by M T McGuire
“Interesting.”
He consulted the book again. Yes, a good sign. He took a deep breath. Was it really going to be this easy? Riffling through the implements in the box he selected a long thin piece of metal, somewhere between an upholsterer’s needle and a screwdriver in appearance. He placed the tip gently into the lightning and listened as it began to hum. When he moved it towards the thimble the tone rose in pitch and when he moved it back towards the spinning machine the tone dropped.
“Excellent,” he said softly.
With his free hand he took a tuning fork from the box. He rapped it on the edge of the desk, held it to his ear for a moment and then rapped it on the edge of the desk again, this time standing it on its end on the wood. It gave off a single note – A.
He moved the metal implement through the crimson lightning until the humming sound it made was also an A. Surely reactivating the portal would require more than this.
Leaving the gyroscopic machine spinning, he placed the thimble carefully on the blotter, put the stand, the metal implement and the tuning fork back, and returned the box to the secret drawer. He breathed deeply, composing himself for a moment or two before picking up the thimble and holding it up. In the bottom, clearly visible, a tiny dot of light.
“So, General Moteurs, my mysterious friend,” he said quietly, “I do not think it is broken now.”
So easy. A piece of breathtakingly complicated quantum mechanics, made simple for the types of academic, religious men and women who liked their science straightforward and user-friendly.
Clearly The Prophet had never foreseen this, or he and his followers would have guarded his secrets more carefully.
Yes. The old order was ending and a new world was about to begin. His search was over. He had prepared for this. Everything was ready. Now, for a few moments, at least, he would have access to the Chosen One.
He went back to the safe and took out a bottle of pills. The machine on his desk was still spinning but the red lightning had turned to blue, its usual colour. He placed the thimble closer and consulted his book once again, before performing a complicated set of hand movements above both items. The machine pinged.
“Like taking sweets from a child.”
He turned his attention to the pills. He couldn’t enter the Chosen One’s world without making certain physiological changes.
He poured himself a glass of water, opened the bottle, took one of the pills and sat back with the book. An hour, the boffin in his laboratories had told him. It had better be, or this was the last potion he would live to concoct. Lord Vernon put the book down and pulled out a large hunting knife. He twirled it absent-mindedly from one gloved hand to another. After a short while he stopped playing with the knife and glanced at his wrist watch. Twenty minutes. He held up the polished blade and looked at his reflection. Yes, the green flesh was changing colour. He smiled and adjusted his cravat.
“Excellent,” he said again. The pills had worked. The boffin who made them would live to see another day. Which reminded him. He opened the secret drawer and took the other two thimbles from the box, rewound the gyroscope-like machine and repeated the process of resetting them too. He put the copper one back in the box, checked the bronze one was functioning and then strode to the door.
“Guards,” he shouted into the corridor.
There was the sound of running footsteps, and a short, stocky corporal skidded to a halt in front of him and saluted.
“Yessir?” Staying in the shadows so the corporal wouldn’t notice his altered skin colour, Lord Vernon handed him the bronze thimble.
“Take this down to the labs. I want it reverse engineered by ...” he paused for thought, “this time tomorrow. If they fail, I want a good reason why, and the precise date by which they will have succeeded, or I will be compelled to kill each and every last one of them.”
“Yessir.”
“Slowly.”
“Yessir.”
“Now get out of my sight. I am busy.”
The corporal turned and ran.
Lord Vernon slammed the door and returned to his desk, breathing hard with excitement. He was about to gain access to the one person who would deliver the last of his enemies into his power and destroy all meaningful resistance to his rule, forever. He paused to savour the sensation.
It was good.
He picked up the thimble and consulted the book a third time. Again, more hand movements. As his anticipation built he breathed a little faster. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating, held it up to his eye and looked in.
There. Far away, in a parallel universe, talking with another.
Visible, audible, but more importantly, accessible – for a few precious minutes. He’d expected her to be asleep. The fact she was not made it even more interesting.
“At last, I have you, Chosen One.”
One final, quick check of his reflection in the knife. Yes, he was no longer green, and though paler than human flesh, his skin would pass, especially in darkness. It was time.
He put the thimble on his finger and disappeared into thin air.
Chapter 33
Once he had taken a lengthy bath The Pan secreted his first ever official earnings as a Mervinette in the back of the cupboard in his room. He took out the other bag, the one with Lord Vernon’s worthless but nonetheless, ‘sentimentally valued’ artefacts inside it, and put it on the bed. He sat down beside it with a heavy sigh.
“This stuff is red hot,” he said to himself.
These artefacts were either very valuable or very important. Their presence in a safety deposit box showed that. Sentimental didn’t feature as Lord Vernon hadn’t a sentimental molecule in him. The Pan was beginning to wish he’d never sold the ring.
He paced back and forth as he tried to think his situation through. The voice of reason told him the best thing he could do was chuck the rest of the things in the river Dang at the earliest available opportunity.
“No way!” he said aloud, for emphasis.
