But this conversation caused Janine to notice the Prat. She leant forward and read his badge. So did I. It said RUPERT THE MAGE. “Rupert the Mage,” Janine said. “You must be one of Gram White’s esoteric circle in Universe Three.”
“Strictly freelance,” he said. “I believe we met in Bristol the other day, Mrs Mallory.”
I never heard how this not very promising conversation developed – or even if it developed at all – because Uncle Ted shouted at me. “Maree!” he shouted imploringly from the other side of Nick. “Maree! I’ve been put on a panel at twelve today. What do I say?”
“That depends what it’s on,” I said soothingly. “What’s it about?”
“God knows,” he said, despair all over him. “Promise me you’ll come along and nod intelligently at me from the front.”
“Senzyou murrain fanzy,” Nick said.
“Eh?” said Uncle Ted. He never could understand Nick’s morning talk.
“He’s telling you about the panel,” I explained. “He says it’s on—”
Then we got interrupted again. This time it was a long thin fellow dressed like a soldier who came up and loomed over Uncle Ted. His tall cheekbones loomed too, over his hollow cheeks, as he said, “Mr Mallory. Sir.”
His teeth showed under a fierce black moustache after that. I think it was a smile. I hoped it was, for Uncle Ted’s sake. Uncle Ted sort of sank down in his chair and looked as if he hoped so too. “What can I do for you?” he asked the man.
“I come to embrace you,” the man said. Uncle Ted flinched. “I am—” The man said some foreign name none of us could catch. He was too tall for any of us to read his badge. Then he said, “I come from fighting for my country. From Croatia. I come to say that you have saved my life and my sanity, sir. The guns would have killed my mind. But by reading your great book daily, I kept my courage and fought for my country.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said my uncle. “Er – which book?”
“Your so great history of King Arthur, his riders and the saintly Grail,” said the man.
“Er,” said Uncle Ted, “I think you’ve got the wrong Mallory. The one you want has only one L. And he’s been dead quite a while, I’m afraid.”
He might as well not have spoken. Staring into the distance – like Nick was also, except that this man’s eyes were wide and mad – the Croatian went on, “It is a book that inspires the heart to greatness. To serve. To fight against odds. To crush the enemy. To smite so that blood bursts from the nose and the ears. I have two English books of great inspiration with me as I fight. Both folded in my breast. Both stop several bullets. I have your book and the great Tolkien’s. But they tell me Tolkien is not here. So I come to you to thank you. Thank you, sir.” He ducked his long cadaverous face at Uncle Ted and marched away.
“I think he may be what they used to call shell-shocked,” Uncle Ted said ruefully. “What name did he say? All I heard was Balkan gabble.”
“Million Gabblevitch,” Nick said, almost normally. “Tower of Babel. Dutch joke.”
“Eh?” said Uncle Ted. He never gets Nick’s jokes, either.
Something made me look at the Prat. He was staring after the tall Croatian striding away from us, and he was looking utterly fed up and disappointed, as if the Croatian had somehow let him down badly.
[1]
From Maree Mallory’s
Thornlady Directory, file
twenty-five
Nick deserted me halfway through the morning, the rat, but not before we had done quite a bit of exploring together. We were trying to disentangle Mallory Universe from Home Universe and the other ones. Couldn’t be done. The Hotel Babylon, true to its name, wants everything as mad as the man who ate grass or mixed up like the Tower of Babel – particularly the last, particularly Russians and Germans. There was a huge crowd from both countries in a room upstairs called Ops, shouting one another down in both languages, with squirts of bad English in between. Ops is supposed to deal with crises. This was clearly a crisis, but no one in Ops knew if it was one combined crisis or two separate ones.
People kept explaining things like this to us. Or if there wasn’t a crisis, people chatted or gave us friendly smiles. They all seemed to know who we were without looking at our badges (nobody looks at badges anyway). The three long-haired people with the baby kept grinning at us as we went up and down the corridors, even the baby. Nick remarked that it was the most unpunishmently punishment his parents could have devised, and I kept saying how nice everybody was. But that was before we found a room labelled Press Office, where people in more than usually wordy T-shirts were just running off this morning’s news sheet. Apparently they do several each day of the Con. They gave us one each and we went and sat in the Grand Lobby to read them.
