//------------------------------// // Chapter 24: Studies // Story: Onto the Pony Planet // by Admiral Biscuit //------------------------------// Onto the Pony Planet Chapter 24: Studies Admiral Biscuit Lyra looked away from Bon Bon long enough to check on Dale. Unsurprisingly, he'd attracted a fair bit of attention, and there was a steady stream of market-goers stopping by to see him up close. The crowd he’d attracted wasn't hurting Bon Bon's business, either—she was selling candy like it was going out of style. Nopony was impolite enough to take up Bon Bon’s time without buying something. But for all the draw that Dale was, Lyra was running a close second. Nearly everypony who came over to see Dale wanted to talk to her too, and all the talking was making her a little hoarse. "Of course I was scared," she told Bumblesweet. "Who wouldn't be? I was all alone with him . . . but he was just as scared as I was." "He looked bigger on stage." She glanced back at Dale. “Now that I’ve seen him up close and talked to him, he isn’t scary at all.” Lyra nodded. "How come he's wearing such nice clothes? Does he normally dress up for the market?" "I don't know." Lyra shrugged. "He isn't comfortable without them. Neither is the mare—the girl. I think it's a racial thing . . . like, how only the lowest-status Diamond Dogs go without a vest. I'm pretty sure they show tribal alliance by the patterns of clothing they wear. All of Ka-th-rin's herd wore matching blue clothing. But it’s hard to figure out. Dale wore different colors each time I saw him." "How is she? Ah, Ka-th-rin?" Bumblesweet moved in closer. "I heard that she was hurt pretty bad. I heard that she had to ride in a wagon from the hospital ‘cause she was hurt too bad to walk." "She almost lost a paw." Lyra frowned at the memory. "But she's getting better now. The doctor and the nurses have been doing a really good job healing her." Bumblesweet hunched her back to adjust her saddlebags. "Are you going to bring her out when she's better?" "I hope so. We haven't talked much." Lyra scraped the ground. "They've got her on a lot of morphine, so she doesn't make a lot of sense when she talks. The nurses have been communicating with nudges and hoof-gestures." "That must be difficult," Bumblesweet said sympathetically. "Hey, before I get back to shopping, I heard you can talk their language, right?" "Some," Lyra said, then switched to English. "I make food safe in cooler." "What does that mean?" "I keep my food in an icebox." "Hmm. That sounds weird: almost like you’re imitating a dragon with a cold.” Bumblesweet glanced over as a whistle cut above the hubbub of the crowd. "Uh-oh, Tealove's calling. I've got to get back to shopping. Good to see you're out and about again." "I’m glad to be out," Lyra admitted as she gave Bumblesweet a friendly nuzzle. “I hope we’ll be able to spend some more time just hanging out in town in the future.” Lyra turned her attention back to Dale. She was worried about him. For her, the last week had been stressful—out of her familiar element, and living with new ponies in the embassy. Not that she didn't like them, but they weren't her familiar herd. She was less sure of his social preferences, but whether he preferred to be solitary or with his kin, the market might be a bit overwhelming. I should have thought of that. Maybe he would have been happier going to the park and sitting on a bench there—somewhere without so many ponies. Either way, the day was getting on, and while Starlight might understand if they missed lunch, Cheerilee—and by extension, Princess Celestia—wouldn't be happy if Dale skipped his afternoon language lesson. Still, she hesitated. It’s a nice day, it’s good to be out, and we aren’t late for lunch yet. Lyra turned her head; when Bon Bon looked away to talk to a customer, she levitated two candies over, dropping one in Dale’s lap and keeping the second for herself. He regarded it with bemusement, before he turned and looked at her questioningly. “Eat it,” she mouthed, devouring her own candy before Bon Bon noticed they were missing. With a shrug, he popped it into his mouth. He’d barely finished it before Sugargrape landed beside Bon Bon’s stall and trotted up to him. While the two of them were talking, Lyra regretfully walked over to the candy stand. "Sorry, Bons, we've got to go." “But we hardly even talked,” Bon Bon protested. “I—oh, I wish you’d told me you were leaving before lunch. I don’t get to see you hardly ever any more.” “Maybe after tomorrow, things will get more relaxed,” Lyra said hopefully. She leaned over the counter and gave the confectioner a kiss. "Do you want me to stop by after market's closed?" Lyra considered that. It might not help her focus; on the other hoof, it would help her relax. There was, however, the possibility of getting in trouble . . . so far, nopony had said anything, but it might be unwise to continue pushing her luck. "What about the spa?" Lyra suggested. "I can meet you there this evening. Maybe Dale will want to go, too. 'Cause Princess Celestia is coming tomorrow." "She is?" Lyra nodded, then noticed that the mares who had been clustered around the stall were looking at her with eager eyes. "Um . . . it's supposed to be a low-key affair. Just business stuff. Boring." "I bet she'll want some flowers," Heather Rose said. "She'll want to see them. And smell them. It’ll cover up the smell of all the new paint— nopony likes the smell of fresh paint. If there aren’t flowers, she'll think we're not being hospitable enough." "I hope Allie is done with the busts," Hazel Broach commented. "Last night she said she wasn't done. I’ll see her this afternoon—I’ll tell her to finish them up, and she can bring them over in the evening." "What color are the walls inside? Are they still green?" "Woah." Lyra held up a hoof. "We don't want to overwhelm her." "But she never even saw our banner! Goldie still has it at the farm." Lyra sighed. "Small stuff, okay? Maybe some fresh flowers at the embassy, that would be good. It would brighten the place up, and if she gets hungry. . . . I'm sure she'll like the banner, Berry. Hazel, if Allie can get the busts done, that would be wonderful. Bonnie, maybe you could make some candies for her. She likes chocolate cake, so I bet she likes candy, too. But that's it, all right?" Dr. Dillamond parked his Buick outside Cottage Inn and shut off the engine. He'd dithered over just skipping the dinner entirely: his whole department was working extra hours on the North Fox case. But his ex-wife had accused him of spending too much time in academia at the expense of his