The two men checked the money, and then stowed it carefully, each man taking half. Without a backward glance they got in the sledge, and the driver cracked the whip and shouted to the dogs; and they sped away across the wide white arena and into the avenue of lights, gathering speed until they vanished into the dark beyond.
The man was opening the door again.
«Come in quickly,» he said. «It's warm and comfortable. Don't stand out in the cold. What is your name ?»
His voice was an English one, without any accent Lyra could name. He sounded like the sort of people she had met at Mrs. Coulter's: smart and educated and important.
«Lizzie Brooks,» she said.
«Come in, Lizzie. We'll look after you here, don't worry.»
He was colder than she was, even though she'd been outside for far longer; he was impatient to be in the warm again. She decided to play slow and dim-witted and reluctant, and dragged her feet as she stepped over the high threshold into the building.
There were two doors, with a wide space between them so that not too much warm air escaped. Once they were through the inner doorway, Lyra found herself sweltering in what seemed unbearable heat, and had to pull open her furs and push back her hood.
They were in a space about eight feet square, with corridors to the right and left, and in front of her the sort of reception desk you might see in a hospital. Everything was brilliantly lit, with the glint of shiny white surfaces and stainless steel. There was the smell of food in the air, familiar food, bacon and coffee, and under it a faint perpetual hospital-medical smell; and coming from the walls all around was a slight humming sound, almost too low to hear, the sort of sound you had to get used to or go mad.
Pantalaimon at her ear, a goldfinch now, whispered, «Be stupid and dim. Be really slow and stupid.»
Adults were looking down at her: the man who'd brought her in, another man wearing a white coat, a woman in a nurse's uniform.
«English,» the first man was saying. «Traders, apparently.»
«Usual hunters? Usual story?»
«Same tribe, as far as I could tell. Sister Clara, could you take little, umm, and see to her?»
«Certainly, Doctor. Come with me, dear,» said the nurse, and Lyra obediently followed.
They went along a short corridor with doors on the right and a canteen on the left, from which came a clatter of knives and forks, and voices, and more cooking smells. The nurse was about as old as Mrs. Coulter, Lyra guessed, with a brisk, blank, sensible air; she would be able to stitch a wound or change a bandage, but never to tell a story. Her daemon (and Lyra had a moment of strange chill when she noticed) was a little white trotting dog (and after a moment she had no idea why it had chilled her).
«What's your name, dear?» said the nurse, opening a heavy door. «Lizzie.» «Just Lizzie?» «Lizzie Brooks.» «And how old are you?» «Eleven.»
Lyra had been told that she was small for her age, whatever that meant. It had never affected her sense of her own importance, but she realized that she could use the fact now to make Lizzie shy and nervous and insignificant, and shrank a little as she went into the room.
She was half expecting questions about where she had come from and how she had arrived, and she was preparing answers; but it wasn't only imagination the nurse lacked, it was curiosity as well. Bolvangar might have been on the outskirts of London, and children might have been arriving all the time, for all the interest Sister Clara seemed to show. Her pert neat little daemon trotted along at her heels just as brisk and blank as she was.
In the room they entered there was a couch and a table and two chairs and a filing cabinet, and a glass cupboard with medicines and bandages, and a wash basin. As soon as they were inside, the nurse took Lyra's outer coat off and dropped it on the shiny floor.
«Off with the rest, dear,» she said. «We'll have a quick little look to see you're nice and healthy, no frostbite or sniffles, and then we'll find some nice clean clothes. We'll pop you in the shower, too,» she added, for Lyra had not changed or washed for days, and in the enveloping warmth, that was becoming more and more evident.
Pantalaimon fluttered in protest, but Lyra quelled him with a scowl. He settled on the couch as one by one all Lyra's clothes came off, to her resentment and shame; but she still had the presence of mind to conceal it and act dull-witted and compliant.
«And the money belt, Lizzie,» said the nurse, and untied it herself with strong fingers. She went to drop it on the pile with Lyra's other clothes, but stopped, feeling the edge of the alethiometer.
