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Dirk GentlyÆs Holistic Detective Agency
Douglas Adams (1987)




to my mother,
who liked the bit about the horse


[::: AUTHORÆS NOTE ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The physical  descriptions  of St CeddÆs College in this book,  in so
far as  they  are  specific at  all,  owe a little to  my memories of St
JohnÆs College, Cambridge, although IÆve  also borrowed indiscriminately
from other colleges as well. Sir Isaac Newton was at Trinity College  in
real life, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge was at Jesus.
   The  point  is  that  St  CeddÆs College is a  completely  fictitious
assemblage, and  no correspondence is intended  between any institutions
or characters in this book and any real institutions  or people, living,
dead, or wandering the night in ghostly torment.
   This  book  was written  and  typeset  on  an  Apple  Macintosh  Plus
computer and LaserWriter Plus  printer using  MacAuthor  word-processing
software.
   The completed document was  then printed using a Linotron  100 at The
Graphics Factory, London  SW3, to produce a final  high-resolution image
of the text. My thanks  to Mike  Glover of Icon  Technology for his help
with this process.
   Finally, my very special thanks are due to Sue Freestone  for all her
help in nursing this book into existence.

                                                           Douglas Adams
                                                            London, 1987


[::: CHAPTER 1 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   This time there would be no witnesses.
   This time  there was  just the dead earth, a rumble of  thunder,  and
the  onset  of that  interminable  light  drizzle from the north-east by
which  so  many  of  the  worldÆs  most  momentous  events  seem  to  be
accompanied.
   The  storms of the day before,  and  of  the day before that, and the
floods  of the previous  week, had  now abated.  The skies  still bulged
with rain, but all  that actually  fell  in  the gathering evening gloom
was a dreary kind of prickle.
   Some  wind whipped across the darkening plain, blundered through  the
low  hills and gusted across a shallow valley where stood a structure, a
kind of tower, alone in a nightmare of mud, and leaning.
   It  was a  blackened stump of a tower. It stood  like an extrusion of
magma from one  of the more  pestilential pits of hell, and it leaned at
a peculiar  angle, as if oppressed by something altogether more terrible
than  its own considerable  weight.  It seemed a dead  thing,  long ages
dead.
   The only movement was  that  of a river of  mud that moved sluggishly
along the bottom of the valley past the tower. A  mile or so further on,
the river ran down a ravine and disappeared underground.
   But  as the  evening  darkened it became apparent that the tower  was
not  entirely without  life. There was a  single dim red light guttering
deep within it.
   The light  was only just  visible -- except of course that there  was
no one to see,  no witnesses, not this time,  but it was nevertheless  a
light.  Every few  minutes  it  grew  a  little stronger  and  a  little
brighter and then faded slowly away almost  to nothing. At the same time
a low keening  noise drifted  out on  the wind, built  up  to a kind  of
wailing climax, and then it too faded, abjectly, away.
   Time  passed, and  then  another  light appeared,  a  smaller, mobile
light. It emerged at  ground level and moved in a single bobbing circuit
of the tower, pausing occasionally  on its way around. Then  it, and the
shadowy figure  that  could just  be discerned carrying it,  disappeared
inside once more.

   An  hour passed,  and  by  the  end of it the darkness was total. The
world seemed dead, the night a blankness.
   And then  the  glow appeared again near the  towerÆs peak, this  time
growing  in power more  purposefully.  It quickly  reached  the peak  of
brightness it  had previously attained, and then kept going, increasing,
increasing. The keening sound  that accompanied  it  rose  in  pitch and
stridency until it became a wailing  scream. The scream screamed on  and
on till it became a blinding noise and the light a deafening redness.
   And then, abruptly, both ceased.
   There was a millisecond of silent darkness.
   An  astonishing pale  new light billowed and bulged from  deep within
the  mud  beneath  the  tower.  The sky  clenched,  a  mountain  of  mud
convulsed, earth  and sky bellowed at each other,  there was  a horrible
pinkness,  a sudden  greenness, a lingering orangeness  that stained the
clouds,  and  then  the  light  sank and  the night  at last was deeply,
hideously dark.  There  was  no further sound other than the soft tinkle
of water.
   But in the morning  the  sun  rose  with an unaccustomed sparkle on a
day that was, or  seemed to be, or at least would  have seemed  to be if
there had been anybody  there to whom it  could  seem  to be anything at
all,  warmer, clearer and  brighter  -- an altogether  livelier day than
any  yet known. A clear  river ran through the shattered remains  of the
valley.
   And time began seriously to pass.


[::: CHAPTER 2 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   High  on a rocky promontory  sat an  Electric Monk on a bored  horse.
From  under its  rough woven cowl  the Monk gazed unblinkingly down into
another valley, with which it was having a problem.
   The  day was hot, the  sun stood  in an empty hazy  sky and beat down
upon  the grey rocks  and the scrubby, parched grass. Nothing moved, not
even the Monk. The horseÆs  tail  moved  a little, swishing  slightly to
try and  move a little air,  but that was all. Otherwise, nothing moved.
   The Electric Monk was a labour-saving device,  like a dishwasher or a
video recorder. Dishwashers washed tedious dishes for you,  thus  saving
you  the  bother of  washing  them  yourself,  video  recorders  watched
tedious television for you, thus  saving you the bother of looking at it
yourself; Electric Monks believed things for  you,  thus saving you what
was becoming  an  increasingly onerous  task, that of believing all  the
things the world expected you to believe.
   Unfortunately  this  Electric Monk  had  developed a  fault, and  had
started to  believe all kinds of things, more or less  at random. It was
even  beginning  to believe things  theyÆd have difficulty  believing in
Salt  Lake City. It had never heard  of Salt  Lake  City, of course. Nor
had it ever heard of a  quingigillion, which was roughly the  number  of
miles between this valley and the Great Salt Lake of Utah.
   The problem with  the valley was  this.  The Monk currently  believed
that the valley and  everything  in the valley and  around it, including
the Monk itself  and the MonkÆs horse, was a uniform shade of pale pink.
This made  for a certain difficulty in distinguishing any one thing from
any other  thing,  and therefore made  doing anything  or going anywhere
impossible,  or at  least difficult and dangerous. Hence  the immobility
of the Monk and the boredom of the horse,  which had had  to put up with
a lot of silly things in its time but  was  secretly of the opinion that
this was one of the silliest.
   How long did the Monk believe these things?
   Well, as  far  as  the Monk was  concerned, forever.  The faith which
moves mountains,  or at  least  believes them  against all the available
evidence  to  be pink, was  a  solid  and  abiding faith,  a  great rock
against which the world could hurl  whatever it would, yet  it would not
be shaken. In practice, the  horse knew,  twenty-four hours was  usually
about its lot.