personal life, and deep down he knew it was true. Still, he grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat. He might have a chance to review some of his notes while he was at the restaurant. He straightened his tie and went inside. When the hostess pointed him to his table, his scowl vanished. I didn't know Meghan was coming. They didn't have a thing going—probably never would, if he were being honest—but she was still great company, and her cheerful mood was infectious. How she could stay cheerful after teaching deaf kids all day long was beyond him. “Bringing your work home again, eh?” she commented. He leaned the briefcase against his chair and sat down. “Yeah, we've got a case for the State Police we're analyzing evidence for.” Dillamond nodded to the couple across the table. “Hey, Jen. Congratulations on your book. Happy Birthday, Matt.” “Thanks for coming,” Matt said, tipping his hat slightly. “Appreciate it. Jen said you wouldn't make it.” “I just said he'd probably have an excuse.” “I occasionally leave college, you know. I even own a house.” “Do you know what color it's painted?” Dillamond waved his hand. “Pfft, details.” The obligatory small-talk completed, Dr. Dillamond picked up his menu, only to be interrupted by Meghan. “You said you're analyzing evidence from a State Police case? I thought they had their own forensics labs for that, like in CSI.” “Well, they do.” He set his menu back down. “But sometimes they come across stuff that's out of their area of expertise, or that they don't have the equipment to analyze.” “Oh.” She brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “But you study books.” “Sometimes ancient art gets involved in a case. If, hypothetically, the police were to discover a painting they thought might be a stolen Vermeer, let’s say, they'd want an actual art expert to look at it. It's not the kind of thing they normally know about.” He reached back with his heel and touched the briefcase lightly. “So right now, the university is doing metals analysis and examining several books of unknown origin.” “And you figured them out, haven’t you?” He wanted to tell her yes. He wanted to tell her that they had all the answers . . . but they didn't. Oh, they knew things. They knew what the paper was made of. They knew how the books were bound. They knew what inks were used, and what kind of printing process had laid the words upon the pages. They had more than enough to send a report off to Detective Moller. In fact, the subject of the meeting had been whether they should send a report to Moller yet. Because these books were another Voynich manuscript: clearly written in languages nobody had ever seen before. Unlike the Voynich manuscript, though, carbon dating had failed utterly. Even as they debated, technicians were swarming over the machine, since it was impossible for a book to not have detectable amounts of carbon-14 in it. He probably wasn't supposed to talk about it. Some small part of his mind cautioned silence. This was police evidence, and it could potentially be used in a trial. But professors didn't expand their knowledge by not talking to each other. The very idea was unthinkable. And he was sitting next to a beautiful redhead who wanted to hear what he had to say, so he leaned down and snapped the latches of his briefcase open, and pulled out a stack of copies. The original book, of course, was safe back in the lab. “The State Police found it on an island where an old guy kidnapped a Coast Guard woman right in front of the rest of her crewmembers and then vanished,” Dillamond began. “This was one of the books in his tent.” “Looks like a kid's book,” Meghan said, after flipping through a few pages. “Huh?” “Like a Dr. Seuss kind of thing. See, you've got these cute ponies showing you around.” She pointed to the first page. “There's a group of them on the first page—that's your introduction.” “Well, that's one interpretation.” It was one of many ideas which had been floated around, since it bore a superficial resemblance to a child’s book. However, the simplistic drawings were present in other books which had a much higher text-density, and the professors had concluded that it was probably an artistic choice. “Many of them have a distinct mark on their butt, and the ones who don't are all different, so you can tell them apart. A unicorn, or a pegasus. Even their manes and tails are different, to make it more obvious. Look here, that one on the cover, she's in the kitchen.” “How do you know it's a she?” “Well, who else would be in the kitchen? It’s the mother, if this is a family.” Meghan looked intently at the drawing of the group. “See, right there on the cover, her name is underneath her, and then on this page you see it again. And look, here are a couple of repeated words—this word occurs a couple of times on the page. Probably means 'stove,' or 'food,' since we're in the kitchen. Maybe a specific food item, like a cake.” “I wonder. . . .” Dillamond's enthusiasm began rising, and he spread the printed pages over the table. “Okay, this one, this . . . regular pony, it's in the yard. A flower garden. It's working in a flower garden. And I see—here, this word. It's on the page four times. Yes, and its name, too.” “This is a kid's book,” Megan said. “Very simple, ignorable backgrounds. Clearly drawn characters, and the focal point of each page-story centered on the page. Short, simple sentences. I use ‘em all the time.” “Let's say it is.” Dillamond pointed to the scattered papers. “Let's say that you're right.” “I know I'm right.” “Who wrote it? Why did he have it?” “You said several books of unknown origin.” Meghan grabbed a slice of pizza and set it on her plate—Dillamond hadn't noticed that the meal had arrived. “So, how many of them were in this language?” “Well . . . all of them had this language in them.”  “Well, there you go.” Meghan gave him a satisfied look, as if that explained anything. •        •        • The rest of the dinner passed in a blur, and while Dillamond participated in the smalltalk, he could neither remember it, nor his drive home. He went right inside, unceremoniously evicted all the books and papers from his desk, and eagerly spread out the copies of the so-called kid's book. It didn't take him too long to verify what Meghan had said. Every page had one word which was repeated at least three times. Each 'page-story,' as she'd called them, spanned a pair of facing pages, and in each case, one of the ponies on the front page—the family portrait—was named later in the text. He wasn't an expert in languages—either real or imagined. The university had such experts, and they'd come up dry. This was no language system which anybody had ever encountered before, nor was it a mere substitution cipher. There weren't enough letters for that. Dillamond wrote down all the words in a notebook, circled them on the copied pages for good measure, and scanned the lot. It only took a few minutes to email them to all his colleagues; when it was done, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. One of the books had been—as Doctor Cunningham had described it—the Rosetta Stone of gibberish. Pages upon pages of unique indecipherable language . . . but looking back in his memory, he was sure that one of the pages had been this language. If Meghan was right—if this really was a kid's book—then they ought to be able to get a handle on what it said. From there, they might get enough to start translating the books, and maybe then they could start to figure out what was going on. “Dale!” He jerked his head back around and looked at Cheerilee. She tapped a hoof on the chalkboard and he tried to focus back on the work, but it was just no good. He'd thought that a morning off would have helped him focus. He hadn't considered how stressful it would be, mainly because he hadn't considered that the ponies were just as curious about him as he was about them. It had been easy to forget at the hospital—the doctors and nurses were professionals first—and at the embassy, Starlight and Diamond Mint felt more like co-workers than strangers. Even though he’d only known them for a couple of weeks, it felt like so much longer. Before they’d left the embassy, his mind had conjured up a vision of walking along the peaceful streets of town, with maybe a friendly wave or two from other ponies on the sidewalk—like something out of a commercial for a travel agency. Lyra would point out the sights, and that would be that. It's not fair to blame the townsfolk, he thought. I could have walked by the farrier's without going in, or maybe just looked through the door and then moved on. I didn't have to approach the market stalls, either. But I was curious! How often will an opportunity like this come along? Plenty often, said his rational side. It's not like you're going home anytime soon, so you ought to be building a good foundation of the language, not bumbling along like an idiot. Even though that's all I know how to do, quipped Cynical. And this isn't helping me learn. He squinted at the board. Over the course of the lesson, Cheerilee's look had slowly changed from indulgent to impatient. I must be the worst student she's ever had. “Um . . . Printest Celespia.” He gave her an awkward smile. He could have sworn he saw hairs in her mane sproinging out of place, and she did grit her teeth as the smile on her face faltered. “Princess. Princess.” “Princess?” She nodded. “Princess Celespia?” A snicker on his left told him all he needed to know about his pronunciation. Cheerilee took a deep breath, and then shook her head no. “Celestia.” “Celespia.” “Tia.” “Celes . . . tia.” A genuine smile broke out on Cheerilee's face, the first one he'd seen since the lesson began. “Now say all.” “Princest Celestia.” Cheerilee's eye twitched. •        •        • Dinner was a somewhat sombre affair. Dale felt terrible about his poor performance, and Cheerilee didn't look very happy with him either. Conversation was awkward, and Dale couldn't help but think back to the younger him who’d brought lousy report cards home. It was bad enough feeling that he'd let down his teacher and his friend, but it was nagging at the back of his mind that he might be letting down humanity as well. Kate—she wasn't much of a good example, although at least she was sculpting her mashed potatoes with a fork, rather than her fingers. “How is it?” Dale leaned over to Redheart, and pointed at Kate's bandaged hand. Of all the nurses, she felt the most approachable to him, and spoke the most English. She’d practice with him during meals, then try to draw Kate into a conversation. They never got too far, but Redheart looked happy every time she or Dale managed to draw Kate out of her drug-induced haze. “Soon,” she told him. “It . . .” she paused, and he could practically see the gears in her head turning. “It move, but still some bad.” “Move,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Yes.” She nodded. “All move. Move, move, move, move, move.” Redheart touched her hoof to his hand, gently tapping each one of his fingers as she spoke. “Were worried, um, ropes not work.” Ropes. Dale looked down at his hand and flexed it experimentally, thinking about what she'd call ropes for his benefit. “Tendons?” He drew a line down his finger, where he figured they were. “Yes. Tendons.” She pointed to his finger again. “Many tendons.” Are there two per finger joint? He looked down at his hand and flexed a finger. There must be, or else how would they work? How does that all fit in there? An unwanted memory of Kate’s burned hand flashed across his mind, and he swallowed down a wave of nausea. I can't imagine how she deals with it—the things she must see. Doctors and nurses must have a stronger constitution than most people. Indeed, Redheart had turned back to her dinner, undaunted by whatever images their conversation had conjured up. For once, Dale was glad that Starlight had made a vegetarian dinner: if he’d looked down at a plate of seared meat after thinking of Kate’s hand, he probably would have vomited. As it was, he’d lost his appetite, and pushed his plate away. He sat in silence while the rest of the ponies finished their meals, and Kate razed her mashed potato tower by devouring it. He smiled at her antics—in some ways, she was better off than he was. Her drug-induced haze kept her concerns at bay. Maybe I should ask for some of her drink. “Is food not right?” Dale turned to look at Diamond Mint. Of course she noticed I wasn’t eating. “Um . . . I am not hungry.” “You like potato mash,” Diamond insisted. “You should eat.” Yes, Mom. “I am not hungry right now. Can I save for later?” Diamond nodded, and cleared his mostly untouched plate away, and Dale focused back in on the chatter. Lyra and Cheerilee were carrying on a quiet conversation, while Redheart tried to convince Kate to drink more of her medicine. Lyra wrapped up the discussion she was having with Cheerilee, and turned to Dale. “Does Dale want to go to spa after dinner? Cheerilee and I are going, and you can come too.” “Spa?” “Is . . . place to relax. And to be clean—to look nice. Princess Celestia is coming tomorrow, and we need to get ready.” “Princess Celestia?” Both Lyra