The smart aren’t immune to the calls from the Dreams. The calls reach anywhere, and draw in anyone.
I reached for the first door, and tripped. So much for a quiet, stealthy entry. I found myself tumbling down a slope in the company of a growing mass of tumbleweed. The silence that enveloped everything was eerie. For at least ten minutes there was nothing but the occasional crunch of a weed after a particularly bad landing.
When the worlds stopped spinning, I attempted to stand, but was too enmeshed in the tangle to move far. It took a fair bit of patience and some borrowed tools to separate me from the pile.
As I lay there, barely scratched and hardly bruised, I could hear frogs singing in the distance and a chicken scratching around nearby.
The white sand beach was unblemished as far as the eye could see. Unblemished until the group of men in wet-suits walked out of the sapphire-blue water and left a trail of footprints as they made their way to the nearest stand of trees. A few minutes later, a tuxedo-clad group of men sauntered off the beach, clearly just returning from a bout of quiet trouble.
The evidence was all there.
It was also all a lie.
The wet-suits were indeed in the trees, but they were also full of drying flesh, and each had a serious leak that looked suspiciously like blood.
The bat-drone told that version of the story from its vantage hanging from a tree-branch.
The actual spy was already ashore, having a spot of tea while the diversion was creating a backlog of plausible deniability for his cover. His actual target was at the next table, just beginning to be distracted by the confusing array of reports received. A degree of confusion which would likely prove fatal shortly.