Have Imagination, Will Travel

by Adam Carter

  She wondered whether she had a case of giving thumbs-up an apostrophe.

  “It would depend,” Tarne said aloud. “There are also singulars and plurals to consider; yet probably not the plural, because it would mean my-thumbs-are-up.”

  “God, you’re not still going on about punctuation are you?” Kiel said from inside.

  “Well I should think that ...”

  “Call me back when you have something to report.”

  Kiel cut the connection.

  “Charming,” Tarne muttered. Tarne decided that since she was alone now, she may as well get on with things. After all, she had forgotten to check the oxygen gauge in her suit prior to venturing out, and supposed that while it may have been a test of her abilities to determine just when she was about to die, she would have preferred to have presented herself with a somewhat more sensible test. Thus did she check the hull as best she was able, and finally determined the re-entry had not actually done that much damage to the vessel; it had just moulded everything together. So long as the engine still worked, there didn’t seem any reason the vessel shouldn’t be able to fly again. Just so long as they got it somewhere to repair it properly sooner rather than later.

  And that was not a psychic prediction, just plain common sense.

  “Looks bad.”

  “Hmm,” Tarne agreed, then realised someone else had said the first two words. She looked about sharply and saw a small being floating without the aid of a space suit and clearly without any influence from gravity. He was only a foot in height and had dull skin. His eyes were larger than those of a human and while he lacked any actual hair, he had a thin covering of downy fur running across his entire body. When he had come into Tarne’s life, he had introduced himself as Dixie and had told her he was of the faerie-folk, specifically a pixie. That his name was supposedly Dixie the pixie did not seem to register upon him, although since Tarne didn’t believe him, she didn’t mention it. Dixie was not much help in anything, and generally all he ever did was get in her way. Moreover, the others tended to ignore him entirely, and Tarne decided her problems had all begun when she had decided not to ignore him but had answered him when he had one day said good morning.

  He had dogged her ever since.

  Tarne wished she had seen that coming too.

  “Go away, Dixie, I’m busy,” she said in what she hoped was a most authoritative voice.

  “So I can see,” Dixie said, peering over her shoulder. “By the damage done to this thing, you’d think the Nagas had attacked or something.”

  “Look,” Tarne snapped, “do you want to let me get on with this or do you want to hover there all day annoying me?”

  “Sure, if you like.”

  Tarne tried not to show her annoyance and began to head back for the door. It was difficult moving in the suit, although somehow she managed to reach the door to radio Kiel. “There’s a lot of fused metal out here, but nothing I can really fix. Not here anyway.”

  “Fine. Come back in and I’ll tell the captain. Kiel out.”

  “Well, she sounded less than pleased,” Dixie said.

  “Yeah, because it was such good news I was giving her,” Tarne said sarcastically. She punched a switch and the outer door slid across. She stepped in and closed it before Dixie could follow, then breathed a sigh of relief as she leaned against the inside of the door, waiting for the airlock to pressurise so she could remove her helmet. A green light finally flicked on above the far doorway and Tarne removed her suit, carefully hanging it on the racks beside the others. She made her way quickly to the control room and found both Kiel and Darkthorne effecting what repairs they could.

  “We good to go?” Tarne asked.

  “Just about,” Darkthorne said, flicking a switch on a console. Sparks began to fly and he leaped back in surprise.

  “Try not to help fix anything,” Kiel cautioned him and turned off the sputtering console. “And don’t look as though you know what you’re doing, it’s dangerous.”

  Darkthorne ignored her and tried his radio. “Sparky, tell me you have some good news.”

  “I have some good news,” Sparky said.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, you just told me to tell you I had some.”

  Tarne had been through these conversations before, really didn’t want to sit through another, so activated her own radio. “Sparky, those engines ready to roll yet?”

  “Just finished them now, Heather.”

  “Then let’s get out of here. Unless you have any further objections, Captain?”

  “But I haven’t objected at all yet,” he protested.

  “That was an objection if ever I did hear one,” Tarne said, taking her seat beside the window. She saw a dancing mad figure upon the rocks below and began to hum an old song about seeing green trees and red roses.

  “Where?” Darkthorne asked, straining to see.

  Tarne immediately blocked his vision with her own body. “Uh, just raise the ship, sir.”

  Kiel turned a frown upon her. “Sir? No one on this vessel has respect enough for Jagrad to call him sir.”

  Darkthorne, however, seemed very pleased with himself as he settled into his chair and faced front. “Officer Kiel, begin lift-off procedures when you’re ready.”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Kiel muttered. “He thinks we’re in the army now.”

  But Kiel did not object further, and within minutes the vessel had risen and was streaking off through the sky. Tarne continued to watch the fast disappearing figure of Dixie the pixie and laughed heartily to herself. “Hmm-mmm-mmm ... what a wonderful world.”

  PRESENT CHAPTER

  Call us day,

  Call us night,

  And come what may

  We’ll solve your plight.

  Heather Tarne winced as she read the sign. She had hoped it was going to look a bit better once it was hanging there on the front of the door, although she still could not take it seriously. “You want my honest opinion on it, then?”