   So  what of this horse, then,  that  actually held opinions,  and was
sceptical  about things?  Unusual behaviour for  a horse,  wasnÆt it? An
unusual horse perhaps?
   No. Although it was certainly  a handsome  and  well-built example of
its species, it was none the less a  perfectly  ordinary  horse, such as
convergent evolution has produced in  many of the places that life is to
be found.  They have  always  understood a great deal more than they let
on. It is  difficult to be  sat on all  day,  every day,  by  some other
creature, without forming an opinion about them.
   On  the other hand, it is perfectly  possible to  sit all day,  every
day, on  top  of another  creature  and not  have the  slightest thought
about them whatsoever.
   When the  early models of these Monks were built, it  was felt to  be
important that they  be  instantly  recognisable as artificial  objects.
There must be  no danger of their looking at all  like real  people. You
wouldnÆt want your video  recorder  lounging around on the  sofa all day
while  it  was  watching  TV. You wouldnÆt  want  it  picking its  nose,
drinking beer and sending out for pizzas.
   So  the  Monks were built with  an eye for originality of  design and
also  for practical horse-riding  ability. This  was important.  People,
and indeed  things, looked more sincere on  a  horse.  So two  legs were
held to be both more suitable and  cheaper than  the  more normal primes
of  seventeen,  nineteen  or twenty-three; the skin the Monks were given
was  pinkish-looking  instead  of  purple,  soft  and smooth instead  of
crenellated. They were also restricted to just  one  mouth and nose, but
were given  instead an additional  eye, making for a grand total of two.
A strange-looking  creature indeed. But truly excellent at believing the
most preposterous things.
   This Monk had first  gone wrong when  it was simply given too much to
believe  in  one day. It  was, by mistake, cross-connected  to  a  video
recorder that was watching eleven  TV channels  simultaneously, and this
caused  it to blow a bank  of illogic circuits.  The video recorder only
had to  watch  them, of course. It didnÆt  have to believe  them  all as
well. This is why instruction manuals are so important.
   So  after a hectic week of believing  that war was peace,  that  good
was bad, that  the moon was made of blue cheese,  and  that God needed a
lot of money  sent to a certain box  number, the Monk started to believe
that  thirty-five percent of all  tables  were hermaphrodites,  and then
broke down. The man from the Monk  shop said that it  needed a whole new
motherboard,  but then  pointed  out  that  the new  improved  Monk Plus
models  were  twice  as  powerful,  had an  entirely  new  multi-tasking
Negative  Capability feature  that  allowed them  to hold up to  sixteen
entirely  different  and contradictory  ideas in  memory  simultaneously
without generating any irritating system errors, were  twice as fast and
at least  three  times  as glib, and you could have a  whole new one for
less than the cost of replacing the motherboard of the old model.
   That was it. Done.
   The  faulty Monk  was  turned  out into the  desert  where  it  could
believe  what it liked, including  the idea  that it  had been hard done
by. It  was allowed  to  keep  its horse, since horses  were so cheap to
make.
   For a number  of days  and nights, which it variously  believed to be
three,  forty-three,  and  five hundred  and ninety-eight thousand seven
hundred and  three,  it  roamed the desert, putting  its simple Electric
trust  in  rocks, birds, clouds  and a  form  of  non-existent elephant-
asparagus,  until  at  last  it  fetched  up  here, on  this high  rock,
overlooking  a  valley  that  was not, despite  the  deep fervour of the
MonkÆs belief, pink. Not even a little bit.
   Time passed.


[::: CHAPTER 3 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Time passed.
   Susan waited.
   The  more Susan waited,  the more the doorbell didnÆt  ring.  Or  the
phone.  She looked at  her watch. She felt  that now was about  the time
that she could legitimately begin  to feel cross. She was cross already,
of course, but that had been in  her own  time,  so to speak. They  were
well  and  truly  into  his  time now,  and even  allowing for  traffic,
mishaps, and  general vagueness and dilatoriness,  it  was now well over
half an  hour  past the time that he  had insisted  was the latest  time
they could possibly afford to leave, so sheÆd better be ready.
   She tried to worry  that something terrible had  happened to him, but
didnÆt believe it  for a  moment. Nothing terrible ever happened to him,
though she was  beginning to think that it was time it damn well did. If
nothing terrible happened  to him soon maybe sheÆd  do it  herself.  Now
there was an idea.
   She threw herself crossly into the  armchair  and watched the news on
television. The news made her  cross. She flipped the remote control and
watched something on another channel  for a bit. She didnÆt know what it
was,  but  it also  made her  cross. Perhaps she  should  phone. She was
damned if she was  going  to phone. Perhaps if she phoned he would phone
her at the same moment and not be able to get through.
   She refused to admit that she had even thought that.
   Damn him, where was  he? Who cared  where he was anyway?  She didnÆt,
that was for sure.
   Three  times  in a  row heÆd  done this.  Three  times  in  a row was
enough.  She  angrily  flipped  channels  one more  time.  There  was  a
programme about computers and some  interesting  new developments in the
field of things you could do with computers and music.
   That  was it. That was really it. She knew  that she had told herself
that that was it only seconds earlier, but  this was now the  final real
ultimate it.
   She  jumped to her  feet and  went  to  the phone, gripping  an angry
Filofax. She flipped briskly through it and dialed a number.
   æHello, Michael? Yes, itÆs Susan. Susan  Way. You  said I should call
you  if  I was  free this evening  and I said  IÆd  rather  be dead in a
ditch, remember?  Well, I suddenly discover that I  am free, absolutely,
completely and  utterly free, and there  isnÆt a decent  ditch for miles
around.  Make your  move  while youÆve got  your  chance is my advice to
you. IÆll be at the Tangiers Club in half an hour.Æ
   She pulled on her shoes and coat, paused when she remembered that  it
was  Thursday and  that she  should put a fresh,  extra-long tape on the
answering  machine,  and  two minutes later  was  out of the front door.
When  at last the phone did ring the answering machine said sweetly that
Susan  Way could not come to the  phone just at the moment,  but that if
the caller would like to leave a message, she would  get back to them as
soon as possible. Maybe.


[::: CHAPTER 4 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   It was a chill November evening of the old-fashioned type.
   The moon  looked pale and wan, as if  it  shouldnÆt be  up on a night
like  this.  It  rose   unwillingly   and  hung  like  an  ill  spectre.
Silhouetted against  it, dim and  hazy through the  dampness  which rose
from the unwholesome fens, stood the assorted towers  and  turrets of St
CeddÆs, Cambridge,  a  ghostly  profusion  of buildings thrown  up  over
centuries, medieval  next to Victorian, Odeon next to Tudor. Only rising
through the mist did they seem remotely to belong to one another.
