“I'm sure you're doing your very best,” she said. “Well, there we are. A great pity. But enough of that for now. Tell me about the new separator.”
Lyra felt a thrill of fear. There was only one thing this could mean.
“Ah,” said the doctor, relieved to find the conversation turning to another subject, “there's a real advance. With the first model we could never entirely overcome the risk of „ the patient dying of shock, but we've improved that no end.”
“The Skraelings did it better by hand,” said a man who hadn't spoken yet.
“Centuries of practice,” said the other man.
“But simply tearing was the only option for some time,” said the main speaker, “however distressing that was to the adult operators. If you remember, we had to discharge quite a number for reasons of stress-related anxiety. But the first big breakthrough was the use of anesthesia combined with the Maystadt anbaric scalpel. We were able to reduce death from operative shock to below five percent.”
“And the new instrument?” said Mrs. Coulter.
Lyra was trembling. The blood was pounding in her ears, and Pantalaimon was pressing his ermine form against her side, and whispering, “Hush, Lyra, they won't do it—we won't let them do it—”
“Yes, it was a curious discovery by Lord Asriel himself that gave us the key to the new method. He discovered that an alloy of manganese and titanium has the property of insulating body from daemon. By the way, what is happening with Lord Asriel?”
“Perhaps you haven't heard,” said Mrs. Coulter. “Lord Asriel is under suspended sentence of death. One of the conditions of his exile in Svalbard was that he give up his philosophical work entirely. Unfortunately, he managed to obtain books and materials, and he's pushed his heretical investigations to the point where it's positively dangerous to let him live. At any rate, it seems that the Vatican Council has begun to debate the question of the sentence of death, and the probability is that it'll be carried out. But your new instrument, Doctor. How does it work?”
“Ah—yes—sentence of death, you say? Gracious God…I'm sorry. The new instrument. We're investigating what happens when the intercision is made with the patient in a conscious state, and of course that couldn't be done with the Maystadt process. So we've developed a kind of guillotine, I suppose you could say. The blade is made of manganese and titanium alloy, and the child is placed in a compartment—like a small cabin— of alloy mesh, with the daemon in a similar compartment connecting with it. While there is a connection, of course, the link remains. Then the blade is brought down between them, severing the link at once. They are then separate entities.”
“I should like to see it,” she said. “Soon, I hope. But I'm tired now. I think I'll go to bed. I want to see all the children tomorrow. We shall find out who opened that door.”
There was the sound of chairs being pushed back, polite expressions, a door closing. Then Lyra heard the others sit down again, and go on talking, but more quietly.
“What is Lord Asriel up to?”
“I think he's got an entirely different idea of the nature of Dust. That's the point. It's profoundly heretical, you see, and the Consistorial Court of Discipline can't allow any other interpretation than the authorized one. And besides, he wants to experiment—”
“To experiment? With Dust?”
“Hush! Not so loud…”
“Do you think she'll make an unfavorable report?”
“No, no. I think you dealt with her very well.”
“Her attitude worries me….”
“Not philosophical, you mean?”
“Exactly. A personal interest. I don't like to use the word, but it's almost ghoulish.”
“That's a bit strong.”
“But do you remember the first experiments, when she was so keen to see thefn pulled apart—”
Lyra,coutdn't help it: a little cry escaped her, and at the same time she tensed and shivered, and her foot knocked against a stanchion.
“What was that?”
“In the ceiling—”
“Quick!”
The sound of chairs being thrown aside, feet running, a table pulled across the floor. Lyra tried to scramble away, but there was so little space, and before she could move more than a few yards the ceiling panel beside her was thrust up suddenly, and she was looking into the startled face of a man. She was close enough to see every hair in his moustache. He was as startled as she was, but with more freedom to move, he was able to thrust a hand into the gap and seize her arm.
“A child!”
“Don't let her go—”
Lyra sank her teeth into his large freckled hand. He cried out, but didn't let go, even when she drew blood. Pan-talaimon was snarling and spitting, but it was no good, the man was much stronger than she was, and he pulled and pulled until her other hand, desperately clinging to the stanchion, had to loosen, and she half-fell through into the room.
Still she didn't utter a sound. She hooked her legs over the sharp edge of the metal above, and struggled upside down, scratching, biting, punching, spitting in passionate fury. The men were gasping and grunting with pain or exertion, but they pulled and pulled.
And suddenly all the strength went out of her.
It was as if an alien hand had reached right inside where no hand had a right to be, and wrenched at something deep and precious.
She felt faint, dizzy, sick, disgusted, limp with shock.
One of the men was holding Pantalaimon.
He had seized Lyra's daemon in his human hands, and poor Pan was shaking, nearly out of his mind with horror and disgust. His wildcat shape, his fur now dull with weakness, now sparking glints of anbaric alarm…He curved toward his Lyra as she reached with both hands for him….