Everyone sits in the Grand Lobby. It is pretty big, but it looks enormous, because there are mirrors in one wall reflecting large windows in the wall opposite. It is full of armchairs and tables and small children running about in little cloaks or small-scale Batman gear, and all the adults sitting around in bundles. At that moment it was pretty full because a whole lot of new people had just turned up. Most of them were rather smartly dressed and had a sort of urgent, I’m-working look, which some of them clearly felt placed them in a class above the rest of us.
“Don’t despise them,” fat Wendy said, flopping down next to us. Nick had to look away from her again. “Those are the publishers. They’ll all be giving parties this evening.”
So I didn’t despise them and looked at the news sheet instead. But Nick really can’t take someone the size and shape of Wendy. He sprang up. “I’ve got to go. Games Universe is just starting,” he said. “I’ll look for you here or in your room at lunchtime.” This was a blatant lie. I knew the Games didn’t start yet, and I could see him hovering over by the far door, but the fact was that he had deserted me – deserted me just as I hit the para in the news sheet that said: “Fans please take note of Ted Mallory’s niece, Maree. This small, orphaned-looking lady is going about with a broken heart. Any fan happening upon Maree needs to be nice to her.”
I was so angry and so embarrassed that tears came into my eyes. My face felt sort of blue-hot. Wendy said something to me, but I couldn’t hear or answer or look at her. She was probably only talking to me because the news sheet told her to. I made a kind of low howling noise.
“I said,” said Wendy, “was there anything interesting in the news sheet? I haven’t read it yet.”
Then I hated myself for being hypersensitive. I looked up and pushed my sliding glasses up on my nose. And behold. Lo! WONDERS! The tall Nordic type I had seen the night before was walking through the Grand Lobby. He was every bit as beautiful as I remembered – better, if possible. Such wonderful slender hips, and such a walk! And – shame! – he just went striding through, past armchairs, past tables loaded with cups, past kiddies swirling little cloaks, past people sitting on the floor, past huddles of publishers, and went out the other end without looking at anyone, followed every inch of the way by my eyes.
I wasn’t the only one. A well-dressed publisher lady got her legs in a corkscrew trying to watch him and almost fell over. Beside me, Wendy said, “Oh my God! Look at that! Look at him! Have you ever seen anything quite so beautiful?” When I managed to tear my eyes away from the archway where the man had vanished, I saw she was staring after him too. Her hands were clasped under her enormous bosom and her face was all funny colours.
“Fabulous,” I agreed. My lower half felt weak.
Then I saw Tansy-Ann bearing down on me waving a news sheet. I gave a sharp cry and managed to get up and run, weak legs and all. People were going into the big hall by then for Uncle Ted’s panel and I went in with them, where I flopped down on a chair near the door and began thinking that I seriously might be getting over Robbie. I’d never felt like that over him.
After that, a certain amount of sanity came to my rescue, and it occurred to me that you feel like this about pop stars and other
people you never expect really to meet, and the fever went off enough for me to start wondering who the man was. Then I started wondering angrily about the news sheet and who might have done that to me. I was disposed to blame Uncle Ted. He might not have meant to punish me, but it would be very like him to have dropped a jovial word about me over supper last night. But it was even more like Janine. Or it could even have been Dutch Case or Rick Corrie, thinking they were doing me a kindness. And I still haven’t found out whose fault it was. Whoever it is is going to get themselves bitten, savagely, in the fleshy part of the calf.
When I came-to a bit, a good-looking woman in publisher clothes was introducing herself as Master of Ceremonies – I think she’s called Gianetti and runs a chat show on TV – and then telling us that Uncle Ted was Master of Black Comedy, and that some woman beside him wrote funny stuff too, and Mervin Thurless, who was sitting up there with them, was renowned for his wit (well, you could have fooled me) and they were all going to discuss “A Sense of Humour in Fantasy”.
