by Susan Price
Andrea dialed reception at Dilsmead Hall, and confirmed that she was coming in for three sharp. She’d be bringing a couple of guests with her. “It’s all arranged. I’ll be signing them in.” She held her breath, but reception just said, “Very well, Miss Mitchell, that’s noted.”
When the taxi arrived, getting Per into it was a small problem. He went out to it calmly enough, hand in hand with Joe and Andrea, but when Joe opened the back door, Per pulled back and let go of Joe’s hand. He stooped, peering into the car’s small interior. The idea of getting into an Elf-Cart and riding away in it was thrilling, but actually climbing into that tiny space and being enclosed, trapped, by the magic was something else altogether.
Andrea’s reassurances had been soothing; it was good to feel that she cared about him. But however much she cared, she was an Elf, bound to an Elf-Master.
Joe had climbed into the car and beckoned to Per from inside, repeating, “Air rikti, air rikti.” It’s all right. Joe was picking up words from Per pretty quickly.
Per didn’t wish to appear afraid in front of Joe, and if Joe thought the cart was safe, then it must be. Folding himself up far more than was necessary, Per climbed into the backseat. Andrea quickly shut the door and got in beside the driver. She wondered if without Joe she could have persuaded Per to get in at all.
After telling the driver where to go, she’d turned around to watch Per, and reached between the seats to offer him her hand. For the first few moments after the car pulled away, he’d looked terrified, but after that, realizing that they were still alive and in one piece, he’d begun to grin and to look through the windows, even kneeling on the seat to watch the road and the cars behind. At all times he kept hold of Joe’s or Andrea’s hand, or both.
Now the taxi was crawling up the long graveled drive to Dilsmead Hall itself. The house hadn’t existed in Per’s time. Per ducked to peer at it through the windshield, and was obviously impressed by its size, its marble pillars, and marble steps leading up to the door—another Elf-Palace. At the last curve of the drive before the house a big flower bed was planted on a sloping bank. Blue lobelias made the letters FUP against a background of white alyssum. Per pointed and exclaimed, recognizing FUP’s logo from the 16th-side office.
The taxi rounded the drive’s final bend and drew up at the door. Andrea paid the driver and they got out, Per seeming as reluctant to leave the Elf-Cart as he’d been to get into it.
“Listen,” Andrea said, as they stood at the foot of the marble steps. “Per, lutta. There’ll be guards inside. I think some of them have guns. Pistols, Per, Elf-Pistols. Do nothing to alarm them. Do no even look at them funny. Per, art thou listening? This be important. If thou wants to gan through Elf-Gate, you must do as I say. Joe, tell him to do what I say.”
Joe pointed at her and said to Per, “Air rikti.”
Per nodded. He understood that if they could reach the Elf-Gate and go through it without having to fight, that was much the preferable choice, especially as his leg and his head both hurt. But no matter what anyone said, it might still come to a fight. He knew that he would have to keep careful watch about him as they went into the Elves’ den. He would have to listen to the voices, even though he couldn’t understand the words they spoke. He would have to watch the faces and the movements of all those in sight. He would have to watch, and listen, for the approach of others. His hands would have to be kept free, ready to fight, so there could be no more holding hands. “Yi forstaw.” I understand.
“Joe?” Andrea turned toward him. “I can’t stop you, but do you really want to do this? If we don’t make it through here, you’re going to end up in jail; you might get hurt. If we do make it through—Joe, you’d better be really sure this is worth it.”
Joe’s heart beat quicker. He felt slightly sick. She spoke so seriously that she convinced him all over again, just when he’d begun telling himself that this was all a hoax, being filmed for some TV program. Run away, he thought; it’s always safer. Yeah, run back to sleeping in a cardboard box and eating out of rubbish bins. He gestured toward the steps. “After you.”
Andrea shrugged and led the way into the reception area of Dilsmead Hall. Per and Joe followed.
