"Yes," Lyra said. Fancy Pants didn't speak right away, but began flipping through his notes. I hope I'm done, Lyra thought. Her ears perked at an odd drumming noise, and she looked over at Dale, who had set down the pen and was pounding his fingers against the table in a strange rhythm. Her eyes narrowed—they were moving in a wave-like manner, but what did it mean? She'd seen Spike tap a single claw on a table when he was irritated; did that mean Dale was four times as irritated? "Is Dale—" she began, struggling to think of the next word.