Anyway, since he’d already sold the ring, the smartest thing to do would be to hang on to the other artefacts; at least then, if his secret was discovered, he might be able to return the bag and its contents to Lord Vernon in exchange for his life. His encounter with Denarghi, coupled with the Grongles’ visit to the Parrot, was a compelling reason to save every bargaining chip, no matter how small, that he might use to save his skin.
There was another reason, too. The thimble. He couldn’t explain his relationship with the thimble. It wasn’t his, he had never seen it before and yet, like the ring, nothing had ever felt so perfectly his own. It was as if it wanted to belong to him and he felt so guilty about selling the ring that it made him feel almost protective over it.
He carried it around with him wherever he went. When he had a spare moment he would take it out and imagine something he missed, usually his home. Then he would hold the open end up to his eye and peer in. Whatever he had thought about would appear in the bottom. It was as if he was looking through a telescope at images projected from within his mind. Anywhere he visualised, even the street outside, would appear in glorious Technicolor. A few hours after he had discovered this, The Pan had put it to his eye without thinking about anything in particular, and had seen a girl.
“What a babe,” he’d said. She had dark brown eyes and mousey hair which was almost as flyaway and unmanageable as his own. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but somehow she was, to him. He had watched her talking animatedly to a friend, laughing and smiling. She was lively and attractive, she looked fun, and good company, and he was instantly besotted. Ever since then, he’d spent a lot of time looking at this girl, whoever she was, even though he felt voyeuristic and creepy watching her. He shouldn’t be doing it but he was becoming addicted.
“Just a tiny peek,” he told himself as he stopped pacing and took out the thimble.
There she was. Ada would have called her ‘big-boned’, but she had a good figure. He usu
ally went for leggy blondes and well ... this girl wasn’t leggy or blonde. And she wore glasses.
Watching her now, he was beginning to suspect she lived on another planet. Wherever she lived it was certainly different from K’Barth. Perhaps she did, knowing his attraction to the unattainable, that would explain why he was so taken with her.
“Where are you?” he asked her. He put the thimble down for a moment. He was being an idiot. He wasn’t in love with her. They’d never met and the thimble wasn’t wired for sound, so he hadn’t even heard her speak.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, “she’s a figment of your imagination.”
And a voice behind him said:
“She’s as real as you or I.”
To say The Pan was surprised was an understatement. He leapt in shock across the room. His knees felt all wobbly, so he leant his back against the wall for support and stood facing the doorway. The voice belonged to the old man who had surprised him, earlier, by suddenly appearing at the window. Now he was standing nonchalantly by the door.
“I’m so sorry, did I startle you?” he asked.
As if he didn’t realise.
“Er,” squeaked The Pan as his knees gave way and he slid to the floor, “a tad.”
One of the luxuries of having eyes in the back of your head is that no-one can ever creep up on you. The Pan stared at the old man, wondering how long he had managed to stand there, in what should have been full view, without being seen. Something was definitely wrong.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the old boy, equably.
“Don’t be afraid,” repeated The Pan, as he sat hunched ignominiously against the wall, “that’s rich.”
Nobody had crept up on him unobserved since his extra eyes had appeared. It didn’t happen. In his panic he wondered if they had disappeared without his realising. He ran his hands cautiously though the hair on the back of his head and inadvertently stuck his finger in one of the eyes in question, painfully proving its continued existence.
The old man wore a quizzical expression, with a hint of a smile.
“You’d better not be laughing at me,” said The Pan acidly as he stood up and fixed him with what he hoped was a level, fearless and withering gaze.
He seemed harmless enough. He was wearing sandals, yellow socks and mustard-coloured cord trousers worn bare on the knees and, The Pan assumed, although he couldn’t see from where he was standing, the bottom. He sported one of those cream ‘country’ checked shirts usually worn with a flat cap, a waxed cotton jacket and a golden retriever, but instead of the waxed jacket he wore a tweed one – similar to the one in The Pan’s own elderly gent’s disguise. The entire ensemble was coloured in coordinating shades of brown and yellow. He was clearly a Nimmist, probably a retired priest. Uninvited, he sat down on the bed. The Pan glared at him. There was something very humiliating about being outwitted by a septuagenarian.
“Have you the faintest, smallest notion how badly you scared me?” he asked. “I hope you realise that if I was as old as I’ve been pretending to be I’d have died of shock, for all you know I might be about to—I might have a weak heart.”
“Yes,” said the old man sagely, “but you don’t do you? In fact, considering the life you lead your health appears to be surprisingly robust. It must be Gladys’ cooking.” He beamed, displaying a gold tooth, and The Pan couldn’t help noticing that he bore a strong likeness to Gladys’ son Trev.
“What do you mean the life I lead?” he asked nervously. “I’m a very sober and upright citizen.”
The old man laughed, the gold tooth catching the light again as he smiled.
“Why of course you are—very sober, very upright and—very blacklisted.”
Uh oh! How did the old git know that? Time to lie through his teeth, then.
“I’m not blacklisted.”