«What's this?» she said, and unbuttoned the oilcloth.
«Just a sort of toy,» said Lyra. «It's mine.»
«Yes, we won't take it away from you, dear,» said Sister Clara, unfolding the black velvet. «That's pretty, isn't it, like a compass. Into the shower with you,» she went on, putting the alethiometer down and whisking back a coal-silk curtain in the corner.
Lyra reluctantly slipped under the warm water and soaped herself while Pantalaimon perched on the curtain rail. They were both conscious that he mustn't be too lively, for the daemons of dull people were dull themselves. When she was washed and dry, the nurse took her temperature and looked into her eyes and ears and throat, and then measured her height and put her on some scales before writing a note on a clipboard. Then she gave Lyra some pajamas and a dressing gown. They were clean, and of good quality, like Tony Makarios's anorak, but again there was a secondhand air about them. Lyra felt very uneasy.
«These en't mine,» she said.
«No, dear. Your clothes need a good wash.»
«Am I going to get my own ones back?»
«I expect so. Yes, of course.»
«What is this place?»
«It's called the Experimental Station.»
That wasn't an answer, and whereas Lyra would have pointed that out and asked for more information, she didn't think Lizzie Brooks would; so she assented dumbly in the dressing and said no more.
«I want my toy back,» she said stubbornly when she was dressed.
«Take it, dear,» said the nurse. «Wouldn't you rather have a nice woolly bear, though? Or a pretty doll?»
She opened a drawer where some soft toys lay like dead things. Lyra made herself stand and pretend to consider for several seconds before picking out a rag doll with big vacant eyes. She had never had a doll, but she knew what to do, and pressed it absently to her chest.
«What about my money belt?» she said. «I like to keep my toy in there.»
«Go on, then, dear,» said Sister Clara, who was filling in a form on pink paper.
Lyra hitched up her unfamiliar skirt and tied the oilskin pouch around her waist.
«What about my coat and boots?» she said. «And my mittens and things?»
«We'll have them cleaned for you,» said the nurse automatically.
Then a telephone buzzed, and while the nurse answered it, Lyra stooped quickly to recover the other tin, the one containing the spy-fly, and put it in the pouch with the alethiometer.
«Come along, Lizzie,» said the nurse, putting the receiver down. «We'll go and find you something to eat. I expect you're hungry.»
She followed Sister Clara to the canteen, where a dozen round white tables were covered in crumbs and the sticky rings where drinks had been carelessly put down. Dirty plates and cutlery were stacked on a steel trolley. There were no windows, so to give an illusion of light and space one wall was covered in a huge photogram showing a tropical beach, with bright blue sky and white sand and coconut palms.
The man who had brought her in was collecting a tray from a serving hatch.
«Eat up,» he said.
There was no need to starve, so she ate the stew and mashed potatoes with relish. There was a bowl of tinned peaches and ice cream to follow. As she ate, the man and the nurse talked quietly at another table, and when she had finished, the nurse brought her a glass of warm milk and took the tray away.
The man came to sit down opposite.
His daemon, the marmot, was not blank and incurious as the nurse's dog had been, but sat politely on his shoulder watching and listening.
«Now, Lizzie,» he said. «Have you eaten enough?»
«Yes, thank you.»
«I'd like you to tell me where you come from. Can you do that?»
«London,» she said.
«And what are you doing so far north?»
«With my father,» she mumbled. She kept her eyes down, avoiding the gaze of the marmot, and trying to look as if she was on the verge of tears.
«With your father? I see. And what's he doing in this part of the world?»
«Trading. We come with a load of New Danish smokeleaf and we was buying furs.»
«And was your father by himself?»
«No. There was my uncles and all, and some other men,» she said vaguely, not knowing what the Samoyed hunter had told him.
«Why did he bring you on a journey like this, Lizzie?»
« 'Cause two years ago he brung my brother and he says he'll bring me next, only he never. So I kept asking him, and then he did.»
