Word spread quickly in the small village. So did the fire. It started late that night in the tallying shed. Then it spread to a nearby chicken coop, one of several scattered seemingly at random throughout the village, where it consumed a meal of hay and one slow hen. From there, it made its way to an even smaller shed containing barrels and jars of fish oil.
Everyone in the village was already awake when the stored oil violently erupted in flame, raining fiery droplets onto the wood-shingled roof of the citrus barn. Tam and MO-126 stood at the edge of the unfolding mayhem as people grabbed buckets and did their best to save what they could. The storyteller android was among them.
While Moby watched Ronny, he himself ought to have been watching the shed, MO-126 thought. He should have known that this was where the villagers would vent their frustration. Oh, they might be angry at their new Numbers-Keeper. Call him names, maybe even push him around a little, inflict a few bruises, perhaps, but he seemed a likeable young man. Everyone here knew him. It wasn’t a large enough place for strangers. He was one of their own, with a mother and father who must be nice people in their own right to raise a son like that. But the shed with the offensive clay tablets wasn’t alive. It had no family. And now, it was fast becoming nothing but a possible source of charcoal.
“MO-126, It’s Moby, I mean, MO-72. There’s a group of men here at Ronny’s place—with torches. Tell Tam to find Sydon and get down here.”
Then again, there were always some. The mad dog kind of humans whose normal reaction to stress was to metaphorically bite someone—and their granny, no matter how nice she might be.
He relayed the message to his partner, homed in on Moby’s location, and ran.