   Between  them scurried figures, hurrying from one  dim pool  of light
to   another,  shivering,  leaving   wraiths  of   breath  which  folded
themselves into the cold night behind them.
   It  was  seven oÆclock.  Many of  the  figures were  heading  for the
college  dining  hall which divided  First Court  from Second Court, and
from which warm light, reluctantly, streamed. Two figures in  particular
seemed ill-matched. One, a  young man, was  tall, thin and angular; even
muffled  inside  a heavy dark coat he walked a little  like an affronted
heron.
   The  other  was  small,   roundish,   and   moved  with  an  ungainly
restlessness, like a number of elderly  squirrels trying to  escape from
a sack.  His own age was on  the older side of completely indeterminate.
If you picked a  number at random,  he was probably a  little older than
that, but  -- well,  it was impossible  to tell. Certainly his  face was
heavily lined, and the small amount of hair that escaped from  under his
red woollen skiing hat was thin, white,  and had very much its own ideas
about how  it wished  to  arrange itself.  He too was muffled  inside  a
heavy  coat, but over it he wore a billowing gown with very faded purple
trim, the badge of his unique and peculiar academic office.
   As  they  walked  the  older man  was doing  all the  talking. He was
pointing at items  of interest along the way,  despite  the fact that it
was  too  dark  to see any of them. The younger man was saying æAh yes,Æ
and  æReally?  How  interesting...Æ  and  æWell, well, well,Æ and  æGood
heavens.Æ His head bobbed seriously.
   They entered, not through the main entrance  to the hall, but through
a small  doorway on  the east side of the court. This led to  the Senior
Combination  Room and  a dark-panelled anteroom where the Fellows of the
college assembled  to slap their hands and make  æbrrrrrrÆ noises before
making their way through their own entrance to the High Table.
   They  were  late  and shook  off  their  coats  hurriedly.  This  was
complicated for the older  man  by the necessity first of taking off his
professorial gown,  and then of putting  it  back on again once his coat
was off, then of  stuffing his hat in his coat pocket, then of wondering
where heÆd put  his scarf, and  then of realising that he hadnÆt brought
it, then of fishing  in his  coat pocket for his  handkerchief, then  of
fishing  in his other coat  pocket  for  his  spectacles, and finally of
finding  them  quite unexpectedly wrapped in his scarf, which it  turned
out he had brought after all  but hadnÆt  been wearing despite the  damp
and bitter  wind blowing in like  a witchÆs breath from across the fens.
   He bustled the younger man  into  the hall ahead of him and they took
the last two vacant seats at the High Table, braving  a flurry of frowns
and raised eyebrows for interrupting the Latin grace to do so.
   Hall  was  full  tonight.  It  was  always  more  popular   with  the
undergraduates in  the  colder  months.  More  unusually,  the  hall was
candlelit, as it was  now only on very few special  occasions. Two long,
crowded  tables  stretched   off   into  the  glimmering  darkness.   By
candlelight, peopleÆs faces were more alive, the hushed sounds  of their
voices, the  clink of cutlery and glasses, seemed  more exciting, and in
the dark  recesses of the great hall, all the centuries for which it had
existed seemed present at once. High Table  itself  formed  a crosspiece
at the top, and was  raised about a foot  above the rest. Since it was a
guest night, the table was  set on both sides  to accommodate the  extra
numbers,  and many diners therefore sat  with their backs to the rest of
the hall.
   æSo, young  MacDuff,Æ  said  the Professor  once  he  was seated  and
flapping his  napkin  open, æpleasure  to see you again, my dear fellow.
Glad you could come. No  idea what all this is about,Æ he added, peering
round  the  hall  in consternation.  æAll  the  candles  and silver  and
business.  Generally  means a  special  dinner in  honour of  someone or
something no  one  can  remember  anything about  except  that  it means
better food for a night.Æ
   He paused and thought  for  a moment, and then  said, æIt  seems odd,
donÆt  you  think,  that the quality  of the food  should vary inversely
with the  brightness  of  the  lighting. Makes  you wonder what culinary
heights  the  kitchen staff  could  rise  to  if  you confined  them  to
perpetual darkness.  Could be worth a try, I think. Got some good vaults
in  the college that  could  be turned over to  the  purpose. I think  I
showed you round them once, hmmm? Nice brickwork.Æ
   All  this came as  something of a  relief to  his  guest. It was  the
first  indication  his  host  had   given  that  he  had  the   faintest
recollection   who   he  was.  Professor  Urban  Chronotis,  the  Regius
Professor of Chronology, or  æRegÆ as he  insisted on being called had a
memory  that  he  himself  had  once  compared  to  the Queen  Alexandra
Birdwing  Butterfly, in that  it was  colourful, flitted prettily hither
and thither, and was now, alas, almost completely extinct.
   When he had telephoned with the invitation  a few days previously, he
had seemed extremely keen  to see his former pupil, and yet when Richard
had  arrived  this evening, a little on the  late side,  admittedly, the
Professor had thrown open  the door apparently in anger, had started  in
surprise on seeing Richard, demanded  to know if he was having emotional
problems, reacted  in annoyance to being reminded gently that it was now
ten years since he had been RichardÆs college tutor, and  finally agreed
that Richard had indeed come for dinner, whereupon  he,  the  Professor,
had  started talking  rapidly and  at length  about  the history of  the
college architecture, a sure  sign that his mind was elsewhere entirely.
   æRegÆ  had never  actually  taught  Richard,  he  had only  been  his
college tutor,  which meant in  short that  he  had had  charge  of  his
general welfare, told  him  when  the exams were and  not to take drugs,
and so  on. Indeed, it  was not entirely clear  if Reg had  ever  taught
anybody  at all  and what, if anything, he would  have  taught them. His
professorship was  an  obscure  one, to  say  the  least,  and  since he
dispensed with  his lecturing duties  by the  simple  and  time-honoured
technique of presenting all  his potential  students with an  exhaustive
list of books that he knew for a fact  had been out  of print for thirty
years, then flying  into a  tantrum if they failed to  find them, no one
had ever discovered  the precise nature of  his academic  discipline. He
had,  of  course,  long ago  taken  the precaution of removing  the only
extant copies of the  books on his reading  list from the university and
college libraries, as a  result of which he had plenty of time to, well,
to do whatever it was he did.
   Since  Richard had always managed to get on reasonably well with  the
old  fruitcake, he  had  one day  plucked  up courage to  ask  him what,
exactly, the  Regius Professorship of Chronology was. It had been one of
those  light  summery  days when  the world  seems about  to  burst with
pleasure at simply being itself, and Reg had been in an
uncharacteristically  forthcoming  mood  as  they  had  walked  over the
bridge where the River Cam  divided the older parts of  the college from
the newer.