«And how old are you?»
«Eleven.»
«Good, good. Well, Lizzie, you're a lucky little girl. Those huntsmen who found you brought you to the best place you could be.»
«They never found me,» she said doubtfully. «There was a fight. There was lots of 'em and they had arrows….»
«Oh, I don't think so. I think you must have wandered away from your father's party and got lost. Those huntsmen found you on your own and brought you straight here. That's what happened, Lizzie.»
«I saw a fight,» she said. «They was shooting arrows and that….I want my dad,» she said more loudly, and felt herself beginning to cry.
«Well, you're quite safe here until he comes,» said the doctor.
«But I saw them shooting arrows!»
«Ah, you thought you did. That often happens in the intense cold, Lizzie. You fall asleep and have bad dreams and you can't remember what's true and what isn't. That wasn't a fight, don't worry. Your father is safe and sound and he'll be looking for you now and soon he'll come here because this is the only place for hundreds of miles, you know, and what a surprise he'll have to find you safe and sound! Now Sister Clara will take you along to the dormitory where you'll meet some other little girls and boys who got lost in the wilderness just like you. Off you go. We'll have another little talk in the morning.»
Lyra stood up, clutching her doll, and Pantalaimon hopped onto her shoulder as the nurse opened the door to lead them out.
More corridors, and Lyra was tired by now, so sleepy she kept yawning and could hardly lift her feet in the woolly slippers they'd given her. Pantalaimon was drooping, and he had to change to a mouse and settle inside her dressing-gown pocket. Lyra had the impression of a row of beds, children's faces, a pillow, and then she was asleep.
Someone was shaking her. The first thing she did was to feel at her waist, and both tins were still there, still safe; so she tried to open her eyes, but oh, it was hard; she had never felt so sleepy.
«Wake up! Wake up!»
It was a whisper in more than one voice. With a huge effort, as if she were pushing a boulder up a slope, Lyra forced herself to wake up.
In the dim light from a very low-powered anbaric bulb over the doorway she saw three other girls clustered around her. It wasn't easy to see, because her eyes were slow to focus, but they seemed about her own age, and they were speaking English.
«She's awake.»
«They gave her sleeping pills. Must've…»
«What's your name?»
«Lizzie,» Lyra mumbled.
«Is there a load more new kids coming?» demanded one of the girls.
«Dunno. Just me.»
«Where'd they get you then?»
Lyra struggled to sit up. She didn't remember taking a sleeping pill, but there might well have been something in the drink she'd had. Her head felt full of eiderdown, and there was a faint pain throbbing behind her eyes.
«Where is this place?»
«Middle of nowhere. They don't tell us.»
«They usually bring more'n one kid at a time….»
«What do they do?» Lyra managed to ask, gathering her doped wits as Pantalaimon stirred into wakefulness with her.
«We dunno,» said the girl who was doing most of the talking. She was a tall, red-haired girl with quick twitchy movements and a strong London accent. «They sort of measure us and do these tests and that—»
«They measure Dust,» said another girl, friendly and plump and dark-haired.
«You don't know,» said the first girl.
«They do,» said the third, a subdued-looking child cuddling her rabbit daemon. «I heard 'em talking.»
«Then they take us away one by one and that's all we know. No one comes back,» said the redhead.
«There's this boy, right,» said the plump girl, «he reckons—»
«Don't tell her that!» said the redhead. «Not yet.»
«Is there boys here as well?» said Lyra.
«Yeah. There's lots of us. There's about thirty, I reckon.»
«More'n that,» said the plump girl. «More like forty.»
«Except they keep taking us away,» said the redhead. «They usually start off with bringing a whole bunch here, and then there's a lot of us, and one by one they all disappear.»
«They're Gobblers,» said the plump girl. «You know Gobblers. We was all scared of 'em till we was caught….»
