Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt

by Earth, Air, Fire

  'I see,' Paul said, bending the truth like a bowstring. His head was hurting, a real Force Eight little-men-with-pickaxes job, but he ignored it. 'So I was right, and it was you that made Neptune get out of the way.'

  'Of course not. I merely moved a ball-bearing along a wire. The professor sighed audibly. 'Think it over, Mr Carpenter, and it will come to you, I'm sure. Meanwhile, we must retune the abacus. I suspect it may be as much as 0.000000000000000000000l picohertz out of true, which for fine work would render it not merely useless but dangerous as well.'

  Paul knew that he should know better; but he couldn't let it pass so lightly. 'Professor,' he said, 'you just saved the world. And the human race and things. Isn't that-?'

  'Business.' A mild click of the tongue, a patient man tolerating the fact that his good nature is being taken advantage of. 'You wish me to explain my motivations, Mr Carpenter, when we should be recalibrating this instrument. However.' He tutted, more in sorrow than in irritation, and shifted just a tad in his chair. 'I suppose we should clear up this issue now, before it causes problems. Mr Carpenter, the procedure you have just witnessed, one small movement of a metal bead along a short length of ordinary fuse wire, was the culmination of over three hundred hours of intensive calculation and research, and my time is neither infinite nor entirely without value. Why would I want to do a thing like that?'

  'To save the planet, of course,' Paul said, relieved that for once someone at JWW had asked him a question he could answer. 'Otherwise there'd have been an ice age, and we'd all-'

  'No.' The professor was trying to be kind, but he wasn't finding it easy. 'For money, Mr Carpenter. To make money for the firm's clients, and for my partners and myself. There is no other reason. One must earn a living, after all.'

  'Sure,' Paul said, 'the same way doctors get paid for curing sick people. But really-'

  'Not at all.' There were tiny flecks of annoyance in the professor's bland voice. 'We are retained by a major food-processing and retailing multinational. They are aware that sunspot activity results in climate change, which in turn affects the growth of crops. A glut of any given commodity allows them to reduce the price they pay to their suppliers, which means increased margins and greater profits. Since even VogMart cannot afford the cost of launching nuclear missiles at the sun, they hired us to cause sunspots. This I have done; the adjustment in Neptune's orbit will have an immediate effect, and next year there will be the required glut of coffee and bananas. The English summer will also be the wettest in thirty years, resulting in a rash of late foreign-holiday bookings, which will justify the trust placed in us by our clients in the travel and aviation sectors. And that,' he added, absently scratching his chin with his forefinger, 'is all there is to it.'

  'But-' Paul struggled to find the words he needed. 'You really mean to say that saving the world was, like, a coincidence?'

  The professor's laugh was not entirely kind. 'Hardly,' he said. 'Economy of effort is the key to productivity and profitability. By choosing very carefully the timing and nature of my intervention, I was able - what is the proverb, now? - to kill multiple birds with one projectile. I told you just now that there would be bumper harvests of cocoa and soya beans in 2579. I shall still be very much alive when that happens, and my stockbrokers will still be in business. An investment of twenty-five pence now, suitably managed over the intervening period, will provide the funds necessary to buy a controlling interest in the commodities markets in good time for me to take maximum advantage of those exceptional harvests. In 2580, I shall be the third richest man on the planet.'

  Whatever it was Paul had intended to say to that, it came out as a muted whimper. The professor clicked his tongue again, and went on: 'Finally, there is the regulatory aspect to be considered. Our industry is governed by a voluntary ethical-standards agreement. Basically, if we fulfil our quota of good works, we are left alone by government. The agreement has to be self-regulating, since only we can understand it; we work on the honesty principle, like people who leave trays of tomato plants outside their houses and trust you to put money in a coffee tin when you take some. We fill our quota, because we must, but it's entirely up to us to choose which good works we do. And today, I have saved the human race from extinction five centuries hence. I will send a detailed report to the relevant department of the Home Office, and they will pass on my data to their scientists, who will eventually confirm, once they have progressed far enough in their understanding of astronomy, that Neptune did indeed shift in its orbit for no readily apparent reason, and that Lefkowitz's Comet is currently on a collision course with Mars, and that the adjustment in Neptune's orbit has obviated that threat. There, you see: three birds for my stone, all of which taken together exactly justify the expense of time and resources I have devoted to this project. In taking the time to explain these simple facts to you, I have regrettably reduced the profit element of the project by 0.4 13 per cent, so I trust you will agree that we should now get on with the recalibrations without further delay.'