I have to hand it to Uncle Ted. You’d not have known he hadn’t a notion what he was supposed to be talking about. He just took hold of the microphone and talked about it. “Writing a book is just a job, like any other job,” he said. I hoped he wouldn’t go on that way, but he did. Shortly he was saying, “Consider the job as if I were building a bicycle instead. I’d have to plan the frame – call that the plot – and put on the wheels – call that characters and their motivation – and then I’d put in the gears. Now the jokes are the gears. You have to get them just the right size and configuration, or you wind the pedals and – hey presto! – the chain falls off.” That got a good laugh. “So I always plan my gags in detail and in advance,” he says. “The whole book is like a machine, planned in detail in advance and well oiled with a smooth writing style.”
There was quite a bit more like this. Then Mervin Thurless upped and said yes, he agreed in every particular, except he thought humour was more like planning spices for a sauce. Then the woman upped in her turn and said she agreed with both of them, it was utterly mechanistic, but she said (as if she was very ashamed to admit it) sometimes her jokes made her laugh.
At this, Uncle Ted seized the mike again and said he never laughed: it was fatal.
And Thurless said it was bad form anyway, to laugh at your own jokes.
By this time I was really depressed. I thought of Uncle Ted’s wobbly windows, and I began to think he must really, truly never look through them or anything else. Coming on top of everyone being nice to me just because the news sheet told them to, it was just too much. Can’t anyone look out there and see that you need not thing of everything in terms of what works, or what they ought to do?
To do the Ceremonies lady justice, she began to look a trifle glum as well. At length she said, “But what about that extra factor, the miracle ingredient? Doesn’t a joke ever take off on its own for any of you? Let me stick my neck out here. What about inspiration?”
“No,” says Uncle Ted. “To work, it has to be all hard graft. You can’t afford to get carried away, or your book becomes a dangerous, out-of-hand thing and it may not sell.”
“I’ll go further,” says Mervin Thurless. “If there is a miracle ingredient, it’s money.”
“Precisely,” says Uncle Ted. “It’s how much you get paid for using the right formula.”
I got up and went out. I didn’t care if the door did crash behind me. I felt totally let down. Machines. Bicycles. FORMULA. Bah!!
As I stood there with a sort of gloomy thunder and lightning playing round my mind, the door behind me clicked quietly and the Prat crept out and closed it gently behind him. He looked, to my surprise, just like I felt.
“Money!” I said to him. “Bicycles!”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “What price imagination, let alone integrity? And for God’s sake don’t push your glasses up your nose at me like that. You make me feel I’ve got to defend those three, and I don’t want to. How about some coffee?”
So, to my further surprise, I found myself having coffee with him in the corner of a corridor somewhere, at a glass table. I think the Prat was fairly surprised himself. He had a wondering look behind the gold-rimmed glasses. But, just to be on the safe side, I asked him if he had read the news sheet. At this, his wondering look increased and he said, “What, do they have a news sheet as well as all the rest? They work pretty hard, don’t they?” Then I was satisfied he was not giving me coffee out of kindness and, as I was still fulminating, I told him angrily about Uncle Ted’s wavy windows.
“And all he could say about them was they added value to his house!” I said. “Gah! Phooey!”
“Possibly it’s the only way he can convince himself to talk about them,” the Prat says fair-mindedly. “They must have some kind of effect on him. He said ‘value’, after all, even if he puts it in terms of money. It may be quite hard for him to talk in public about things that strike him as strange or wonderful. He may be afraid people will think he’s soft.”
“He should try,” I said. “And you said you didn’t want to defend him.”
“I know,” he said. “But there’s this – I know that in my work, I don’t get very far forward unless there comes a moment when everything suddenly rushes together in an exciting sort of explosion in my mind. Then it all seems wonderful and ideas just pour in. Your uncle and the others – they must have times like that, or they couldn’t do what they do. But it’s awfully hard to describe. So they fake it, and say what they think people want to hear.”
