Actually, that wasn't what Paul had meant at all. What he'd been trying to express, but they didn't make words big enough, was a subtle combination of 'I don't understand a word of this' and 'The other one's got bells on.' He couldn't be bothered to explain, though.
'You are,' the professor went on, 'essentially correct. I couldn't have made such a crass error; not unless I had, at some point in the interim, forgotten what I'd done originally, or unless I had some reason, albeit hopelessly bizarre and far-fetched, for wanting to create a catastrophic temporal anomaly. Neither explanation, however, applies. This is the twenty-first century; if I'd forgotten something back in the eighth century, I would by now have remembered forgetting it. As to the other hypothesis, all that needs be said in that regard is that there are penalties for making disgusting messes in Time, and those penalties are rigorously, even sadistically enforced by an individual of whom even I am afraid. But-'
I am getting (the professor said) ahead of my story. At the point when you interrupted me, I was watching the opening stages of the duel, standing open-mouthed with horror at the scenario unfolding before me. I knew that immediate action was called for. I had no viable options to pursue at that time. My only hope lay in prevarication, delay and obfuscation. Also, I panicked.
The duel could not, I decided, be allowed to continue. Accordingly, I caught hold of the nearest combatant to me - by chance it happened to be King Hring - and dragged him with me through the Portable Door, away from the eighth century and into the twentieth.
Even as I did it, I knew that unless I was extremely careful, this initiative could only make things worse. Both living blades, Skofnung and Tyrving, had been unlawfully cheated of their victory. Accordingly, neither sword would rest until the duel was resumed. Once that happened, the duel could never end, since neither sword could beat the other. Until the duel was resolved -not only that, resolved in the eighth century - the history of Canada would be in a state of flux, with both alternative versions existing simultaneously in real time and real space.
The implications of these things were clearly both infinite in number and monumental in scope. Only one of them, however, commanded my immediate attention at that point. By causing the anomaly I had, as I mentioned just now, broken the most basic laws of my craft and thereby made myself liable to a most unattractive series of punishments at the hands of the only entity in all time and space that I have reason to be afraid of. Clearly, then, my first priority was my own safety. I had to run, and then I had to hide. But where?
It was at this juncture that a mystery that had puzzled me for some time suddenly became clear.
Just now I glossed over, in a rather facile manner, my motives for creating my synthetic universe. I suggested to you that it was mere idleness and intellectual curiosity; that it was, in essence, a good idea at the time. I had been asking myself that question for several centuries - because idleness and intellectual curiosity were by no means a sufficient reason for undertaking such a monumental task, and accordingly I was entirely unconvinced. Now, quite suddenly, I knew the answer. I had built my synthetic universe as a place of refuge in anticipation of this very crisis. Somehow I had known - retrospectively, I can only assume -that one day I would need a place where nobody, not even my deadly enemy, could reach me.
I couldn't help but take a certain degree of pride in the foresight that I would one day have already exhibited. It would have been helpful, I admit, if at the same time I could have transmitted to myself a warning or some simple instructions, but I realised that it would have been extremely hazardous to do so, and that I would have been and would in the future be entirely justified in having complete confidence in my own ability to figure out the chain of causalities, if need be from first principles. That I have not yet done so is no reflection on my intellect or abilities. All I need is a little more time, and perhaps one or two clues which I am certain I have left for myself, secreted in some safe place where I will be sure to find them.
'Um,' said Paul again.
This time the professor raised his eyebrows. 'Excuse me?' he said
'I'm sorry,' Paul said, 'but I still haven't got the faintest idea what all that's got to do with me. Or why I'm here. Or why I just saw myself beating twelve kinds of shit out of Ricky Wurmtoter with a bloody great sword. Was I not paying attention, or haven't we got to that bit yet? And also,' he added, as the professor opened his mouth to answer, 'is there really a
Great Cow of Heaven, or was that bit just, you know, symbolic and stuff? Because if it turns out that the universe - the real one, I mean - is really made out of yogurt, I think I'd rather go and join Mr Dao's bridge club right now, and screw the lot of you.'