   æSinecure, my dear  fellow, an absolute sinecure,Æ he had  beamed. æA
small amount of  money  for  a very small, or shall we say non-existent,
amount of work.  That puts me  permanently just ahead of the game, which
is  a comfortable  if frugal place  to spend your life. I recommend it.Æ
He  leaned  over the edge  of the  bridge  and  started  to  point out a
particular brick that  he found interesting.  æBut what sort of study is
it  supposed to  be?Æ  Richard had  pursued.  æIs it  history?  Physics?
Philosophy? What?Æ
   æWell,Æ said  Reg, slowly, æsince  youÆre  interested,  the chair was
originally instituted by King George III, who, as  you know, entertained
a number of amusing notions, including the belief that  one of the trees
in Windsor Great Park was in fact Frederick the Great.
   æIt  was his own appointment, hence ôRegiusö.  His own idea as  well,
which is somewhat more unusual.Æ
   Sunlight played along the River  Cam. People in punts happily shouted
at each other to fuck off. Thin  natural scientists who had spent months
locked away in their rooms growing  white and fishlike, emerged blinking
into the  light. Couples walking along the bank got so excited about the
general wonderfulness of  it all  that they  had to  pop  inside  for an
hour.
   æThe poor  beleaguered fellow,Æ  Reg continued,  æGeorge III, I mean,
was,  as  you may  know,  obsessed with  time.  Filled  the palace  with
clocks. Wound them incessantly. Sometimes would get up in the  middle of
the night and prowl  round the palace  in his nightshirt winding clocks.
He  was very  concerned that time continued  to go  forward, you see. So
many terrible  things had  occurred  in his life  that  he was terrified
that  any of  them might happen again if time were ever allowed  to slip
backwards  even for a moment. A  very understandable fear, especially if
youÆre  barking  mad, as IÆm  afraid  to  say,  with  the  very greatest
sympathy for the poor  fellow,  he undoubtedly was. He appointed  me, or
rather I should say, my office,  this professorship, you understand, the
post that I  am  now privileged to  hold to -- where was  I? Oh yes.  He
instituted  this, er,  Chair  of  Chronology  to  see  if there  was any
particular reason why one thing happened after  another and if there was
any way of stopping it. Since the answers to  the  three questions were,
I  knew immediately,  yes, no, and  maybe,  I realised I could then take
the rest of my career off.Æ
   æAnd your predecessors?Æ
   æEr, were much of the same mind.Æ
   æBut who were they?Æ
   æWho were they? Well, splendid  fellows of course, splendid to a man.
Remind me to  tell  you about them some day. See that  brick? Wordsworth
was once sick on that brick. Great man.Æ
   All that had been about ten years ago.
   Richard glanced  around the great dining hall to see what had changed
in the time,  and the answer was, of course, absolutely  nothing. In the
dark  heights,  dimly  seen  by  the  flickering  candlelight,  were the
ghostly portraits of prime  ministers,  archbishops, political reformers
and poets, any of whom might, in their  day, have been sick on that same
brick.
   æWell,Æ   said   Reg,  in  a  loudly  confidential  whisper,  as   if
introducing the subject of  nipple-piercing in a nunnery, æI hear youÆve
suddenly done very well for yourself, at last, hmmm?Æ
   æEr, well, yes, in fact,Æ  said  Richard, who was as surprised at the
fact as anybody else, æyes, I have.Æ
   Around the table several gazes stiffened on him.
   æComputers,Æ he heard  somebody  whisper dismissively  to a neighbour
further  down  the table.  The  stiff  gazes relaxed  again, and  turned
away.
   æExcellent,Æ said Reg. æIÆm so pleased for you, so pleased.Æ
   æTell me,Æ  he went on, and it was a moment before  Richard  realised
that  the Professor  wasnÆt talking  to him  any more, but had turned to
the  right  to  address his other  neighbour, æwhatÆs  all  this  about,
this,Æ he  flourished a  vague hand over the candles and college silver,
æ...stuff?Æ
   His neighbour,  an elderly wizened  figure,  turned  very  slowly and
looked at him as if he  was rather annoyed at being raised from the dead
like this.
   æColeridge,Æ he said in a thin rasp,  æitÆs  the Coleridge Dinner you
old  fool.Æ He turned very slowly  back until  he was  facing the  front
again.  His  name  was Cawley, he was  a  Professor  of  Archaeology and
Anthropology, and  it was frequently said  of him, behind his back, that
he  regarded it  not  so much  as  a serious academic study, more  as  a
chance to relive his childhood.
   æAh,  is it,Æ murmured Reg,  æis  it?Æ and turned  back  to  Richard.
æItÆs the  Coleridge Dinner,Æ he  said knowledgeably.  æColeridge was  a
member of the  college, you know,Æ he  added after a moment. æColeridge.
Samuel  Taylor. Poet. I expect youÆve heard  of him. This is his Dinner.
Well, not  literally,  of course.  It  would be  cold by now.Æ  Silence.
æHere, have some salt.Æ
   æEr,  thank  you,  I think IÆll wait,Æ said Richard, surprised. There
was no food on the table yet.
   æGo on, take it,Æ insisted  the Professor, proffering  him  the heavy
silver salt cellar.
   Richard blinked  in bemusement  but with an interior shrug he reached
to take it. In  the moment that he blinked, however, the salt cellar had
completely vanished.
   He started back in surprise.
   æGood one,  eh?Æ  said  Reg as  he retrieved  the  missing cruet from
behind  the  ear  of  his  deathly  right-hand  neighbour,  provoking  a
surprisingly  girlish  giggle  from  somewhere  else  at  the table. Reg
smiled impishly. æVery irritating  habit, I know.  ItÆs next  on my list
for giving up after smoking and leeches.Æ
   Well, that was  another  thing that hadnÆt  changed. Some people pick
their noses, others habitually beat up old ladies on the  streets. RegÆs
vice  was  a  harmless  if  peculiar  one --  an addiction  to  childish
conjuring tricks. Richard  remembered the first time he had  been to see
Reg with  a problem -- it was only the  normal /Angst/ that periodically
takes undergraduates  into its  grip, particularly when they have essays
to write,  but  it had seemed a dark and savage weight at  the time. Reg
had  sat  and  listened  to  his  outpourings  with  a   deep  frown  of
concentration, and  when  at  last Richard  had  finished,  he  pondered
seriously,  stroked  his  chin  a  lot, and at last leaned  forward  and
looked him in the eye.
   æI suspect that your problem,Æ he  said, æis that you have  too  many
paper clips up your nose.Æ
   Richard stared at him.
   æAllow me to demonstrate,Æ said  Reg, and  leaning across the desk he
pulled from RichardÆs  nose  a chain  of eleven paper clips  and a small
rubber swan.
