Titus splashed into the cellar and struck out for the hypertransmitter.
It was a peculiar flood. Suffusing the water was a thick scum that flashed iridescently as it caught the glint of light from the ceiling. He stuck his finger into the dross and applied it to the tip of his tongue.
Syrup!
He thought of the thousands of barrels that had been dumped into the lake and surmised that the contaminated water was backing up through the drainage system.
He altered course for the pumps.
And, like ships in convoy, a score of virtuosos invaded the cellar, paddling in his wake.
The soprano's piercing voice assailed his ears. "In all my theatrical experience, I have never been subjected to such indignity! I insist—"
But a violinist pushed forward, wielding his bow like a stiff finger. "You, sir, are holding back on us. No doubt you know what our future instructions are."
"I've never seen such fascist highhandedness," complained a diminutive choreographer in the uniform of a Palosov Rocket Dancer. "In the name of the ministry of culture of the Eastern Federation, I demand to see a representative of His Imperial Highness!"