Ch.132Act 1: Ch.9 – The King Sleeps in Carcosa (1)

# July 11, 1929. 10:43 AM

Crayfield’s Office

22 Gorde Street, Pollard Island

What wind could have possibly blown in?

As soon as I arrived at work this morning, Crayfield flung open the windows, declaring, “It’s spring cleaning, assistant. Spring cleaning!” He dragged the metal cabinets into the hallway and pulled open every drawer, emptying their contents completely. By the time we finished sweating profusely and removing all the trash, it was nearly lunchtime.

“Strange, isn’t it? Why doesn’t this place feel any cleaner no matter how much we tidy up?”

I pointed to Crayfield’s wooden desk. It was covered in cigarette burn marks, stubborn stains, and the side had even split open. I told him the office would never look clean unless that desk was replaced.

“But that desk is my friend. My second-best friend after you.”

Even as he said this, Crayfield lit a cigarette. I asked him where cigarettes ranked among his friends. After taking a deep drag, he replied:

“Cigarettes aren’t friends. They’re more like lovers. Wonderful when lit, but nothing more disgusting than when they’re extinguished.”

I asked when he had started dating this precious lover of his. Crayfield inhaled deeply, then counted on his palm.

“Well. Definitely more than ten years. So that would be… anyway, quite a while ago. When I first smoked. Ha. Thinking back on it makes me sad. I lit the filter end! That’s why people should know how to do things properly. It doesn’t matter if you’re good at it or not, but you should know what’s right.”

Tired from the morning’s exertion, I collapsed onto the sofa. Crayfield opened the Pollard Times.

“Hmm. A play? There’s going to be a theatrical performance on Pollard Island. ‘Sensational show finally comes to Pollard!’ Mayor Arthur Black’s hard work is finally paying off. Cultural events like this happening here. Next thing you know, we’ll have a movie theater.”

Thump. Thump. Footsteps approached—the distinctive rhythm of Josh Graham that both Crayfield and I knew well.

“He’s going to ruin another pair of shoes. I don’t understand how he falls for it every time.”

Crayfield snickered like a child who had set a trap for his parents. But the footsteps didn’t stop. A moment later, Josh appeared at the office entrance. He had grown much fatter since I last saw him.

“My goodness, who do we have here? Chief Inspector Josh Graham, what brings you to grace us with your presence!”

Crayfield gave a playful salute.

“Are you making fun of me too?”

Josh grumbled as he slumped onto the sofa. Climbing the stairs had apparently tired him, as he wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Promotion is a good thing, Josh. So, are you getting the silver platter treatment? I heard Scarface serves drinks on silver platters!”

“I’m working overtime every day, my friend. Give me a cigarette.”

Crayfield opened his cigarette case with a flourish. “What? I only have one left.” He hesitated briefly.

“Are you going to give it to me or not?”

“Ah, youth these days.” Crayfield lit the last cigarette and handed it over. Josh complained about getting Camel instead of Lucky Strike, but soon his eyes began to flutter.

“Whoa. I’m dizzy. It hits differently when you haven’t smoked in a while.”

“I assume you’ve already seen the missus?”

“How did you know?”

“Because if you went to see her after smoking, she’d beat you to death. So, what’s troubling you?”

“Good grief, this is disgusting.”

For some reason, Josh grumbled for a while. Crayfield glanced at him sideways and cleared his throat. It was an attempt to help him speak more easily.

“Say, Josh. Are your shoes intact?”

“Shoes? Why? Oh, speaking of which, that landing of yours. The nail was completely missing, you know?”

Crayfield’s face momentarily froze. “Missing?”

“Yes, it was gone. Strangely enough. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, I can just hammer it back in.” Crayfield crumpled his empty cigarette pack and tossed it onto the desk. “Anyway, what’s keeping you working overtime without even going home?”

“What else? The performance. Don’t you read the papers?”

“I have a condition where I get sleepy when I see letters in the morning.”

“A big show is coming.” Josh stroked his unshaven beard.

“In a week. Setting up the stage and everything takes a lot of work, but honestly, that’s not the main issue. The problem is the thugs.”

“What kind of thugs show up for a single performance?” Crayfield frowned.

“Well, it’s a four-act play, but they’ve never completed the third act. Something always happens. Traffic accidents, missing actors, disturbances in the theater… don’t get me started. There are even rumors that violent incidents increase on days when the play is performed.”

“That’s all nonsense. It’s just advertising. I’m disappointed that someone of your rank as Chief Inspector would repeat the kind of gossip you’d find in yellow tabloids.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” Josh sighed.

“The content of the play is extremely sensitive. Racial discrimination, women’s issues, prohibition, the mafia… it touches on every controversial topic possible. The content is incredibly obscure, and everyone who sees it comes away with a different interpretation.”