and Cheerilee nodded. “Here?” “You didn't tell him?” Lyra turned to Cheerilee. “I forgot.” She looked back at Dale. “Yes, here, tomorrow. Dale should look nice. She is our princess.” Yes, I know. I said that word enough times. He tapped his fingers against the tablecloth. Whoever Princess Celestia was, she was important. They hadn't been entirely clear on how important she was, which he thought might have been a result of running out of time while Cheerilee made sure he could pronounce her name correctly. Then it hit him like a bolt from the blue. “Princess is . . . title. Like teacher—Cheerilee is teacher. Teacher Cheerilee. Princess Celestia; Celestia is princess.” He tapped his hand on the table. “Luna—Princess Luna.” Lyra nodded. “You saw Princess Celestia on the beach, the first day.” Aha. Puzzle pieces were falling into place. He’d noticed how both Lyra and the guards had deferred to her—she was the leader of the expedition, and she was also probably the one who’d been in the drawings he’d gotten at the hospital. It was kind of surprising it had taken this long for her to meet him. I ought to go with them, he thought. Maybe we can talk more about Princess Celestia—if she’s as important as they’re making her out to be, I’d do well to know more about her before we meet. And maybe spending a little more time away from here will help me focus. “Will there be many ponies there?” “Not too many,” Cheerilee said. “Some. Few. Not like the market.” A few won’t be so bad. A little bit of distraction, and then we can get down to a nice quiet conversation. “Okay, yes. I will go.” Lyra looked surprised that he'd agreed, and all of a sudden he had second thoughts. •        •        • Too late, he realized why Lyra had been surprised he'd agreed. Going forward, I ought to get all the details before I agree to anything. He should have suspected all the way back at the hospital—it wasn't like there weren't Earth precedents. The Japanese had public baths, and so did the Romans, and he was sure that there were more societies that did which he didn't know about. Not that he would have been visiting those places back on Earth. There was no way he was going to get in a public tub with a bunch of mares. Maybe if he had a swimsuit, and if there were changing rooms. Otherwise he was perfectly happy using the embassy’s shower alone for his personal hygiene needs, their social conventions be damned. So he’d sat on one of the benches, his legs folded awkwardly, and leaned back against the wall. He and the guard exchanged a look of solidarity, the look of a man who’s been dragged along shopping or to something cultural by his wife. He’d watched as the mares rinsed off their hooves in a shallow bath, then climbed into a big oaken tub together, sitting close enough that they could carry on a low conversation. They weren't alone in the tub; he saw a few other mares and a stallion. Dale was fairly certain he’d seen one of the mares at the market, but without being able to see her cutie mark, he couldn’t be sure. He was fairly certain that they were all unique—he hadn’t confirmed any duplicates, anyway. He felt like a dirty old man watching them, and he idly wondered if that feeling might change if he were in the tub with them, but he wasn't about to find out. Just the same, the atmosphere was relaxing. After the novelty of his presence had worn off, the ponies mostly ignored him. He assumed that they weren't curious enough to get out of the tub and approach him. He closed his eyes and let the sounds and smells of the spa fill his mind. There was no chlorine in the water, although they were using some kind of scented bath salt that was faintly noticeable. Besides the occasional splashing of water, the spa was very quiet. Conversations were kept hushed, and the ambient music that was playing was set to a low enough volume to not be distracting, though the occasional pops and hisses were a little annoying. Still, he could tune them out—for the first half of his life, they'd been a constant companion to any music he played at home. Although the music felt kind of New-Age, it reminded him of hearing his parent’s records from up in his bedroom. He let his mind drift, not really thinking about anything in particular, although it kept returning to his morning tour of town and the cluster of ponies at the market. The whole place had a kind of medieval flavor. There was something he wasn't seeing. He was sure of that. He kept coming back to it. It was like a missing tooth—annoying because it wasn't there. He opened his eyes again as the music stopped and changed to a quiet rhythmic pop . . . pop . . . pop. He knew that sound, too. The blue and pink mare from the front counter ducked into a side room, and the noise stopped. After a brief period of silence, there was a gentle skrit from the speakers, then the music started again. A second later, he was distracted when a familiar green pegasus trotted into the room. She had her eyes focused on the tub, and she stopped in her tracks practically in front of him. He was pretty sure she was the one who’d been taking pictures of Kate and himself at the hospital—the one he’d gotten kicked out of the room for invading his privacy. Given his current situation, he wondered if he hadn’t overreacted. Apparently uninterested in him, she turned until she was facing completely away and flicked her tail a couple of times. The motion drew Dale's attention and he saw more than he meant to before he looked away and tried to guess what she was looking at. Judging by her ears, she was concentrating on where Lyra and Cheerilee were sitting. They'd been joined by Bon Bon, he noticed—she must have come in when I had my eyes closed. She crouched down, leaning forward as she bent her legs. Before he could figure out what she was doing, she popped her wings out and jumped straight up, hovering a few feet in the air, her hindquarters practically in front of his face. He couldn’t help but look—he hadn’t seen a pegasus take flight from such a close distance before. Like most of the others he'd seen, she hovered with her head raised and tail down, putting her at a nearly-standing angle. Her hind legs hung straight and free, while her forelegs were bent and loosely tucked into her body. It looked like a natural, relaxed pose. Her head turned as she glanced around the room; a moment later, her body followed as she rotated clockwise to scan her surroundings. None of the ponies in the tub were paying her—or him—any attention, so he turned his attention back to her. When she finally had turned halfway around, she looked down and spotted him. Her ears both snapped directly forward, even as she flew back a couple of feet. Then she rotated her body into a weird, uncomfortable-looking rump-high hover as she scrutinized him.   