   æAh, the  real culprit,Æ he said, holding up the swan.  æThey come in
cereal  packets,  you know, and cause no  end of trouble. Well, IÆm glad
weÆve had this little  chat, my dear fellow. Please feel free to disturb
me again if you have any more such problems.Æ
   Needless to say, Richard didnÆt.
   Richard glanced around the table  to see if there was anybody else he
recognised from his time at the college.
   Two places  away to  the  left  was  the  don who had been  RichardÆs
Director of Studies in English, who showed no signs of  recognising  him
at all. This  was  hardly surprising since  Richard  had spent his three
years here assiduously  avoiding  him, often to the extent of  growing a
beard and pretending to be someone else.
   Next  to  him was a man whom  Richard had never managed  to identify.
Neither, in  fact,  had anyone else.  He was thin and  vole-like and had
the most extraordinarily long bony nose --  it  really  was  very,  very
long and  bony indeed.  In fact  it looked a lot  like the controversial
keel which  had helped  the Australians win the  AmericaÆs Cup  in 1983,
and this resemblance  had been much remarked  upon  at  the time, though
not of course to his face. No one had  said anything to his face at all.
   No one.
   Ever.
   Anyone  meeting  him  for   the  first  time  was  too  startled  and
embarrassed by his nose to speak,  and the second time was worse because
of  the first time, and so on. Years had gone by  now, seventeen in all.
In all that time he had been cocooned  in silence.  In hall it  had long
been the  habit of  the college servants  to position a  separate set of
salt, pepper and mustard on either  side of him, since  no one could ask
him to  pass them, and to ask someone sitting  on the  other side of him
was  not  only  rude but completely impossible because of his nose being
in the way.
   The other odd thing about him  was a series  of gestures he made  and
repeated regularly  throughout every evening. They consisted of  tapping
each of  the  fingers of his  left hand in  order,  and  then one of the
fingers of his right hand.  He would  then  occasionally tap some  other
part of his body, a knuckle, an elbow or a knee. Whenever he  was forced
to stop this by  the requirements of eating he would start blinking each
of his eyes  instead, and occasionally  nodding. No  one, of course, had
ever dared  to  ask him  why he  did this, though all were consumed with
curiosity.
   Richard couldnÆt see who was sitting beyond him.
   In the  other direction, beyond RegÆs deathly neighbour,  was Watkin,
the Classics  Professor, a  man  of  terrifying dryness  and oddity. His
heavy rimless glasses were almost solid cubes of glass  within which his
eyes  appeared to lead independent  existences  like  goldfish. His nose
was straight enough and ordinary,  but beneath it he wore the same beard
as Clint  Eastwood. His eyes gazed  swimmingly  around  the  table as he
selected who  was going to be spoken at tonight. He had thought that his
prey  might be one  of  the  guests, the  newly appointed  Head of Radio
Three,  who was  sitting  opposite  -- but  unfortunately he had already
been  ensnared by  the Music Director of the college and  a Professor of
Philosophy. These two were busy explaining to  the harassed man that the
phrase ætoo much MozartÆ was, given any reasonable  definition  of those
three words, an inherently  self-contradictory  expression, and that any
sentence  which  contained  such  a  phrase  would be  thereby  rendered
meaningless  and  could not, consequently,  be  advanced as  part of  an
argument in  favour of any given programme-scheduling strategy. The poor
man was already beginning  to  grip  his cutlery too tightly.  His  eyes
darted about desperately looking  for  rescue,  and  made the mistake of
lighting on those of Watkin.
   æGood evening,Æ said  Watkin  with smiling charm, nodding in the most
friendly way, and then  letting his  gaze settle glassily on to his bowl
of newly arrived soup,  from which position it would not allow itself to
be moved.  Yet. Let the bugger suffer  a little. He wanted the rescue to
be worth at least a good half dozen radio talk fees.
   Beyond  Watkin,  Richard suddenly discovered the source of the little
girlish giggle  that  had greeted  RegÆs conjuring  trick. Astonishingly
enough it was a little  girl. She was about eight years old  with blonde
hair and a  glum look. She was sitting occasionally kicking pettishly at
the table leg.
   æWhoÆs that?Æ Richard asked Reg in surprise.
   æWhoÆs what?Æ Reg asked Richard in surprise.
   Richard  inclined  a finger  surreptitiously in  her  direction. æThe
girl,Æ he whispered, æthe very, very little  girl. Is  it some new maths
professor?Æ
   Reg  peered round at her. æDo  you know,Æ he said in astonishment, æI
havenÆt   the  faintest  idea.  Never   known  anything   like  it.  How
extraordinary.Æ
   At that moment the problem was solved by  the man from  the  BBC, who
suddenly wrenched  himself out of the logical half-nelson into which his
neighbours  had got him,  and  told  the girl off for kicking the table.
She  stopped  kicking  the  table,  and  instead  kicked  the  air  with
redoubled vigour. He  told her  to  try and enjoy herself, so she kicked
him. This did something to  bring a  brief  glimmer of pleasure into her
glum evening,  but it didnÆt  last.  Her father briefly shared with  the
table at  large his feelings about baby-sitters who let people down, but
nobody felt able to run with the topic.
   æA major season of Buxtehude,Æ resumed the  Director of Music, æis of
course  clearly  long overdue.  IÆm sure  youÆll be looking  forward  to
remedying this situation at the first opportunity.Æ
   æOh,  er, yes,Æ  replied the girlÆs  father, spilling his soup,  æer,
that is... heÆs not the same one as Gluck, is he?Æ
   The little  girl kicked  the table leg again. When  her father looked
sternly at her,  she  put her head on one side and mouthed a question at
him.
   æNot now,Æ he insisted at her as quietly as he could.
   æWhen, then?Æ
   æLater. Maybe. Later, weÆll see.Æ
   She hunched grumpily  back in her  seat. æYou always say later,Æ  she
mouthed at him.
   æPoor child,Æ  murmured  Reg. æThere isnÆt  a  don  at this table who
doesnÆt behave exactly  like that  inside. Ah, thank  you.Æ  Their  soup
arrived, distracting his attention, and RichardÆs.
   æSo  tell  me,Æ  said Reg, after  they  had  both  had  a  couple  of
spoonsful and arrived  independently at the same conclusion, that it was
not a taste explosion, æwhat youÆve been up to, my dear  chap. Something
to do  with  computers,  I understand,  and  also to do  with  music.  I
thought  you read English when you were  here -- though only, I realise,
in your spare time.Æ He looked at Richard significantly over the rim  of
his  soup spoon.  æNow wait,Æ he interrupted  before Richard  even had a
chance to start,  ædonÆt I  vaguely  remember that you had some sort  of
computer when you were here? When was it? 1977?Æ
   æWell,  what  we  called a  computer  in 1977  was really  a kind  of
electric abacus, but...Æ
   æOh,  now,  donÆt underestimate the abacus,Æ  said  Reg. æIn  skilled
hands  itÆs  a very  sophisticated  calculating  device. Furthermore  it
requires no power, can be made with any materials you have  to hand, and
never goes bing in the middle of an important piece of work.Æ
   æSo an  electric  one would be particularly pointless,Æ said Richard.