“No, no, of course not,” said the old man wryly as he fished a small hand-held computer out of his inside jacket pocket. The Pan recognised it at once. It belonged to the Grongle who had questioned him in the saloon bar of the Parrot. He felt cheated. If he’d known Gladys and Ada were going to steal it, he’d have got in first. The old man powered it up by rubbing it in his hair.
“Hmm ...” he said glancing over the top of its minute screen at The Pan. “About five foot nine are you?” The Pan nodded dumbly. “Yes,” said the old man to nobody in particular as he tapped away at the keyboard. “Early 20s, dark hair, dark eyes—blue?” He squinted down his nose at The Pan. “Yes,” he said again, “blue. Shifty looking. Well, well, well. You’ve earned yourself a triple star.” The Pan was intrigued. Until now, he had associated stars with restaurants. “Your very existence is treason,” said the old man, “if you’re recognised, you can be shot on sight.”
“Mmm,” said The Pan cagily, “luckily I don’t have a very memorable face.”
The old man grinned.
“Perhaps not, but you must have upset somebody enough to remember you. Blacklisting is a rather stiff punishment for ‘obstructing the course of justice’, I would have thought.”
Was that all it said? The Pan raised one eyebrow.
“Maybe it depends which piece of justice you happen to be obstructing.”
As he remembered the events that had led to his being blacklisted, he was unable to suppress an involuntary shudder. It didn’t escape the old man’s notice.
“What did you really do?” he asked.
“Nothing much. I got under the wrong Grongle’s feet.” He didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it.
“My, my, we are enigmatic, aren’t we?” said the old man and The Pan glared at him. “All part and parcel of your bank robbery activities is it—this cloak and dagger stuff?”
Despite his best efforts, The Pan felt his eyes widen and, he suspected he was going white. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.
“I’m not a bank robber,” he said.
“No,” said the old man, “as I am well aware. Big Merv masterminds all that. How did he put it now? Ah yes, that’s right: he thinks, you drive.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence while The Pan wondered how on earth the old boy had known what Big Merv had said earlier.
“You shouldn’t know things like that.”
“I know many things I am not supposed to.”
“Not about me,” retorted The Pan, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Haven’t you?” The old man smiled indulgently, showing his gold tooth again. “Then why are you so peaky all of a sudden? No facial colour?” he began to chuckle, “or is that fabled weak heart of yours playing up?”
The Pan failed, spectacularly, to see the funny side. He didn’t like being cornered.
“This is no joke,” he snapped, “you’re quoting a conversation which took place among four people, alone, and you weren’t one of them. Who blabbed, Frank? Harry? Or is this some kind of test from Big Merv?”
The old man seemed disappointed.
“Nobody ‘blabbed’ as you put it. Don’t be afraid. Your secret is quite safe with me.”
“Oh thank you. Why yes, of course. But if some coffin dodger I’ve never seen before can walk calmly in off the street and display such in-depth knowledge of my life history and ...” he moved one arm expansively, “and quote private conversations it should have been physically impossible for him to hear, how many thousand others can do the same thing? You’re not the only one, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll wager I am,” said the old man. “I’m not your average ‘coffin dodger’.” His tone of voice bore the supreme confidence of a man not only used to being obeyed but who spent his life a couple of steps ahead of everyone else. It reminded The Pan of his father.
“Listening is simple enough, but it is a skill. You can trust me,” the old boy continued, but The Pan shook his head.
“No I can’t. That’s the point. I can’t trust anybody and I don’t. How d’you think I’ve stayed alive all these ye
ars?”
“Whether or not you choose to is your business, but you can trust me,” said the old man gently.
The Pan had a plan. He might not be able to outwit this septuagenarian but he was confident he could outrun him. “You come here and scare the living daylights out of me ... twice,” he waved his arms theatrically to divert the old man’s attention from the fact that he was edging towards the door. “I live here. This room is all I have. It’s my home.” The old man didn’t appear to notice what he was doing. “The least you could do was knock before you came in, you’re accusing me of being a public enemy and you appear to know more about my life than I do.” A few more feet and he’d be able to make a run for it while the old boy was busy worrying about calming him down.
“Oh, now don’t be upset,” began the old man.
“Can you blame me?”
“Not entirely.”
The Pan was trying to gauge the distance between himself and the open door. When he started to move, the old man was bound to stick his leg out and try to trip him. He would have to dive and roll into the corridor. The bag containing the remaining artefacts from Lord Vernon’s safety deposit box had fallen under the bed but on the side nearest the door. If he timed his move right he would be able to grab it as he rolled past and be up and running before his elderly adversary knew what had happened. He dived, rolled, successfully grabbed the bag but then hit something solid with a thump, and stopped dead.
Chapter 34
The Pan realised he was lying on his back, mostly upside down, half unrolled, with his legs in the air. He had rolled into the door, which the old man had kicked closed.
“Alright. You win,” he said. The old man bent down and took the bag from his hand.
“Thank you. I promise, you are the last person on Earth I would wish to harm. Here, let me help you.” The old boy held out his hand and helped The Pan to his feet. “I didn’t think I’d catch you! You are quick off the mark.”