Not sure what else to do, Dale waved. “Hello.” She dropped back down to the ground, leading with her tail. Her hind hooves hit the floor first, and then she rotated down onto her front legs. Most of the pegasi he'd seen landing tucked their wings in right after they were on the ground, but she did not—she kept them slightly off her sides. It looked to him like she was prepared to take flight again in a hurry. “Hello,” she said, an excited look on her face. She glanced back at the tub for a moment, before returning her attention to Dale. “You live in house across grass from me?” She nodded. “I didn't know you could speak Equestrian.” “I am learning. I am not very good.” •        •        • Featherbrain couldn't believe her luck. The day had been just perfect so far—she'd been lucky enough to catch Dale and Lyra leaving the embassy, and she'd followed him all the way to the market. She'd stayed back, mingling with the crowd, just in case Lyra or the guard spotted her and chased her off. Watching how he walked, watching how he talked—she'd forgotten her notebook and camera back at the rental room, but she'd had all afternoon to take notes. She knew he was taking lessons from the local schoolteacher in the afternoons, so there wasn’t anything to see anyway unless Kate was outside. Not unless she crept up on the house and looked at things through the window, but the guards didn’t like that and chased her off every time she tried. And then she'd happened to notice him leaving a second time, and to the spa, no less. She was curious about his bathing and grooming habits. You could tell a lot about a creature by its cleanliness. She'd waited outside for a bit, in case they were just going in to set up a private appointment or buy some beauty products for the meeting with the Princess tomorrow. After she'd judged a long enough interval had passed, she went inside, begged the pink pony at the counter to give her credit—she'd left her bits back at the rental—and hurried through the door, her eyes locked on the soaking tub. Lyra was there, with a plum earth pony on one side, and the ivory one from the market on the other. Even better, they were facing away from her. But Dale wasn't there. She could smell him in the room, but she didn't see him. Maybe he's completely submerged, she thought. Like a beaver or an otter. It would be an interesting insight into his physiology. Merponies could bask on rocks, but didn’t move very effectively on land, Seaponies and Kelpies were practically helpless out of the water; Sirens were supposed to be amphibious, although she was pretty sure they were a legend. Nopony reliable had reported seeing any in over a millennium. Dale and Kate being amphibious would explain a lot. Lecol had told her that they'd been found on an uninhabited island—how else would they have gotten there if they hadn't swam? She took flight and hovered high enough that she could see most of the bottom of the tub, but she didn't see Dale, nor did she see his clothes. He probably took them off when he went in the water—Lecol said that Kate got undressed for her showers and to sleep. Featherbrain started looking around the room, unconsciously rotating her body rather than her neck. He wasn't on any of the grooming couches, although he could have been in one of the back rooms. She didn't think that Lyra would let him get that far away from her, but it was possible she had. She tilted her head down as the wall came into her field of vision, and there Dale was, sitting on a low bench against the wall, looking up at her curiously. “Hello,” he said, in gravelly but understandable Equish. She instinctively flew back before checking her motion and landing lightly in front of him. It took her a moment to guess at his expression: watching him from a distance hadn't allowed her the benefit of being able to read him well. He's not dangerous, Featherbrain reminded herself. Lots of mares talked to him at the market, and he just sat there and talked back. “Hello,” she replied eagerly, not quite closing the distance between them. She told herself it was because she didn't want to attract undue attention—she'd gotten in trouble before when she tried to look under his clothes at the hospital, and she didn't want a repeat. Moving at a slower pace than she preferred was less ignoble than being run out of town by the Guard. She shifted her wings unconsciously. This was actually a bit of an awkward situation for her. A proper zoologist observed from a distance, not letting the subjects know they were being watched. It was the only way to ensure that their behavior was natural. On the other hoof, a biologist got close to her subject, so that she could understand what made it up. Things got fuzzier with xenobiology, since it combined elements of both fields. While the slugs in Siput might not have known or cared that she was watching them, she couldn't enter a Diamond Dog burrow without being observed in fairly short order. In that case, it was better to introduce herself right away, rather than be viewed as an intruder. “Can I talk to you?” she asked. She had so many questions, it was hard to know where to begin. Lecol's access to the she-Dale had given her some tantalizing tidbits, but it was nothing compared to getting answers right from the horse's mouth. He might be able to validate some of her guesses, from the possibly patriarchal society Dale lived in, to the finer details like having impractically soft feet. “Yes,” he said. She knew she was probably reading too much into his expression and intonation—he'd only been speaking for a few weeks, tops, so it wasn't reasonable to think he'd gotten the subtle inflections down yet—but her gut told her that he was eager to have something distract him from watching his friends bathe. She had so many questions, and her mind was racing, trying to organize her jumbled thoughts into order. Her time with Dale would be limited, so she didn't want to waste any of it covering subjects she could learn easily enough from observation. The tidbits of information she'd gathered since her arrival had painted a pretty good picture of him, and by extension the mare. She knew he was an opportunistic omnivore, she knew he tended to be solitary. She also knew from the quality of his clothing and the books he had brought that he—or his people—were expert craftsponies. It was to be expected with hands; many creatures with hands