They pushed through the double doors at the entrance and came into a cool, shadowed hallway. The floor underfoot was mosaic. Couches and soft chairs were arranged around low tables and screened from the door by racks of potted plants. On the far side of the room a receptionist sat behind a curved wooden desk furnished with a computer and several telephones. A security guard in a green uniform leaned against the desk, chatting to her. Doors led from the hall on either side and at the rear of the room, next to the desk
Andrea said, “Keep by me and keep calm, whatever happens. Don’t run, don’t fight.” Rapidly, she repeated it for Per. Then they were at the desk, and the receptionist and the guard were looking at them. Perhaps they’d noticed that Per had no shoes or socks on his feet, and that Joe had slept in his clothes.
“Afternoon,” Andrea said, and showed her pass. “I’m Andrea Mitchell, and these are my two guests.”
The receptionist picked up a clipboard and looked through the papers on it. The guard studied them with what Andrea felt to be suspicion, though he didn’t say anything. “I did phone …” she said nervously, when the receptionist seemed to be taking a long time.
The woman looked up, smiling. “That’s fine. If your guests can just fill out these badges …” She pushed the sheet of security badges across the desk, together with a pen, while she prepared the clear plastic holders and clips.
Joe and Andrea glanced at each other, and then Joe moved forward and picked up the pen. Andrea, feeling her chest tighten and her mouth turning dry, said, “Oh! This is embarrassing. Um. I’m afraid Mr.— Armstrong”—she nodded toward Per, who was standing silently at her side without any understanding of what was going on—“Mr. Armstrong is—sort of—dyslexic. You know? Would it be all right if I filled in his badge for him?”
The woman looked at her blankly.
Leaning forward, Andrea said, “He can’t read or write.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said, looking aside, embarrassed. “Of course. Yes. That would be all right.”
“Thank you.”
Joe was finishing filling out his badge. He’d given his real name. Why not? With any luck, he wasn’t going to be around after today. Against “Company/Institution,” he filled in the name of the last construction company he’d worked for; it sounded official, and hopefully no one would check on it in the next hour or so.
Per had been looking at the receptionist and wondering at her extraordinary, uncanny Elvish beauty—her hair, her lips and the skin around her eyes such strange colors! He was distracted when Joe began to write and watched him with admiration. Joe must have been a man of some standing before he’d been taken into Elf-Land, if he could read and write. Maybe that was why the Elves had taken him.
While the receptionist folded Joe’s badge and fitted it into its plastic holder, Andrea filled out the badge for Per, giving “Peter Armstrong” as his name, and “Bedesdale Holdings” as his company. As she watched the receptionist tear off the badge and fold it, she thought: We’re getting away with it; we’re getting away!
She glanced at her watch. It was five to three.
The meeting was the usual séance, where idiots who couldn’t string two words together, and idiots who could drivel on for hours without ever making a point, competed to see which could render Windsor comatose sooner. He could see Bryce, sitting on the other side of the circle of easy chairs with a dreamy expression that proved he hadn’t heard a word that had been said for the last twenty minutes. It was understandable. Accounts had fielded one of each kind of bore, to try and prove that the 16th Project wasn’t viable.
Windsor bided his time, knowing that as soon as his chance to speak came, he could sway the rest onto his s
ide. He looked at his watch. Just after two. If he was going to check up on Andrea Mitchell, he’d better make his move.
The next time the driveler from accounts paused for breath, Windsor rattled his own notes and said, “Could I put in a word? Thank you, Martin.” He saw relief on several faces around the circle, and Bryce brightened and sat up in his chair. “We needed to hear that, but time marches on, and I’m sure we’ve all grasped accounts’ view of things.”
There was some laughter. Martin from accounts subsided.
“If I could just hit you with some other figures that you might find of interest …” Briefly, in a way he knew to be accomplished, Windsor went through some figures he’d obtained for the South American Project, where FUP was already bringing through hardwood and plant samples. “I know that with my present audience, I don’t have to mention the price we could charge for mahogany if the market’s managed properly.”