The professor gave a long, sad sigh, plaintive as gypsy violins and rich with sincerity. 'That,' he said, 'is probably just as well. Strange as it may seem, Mr Carpenter, in one respect I envy you. There is one place where you have been and I have not. You have seen what lies beyond death. Of course, I know all there is to know about it, but only second-hand, from report and rumour carefully scrutinised and analysed using the finest protocols of scientific scholarship. You, by contrast, were little more than a tourist. But you have been there and seen it, and that is a different matter entirely. And very soon,' he added, with an almost wistful expression, 'you will be there again, except that this time you will not be coming back. To answer your question: there is indeed a Great Cow of Heaven. She most closely resembles a Jersey/Charolais cross, but with a faint suggestion of Hereford around the jawline and upper shoulders. And yes, I suppose that in a sense the universe is in its most basic form made up of- not yogurt precisely, but dairy products of a sort. You should not, incidentally, place too much confidence in Mr Dao when he leads two no trumps or one club. Frequently he bluffs, with unfortunate consequences for his partner. If you are ready, we may as well proceed with your termination.'
Too many long words can make your head spin. It took Paul maybe as long as half a second to translate 'termination' into his kind of English, by which time the professor had pulled a pin out of the lapel of his coat and was just about to stick it into Paul's arm.
With a yelp like an ironed dog, Paul jumped back, or tried to. No dice: his feet stayed where they were, as though they'd been set in concrete by a very discreet gangster. The professor frowned. It was the sort of frown Paul had come across when he was a kid, and terrified of injections. This won't hurt, the professor's expression was telling him. Don't be such a cry-baby. It's for your own good. You '11 like it once you get there.
'Just a fucking minute,' he heard himself whimper. 'What harm did I ever do you?'
'I could of course explain,' the professor replied. 'But what would be the point? Please keep still. I have a great many things to do once I've finished with you, and a little cooperation would be most welcome. Nothing you can do could possibly alter the outcome, and it's churlish to cause inconvenience for others simply for the sake of being difficult.'
The pin. How many angels could dance on the head of it, and would any of them survive if they tried? Paul tried wriggling out of the way, but his arms and legs didn't seem to be working. Just a pin: what possible harm could it do? The Chinese have used them for acupuncture for thousands of years. Above all, it probably wouldn't hurt. Would it? And did he really want to waste any more time in a universe where there could possibly be such a thing as a Great Cow of Heaven? Seen from that angle, Mr Dao and his evening classes seemed positively inviting.
Of course, he'd miss Sophie quite a lot.
The professor jabbed at Paul with the pin. He swerved - a touch of flamenco dancing, rather more of the unexpected beetle down the back of the neck - and the point missed him by fractions of a millimetre. The professor tutted, as though he'd caught him passing notes in class. Would he be required to do a hundred lines before he was killed?
'One last thing,' he gasped (breath was being rationed, apparently). 'What exactly is it with that needle thing? Is it poisoned, or what?'
'Does
it really matter?' the professor said wearily. 'You may safely assume that it is sufficient for the job in hand.'
'Oh, come on,' Paul said. 'Don't be such a misery. Besides, I think I've got a right to know, especially if it's poison. I might be allergic, or something.'
Maybe it was simply the sheer reverse swing of the logic in that last statement. In any case, the professor hesitated, frowned. Quite possibly, after all those years associating with the finest intellects in history, he simply couldn't cope with a mind like Paul's. 'Since you insist,' he said, 'it is not poison. Now, if you'd be so kind as to stop wriggling.'
'In a second,' Paul said firmly. 'So, if it's not poison, what is it?'
The professor was starting to look downright grumpy. 'Magic,' he replied. 'Really, Mr Carpenter, I must insist.
'Magic?'
'That's right.'
'I thought you said that you're a scientist.'
Just the tiniest patch of raw nerve, apparently. 'I believe I have established my credentials quite adequately, Mr Carpenter. Now, unless you stop prevaricating in this blatant manner, I shall have no option but to sedate you.'
'How?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'How do you reckon,' Paul said, and it took a lot of his remaining stamina, 'on doing that? Injection? No offence, but you don't strike me as all that hot when it comes to needlework.'