  That was Paul told; and for the rest of the day he helped the professor recalibrate the dimensional abacus, the mode reintegrator, the %" serendipity wrench, the Wogelsang Keys and the self-centring entropy clamps. He didn't ask what any of the things did, and the professor didn't tell him. At twenty-five past five precisely, he tightened up the locking screws on the last clamp.

  'Thank you,' the professor said (it was the first thing he'd said for over an hour). 'You will be here at nine-seventeen tomorrow morning, and we will field-strip the Emmotson projector. Your front-door key has slipped through a hole in the pocket of your overcoat, but you will find it trapped in the lining just above the bottom hem.'

  As soon as Paul got back to his office, where his coat hung on the back of the door, he checked to see if the professor had been right. As he fished the key out through the hole in the pocket, he wondered if any of the things that Van Spee had told him earlier offered a hint of an explanation of how the hell he did that stuff. Someone who could shift the orbit of a planet - And then he frowned, because it had been rather hot in the professor's room and there had been a useful-looking electric fan on his desk; but when Paul had asked if he could turn it on, the professor had shrugged and said it didn't work ... A man who could heave planets about, but who couldn't replace a blown fuse. And if Van Spee was really all-seeing and all-knowing, wouldn't he have realised that the fuse was about to blow? Or maybe he simply didn't feel the heat.

  He glanced at his watch, and swore. Five twenty-nine; he really didn't want to find himself locked in, even though he wasn't afraid of the goblins any more. Grabbing his coat, he jogged down the corridors and made it to the front office just as Mr Tanner was reaching for the top bolt.

  'Cutting it fine,' Mr Tanner growled. 'Try and keep an eye on the time, will you?'

  Paul apologised, and scuttled through the door as quickly as he could. Outside it was bright and sunny, or maybe it just seemed that way after a day cooped up in the Professor's office, with the blinds drawn. On such a fine evening as this, Paul didn't feel like going home straight away to his sparse and miserable flat. There was already quite a crowd of people sitting outside the pub just down the road, and his throat was dry enough to justify a quick drink. A virtual coin spun in his mind and came up heads; it was a double-sided coin, but that's often the way.

  It took him a while to fight his way to the bar, and almost as long to thread his way back through the dense forest of drinkers without spilling his lemonade shandy. Worn out by his adventure, he propped himself up against the wall, just clear of the doorway, and took a couple of deep breaths. The warmth of the sun and the fiery strength of the shandy made him feel almost absurdly relaxed. No hurry to go home, or go anywhere in particular. Being out of the office, in blissfully normal, magic-free surroundings, was solace enough. He might even stay a while, have the other half- Someone dug him in the ribs, and he convulsed, slopping shandy all over his cuff.

  'Careful,' said a voice he'd never
heard before but recognised immediately. 'You're a bit jumpy this evening. Nervous about tomorrow?'

  Mr Tanner's bloody mother. Of course it was her, even though she'd disguised herself as a slim, flame-haired enchantress in a red sundress. 'No,' Paul replied. 'I've just got this thing about getting stabbed with sharp fingernails. Did you have to do that?'

  'You looked so sweet standing there,' Mr Tanner's mum replied cheerfully, 'I couldn't resist. Haven't you got a home to go to, then?'

  'Yes, but it's horrible,' Paul said. 'It smells of cabbage and the plumbing makes disgusting noises. What's wrong with having a quick drink before I go home?'

  She tutted. 'Touchy,' she said. 'Girl trouble.'

  'No, it isn't.' The reply a tad too vehement, perhaps? Like he cared. 'Nothing of the kind,' he said stiffly. 'And anyhow, won't be long now before I'm through with all that stuff for ever. Can't wait,' he added, trying to look nonchalant as he sipped the foam on the top of his shandy.

  'You're joining a monastery.'

  'Better than that,' Paul said, 'because I don't like getting up early in the morning and I'm allergic to bee-stings. No, it's much better than that, thanks for asking.'

  The gorgeous redhead frowned. 'Why bee-stings?'