“Nice try,” I said. “But describing things is what they’re supposed to be good at. They fell down on the job, in my opinion. “What work do you do?”
“Oh, I – er – design computer games,” he said.
“What? Killing aliens? Pzzwat, pzzwat?” I said. “I like shooting aliens.”
“I thought you might,” he says. “You get to do a lot of other things too, with mine. They’re fairly sophisticated. It’s an odd thought that quite a few of them are based on books that are on sale here in the Dealers Room, so I’m told, and I haven’t actually read one of them.”
“Then you should have read them!” I said. I was quite scandalised. He protested that he just worked on specs from the distributors and I told him that that just wouldn’t do. As soon as we’d finished the coffee, I took him along to the Dealers Room. I’d not dared to do more than drool in the doorway before this. I knew if I wanted to eat anything apart from the free breakfast, I shouldn’t get in among all those books. But it was all right if somebody else was buying them – it took the fever off me, so that I didn’t need to buy any myself. Well, almost. I made him buy all the basics (believe it or not, he hasn’t even read I, Robot or The Lord of the Rings!) and one or two of my special favourites, including the latest by three or four writers I really like. I intend to borrow those off him. We also looked at jewellery and dragons and comics (they had an old Sandman I hadn’t got, but the price was horrible) and then a stall of painted things. Zinka Fearon was selling some beautiful stuff, but there was another stall full of glass aliens that were yurk!
“Reminds me of your aunt’s jumper,” says the Prat. “She is your aunt, isn’t she? The one with the custard on her shoulder.”
“I thought it was an egg,” I said. “Yes, that’s our Janine.” That reminded me of breakfast, and I tried to get out of him why he had looked that way at the crazy Croatian who thought Uncle Ted wrote about King Arthur. But I had forgotten what a cool customer he is.
He said, “Poor fellow. I suddenly saw what war can do to people.”
“I knew that wasn’t the truth, but that was all he’d say. Strange. I can’t help connecting the way he looked at that Croatian with what Nick says he saw last night.
Anyway, we went on to the Art Show after that. By this time I was thinking that, if anyone had told me yesterday that I’d be standing in front of pictures chatting amiably with the Prat, I would have blacked their eye and called them a liar. I
t must be something in the air of this con, I think. And there were some very naughty paintings by Zinka Fearon we were just discussing, when Dutch Case comes zooming through the Art Room. The Prat takes after him at the double, grabs him by the arm and says, “Found you at last!” he says. “Care to come and have lunch with us?”
With us? I thought. No way, not with Case – quite apart from the fact that the Prat has money and will go and expect me to buy lunch in that expensive dining room. And I went off in the opposite direction, fast.
I ran into Nick near the lifts. Nick was looking like the cat that had the cream. “They loved Bristolia!” he proclaimed. “And my new Wantchester game! I’d got some twists on both of them that no one had come across before. They’re saying I ought to get them made into proper computer games. Only I don’t know who to ask about it.”
“I do. Start talking to the Prat,” I said. Nick stared at me. “Honestly,” I said. “He’s just been telling me he designs the software. He seems to know most of the distributors and manufacturers.”
“Wow!” says Master Nick. “Let me at him!”
[2]
From the account of Rupert
Venables
I find that the notes I made at the time scarcely mention the hour or so I spent with Maree. I seem just to have jotted down Bought an unconscionable number of books, followed by Mallory uncomfortably shrewd, by which I certainly didn’t mean her uncle. I have seldom heard such drivel as he talked on that panel. What I meant was the awkward moment Maree gave me in front of Zinka’s paintings. Zinka does exquisite, delicate portrayals of humans copulating with various kinds of ribby-winged beings. Mostly they are the people you find in increasing numbers as you go Ayewards from the Empire. Though I have never myself met the horned men she had painted, I’ve met quite a few of the other winged ones in the pictures – but clearly not as intimately as Zinka has.
Deep Secret Page 15