  Damian ‘Sparky’ Parkes nodded enthusiastically. He was a young man only just into his twenties, and he was as excitable as always. “That’s what I asked for,” he said with his perpetual grin.

  “Well I suppose it’s a little late to change it now, eh?”

  Sparky’s permanent grin suddenly proved it wasn’t permanent after all.

  “Not that it’s a bad slogan,” Tarne said quickly, realising she had hurt his feelings. After all, he had probably stayed up all night thinking that up. “It’s just ...” she fought for a way out of her insult, “it’s just ... I’m not sure if any client would take us seriously after seeing that plastered over our office door.”

  “Calling cards, then?” Sparky asked hopefully.

  “Ah ... possibly calling cards, yes.”

  “Good, because I’ve just had the first five hundred back from the printers.”

  “Five ... Maybe we should tone down on the printing a bit, yeah? I mean,” she added when she saw a repeat of his crestfallen expression, “once we have a few more clients, then we can afford to have some more cards printed, you with me?”

  “Sure,” Sparky said with a smirk, “but you don’t get clients without advertising, right?”

  If he mentions chickens and eggs, Tarne promised herself, I’m going to brain him with that sign.

  Sparky had come to them through a temp agency a couple of years back and they had ended up taking him on properly. It had cost them more money than they had expected, for they were new to the business world and didn’t know they had to actually pay the agency if they wanted to keep the temp permanently, but they were still finding their legs, and as such there were bound to be a few pitfalls. And once they had found their legs, Tarne wondered how long it would be before they all decided to use those legs to run away from the taxman when he came calling.

  “You been inside yet?” Tarne asked, and Sparky shook his head. “Then allow me to give you the grand tour.” She placed her
hand upon the doorknob and turned it, thanking the Lord it was actually unlocked. The door opened into a room too spacious for just the four people who worked there, but it was nicely furnished and actually looked like a real office. There were chairs in one corner about a small rounded table adorned with various magazines, while the other side of the office held a desk and a computer. It was perhaps not the most up-to-date PC they could find, but it was certainly the best they could afford. They had had a lot of money to begin with, although the venture seemed to swallow it up, and Tarne was surprised at how costly everything was proving to be. The office, however, was gratifying to her eyes, for at least this was something which seemed to have been handled correctly.

  “I’m impressed,” Sparky said.

  “You’re not the only one,” Tarne muttered to herself.

  “You really do sound surprised, Heather.” The voice belonged to Jagrad Darkthorne. He entered the room via another door and set his coffee mug proclaiming him to be the ‘world’s greatest mum’ on his desk before taking a seat at his computer. He wore black trousers, a clean white shirt and a suitable tie. Even his usually messy hair seemed to have been combed this morning, and Tarne found herself surprised by a great deal this day. “You expected me to fail, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “Well I ...”

  “Be honest, Heather.”

  “Jagrad, everything you’ve touched these past few years has fallen apart, I really just didn’t expect for this one to be much different.”

  Darkthorne thought back to those former projects. “Trying to get the standard size of paper for photocopiers to be A6 in an effort to be more environmentally friendly,” he said. “All right, I’ll admit that one was a bit far-fetched.”

  “What, while manufacturing real chocolate pennies wasn’t?”

  “Hey, I was never really serious about that one, you know.”

  “Like you weren’t serious about creating a roller skate which had a speed-limit device attached?”

  “Could have been incorporated into skateboards and those annoying things old people drive like bullets across the pavement.”

  “And the exporting sand to Egypt project?”

  “Hey, I stand in complete defence over ... I never wanted to do that.”

  “I know, and it’s actually quite disturbing that you’d be willing to defend it if you had.”

  “Well at least you’re impressed by the office.”

  “Hmm. Although it does look more than a little like a doctor’s waiting room over there.” She indicated the small round table and the magazines.

  “Indeed,” Darkthorne said, spreading his hands. “And over here is the surgery.”

  “I can’t believe you just said ... actually I can.” Jagrad Darkthorne came from a very wealthy family. Tarne was not certain from where the money in his family had come, and had never asked. She had always supposed it came through a family history of exports and imports, or perhaps something in the oil trade. Whatever the source, the name of Darkthorne commanded respect, and it was to this that Heather Tarne had become attracted. Jagrad had wanted to cast off on his own to prove himself, and had taken a lot of money that this end might be achieved. He had attempted several ventures which all ended rather sourly. He now had little of that money left and had turned his attentions onto one final outing. He had decided to go into the business of being a private detective. Tarne knew nothing about such a business, although had researched it, since she was certain that was the one thing from which Darkthorne would shy away.

  Tarne did not know what she was even still doing with him, for obviously he had no head for business, and he had already lost most of his money. But she told herself that so long as she remained by his side, things would eventually have to get better. After all, they could hardly get much worse. If she left now, she would have to start anew, perhaps even get herself a real job. The one thing of which she was absolutely certain was that Jagrad Darkthorne was stupid enough to let her control his money should he ever make enough for her to actually want to control it. Just so long as she didn’t have to marry him in order to get his money, Tarne didn’t really foresee any problems.