   æTrue enough,Æ conceded Reg.
   æThere  really wasnÆt a lot  this machine could do  that you couldnÆt
do  yourself in half  the  time with  a lot less trouble,Æ said Richard,
æbut  it  was,  on  the  other hand,  very good at being a slow and dim-
witted pupil.Æ
   Reg looked at him quizzically.
   æI had no idea they were  supposed to  be in  short supply,Æ he said.
æI could hit a dozen with a bread roll from where IÆm sitting.Æ
   æIÆm sure.  But look  at  it this way.  What  really is  the point of
trying to teach anything to anybody?Æ
   This  question  seemed to  provoke a murmur  of sympathetic  approval
from up and down the table.
   Richard  continued,  æWhat I  mean  is  that if  you really  want  to
understand something, the best way is to try and  explain  it to someone
else.  That  forces  you to sort it out  in your own mind.  And the more
slow and dim-witted  your pupil,  the more you have to break things down
into  more and more  simple  ideas. And thatÆs  really  the  essence  of
programming.  By the  time  youÆve  sorted  out a complicated  idea into
little steps that even a stupid  machine can deal with, youÆve certainly
learned something  about  it  yourself. The  teacher usually learns more
than the pupil. IsnÆt that true?Æ
   æIt  would be hard to learn  much less than  my pupils,Æ  came a  low
growl  from somewhere  on the  table, æwithout undergoing a  pre-frontal
lobotomy.Æ
   æSo I  used to spend  days  struggling  to write  essays on  this 16K
machine that would have taken  a  couple of  hours on  a typewriter, but
what was fascinating to me was the process  of trying to  explain to the
machine what it  was  I wanted it  to do. I virtually wrote my  own word
processor in BASIC.  A simple  search  and  replace  routine would  take
about three hours.Æ
   æI forget, did you ever get any essays done at all?Æ
   æWell,  not as  such.  No actual essays, but the reasons why not were
absolutely fascinating. For instance, I discovered that...Æ
   He broke off, laughing at himself.
   æI was also playing keyboards  in a rock group, of course,Æ he added.
æThat didnÆt help.Æ
   æNow,  that I didnÆt know,Æ said  Reg. æYour  past has murkier things
in it than  I dreamed possible. A quality,  I  might add, that it shares
with this  soup.Æ He wiped his mouth with  his napkin very carefully. æI
must go and have a word with  the kitchen staff one day. I would like to
be  sure  that they are keeping the right bits  and  throwing the proper
bits  away. So. A rock  group, you say. Well, well, well. Good heavens.Æ
   æYes,Æ  said  Richard. æWe called ourselves The Reasonably Good Band,
but in  fact we werenÆt. Our intention  was  to  be the  Beatles of  the
early  eighties, but we got much better financial and legal  advice than
the Beatles ever  did, which was basically æDonÆt botherÆ, so we didnÆt.
I left Cambridge and starved for three years.Æ
   æBut didnÆt I  bump  into you during that period,Æ said Reg, æand you
said you were doing very well?Æ
   æAs a road  sweeper, yes.  There was an  awful  lot  of  mess on  the
roads. More  than enough, I felt,  to support an entire career. However,
I got the sack for sweeping the mess on to another sweeperÆs patch.Æ
   Reg shook his head. æThe wrong career for you,  IÆm  sure. There  are
plenty   of   vocations  where   such   behaviour  would  ensure   rapid
preferment.Æ
   æI tried a few  -- none of them much grander, though. And I kept none
of them very long, because I was  always too tired  to do them properly.
IÆd be found asleep slumped  over the chicken sheds or filing cabinets -
-  depending on what the job was.  Been  up all night with  the computer
you see, teaching  it to  play ôThree  Blind Miceö. It was  an important
goal for me.Æ
   æIÆm sure,Æ  agreed Reg.  æThank you,Æ he said to the college servant
who took  his half-finished plate  of  soup from him,  æthank  you  very
much. ôThree Blind Miceö,  eh?  Good. Good.  So no  doubt you  succeeded
eventually, and this  accounts for your present celebrated status. Yes?Æ
   æWell, thereÆs a bit more to it than that.Æ
   æI feared there might be.  Pity  you didnÆt bring it with you though.
It  might have cheered  up the poor young lady  who is  currently having
our dull and crusty  company  forced upon her. A  swift burst of  ôThree
Blind  Miceö  would  probably  do much to revive her spirits.Æ He leaned
forward to look past his two right-hand neighbours at the  girl, who was
still sitting sagging in her chair.
   æHello,Æ he said.
   She  looked up in surprise, and then dropped her eyes shyly, swinging
her legs again.
   æWhich  do  you  think  is worse,Æ  enquired  Reg,  æthe  soup or the
company?Æ
   She gave a tiny, reluctant laugh and shrugged, still looking down.
   æI  think  youÆre  wise  not  to  commit  yourself  at  this  stage,Æ
continued  Reg. æMyself, IÆm  waiting to  see the carrots before  I make
any judgements. TheyÆve been boiling them since the weekend, but  I fear
it may not be enough.  The only thing that  could possibly be worse than
the  carrots is  Watkin. HeÆs  the  man with  the silly glasses  sitting
between us. My nameÆs  Reg, by the way.  Come  over and kick me when you
have  a  moment.Æ  The  girl giggled  and  glanced  up  at  Watkin,  who
stiffened  and made an  appallingly unsuccessful attempt to smile  good-
naturedly.
   æ/Well/,  little girl,Æ  he  said  to  her  awkwardly,  and  she  had
desperately to  suppress  a hoot  of  laughter  at his  glasses.  Little
conversation therefore  ensued,  but the girl had an ally,  and began to
enjoy herself a tiny little  bit. Her father gave her a relieved  smile.
   Reg  turned  back  to Richard,  who said, suddenly,  æDo you have any
family?Æ
   æEr... no,Æ said  Reg, quietly.  æBut  tell  me. After  ôThree  Blind
Miceö, what then?Æ
   æWell,  to  cut a long  story  short, Reg,  I  ended up  working  for
WayForward Technologies...Æ
   æAh, yes, the famous Mr Way. Tell me, whatÆs he like?Æ
   Richard  was  always  faintly  annoyed  by  this  question,  probably
because he was asked it so often.