weren't able to properly access the magical fields, and crafted things to compensate for their lack of innate magic. She flicked her ears in annoyance. This was getting her nowhere, and he was starting to get impatient. She could feel it. Nothing about now, who cares about now? I can see now whenever I want to—I want to know about his home. I can't go there; I can't observe it. “What's your home like?” she blurted. “My home?” Featherbrain nodded eagerly. “I heard you had a cloth domehouse and a cloth pavilion.” “That was not my home.” Dale put his elbows on his knees and bent down closer to her. “I live far away from there. In . . . a place like this town, but much bigger. A hundred, um, ten hundred times bigger.” “Like Manehattan?” “I do not know Manehattan. I do not speak very well.” Featherbrain considered her words carefully. A good zoologist worked through language difficulties. “It's a big city, with thousands of ponies. There are so many, the streets are paved, and there are buildings a dozen floors tall—some are even taller.” “Yes, I live in a city like that.” “What's it called?” Now it was his turn to pause. Featherbrain understood—names of places had meaning, and were important. One of her students had done a study on the meanings of buffalo place names. “Big, fast, rough water,” he finally said. “Did you live in a house by yourself, or with others?” “By myself.” Solitary preference confirmed. Featherbrain glanced back at the tub, to make sure that nopony was paying her undue attention. She needn't have worried; Lyra was engrossed in a conversation with her friends. The guard was watching her closely, though. She gave him a smile—just a mare and a man having a friendly conversation, just like at the market. Nothing to concern yourself with. “Do you hunt?” “Hunt?” He held his hands palm-up. “I do not know the word.” “For food—where do you get food?” “Starlight cooks it.” Featherbrain shook her head. “At home.” “Oh.” He smiled at her, and she fluffed her wings excitedly. I'm really getting through to him. “I buy food at a place like your market.” He leaned back down, staring at her wings, and she shifted uncomfortably. “Can I ask you a question?” It was only fair—and his question might provide another insight. She nodded. He licked his lips and shifted on his seat. If she had to guess, he looked nervous. A silence stretched between them long enough for her ears to droop slightly. “Did you always have wings?” he finally blurted out. She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question, until she remembered that dragons didn't get theirs until an adolescent moult, and some species never did. “Pegasi are born with them.” “So.” He rubbed his chin and looked at her intently. He spoke clearly and carefully. “You pegasi—you are different from the unicorns? They are born with horns?” She nodded. “When you were small, you had wings.” Featherbrain nodded again. “Do any, um, any of you have wings?” “Humans?” Dale shook his head. “Humans?” She sounded out the word carefully. “Is that what you call your kind?” He nodded in confirmation. I wish I’d brought my notebook. •        •        • Both Cheerilee and Bon Bon went their separate ways at the entrance of the spa. It was darker than he'd thought it would be—they'd spent more time inside the spa than he had imagined. Probably well over an hour. He'd had that vaguely disorienting experience at movie theatres before, of it being light when he went inside, and then dark when he got out. And much like a movie, it hadn't felt that long while he was in there. Featherbrain had proved to be a good distraction. She was intensely curious about everything—like a child, almost—and had answered a few questions he’d been afraid to ask Lyra. He noticed that while the streets weren't empty, they weren't exactly full, either. He wasn't surprised—most smaller towns shut down after dark. He looked up as a shadow passed overhead, wondering if it was Featherbrain, taking a more direct route home. If she was, it was a shortcut unavailable to him or Lyra. “I am sorry,” Lyra said in English when he looked back down at her. “Huh? Sorry why?” “I should have spoken more clear about the spa. I knew that you like to wash in secret. I thought. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she turned her head slightly away from him. “I’m not mad.” Dale stopped walking and crouched down, to be more at her level. “I’m not mad at you—our customs are not the same.” “I—“ She bent her head down and muttered something quickly in Equestrian. It sounded like a curse. “Are we friends?” “Yes.” Dale reached over and touched her on the shoulder, just under the base of her mane. Her coat was still damp from the tub, and the pleasant smell of the bath salts lingered on her. “We’re friends.” She turned back to look at him, and brushed her nose lightly against his knee before looking him in the eye. “It . . . sometimes it's hard to tell. I should know better.” “I don’t know how you normally do things, but it’s not like we do on Earth. The—the customs are different. Between you and me. Between ponies and people.” “Customs?” Lyra touched his thigh with her hoof. “What is customs?” “Well, here it is a custom for you to bathe with your friends, but it is not a custom for me.” “So how you wear clothes all the time? That is customs for you?” Dale nodded. “And you don’t—you only wear them for formal occasions, right?” Lyra nodded. “Do . . . what do humans do together?” “We watch games. Go to buy food. Play games. Talk on the phone. Work all week, and go to church on Sunday.” “Ah.” Lyra moved away and began heading back towards the embassy. “So some things are like ponies, but not other things.” “Yes. Not all humans have the same customs.” Dale picked up his pace until he was right next to her. “There are different nations—countries. Do you have those?” “Nations—countries?” “The words both mean the same thing. A nation is a country. A country is a nation. It is a collection of cities and towns that are all ruled—that are all led by the same per—pony. Or not a pony, I guess.” “Like pony nation and minotaur nation?” “Not quite what I was thinking.” Dale scratched his chin. “Um, maybe Zecora—did she come from a different place? Yes.” He nodded in memory. “The book that was in all the languages. You showed me that on the beach, hoping I could speak one of them. There were different kinds of pony—not only the zebra. Several different pages, with ponies on each one, before the minotaur and griffon.” “You are talk too fast,” Lyra complained. “I do not understand.” Dale blinked at her. I’m going native. He’d