The professor paused, his brow furrowed. 'I shall cause the entire area to be flooded with anaesthetic gas,' he said. 'That would be a perfectly simple operation.'
'Quite,' Paul said. 'Fine. By all means. Go ahead.'
Ting! went the falling penny. If the professor filled the place with gas, he'd zonk himself out too. 'Alternatively,' he said, 'I can conjure a rope to tie you up with.'
'Bet you can't.'
'For heaven's sake, Mr Carpenter. I can adjust the trajectory of a comet to within a sixteenth of a minute of angle. Conjuring ropes-'
'Ought to be child's play, fine. Except, I don't think you can. Otherwise, you'd have done it already. I think you're too, what's the word I'm after, you're too highly specialised. It's like hiring a brain surgeon to pull a tooth. Admit it, you're screwed.'
'Certainly not. All I have to do,' said the professor, as though persuading himself, 'is wait until you fall asleep, as you inevitably must. However, since it would prolong the traumatic experience of waiting for the inevitable, I would prefer to dispense with futile attempts at resistance.'
Paul dredged up a grin from somewhere. It was a bit soft round the edges and it had that forced air you get in old photos where the sitters have had to keep exactly still for ten minutes, but it was the best he could do. 'Nah,' he said. 'You'd fall asleep first.'
'I most certainly would not.'
'Says you.' Paul sniggered. 'It's whatsisname, subliminal suggestion. The moment I started talking about you falling asleep, your eyelids suddenly started getting heavy. Any second now, you'll be zizzing away like a buzz-saw. You want to be careful you don't stick yourself with your own pin while you're at it. Or are you immune to, er, magic?'
He partnered the last word with a sort of ultra-snide sneer, with lots of top lip in it. The professor shook his head again, but this time there was rather more energy in the gesture. 'You are playing for time by seeking to engage me in fatuous arguments and discussions, hoping that something will intervene and distract or incapacitate me. Such a strategy is doomed to failure. Your left shoelace is undone, and your television licence expires today. Let me put you out of our mutual misery, Mr Carpenter. Both of us will feel better for it.'
There was an urgency in the professor's voice that Paul hadn't ever heard before; also a very reluctant admission of uncertainty, just as if God had paused in the middle of handing down the Ten Commandments to ask if Moses had the right time. He needs my permission, Paul suddenly realised, in a flash of intuition that didn't come from anywhere inside him. He needs my permission before he can kill me.
'Get stuffed,' he said, forcing his eyelids apart. 'Look, you may be a partner in the firm and the cleverest man who ever lived and practically immortal and who gives a shit what else, but you can't hurt me. Not here,' he hazarded, trying to sound as though he had the faintest idea what he was talking about. 'Anywhere else, but not here, not unless I give in. Isn't that right?'
'No,' the professor snapped. He was a pathetic liar.
'Yes,' Paul corrected him. 'It's because there's no such thing as death here, isn't it? That's how come you're nearly immortal here, and why I couldn't bash your face in earlier when I tried.
There's no such thing as death or getting hurt here, not unless-' He hesitated. Sophie had given him the most terrific smack round the face earlier; he'd been convinced she'd cracked his jaw, because it had hurt so much. But a few minutes later it was perfectly all right again, and he hadn't given it a moment's thought since. All right; when Sophie had thumped him, he'd believed; therefore his mind had provided him with the pain he'd expected to feel. Then he'd got sidetracked, the purported busted jaw had slipped his mind, and now it was completely better. And if that wasn't good enough, what about Ricky and the psychotic athlete with the uncanny resemblance to P. Carpenter? Lots of hacking and slashing with big scary swords, completely one-sided fight, but not a drop of blood anywhere. Maybe Ricky didn't know the rules, which was why he'd been fighting back instead of just standing there sticking his tongue out while the blood-crazed loon carved him like a virtual Christmas turkey. Nevertheless. 'Not unless,' Paul repeated, 'you're dumb enough to believe you can be hurt. Like, say, if I was to give up and hold still so you could jab me with that stupid pin thing. If I really thought it could kill me, it would. But I know better, so it can't. Right?'
