31.
Planning Meeting
Common Cormorants’ Numbers Decline
A leading ornithologist claimed yesterday that
bear-bird incompatibility is to blame for the cormorant decline in
recent years. “We have known for many years that cormorants lay
eggs in paper bags to keep the lightning out,” explained Mr. Daniel
Chough, “but the reintroduction of bears to England has placed an
intolerable strain on the birds’ breeding habits. Even though bears
and birds rarely compete for food and resources, it seems that
wandering bears with buns steal the cormorants’ paper bags in
order, according to preliminary research, to hold the crumbs.” That
the bears are of Danish origin is suspected but not yet
substantiated.
Article in Flap! magazine, July 20,
1988
So what do you know about the Elan?” asked
Bowden as we drove back into the town.
“Not much,” I replied, looking at the charts of Mr.
Shaxspoor’s teeth. Stig reckoned he had lived in the Elan for a lot
longer than the others—perhaps until only a few years ago. If he
had survived that long, why not some of the others? I wasn’t going
to raise any false hopes quite yet, but at least it seemed
possible we could save Hamlet after all.
“Were you serious about not being able to think of
a way in?”
“I’m afraid so. We could always pretend to be water
officials from Birmingham or something.”
“Why would water officials have ten truckloads of
banned Danish books?” asked Bowden, not unreasonably.
“Something to read while doing water-officially
things?”
“If we don’t get these books to safety, they’ll be
burned, Thursday—we’ve got to find a way into the
Republic.”
“I’ll think of something.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding calls
from numerous sports reporters, eager to get a story and find out
who would be playing in what position on the field. I called Aubrey
and told him that he would have five new players—but I didn’t tell
him they’d be neanderthals. I couldn’t risk the press’s finding
out.
By the time I returned to Mum’s house, my wedding
ring was firmly back on my finger again. I pushed Friday around to
Landen’s house and, noticing that everything seemed to be back to
normal, knocked twice. There was an excited scrabble from within,
and Landen opened the door.
“There you are!” he said happily. “When you hung up
on me, I got kinda worried.”
“I didn’t hang up, Land.”
“I was eradicated again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Will I be again?”
“I’m hoping not. Can I come in?”
I put Friday on the floor, and he immediately
started to try to climb the stairs.
“Bedtime already, is it, young man?” asked Landen,
following him as he clambered all the way up. I noticed that in the
spare room there were two as-yet-unpacked stair gates, which put my
mind at rest. He had bought a cot, too, and several toys.
“I bought some clothes.”
He opened the drawer. It was stuffed with all kinds
of clothes for the little chap, and although some looked a bit
small, I didn’t say anything. We took Friday downstairs, and Landen
made some supper.
“So you knew I was coming back?” I asked as he cut
up some broccoli.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “as soon as you got all that
eradication nonsense sorted out. Make us a cup of tea, would
you?”
I walked over to the sink and filled the
kettle.
“Any closer to a plan for dealing with Kaine?”
asked Landen.
“No,” I admitted, “I’m really banking on Zvlkx’s
Seventh Revealment coming true.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Landen, chopping
some carrots, “is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with
everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.”
“I must say I’m surprised by the lack of opposition
to Kaine’s plans,” I agreed, staring absently out the kitchen
window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my
mind. “Land?”
“Yuh?”
“When was the last time Formby went anywhere near
Kaine?”
“Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants
to meet him face-to-face, but the President won’t have anything to
do with him.”
“That’s it!” I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash
of inspiration.
“What’s it?”
“Well ...”
I stopped because something at the bottom of the
garden had caught my eye.
“Do you have nosy neighbors, Land?”
“Not really.”
“It’s probably my stalker, then.”
“You have a stalker?”
I pointed. “Sure. Just there, in the laurels,
beckoning to me.”
“Do you want me to do the strong male thing and
chase him off with a stick?”
“No. I’ve got a better idea.”
“Hello, Millon. How’s the stalking going? I
brought you a cup of tea and a bun.”
“Pretty well,” he said, marking down in his
notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to
make room for me in the laurel bush. “How are things with
you?”
“They’re mostly good. What were you waving at me
for?”
“Ah!” he said. “We were going to run a feature
about thirteenth-century seers in Conspiracy Theorist
magazine, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think it’s odd that no fewer than
twenty-eight Dark Ages saints have chosen this year for their
second coming?”
“I’d not really given it that much thought.”
“O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of
these twenty-eight supposed seers, only two of them—St. Zvlkx and
Sister Bettina of Stroud—have actually made any prophecies that
have come remotely true?”
“What are you saying?”
“That St. Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century
saint at all, but some sort of time-traveling criminal. He takes an
illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of
history and then, at the appropriate time, he is catapulted forward
to see his last revealment come true.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the ChronoGuard gets wind of
what he’s up to, he’s never been born—literally. Why risk
nonexistence for at most a few years’ fame as a washed-up visitor
from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin
complaints?”
Millon shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you might
be able to help me.” He lapsed into silence.
“Tell me, Millon—is there any connection between
Kaine and the Ovinator?”