  'Monks,' Paul said. 'They all keep bees, don't they? Anyhow, screw bee-stings, that's not the point. Pretty soon, my falling-in-love-again, heart-of-glass days will soon be over. Just you wait and see.'

  Mr Tanner's mum shrugged. 'Oh, you mean that recipe you found in Theo's book,' she said. 'That old thing. Pure snake oil. Doesn't work.'

  Paul's stomach lurched slightly. 'What do you mean, it doesn't work? How do you know about it, anyway?'

  'Ah, well.' Mr Tanner's mum grinned. 'I know a lot of stuff, I do. And I happen to know, for a fact, you can't brew that muck without the special secret ingredient, Van Spee's crystals. And of course, you can't buy them anywhere, because only Theo knows how to make them, and he controls the supply.'

  'That's what you think,' Paul said, smirking insufferably. 'Because I've got some Van Spee's crystals. Loads of them.'

  'Really.' Her tone of voice cut through the smug fug in his brain like a razor. 'Where did you get them from, then?'

  There was hardly any delay before Paul replied, 'Oh, I asked the professor for some and he gave them to me. From a big jar in his desk. Very pleasant he was about it, but he did say not to tell anybody about it, or they'd all want some. So if you wouldn't mind keeping it to yourself-'

  'Sure.' She nodded thoughtfully. 'Well, that's lucky,' she said. 'Only, he must like you an awful lot. You know how much that stuff is worth?'

  'You just said you can't buy it.'

  Scorn, intense enough to strip varnish. 'You can buy anything,' Mr Tanner's mum said, 'so long as you've got enough money. How much did he give you, then?'

  'Oh, about an ounce, I suppose. An aspirin-bottleful.'

  'Bloody hell.' Not often Paul saw Mr Tanner's mum lose her cool. 'You may be interested to know, your mate Theo gave you enough stuff to buy a four-bedroom detached house in Surrey. Pretty remarkable, don't you think? He must fancy you, or something.'

  Paul ignored that; he had other things to worry about. True, the professor hadn't said anything about missing crystals, so he'd assumed that the old fool hadn't noticed. Other explanations now came to mind, most of them involving diabolical forms of retribution that took a week or so to set up. 'Oh well,' he mumbled. 'Like you said, very generous of him.'

  'Very. And everybody says what a mean, miserly old git he is. Well, see you tomorrow, then. Take care,' she added, as she swayed off down the street, all heels and hips, and two dozen young stockbrokers forgot what they'd been about to say and stared until she was out of sight.

  Take care, she'd said; was that just a conventional form of words meaning goodbye, or was it a warning? Maybe if he managed to get the crystals back into the professor's desk before he noticed - and how much was a four-bedroom detached house in Surrey worth these days? Half a million? Three-quarters-?

  'Psst.' Someone was standing on Paul's foot. Someone very small, because the whisper came from round about elbow height; but someone also very heavy, because his foot hurt quite a lot, and he couldn't move it for the weight. He looked down, and saw a very short, very stocky little man in a raincoat four sizes too big for him. He was also wearing very dark shades, which he lifted just for a split second, revealing a pair of bright blood-red eyes.

  'You're a goblin,' Paul said.

  The little man nodded. 'That's right,' he said. 'And speak up, I think there's a bloke on the other side of the street who didn't hear you.'

  'What? Oh, right, sorry. But you are, aren't you? A gob-'

  'All right, yes. Actually, I'm your third cousin, eight times removed. Call me Colin.'

  'If you like,' Paul said. 'But what're you doing out here? You aren't supposed to wander about like this. You should be inside, with the others.'

  Colin laughed. 'Screw that,' he said, 'I don't belong to the colony. Actually, I'm a naturalised human. Like you,' he added, with a revolting grin.

  Paul knew better than to rise to that one. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said. 'Look, was there something, only I really ought to be getting home-'

  'Bollocks,' Colin said. 'I was listening to you and our Rosie just now.'

  'Oh. Were you?'

  Colin nodded his oversized, noticeably pointed head. 'Heard some very interesting stuff about Van Spee's crystals. About an aspirin-bottleful.'