  “Has Sara seen this place yet?” Sparky asked, moving about the whole office and poking his nose into every little crack just to get the feel of the place.

  “Sara’s coming by shortly,” Darkthorne said. “I think she said she was going to meet a potential client or something.”

  “Or something?” Tarne said. “Jagrad, clients are the most important thing right now, because clients mean money, of which we have very little. Once we have money and clients coming out of our earholes, then you can be not certain where your staff are.”

  “She may have gone out for pizza,” Darkthorne suggested.

  Sparky grinned. “Pizza, all right!”

  Tarne rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I bother sometimes.”

  “I don’t know why you bother ever,” Darkthorne laughed. “I’m getting too old to change my ways now, you know.”

  “Jagrad,” Tarne looked at him sternly, “you haven’t even hit thirty yet.”

  “I know, but I was referring to the mental age, not the physical.”

  “This is a debate I don’t intend to get involved in,” Tarne said. “So who’s the client?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, has anyone responded to the ad you placed in the Times?”

  “Nope. I did get one who responded to the ad we placed in the tabloids, though.”

  Tarne winced. “You placed an ad in the tabloids? I hope you dumbed down the words a bit.”

  “Sure did,” Darkthorne said. “It read ‘Call us day, call us night, and come what may we’ll set you right.’”

  “I really don’t want to know what kind of response you got to that. Please tell me you refrained from placing any poems in the Times.”

  “Sure, if it’ll make you feel any better.”

  “Then we’ll have to fall back on the calling cards,” Sparky said gleefully. “I’ll start giving them out this afternoon.”

  “Just don’t start pinning them up in phone booths,” Tarne said. “That’s all we need.”

  “It does have the words ‘Private Investigators on the cards, Heather,” Darkthorne reminded her.

  “Oh and that makes them so much the better for it. Honestly, we need to do TV, or at least a short on the radio.”

  “Television’s out,” Darkthorne said.

  “At least consider it.”

  “No, I mean we’re disconnected, so I threw it out.”

  “But I lent you that TV.”

  “Don’t worry, we can get the news through the papers.”

  Being behind in the news was not something which sat well with Tarne. “Tell me about that database you seemed so proud of on the phone.”

  Darkthorne did grin now, for this was something about which he could really get excited. “Heather, I’d like you to meet Princess Aurellia.” He tapped something into the computer, and information began scrolling up on the screen. “It can store an accurate record of every client we have and tie everything sufficiently into the courts. I reckon most of our work is going to involve dealing with lawyers and suchlike, so we have to make sure everything is above-board.”

  “And this system can do that?”

  “It’s designed to alert us if we’re doing anything wrong.”

  Tarne tried to ignore that comment, found she could not, and said, “I suppose it’s something of a silly question to ask whether you have the proper licences for all of this?”

  “Wouldn’t get anywhere without licences,” Darkthorne said. “Everything has been put through the Association of British Investigators; and so long as we have their approval, we know we’re all right.”

  “I’ll assume then that they’re the law for private investigators,” Tarne said.

  Darkthorne nodded. “Something like that.”

  “Knock knock.”

  They both looked up as a woman ente
red. She was tall, smartly dressed and far too serious of expression. She was also carrying some form of box.

  “Hi, Sara,” Tarne said from where she was seated upon the edge of Darkthorne’s desk. “What ya got in the box?”

  “That the pizza?” Sparky asked.

  “Pizza?” Sara Kiel asked through narrowing eyes. “You honestly think I’d go out for pizza?”

  “Gee, sorry I mentioned it.”

  Tarne left them at this point, for the opening of the door had allowed her dog to scamper inside. Warner was only a small dog, a terrier, and thankfully no one seemed to have noticed him yet. She knew Darkthorne would not appreciate him running round his nice new office, so she quickly herded the dog into a corner and whispered harshly that he should stay there. Thankfully everyone seemed far too interested in the box Kiel had brought in to be paying much attention to anything else, and as Tarne made her way back over, it was to find that Kiel had removed something from the casing. She held in her hands some form of stone artefact. She did not know what it was, although it was clearly ancient. It was roughly spherical, with jagged edges on the one side, and a faint pattern carved across its surface. There were signs of faces carved into the surface, although most of the pictorial highlights had been worn away over time.

  “What is it?” Sparky asked. “An ancient Greek football?”

  “The ancient Greeks did not have footballs,” Kiel told him sourly.

  “I take it it’s worth no small amount of money,” Tarne said, wondering whether Kiel would snap at her if she reached out to touch it.

  “I wouldn’t know its worth,” Kiel said, “although for us it’s priceless.”

  “Well,” Darkthorne said, “I think we’ve all been kept in suspense quite long enough, Sara. Time to tell us what it is now.”

  “A mediaeval globe, stupid. What’s it look like?”

  “Regardless of how much you would like to insult me today,” Darkthorne said, “how exactly is this thing going to help us, Sara?”

  “Maybe it needs someone finding,” Sparky suggested. “Or perhaps it thinks its wife is having an affair.”