The professor smiled; at least, a thin crack opened up between his nose and his chin. 'Would you care to put that hypothesis to empirical proof, Mr Carpenter? If so-'
'Sure,' Paul said; and suddenly he could move his arms and legs quite freely. He held out his hand, palm upwards. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'But it won't do you any good, because I don't believe in fairies any more. Well? I'm waiting.'
Such a look of sheer cold hatred he'd never seen before; it glowed through the professor's eyes like candlelight through a Hallowe'en pumpkin. 'How annoying,' the professor said. 'How vexing that you should choose this moment to discover your latent intelligence. A few weeks earlier, and you could have been of such great use to me, as my assistant in my work. That you should pick this time to evolve is most-' He shook his head sadly. 'Most unfair,' he said. 'In case you're interested, this is the first major setback I've encountered in over three hundred and twenty-five years.'
'Whooppee,' Paul said grimly. 'Do I get a prize, or a badge or something?'
'Hardly.' The professor took a step back. 'Nothing so agreeable. I shall leave you now, and take a trip through the Portable Door to 16 November 1980, disguised,' he added with a very mild smirk, 'as a Jehovah's Witness of unparalleled eloquence and persistence. I regret having to do it, of course; such a blunt, brutal approach is practically an admission of defeat. However, I have to say, you have nobody to blame but yourself. Goodbye, Mr Carpenter. It was hardly a pleasure having known you, but most certainly an education.'
He was backing away through the wall, as if he was a ghost or the wall wasn't really there. As Paul watched him go, he was counting frantically on his mental fingers, just to check he'd guessed right. November, December, January, February .
'Quite right,' the professor told him, as his ears vanished into the plaster. 'Eight months and twenty-six days before you were born. On the night in question, your mother wasn't really in the mood, your father had been drinking a little. The arrival of a Jehovah's Witness who refuses to be shooed away-' Suddenly the professor broke off. He was staring at Paul, his mouth slightly open. 'Good heavens,' he said. 'Remarkable, quite remarkable. In that case-' He pulled himself together with a visible effort. 'In that case, I shall no doubt see you again soon enough, at which point we can resolve all the issues betwe
en us. I hope so. I-' Just the tip of his nose was sticking out of the wall now, and a few wisps of eyebrow. 'I just don't know any more.'
As soon as he'd definitely gone, Paul sagged like share prices in an oil crisis. To have fought off Professor Van Spee, on his own turf- Brave. Definitely brave. Brave, he couldn't help thinking, as two short planks. He didn't know the professor all that well, but you don't have to be on best-buddy lawnmower-borrowing terms with someone to get the impression that they don't give up quite so easily. Apparently the threat to see to it that Paul would never be conceived (a Jehovah's Witness, he thought, that's just so diabolical) wasn't going to be carried out; it was almost as though Van Spee had fast-rewound to that moment in his mind, and found there something he really hadn't been expecting...
That set up a whole gallery of images in Paul's mind, none of which he wanted any part of. He shook himself like a wet dog. Time, he really felt, he wasn't here.
Talking of which: before Van Spee had bubbled up out of nowhere and started prattling about living blades and Great Cows of Heaven, he'd been about to try and do something. What was it? Ah, yes. Ricky Wurmtoter. He tried to remember: was he going to kill him, or just place him under citizen's arrest? Well, looked like killing him was a non-starter anyway, here where death didn't work unless you wanted it to or the whole audience clapped or something. So that just left- Paul remembered. He pictured Mr Tanner's mum charging into the room, and then the room ceasing to exist, with her and Ricky and whoever that was with the face and the sword, all trapped inside. He remembered the stunned, blank feeling when he'd been sure that they were all suddenly dead, or at the very least never coming back. He remembered feeling angry enough to want to smash in the teeth of a partner in JWW and former professor emeritus in the University of Leiden.
Odd that he should have forgotten that. It had seemed so very important before he got chatting and let the professor distract him with Great Cows and opt-in death threats.
Earth, Air, Fire & Custard Tom Holt Page 30