“Of course! You should read Conspiracy
Theorist magazine more often. Although most of our links
between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous
as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant,
Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech
division. If Goliath has an Ovinator, then Kaine might very well
have one, too. Do you know what it does, then?”
I laughed. This was exactly the news I
wanted to hear.
“You’ll see. Tell me,” I added, my hopes rising by
the second, “what do you know about the old Goliath BioEngineering
labs?”
“Hoooh!” he said, making a noise like any
enthusiast invited to comment on his particular field of interest.
“Now you’re talking! The old Goliath BioE is still standing in what
we call Area 21—the empty quarter in Mid-Wales, the Elan.”
“Empty metaphorically or empty literally?”
“Empty as in no one goes there except water
officials—and we have wholly uncorroborated evidence that we peddle
as fact that an unspecified number of officials have vanished
without a trace. In any event, it’s all off-limits to everyone,
surrounded by an electrified fence.”
“To keep people out?”
“No,” said Millon slowly, “to keep whatever genetic
experiments Goliath was working on in. The whole of Area 21
is infested with chimeras. I’ve got files and files of dubious
stories about people breaking in, allegedly never to be seen again.
What’s your interest in the Elan BioE plant anyway?”
“Illegal genetic experiments on humans undertaken
covertly by an apparently innocent multinational.”
Millon nearly passed out with the conspiracy
overload. When he had recovered, he asked how he could help.
“I need you to find any pictures, plans, layout
drawings—anything that might be of use for a visit.”
Millon opened his eyes wide and scribbled in his
notepad. “You’re going to go into Area 21?”
“No,” I replied, “we both are. Tomorrow. Leaving
here at seven in the morning, sharp. Can you find what I
asked for?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I can get you your
information, Miss Next,” he said slowly and with a gleam in his
eye, “but it will cost. Let me be your official biographer.”
I put out a hand and he shook it gratefully.
“Deal.”
I walked back inside to find Landen talking to a
man dressed in slightly punky clothes, with brightly colored
spectacle frames, bleached-blond hair and an infinitesimally small
goatee firmly planted just under his lower lip.
“Darling,” Landen said, grasping the hand that I
had just rested on his shoulder, “this is my very good friend
Handley Paige.”
I shook Paige’s hand. He seemed pretty much the
same as any other SF writers I had ever met. Slightly geeky, but
pleasant enough.
“You write the Emperor Zhark books,” I
observed.
He winced slightly. “No one ever talks about the
decent stuff I write,” he moaned. “They just ask me for more and
more Zhark stuff. I did it as a joke—a pastiche of bad science
fiction—and blow me down if it isn’t the most popular thing I’ve
ever done.”
I remembered what Emperor Zhark had told me.
“You’re going to kill him off, aren’t you?”
Handley started. “How did you know that?”
“She works for SO-27,” explained Landen. “They know
everything.”
“I thought you guys were more hooked on the
classics?”
“We deal with all genres,” I explained. “For
reasons that I can’t reveal, I advise you to maroon Zhark on an
uninhabited planet rather than expose him to the humiliation of a
public execution.”
Handley laughed. “You talk about him as if he were
a real person!”
“She takes her work very seriously, Handley,” said
Landen without the glimmer of a smile. “I’d advise you to consider
very seriously anything she happens to say. Wheels within wheels,
Handley.”
But Handley was adamant. “I’m going to kill him off
so utterly and completely that no one will ever ask me for another
Zhark novel again. Thanks for lending me the book, Land. I’ll see
myself out.”
“Is Handley in danger?” asked Landen as soon as he
had gone.
“Quite possibly. I’m not sure the Zharkian
death-ray works in the real world, and I’d hate for Handley to be
the one who finds out.”
“This is a BookWorld thing, isn’t it? Let’s just
change the subject. What did your stalker want?”
I smiled. “You know, Landen, things are beginning
to look up. I must call Bowden.”
I quickly dialed his number.
“Bowd? It’s Thursday. I’ve figured out how we’re
going to get across the border. Set everything up for tomorrow
morning. We’ll muster at Leigh Delamare at eight. . . . I can’t
tell you. . . . Stig and Millon. . . . See you there. Bye.”
I called Stig and told him the same, then kissed
Landen and asked him if he’d mind feeding Friday on his own. He
didn’t, of course, and I dashed off to speak to Mycroft.
I was back in time to help Landen scrub the food
off Friday, read the boy a story and put him to bed. It wasn’t
late, but we went to bed ourselves. Tonight there was no shyness or
confusion, and we undressed quickly. He pushed me backwards onto
the bed and with his fingertips—
“Wait!” I cried out.
“What?”
“I can’t concentrate with all those people!”
Landen looked around the empty bedroom. “What
people?”
“Those people,” I repeated, waving a hand in the
general direction of everywhere, “the ones reading
us.”
Landen stared at me and raised an eyebrow. I felt
stupid, then relaxed and gave out a nervous giggle.
“Sorry. I’ve been living inside fiction for too
long; sometimes I get this weird feeling that you, me and
everything else are just . . . well, characters in a book or
something.”
“Plainly, that is ridiculous.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Where were we?”
“Just here.”