gotten so used to switching back and forth with Lyra, he hadn’t realized they’d been speaking English. “The book with all the different writings you showed me on the beach. The beginning—Equestrian—what you and me are speaking. That was under a picture of a unicorn. But there were other ponies with different words. A narrow one, like the tall mare doctor that comes to the embassy.” “Lecol,” Lyra said automatically. “Oh. Yes. Prench. Lecol is Prench. From Prance.” “Prance. Is that a different nation?” Lyra nodded, and pointed a hoof. “That way, Prance and other countries.” She swept her hoof in an arc to the north. “Up that way is the Crystal Empire. They speak our language, but are a different, um, type of pony. There are many nations, and they speak many different languages.” “And they have different customs,” Dale said. “Yes.” Lyra brightened. “In Neighpon, lots of ponies eat fish. Most ponies here don't.” “Have you been there?” She shook her head. “I’d like to visit one day, but it’s very far away. You also might like visiting there.” “But—“ Dale stopped as he came around the corner. Stretched across the street between the embassy and its neighbor was a large banner with pink writing on it. He recognized the first two words—Welcome Princess—but the third gave him pause. It looked like Celestia, but it was cut off. Maybe they abbreviate things. Canadian coins were common in Michigan, and most of them abbreviated the Latin phrase that went with Queen Elizabeth’s name. Lyra had perked back up when she saw the sign, Dale noticed. She twitched an ear and then resumed the walk back to the embassy; Dale fell in step behind her. He heard a muffled snort from the guard who’d been trailing them back, but when he turned, the guard’s expression was as stoic as ever. Dale automatically took a step forward to open the door, letting her go in first, then almost tripped over her as he followed her in. She'd stopped just past the threshold, and was looking around the room in surprise. He couldn't blame her—while they'd been out, the place had been decorated. Practically every flat surface in the main room had been brightened up with a vase of fresh flowers. A garland had been wrapped around the bannister, and bows were tied to some of the balusters. Tables had been set up and draped with tablecloths; they, too, were covered with flowers. The pièce de résistance was in the center of the room. Three columns supported a trio of busts. The one on the left was clearly a horse's head—it reminded Dale of a knight in chess—and the one in the center was clearly human. He was unsure of what the final one was supposed to be. Dale looked down at Lyra. She gave a small shrug. “They decorated for Princess Celestia's visit.” “That was nice of them,” Dale said absently. He glanced into his office, which looked mostly untouched, although the books were stacked more neatly on his desk, and the chalkboard had been stowed along a wall. A quick look in the dining room revealed that it had also been spared some of the decoration, although there was a cloth on the table and two vases chock-full of flowers. He moved over to the busts. The middle one was clearly supposed to be him, and by his best guess it was a pretty good likeness. It took a bit of mental work to decide what he'd look like if he were made out of wood, and of course he knew that his mental image of himself wasn't what other people saw . . . but he couldn't imagine that it was supposed to be anybody else. Certainly, it wasn't Kate. He looked kind of like a Roman emperor, he finally decided. The folds under the neckline and the large golden button were probably inspired by the toga-thing Rarity had made for him—all it was missing was a crown of laurel leaves. I wonder if Caesar had busts of himself around his palace? He probably did. He moved on to the final bust. It took him a minute to place—he was sure it was in one of the books he'd seen. When it finally hit him, he stared at it dumbfounded, and then he couldn't unsee. I knew I should have found a different counting book. Dale rested his hand gently on the wooden Elmo's carved head. Someone had spent a lot of time with it: the detail work in the fur was incredible. Maybe I won't tell them just yet. “That's about all the excitement I can handle for one evening,” Dale muttered to himself. His eye went back to the Elmo bust again, and he chuckled. It was funny every time he saw it—it was so dignified, and yet it was a muppet. “I am going to bed.” “Me, too,” Lyra said, covering a yawn. “I need to get up early so I can be dressed before Princess Celestia arrives.” She started making her way up the stairs. “Good night, Dale.” “Good night, Lyra.” He went over to the Elmo bust and ran his hand over the wood. He wondered who had made it, and on whose orders. And he wondered how long it would take to get used to seeing it there. There ought to be one of those in every US embassy. He started walking up the stairs, pausing long enough to take one last look at it. Keep them from taking themselves too seriously. •        •        • Dale woke earlier than usual. After the brief disorientation of his dream had passed, he felt confident and refreshed. He walked to the window and looked outside, seeing the distant moon hanging slightly above the treetops. It was a comfortable, familiar object in the strange world. True, the craters on it didn't match up with those on Earth's moon, but it did slowly wax and wane, giving him the assurance that as strange as this place was, the laws of the universe still applied. He'd barely finished getting dressed when there was a quiet knock at his door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see a bleary-eyed Lyra standing there. “You're up early,” he quipped, and then repeated himself in Equestrian for her benefit. She nodded. “I need to go home and get dressed. Rarity is going to come by with some new clothes for you, and new clothes for Kate. Make sure you are ready before Princess Celestia gets here.” “I will.” “I will see you in a couple of hours.” Lyra backed out of the doorway and started down the hallway. She was halfway down when she paused and turned her head back. “Please pronounce her name correctly.” In that moment, Dale knew two things. He knew that Princess Celestia wouldn't be upset if he bungled her name—she'd understand. He wasn't sure how he knew this, but it was absolutely certain in his mind. He also knew that if he got it wrong, it would be a reflection on Lyra, not himself. Or at least, that's how Lyra would see it. He hadn't realized that he'd followed her down the hall, but he