Lyra was gradually coming more and more awake. The other girls' daemons, apart from the rabbit, were close by listening at the door, and no one spoke above a whisper. Lyra asked their names. The red-haired girl was Annie, the dark plump one Bella, the thin one Martha. They didn't know the names of the boys, because the two sexes were kept apart for most of the time. They weren't treated badly.
«It's all right here,» said Bella. «There's not much to do, except they give us tests and make us do exercises and then they measure us and take our temperature and stuff. It's just boring really.»
«Except when Mrs. Coulter comes,» said Annie.
Lyra had to stop herself crying out, and Pantalaimon fluttered his wings so sharply that the other girls noticed.
«He's nervous,» said Lyra, soothing him. «They must've gave us some sleeping pills, like you said, 'cause we're all dozy. Who's Mrs. Coulter?»
«She's the one who trapped us, most of us, anyway,» said Martha. «They all talk about her, the other kids. When she comes, you know there's going to be kids disappearing.»
«She likes watching the kids, when they take us away, she likes seeing what they do to us. This boy Simon, he reckons they kill us, and Mrs. Coulter watches.»
«They kill us?» said Lyra, shuddering.
«Must do. 'Cause no one comes back.»
«They're always going on about daemons too,» said Bella. «Weighing them and measuring them and all…»
«They touch your daemons?»
«No! God! They put scales there and your daemon has to get on them and change, and they make notes and take pictures. And they put you in this cabinet and measure Dust, all the time, they never stop measuring Dust.»
«What dust?» said Lyra.
«We dunno,» said Annie. «Just something from space. Not real dust. If you en't got any Dust, that's good. But everyone gets Dust in the end.»
«You know what I heard Simon say?» said Bella. «He said that the Tartars make holes in their skulls to let the Dust in.»
«Yeah, he'd know,» said Annie scornfully. «I think I'll ask Mrs. Coulter when she comes.»
«You wouldn't dare!» said Martha admiringly.
«I would.»
«When's she coming?» said Lyra.
«The day after tomorrow,» said Annie.
A cold drench of terror went down Lyra's spine, and Pantalaimon crept very close. She had one day in which to find Roger and discover whatever she could about this place, and either escape or be rescued; and if al
l the gyptians had been killed, who would help the children stay alive in the icy wilderness?
The other girls went on talking, but Lyra and Pantalaimon nestled down deep in the bed and tried to get warm, knowing that for hundreds of miles all around her little bed there was nothing but fear.
Fifteen
The Daemon Cages
It wasn't Lyra's way to brood; she was a sanguine and practical child, and besides, she wasn't imaginative. No one with much imagination would have thought seriously that it was possible to come all this way and rescue her friend Roger; or, having thought it, an imaginative child would immediately have come up with several ways in which it was impossible. Being a practiced liar doesn't mean you have a powerful imagination. Many good liars have no imagination at all; it's that which gives their lies such wide-eyed conviction.
So now that she was in the hands of the Oblation Board, Lyra didn't fret herself into terror about what had happened to the gyptians. They were all good fighters, and even though Pantalaimon said he'd seen John Faa shot, he might have been mistaken; or if he wasn't mistaken, John Faa might not have been seriously hurt. It had been bad luck that she'd fallen into the hands of the Samoyeds, but the gyptians would be along soon to rescue her, and if they couldn't manage it, nothing would stop lorek Byrnison from getting her out; and then they'd fly to Svalbard in Lee Scoresby's balloon and rescue Lord Asriel.
In her mind, it was as easy as that.
So next morning, when she awoke in the dormitory, she was curious and ready to deal with whatever the day would bring. And eager to see Roger—in particular, eager to see him before he saw her.
She didn't have long to wait. The children in their different dormitories were woken at half-past seven by the nurses who looked after them. They washed and dressed and went with the others to the canteen for breakfast.
And there was Roger.
He was sitting with five other boys at a table just inside the door. The line for the hatch went right past them, and she was able to pretend to drop a handkerchief and crouch to pick it up, bending low next to his chair, so that Pantalaimon could speak to Roger's daemon Salcilia.
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