  Paul winced. 'Look,' he said, 'I just decided, I'm going to put it back where I got it from, just don't-'

  'Are you? Oh.' Colin looked profoundly underconvinced. 'That'd be a real pity, really, because I just happen to know a bloke who knows a bloke who'd pay top dollar for a few grams of Van Spee's crystals. Provided that's what they really are, of course,' he added, with a slight scowl.

  'I'm pretty sure they are,' Paul said. 'Only, that's what it said on the label, and it was in Van Spee's desk drawer-' Maybe, just possibly, he shouldn't have said that. Too late now, though.

  But Colin only grinned a bit wider. 'Easy enough to tell,' he hissed. 'I mean, I could tell you right now, if you happened to have them on you.'

  As it happened, the bottle was in Paul's overcoat pocket, the one without the hole (and if Van Spee knew about the hole, surely it stood to reason - A mental image of the professor, pale and shrunken, hopping around on all fours muttering 'What has it got in its pocketses?' slipped into his mind, and took quite a bit of getting rid of). 'All right,' Paul whispered back, 'but not here. People'll think we're dealing drugs or something.'

  For some reason, Colin seemed to think that was funny, but he nodded his head sideways. 'Round the back,' he said. 'Alleyway, couple of lock-up garages. I got a key. Count to twenty and follow me.'

  Paul couldn't remember having seen an alleyway near the pub, in fact he could've sworn it was an architectural impossibility, given the age and nature of the buildings. But apparently he was wrong; there was an alley, small and dark, like an American's visualisation of Dickens, and halfway down it stood two small garages, so shabby as to be picturesque. The sliding door of one of them was open, and Colin beckoned to him as he approached.

  'Anybody follow you?' he muttered.

  'Don't think so,' Paul replied (the thought hadn't even crossed his mind). 'Look, I'm not sure about this. Even if I'm going to keep the stuff, I don't think selling it'd be a terribly-'

  'Quiet.' Colin peered up and down the alley a couple of times, then heaved the garage door down and flipped on a light. The garage was completely empty, apart from a few swatches of dusty cobweb swathed across the walls like tinsel on a Christmas tree. If someone had hired Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen to decorate a garage in Furtive Noir, it couldn't have been more perfect. 'All right,' he said, 'let's see the stuff.'

  'Look-'

  'Please?' Now the goblin was doing that sad, beseeching look, like a red-eyed puppy dog. 'Come on, it can't hurt, letting me just look at it. And I can tel
l you if it's the real thing, or just coffee sugar.'

  There was that, of course. Paul was proposing to use the stuff in the recipe; if it turned out to be something else, like strychnine, that the professor had put in the jar as a merry prank, it might be as well to find out about it now rather than later. 'Oh, all right then,' he said and fished out the bottle.

  The effect on Colin was rather remarkable: a cross between someone finding a thick roll of banknotes in the street and Sir Lancelot kneeling before the Grail. 'If that's the real deal,' he said in a small, wobbly voice, 'then that's a hell of a lot of crystals. Mind if I-?'

  Paul shrugged. 'Whatever.'

  Very carefully, Colin unscrewed the cap; he paused as though saying grace, then grew a long, thin claw from the little finger of his left hand. He dipped the end of the claw into the bottle and licked it, and his face lit up with a sort of religious glow. 'That's the stuff,' he whispered. 'Definitely the stuff. All right,' he went on, pulling himself together with an almost audible snap. 'Tell you what I'll do, seeing you're family and I like you and everything. A million US dollars, cash. What do you reckon?'

  It was the look on Colin's face that made Paul's mind up for him: that frantic, almost haunted look of unbearable longing and greed. 'Sorry,' Paul said, 'but it's going back. I just hope the professor hasn't noticed it's gone.'

  Colin winced as though someone had just stubbed out a cigarette in his ear. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry, serves me right for trying to rip off my own third cousin. What I meant to say was, two million. Pounds. For what's left,' he added quickly, 'after you've had what you need for your medicine.'

  Two million pounds. Two million useless, worthless pounds, because of course he could never spend it; not Paul Carpenter, who'd been sold to JWW and could never quit. Mr Tanner's mum had said you can buy anything, but she'd been wrong. Paul couldn't buy anything, because he no longer owned himself- 'With three million quid,' Colin was saying, quietly and insidiously, 'you could do a deal. With them. Our Dennis's lot. With three and a half million,' he went on - he was sweating slightly, Paul noticed - 'you could buy yourself.'