was standing right next to her, and there was only one thing to do. He squatted down next to her and brushed his hand over her head, knocking down some of the bed-hair. “I won't get it wrong,” he assured her. “Princess Celestia will be pleased.” Lyra didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. She wrapped her forelegs around his shoulders and nuzzled his cheek; a moment later he was hugging her back. He led her down the stairs, and showed her out the front door. It was barely light out—he hadn’t seen Lyra up this early ever. Maybe her alarm woke me, he thought as he closed the door. He could hear Starlight in the kitchen, so he walked in and said good morning and poured himself a cup of coffee from the percolator. He didn’t need her to tell him how busy she was getting ready, so he settled for just exchanging a few brief words, then he headed out of the kitchen, resolving to keep out of her way. He’d considered offering her a hand, but he knew that she'd do better without his amateurish assistance in the kitchen. On his way out of the dining room, Dale spotted Diamond Mint on the far side of the main room, making sure that everything was neat and in its proper place. He knew better than to help her, too. He couldn’t work in his office, either: she’d have his head if he messed it up. At least I get a break from the language lessons today. He took his morning coffee up to his room. If he had to, he'd hide the empty cup in his underwear drawer—he certainly wasn't going to put it back in the kitchen. The last thing Starlight would want to deal with was finding a dirty mug placed by the sink after she’d spent all morning ensuring everything was shipshape. He stood by the window, looking down at the street and sipping his coffee as he waited for Rarity to arrive. Dale was not disappointed in the spectacle. The blueish glow gave her away as she came around the corner—she was floating enough bags to outfit an expedition to the North Pole, and wearing a pair of positively stuffed saddlebags to boot. For all of that, she had enough manners to knock at the front door. Dale finished his coffee and had hidden the empty mug in his dresser before she got up the stairs and followed her bags into his room. “Good morning, Rarity,” he said cheerfully. The bags faltered in her aura before she gave him a broad smile. “Somepony has been practicing the language, I see.” “Lyra and Cheerilee have been teaching me.”. “Your accent could use a bit of work, and your vowels aren't clear.” She reached into a bag and pulled his shoes out. “Nevertheless,” she continued as she set them on the floor, “you are understandable. Now, these are hardly formal wear, but I had to twist the cobbler's tail to get them done at all, and there was certainly no time to commission a second pair. He had great difficulty with the material.” Dale nodded, even though a good third of her words were beyond his knowledge. He had shoes again! “Knowing that,” she continued, “I made clothes which matched the style. Quite frankly, they are not what I would consider proper formal wear, but nopony has any point of comparison. I was lucky Twilight was able to assist me in choosing something appropriate for a gentlestallion, or I would have been hopelessly lost.” She levitated a pair of pants and a button-down shirt out of one of the bags and set them on the bed. At her nod, he picked them up. He wasn't sure what kind of fabric they were made out of. The pants, especially, didn't have a feel he was used to—if anything, they felt like broken-in jeans, kind of a soft denim. The shirt was even lighter. It was almost certainly a natural fabric, or else they'd taken synthetics to a whole new level. “Should I put them on?” Rarity nodded. Dale went down the hall and closed himself in the bathroom. The cut of the pants was a bit different than he was used to, but they fit well enough. The pleating on the front was sort of weird, although he imagined she'd had her reasons for it. They didn't bind anywhere, nor did they restrict his movement at all. The shirt, too, fit perfectly. He noticed that she hadn't made a buttonhole for the top button—she'd observed that he never closed that one. It would have been nice if Earth shirt-makers had done that. Then he would have had an excuse. Dale examined himself in the mirror critically. Aside from the stubble on his head, he looked pretty good. More importantly, the clothes fit properly—all the measurements she had taken the first time he met her had been put to good use. He had never owned a set of tailored clothing before, and he felt like he'd missed out. Back in his bedroom, Rarity spent a few minutes fussing over his clothes with a measuring tape and a small piece of chalk before demanding that he take them off again. He wasn't sure what the big deal was, but she insisted. When he returned from his second trip to the bathroom, his room had been rearranged into an impromptu sewing room. Dale stood back and gave her space to work. Watching a unicorn do precision work hadn't lost its charm, and he doubted it ever would. While the pants hovered in front of her, she attacked the legs with a needle and thread, re-hemming the cuffs. Once she was satisfied with the pants, she went to work on the shirt. The time passed in a blur, but there was morning light outside the window when she finished and gave him back the clothes to try again. After a second round of measuring and marking, and dressed back in his casual clothes, he watched as she attacked them with needle and thread. He hoped she knew he was on a timeline, although he figured she probably had a better idea of when Princess Celestia would arrive than he did. Since Lyra wasn't back yet, it was probably well before she was due to arrive. Her work didn't take very long at all, and she put the clothes back on the bed for him. Once again, he returned dressed; once again, she examined him from every angle, made a few more marks on the clothing, and pointed back at the bed. When she'd finished with her third set of alterations, he got dressed again, and posed again. She gave him a curt nod and wound up her measuring tape, and Dale breathed a sigh of relief. She gathered up her bags and went into the hall. Dale glanced out the doorway just in time to see her barge into Kate's room. For a moment, he thought about helping her, but then he decided that since there was at least one nurse in the room she’d be fine. He opened the dresser drawer, grabbed his coffee mug, and headed downstairs for seconds. As he went downstairs, he kept repeating Princess Celestia’s name over and over again.