DaveShack looks at the dispatch in his grape juice stained hands again, trying to puzzle out what all the markings mean. It's not a map, not even one of the crude experimental drawings the scholors have been showing off and saying they may understand instantaneously once they have worked out their great philosophy. In fact it isn't technically even writing, as close as we might be to understanding its mysteries. And there is something about the proportions of the drawings, like they don't seem to fit the natural world. Someone is rumored to be working on a very arcane subject called math which is supposed to make it easier to talk about sizes and distances, but it sure doesn't seem like we're going to understand it any time soon.
In any event, one thing about the dispatch is clear -- the coastline that our brave curragh is exploring is
very long indeed, as though it might border all the land in the world! What did Culture Consul Provolution tell us this lighthouse thing does? Allows ships to cross to other lands? That's kinda funny, there dont seem to be any other lands.
Several youngsters pass by drinking slightly fermented grape juice and yukking it up about how they drink gallons of the stuff to get a "buzz". Dolts, he thinks to himself, you have to let the stuff age a bit before it gets a real kick. Good thing they dont know about the Presidental cellar.
Sure hope nobody catches on to why I'm reserving a couple of barrels a year of the best grapes for myself! Or where these grape juice stains are coming from -- can't leave making all that wine to others, not and keep it long enough to let it get good.
DaveShack comes out of his daydream with a jolt as he realizes the voting cave entrance is just ahead. Gathering himself up in an image of presidental dignity he enters and proclaims "Wait, this lighthouse might not be such a good idea -- the Inquisitor's reports say it's looking like there are no other lands to discover, so what is the point?" He is a bit taken aback as the crowd gasps, and then starts to snicker. He notices there gaze is directed downward. "Oh no, not again" he groans, "why can't my tailor come up with a belt that actually stays fastened?", and turns away to search for the missing belt -- and the loincloth it is supposed to secure.