There was more laughter, a further perking up of interest, and knowing looks from one to another. Bryce looked around at the other people in the room with him. He didn’t know how much could be charged for mahogany, and was suddenly keenly aware of how he was regarded by his present company: the stupid security man, all brawn, no brain.
“Furthermore,” Windsor said, “the science boys are confident that, in the next few years, the plant samples we’re bringing back are going to yield a cancer vaccine. I’ll just mention two facts, gentlemen. One, a cancer vaccine will be more profitable even than mahogany.” A burst of laughter recognized that. “And two, many of these plants are extinct here, 21st side, where we haven’t, let’s face it, always taken the greatest care of our natural assets. Now, it’s true we aren’t going to get any mahogany from the 16th Project, and probably no cancer vaccine either, but we don’t know what other vastly profitable folk medicines we might be overlooking. And we know for certain that, 16th side, we have gold, we have oil, we have natural gas, just for starters. And yet, because of a few teething problems and a few unexpected expenses, accounts wants us to abandon the project. Gentlemen, this would be throwing away a million to save a fiver. Let me—let me just tell you something about what we’ve got 16th side. I have an advantage over accounts—instead of reading columns of figures, I’ve actually been there.”
This produced a buzz of interest and made the faces of the men from accounts go hard.
Windsor launched into a description of the 16th. Bryce, listening, noted that he mentioned not a word about the problems that had actually taken him through the Tube. Instead he spoke confidently about the beauty of the place, the colors, the freshness, the clean air, the peace, until several people at the table looked as if they might inquire about package tours. Then he made them laugh by describing the Sterkarms’ charming but pressing hospitality and contrasting it with the discomfort of their home and the vileness of their food.
“They live in this paradise, and they don’t have the slightest appreciation of it! Really, we’ll be doing them a favor by taking it over and showing them what it can be!”
There was more laughter. Bryce looked from face to face and concluded that none of them had stopped to consider what “taking it over” from the Sterkarms would really—really—entail. Perhaps they thought the Sterkarms would hand over their land with a smile.
“Ah, coffee!” Windsor said, as the urn was wheeled in on a cart. Shall we adjourn for a few minutes? After that, I’m sure marketing will be glad to enthrall us.”
The people were glad to rise, to stretch, to gather around the coffee urn and chat and laugh over what Windsor had said. Windsor quietly left the room. Just time to nip over to the Tube and check on whether Mitchell had reported, as instructed. If she had, his checking up in person would impress everyone. If she hadn’t, he could make a note to have her guts for garters sometime in the immediate future, and that would make everybody else pull their socks up.
Slipping along the corridor, he took the stairs that would lead him down to reception. From there he could cut back through the house, and leave it by a back door almost directly opposite the Time Tube itself.
Andrea took the name badge from the receptionist and tried to clip it to Per’s jakke. It was difficult, as the leather of the jakke, even where it wasn’t full of old iron, was too thick for the little jaws of the grip to bite on. She was fiddling with it when a voice demanded, “What the hell is going on here?”
She jumped and almost dropped the badge. Windsor had just emerged from a hidden stair at the side of the reception hall. He stood there, very tall, the expanses of suiting across his chest and shoulders glowing with the dark, smooth beauty of the cloth, his dark hair brushed up into a peak above his forehead.
Annoyed as Windsor was, it was gratifying to see the way they all turned toward him with their mouths open—Andrea, young Sterkarm and the tramp they’d somehow acquired. Alarm and dismay: that was what he liked to see.
“What is he doing here?” Windsor demanded, waving toward young Sterkarm. He looked at Joe. “And who’s he? Call security.”
“No, don’t!” Andrea said. “Mr. Windsor, please don’t call security.”
“Call security,” Windsor repeated. He pointed to the tramp. “I want this person removed now. How the hell has he been let in here in the first place?” He glowered at the receptionist, who began trying to explain. “Save it. Tell them at the Job Center.” Windsor beckoned to young Sterkarm. “You come with me.” Windsor didn’t know what he was going to do with Per if he came, but certainly he had to be separated from his girlfriend. “Come. With. Me. Miss Mitchell, will you tell him, please?”