“Is it some kind of Nostradamus prophecy? Something that can be interpreted any way you want?”

“How would I know? I’m not even interested in what the play is about. That’s entertainment for idle people like you, not for old men with rigid minds like me.”

Clearly dissatisfied, Josh tapped his shoes on the floor.

“Anyway, these are special orders from Mayor Arthur Black. Let in as many tourists as possible, but strictly control any disturbances in town. Crayfield, does that make any sense to you?”

“In my opinion, you should send a polite suggestion to the mayor,” Crayfield said, stubbing out his cigarette butt on the desk.

“Just let the wallets through and leave the tourists at the Kingsport dock. I think the mayor would prefer that.”

“You should submit that anonymously. Anyway, be especially careful when walking around downtown. Particularly near the Trieste Theater. And don’t get caught wandering around with liquor bottles. Keep that in mind.”

The Trieste Theater. Owned by the White Hand. Right next to it was the newly opened casino by Aurora. Crayfield and I exchanged glances. Josh looked at the clock on the wall and stood up.

“By the way, aren’t you going to replace that clock?”

“There’s a heartbreaking story behind it.”

“Then at least get it repaired. I noticed earlier that the hour hand keeps going back and forth between 12 and 1. Look, it’s doing it now.”

Josh was right. The Doomsday Clock’s hour hand kept moving back and forth between 12 and 1. Crayfield’s mouth twitched momentarily, but he skillfully disguised it by pretending to wipe his lips.

“Oh, Josh?”

Crayfield called out to Josh as he was about to leave.

“What’s the name of the play?”

“The title was something like ‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa.’ Something like that.”

Josh walked down the stairs. Once his footsteps had completely faded, Crayfield and I went to the landing. Just as Josh had said, the nail was completely missing.

Crayfield brought a hammer from the office. He placed a nail on the landing and hammered it in. With a bang, the nail bent. Crayfield stared at the bent nail for a while, then tossed it into the corner of the stairwell.

“Carcosa.” Crayfield bit his lower lip.

“Crayfield, what’s going on?” I asked. “What’s happening? Why is the Doomsday Clock acting like that, and what’s with the missing nail?”

“Let’s go back to the office.” Crayfield and I returned to the office. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a brown paper envelope. It was quite thick, but he just tossed it onto the desk.

“Do you remember what the nail head means?”

“Of course I do.” I explained to Crayfield what I knew.

The nail head is a kind of Easter egg. When major updates or patches occur in this world, the nail head quietly goes back in. Through that nail head, Crayfield can determine what changes have occurred in this world.

“Yes, that’s right. But I have a confession to make. There was actually no nail head there. This nail head was, well, a kind of backdoor.”

“A backdoor?”

“A back entrance. A way to exploit a vulnerability in this massive game. An editor. A cheat. Variable modification. Call it what you will. But there’s only one case when it gets pulled out. When it’s blocked. And if it’s blocked, it means he’s directly intervened.”

“Who?”

“Drugstore.” Crayfield, who had been rummaging through his pockets, punched the wall. He seemed to have just realized he was out of cigarettes.

“The one who put me here.”

“And the clock going back and forth between 12 and 1?”

“In and out. In and out. It’s like when you keep rebooting a computer when there’s a problem. Something similar. He’s testing now. The performance is in a week, right?”

“Yes,” I answered. Crayfield handed me the brown envelope.

“I need you to go to Miskatonic University by the fastest transportation available. Professor Henry Armitage has apparently been reinstated as the library director. Show him this book, ask him to compare it with the missing parts from other books, and let me know. And tell him to always be with a dog.”

“A dog?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “You mean a barking dog?”

“Yes, that ‘woof-woof.’ Look, the number doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t have to be the same dog. But whenever he’s translating that book, he must be with a dog. Actually, tell him he could even translate it next to the veterinary classroom.”

“Alright, alright, just calm down. What else?”

“If you see Henry Payne outside, slap him and tell him to call Catherine Scully. If you can’t find him, ask Professor Armitage.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Crayfield glared at the office door. A human silhouette was standing there. It was strange. There hadn’t been any footsteps at all. It was as if he had been there from the beginning.

He was a handsome young man with neat brown hair. His jawline was slightly long, but his blue suit with black vertical stripes was extremely sophisticated. He even had a red rose pinned to his lapel.

“No. On second thought, do whatever you want, Crayfield.”

I looked at him, but he completely ignored me and pushed his way into the office. I could see Crayfield clenching his fist.

“Drugstore.”

Crayfield growled, as if chewing tough meat.

The Doomsday Clock’s hour hand continued to move back and forth between 12 and 1.