   æBoth  better and  worse than heÆs represented in the press.  I  like
him  a  lot, actually. Like any driven man he can  be  a bit  trying  at
times, but IÆve  known him since the very early days of the company when
neither he nor  I had  a  bean to our  names. HeÆs fine.  ItÆs just that
itÆs  a good idea not to  let him have  your  phone  number  unless  you
possess an industrial-grade answering machine.Æ
   æWhat? WhyÆs that?Æ
   æWell,  heÆs  one  of  those  people  who can  only  think when  heÆs
talking. When  he  has ideas, he  has to  talk them out to whoever  will
listen.  Or, if  the people  themselves  are  not  available,  which  is
increasingly the case,  their answering  machines will do just as  well.
He just phones them up  and  talks at  them. He has  one secretary whose
sole  job  is  to collect  tapes  from  people  he  might  have  phoned,
transcribe them, sort them and  give him the edited text the next day in
a blue folder.Æ
   æA blue one, eh?Æ
   æAsk  me why he  doesnÆt  simply use a tape  recorder,Æ  said Richard
with a shrug.
   Reg considered  this.  æI expect  he  doesnÆt  use  a  tape  recorder
because he doesnÆt like talking to himself,Æ he said. æThere is a  logic
there. Of a kind.Æ
   He  took  a  mouthful  of his  newly arrived  /porc  au  poivre/  and
ruminated  on it  for a while  before gently laying his  knife  and fork
aside again for the moment.
   æSo  what,Æ he  said  at  last, æis the role  of young MacDuff in all
this?Æ
   æWell, Gordon assigned me to  write a major piece of software for the
Apple Macintosh. Financial  spreadsheet, accounting, that sort of thing,
powerful, easy to use, lots  of graphics.  I  asked  him exactly what he
wanted  in it, and  he just said, ôEverything. I  want the top  piece of
all-singing, all-dancing business software  for that machine.ö And being
of a slightly whimsical turn of mind I took him literally.
   æYou see, a pattern  of numbers can represent anything  you like, can
be used to map any surface, or modulate  any  dynamic  process -- and so
on. And  any set of company accounts are,  in the end, just a pattern of
numbers. So I sat down and wrote a  program thatÆll  take  those numbers
and  do what you like  with them. If you just want a bar graph itÆll  do
them  as  a bar graph, if you want them as a pie chart  or scatter graph
itÆll do  them as  a pie chart or  scatter graph.  If  you want  dancing
girls jumping out of the pie  chart  in order to distract attention from
the figures the pie  chart actually represents, then the program will do
that as  well. Or you can  turn your figures into, for instance, a flock
of  seagulls,  and the formation they fly  in  and the  way in which the
wings of each gull  beat will be determined by  the performance  of each
division  of  your company. Great for producing animated corporate logos
that actually /mean/ something.
   æBut the silliest feature of all was that if you  wanted your company
accounts represented as  a piece of  music, it could do  that  as  well.
Well,  I  thought it was  silly. The  corporate world  went bananas over
it.Æ
   Reg  regarded  him  solemnly  from  over a  piece  of  carrot  poised
delicately on his fork in front of him, but did not interrupt.
   æYou  see,  any  aspect of a  piece of music can be  expressed  as  a
sequence or pattern of numbers,Æ  enthused Richard. æNumbers can express
the pitch  of  notes, the  length of  notes,  patterns  of  pitches  and
lengths.Æ
   æYou mean tunes,Æ said Reg. The carrot had not moved yet.
   Richard grinned.
   æTunes would be a very good word for it. I must remember that.Æ
   æIt would  help you  speak more easily.Æ Reg  returned  the carrot to
his plate, untasted. æAnd this software did well, then?Æ he asked.
   æNot so much  here. The  yearly accounts  of  most British  companies
emerged sounding like the  Dead  March from  /Saul/,  but  in Japan they
went  for it like  a  pack of rats.  It produced  lots of cheery company
anthems that started  well,  but  if  you were going to  criticise youÆd
probably  say that they tended to get a bit loud and squeaky at the end.
Did  spectacular  business  in the States,  which was  the  main  thing,
commercially. Though the thing thatÆs  interesting  me  most now is what
happens  if you leave the  accounts out  of  it.  Turn the numbers  that
represent the  way  a  swallowÆs  wings  beat directly into  music. What
would you  hear? Not the  sound of cash registers, according to Gordon.Æ
   æFascinating,Æ  said Reg, æquite  fascinating,Æ and popped the carrot
at last into his  mouth.  He turned and leaned forward  to  speak to his
new girlfriend.
   æWatkin loses,Æ he pronounced. æThe carrots  have achieved a new all-
time low. Sorry, Watkin, but  awful as you are, the carrots, IÆm afraid,
are world-beaters.Æ
   The  girl giggled more easily  than last time  and she smiled at him.
Watkin was  trying  to take all this good-naturedly, but it was clear as
his eyes swam at  Reg that he  was  more used to discomfiting than being
discomfited.
   æPlease,   Daddy,  can  I  now?Æ   With  her  new-found,  if  slight,
confidence, the girl had also found a voice.
   æLater,Æ insisted her father.
   æThis is already later. IÆve been timing it.Æ
   æWell...Æ He hesitated, and was lost.
   æWeÆve been  to  Greece,Æ  announced  the  girl in  a  small but awed
voice.
   æAh,  have you indeed,Æ said Watkin,  with a little nod. æWell, well.
Anywhere in particular, or just Greece generally?Æ
   æPatmos,Æ she said decisively.  æIt was beautiful. I think Patmos  is
the  most  beautiful place in  the whole  world. Except  the ferry never
came when  it said  it  would. Never,  ever. I timed it.  We missed  our
flight but I didnÆt mind.Æ
   æAh, Patmos,  I  see,Æ said  Watkin, who was  clearly roused  by  the
news.  æWell,  what  you  have  to understand, young lady,  is that  the
Greeks, not content with  dominating the culture of the Classical world,
are also responsible for the greatest, some would say the  only, work of
true  creative imagination produced this century  as  well. I  refer  of
course  to the Greek ferry timetables. A work  of the sublimest fiction.
Anyone who  has travelled in the Aegean will  confirm this. Hmm, yes.  I
think so.Æ
   She frowned at him.
   æI found a pot,Æ she said.
   æProbably nothing,Æ  interrupted  her  father hastily. æYou  know the
way  it  is. Everyone who goes  to Greece  for  the  first  time  thinks
theyÆve found a pot, donÆt they? Ha, ha.Æ
   There were general nods. This was true. Irritating, but true.
   æI found it in the harbour,Æ she said, æin the  water. While we  were
waiting for the damn ferry.Æ
   æSarah! IÆve told you...Æ
   æItÆs  just  what you called  it. And  worse. You  called  it words I
didnÆt think  you  knew. Anyway, I thought  that if  everyone  here  was
meant to be so clever,  then someone would be able to tell me if  it was
a proper ancient Greek thing or not. I think itÆs  /very/ old.  Will you
please let them see it, Daddy?Æ
   Her  father shrugged hopelessly  and started  to fish about under his
chair.