Double doors crashed open on the other side of the reception hall. Two security guards in green uniforms came through. Joe moved away from them, and backed toward Per. “Come on,” one of the guards said to Joe. “Time to leave. Easier if you just go quietly.”
“Vah sayer han?” Per asked. He was standing with his back against the reception desk, trying to look in all directions at once.
Andrea said, “I think we’d better give up, Per. There are too many of them.”
“Come on now,” one of the guards said, beckoning to Joe invitingly. They seemed wary of actually starting a fight.
Per looked at the nervous guards, at Joe, and at the Elf-Laird, Windsor, who stood back, very sure of himself. One thing was clear in Per’s mind: He wasn’t going back to the Elves’ sick house. That was a fact as simple and unchangeable as the stone floor under his feet. He wasn’t leaving this building except through the Elf-Gate.
It was easy to see in the Elf-Laird’s face what pleasure he had in having them cornered. Per remembered how the Windsor had spoken to Andrea, ordering her about. It made him want to turn things around, so that the Elf-Laird was the cornered one. It would make sense. Without needing to understand what was being said, he had no doubt that Elf-Windsor was the kingpin here. Remove him, and all the rest would fall.
As the green-coated guards edged a little closer, Per raised both his hands, palms outward and, looking across at Elf-Windsor, catching his eyes, said, “Stay an eye’s blink, stay.”
No one except Andrea understood. Joe’s eyes flickered nervously between Per and the guards. The guards looked to Windsor for instructions. Windsor said, “What’s he say?”
Joe was thinking: I put my hands between your hands and my foot under your foot—I could end up in the cells for this. I’ll guard you and guard yours until the day I die—for a house and land.
Keeping his hands raised, Per came forward a little from the desk, placing himself between Joe and the guards. Looking into Elf-Windsor’s eyes, he said, “Be so kind, Master Elf, forgive me. I made Entraya bring me here, it be no fault—”
“Make no excuses for me!” Andrea said.
His hands still raised, Per turned to her, his eyes giving that silver flash of anger. “Tell him what I say!”
“Mister Windsor,” Andrea said, “Per asks
you to forgive him.” She looked at Per sidelong, wondering why on earth he was saying this. They were caught, fair and square, in the act of defying Windsor, and it wasn’t like Per to humbly beg for forgiveness.
The security guards had stopped their advance on Joe, hanging back until this conversation with their boss might be finished.
That was all Per wanted for the moment. Looking at Windsor, he said, “Be no angry with Entraya. It was my wrong, and I am sad for it.” He took another step forward, but his whole stance was so unthreatening that the security guards tensed only slightly, and Windsor merely folded his arms and stood watching. “Tell him, Entraya!”
Andrea began to speak. Per, though he averted his face slightly and looked up from the corners of his eyes, watched Windsor and knew by the man’s reaction that Andrea was passing on his words. He let his head hang down, as if too shamed to look Windsor in the face.
Windsor wasn’t sure what all this was about but didn’t care much. If young Sterkarm thought he could make bargains, let him. It made it easier to string him along. Meanwhile, it was undeniably sweet to see this spoiled and arrogant sprig of an arrogant family hang his head and beg for forgiveness.
“Tell him,” Windsor said, “to come along with me now, and I’ll consider how much you were to blame later.” He smiled at Andrea. The woman was a bigger fool even than he took her for, if she thought she had a job with FUP after this.
Per took the baseball cap from his head, scrunching it in his hands as he took another couple of steps toward Windsor. One of the guards even moved backward slightly, to make room for him. Per’s hands were occupied by the harmless cap, his head hung meekly down, and he was going over to Windsor, as Windsor had ordered him to do. “I’ve no been a good guest, Master Elf, and I be sad for it.” He glanced up at Windsor, took another step closer, and hung his head again. “Be so kind, Master Elf, forgive me.” Sincere apologies were the only kind that gave Per trouble.
