    She recounted the visit to Art that evening. He chuckled and shook his head. “Edgar’s seen a lot. But I expect he’s grown overcautious.”
    Merritt wondered.
    Eventually Spring came. The first week in April marked the slightly premature end to Arturo Scoria’s last class. All the preparations for their trip had been made.
    Or so Merritt believed.
    Art approached her late one afternoon and said, “We have a business dinner tonight. Dress nicely, because it’s at the Petaluma.”
    Seated at the chic restaurant that evening, laughing and sipping champagne, Merritt knew herself to be on top of the world.
    Then in strolled Ransome Pivot and Cady Rachis.
    They headed straight for Merritt’s table. Scoria rose to greet them heartily. Merritt found herself stuttering her hello. The pair sat down, Pivot pulling out Cady’s chair for her, and Scoria extemporized.
    “Merritt, it’s like this. We really should have a medico along on this expedition, and I’ve been unable to