   æDid you  know,  young lady,Æ said  Watkin to  her, æthat the Book of
Revelation was  written on  Patmos?  It  was  indeed. By Saint  John the
Divine, as you know. To  me it  shows  very clear  signs  of having been
written while waiting for a ferry. Oh, yes, I  think so. It starts  off,
doesnÆt it,  with  that kind of dreaminess you get when  youÆre  killing
time,  getting  bored,  you  know,  just  making  things  up,  and  then
gradually grows  to  a  sort of climax of  hallucinatory despair. I find
that  very suggestive. Perhaps  you should  write  a paper  on  it.Æ  He
nodded at her.
   She looked at him as if he were mad.
   æWell, here it is,Æ said her father, plonking  the thing  down on the
table. æJust  a pot, as you  see. SheÆs only six,Æ  he added with a grim
smile, æarenÆt you, dear?Æ
   æSeven,Æ said Sarah.
   The  pot  was  quite small, about five inches  high  and four  inches
across at its widest  point. The body  was almost spherical, with a very
narrow neck extending about  an inch  above the body. The neck and about
half of  the surface area were encrusted  with hard-caked earth, but the
parts of the pot that could be seen were of a rough, ruddy texture.
   Sarah took it and thrust it into the  hands of the don sitting on her
right.
   æYou look clever,Æ she said. æTell me what you think.Æ
   The  don took it,  and turned  it over with a  slightly  supercilious
air.  æIÆm  sure  if  you  scraped away  the  mud  from  the bottom,Æ he
remarked wittily, æit would probably say ôMade in Birminghamö.Æ
   æThat old, eh?Æ said  SarahÆs father with a forced  laugh. æLong time
since anything was made there.Æ
   æAnyway,Æ said the  don, ænot my  field,  IÆm  a molecular biologist.
Anyone else want to have a look?Æ
   This  question was not  greeted  with wild  yelps  of enthusiasm, but
nevertheless the pot was passed from hand  to hand around the far end of
the table  in  a desultory fashion.  It  was  goggled  at through pebble
glasses,  peered  at through horn-rims,  gazed  at  over half-moons, and
squinted  at by  someone  who  had left his glasses in  his other  suit,
which he  very much  feared had now gone to the cleanerÆs. No one seemed
to know  how  old it was,  or to  care very much. The young  girlÆs face
began to grow downhearted again.
   æSour  lot,Æ said Reg to Richard. He picked  up a  silver salt cellar
again and held it up.
   æYoung lady,Æ he said, leaning forward to address her.
   æOh,  not  again,  you  old  fool,Æ muttered  the  aged archaeologist
Cawley, sitting back and putting his hands over his ears.
   æYoung  lady,Æ  repeated Reg, æregard this simple silver salt cellar.
Regard this simple hat.Æ
   æYou havenÆt got a hat,Æ said the girl sulkily.
   æOh,Æ  said  Reg, æa  moment  please,Æ and he went  and  fetched  his
woolly red one.
   æRegard,Æ  he  said again, æthis  simple  silver salt cellar.  Regard
this simple woolly  hat. I put the salt  cellar in  the hat, thus, and I
pass  the hat to you. The  next part of the trick, dear lady... is up to
you.Æ
   He handed  the hat  to her,  past  their  two intervening neighbours,
Cawley and Watkin. She took the hat and looked inside it.
   æWhereÆs it gone?Æ she asked, staring into the hat.
   æItÆs wherever you put it,Æ said Reg.
   æOh,Æ said Sarah, æI see. Well... that wasnÆt very good.Æ
   Reg  shrugged. æA  humble trick, but it gives me pleasure,Æ  he said,
and turned back to Richard. æNow, what were we talking about?Æ
   Richard looked  at him with a slight sense of shock. He knew that the
Professor had always been prone  to sudden and erratic  mood swings, but
it  was as if all the warmth had drained out  of  him in an  instant. He
now  wore the same  distracted  expression Richard had seen on his  face
when  first  he  had  arrived  at  his  door  that  evening,  apparently
completely unexpected. Reg  seemed then to  sense that Richard was taken
aback and quickly reassembled a smile.
   æMy dear chap!Æ he said. æMy dear chap! My dear, dear chap!  What was
I saying?Æ
   æEr, you were saying ôMy dear chapö.Æ
   æYes, but  I feel sure it was a prelude to something. A sort of short
toccata on the  theme  of  what  a  splendid  fellow  you  are prior  to
introducing the  main subject  of  my discourse, the  nature of  which I
currently forget. You have no idea what I was about to say?Æ
   æNo.Æ
   æOh.  Well, I suppose I  should be pleased. If everyone  knew exactly
what I was going to say, then there  would be no point in my  saying it,
would there? Now, howÆs our young guestÆs pot doing?Æ
   In  fact  it had  reached Watkin, who pronounced himself no expert on
what the ancients had  made for themselves to drink out of, only on what
they had written as  a result. He said  that Cawley was the one to whose
knowledge and experience they should all bow,  and attempted to give the
pot to him.
   æI  said,Æ he repeated, æyours  was the  knowledge  and experience to
which  we should bow. Oh,  for heavenÆs sake, take  your hands off  your
ears and have a look at the thing.Æ
   Gently,  but  firmly,  he  drew  CawleyÆs  right  hand from his  ear,
explained  the  situation to him once  again,  and handed him  the  pot.
Cawley gave it a cursory but clearly expert examination.
   æYes,Æ he said,  æabout  two  hundred years old, I would  think. Very
rough.  Very  crude  example  of its  type.  Utterly without  value,  of
course.Æ
   He  put it  down  peremptorily  and  gazed  off into the old minstrel
gallery, which appeared to anger him for some reason.
   The  effect  on  Sarah was  immediate. Already  discouraged,  she was
thoroughly  downcast  by this.  She  bit her  lip and threw herself back
against  her  chair, feeling  once again  thoroughly  out of  place  and
childish.  Her  father  gave her  a warning  look about misbehaving, and
then apologised for her again.
   æWell, Buxtehude,Æ he  hurried  on to say, æyes,  good old Buxtehude.
WeÆll have to see what we can do. Tell me...Æ
   æYoung  lady,Æ  interrupted  a voice, hoarse with  astonishment, æyou
are clearly a magician and enchantress of prodigious powers!Æ
   All  eyes turned  to Reg, the  old show-off.  He was gripping the pot
and  staring at it with manic fascination. He turned his eyes  slowly to
the little girl, as  if for the first  time  assessing  the  power  of a
feared adversary.
   æI  bow to you,Æ he whispered. æI, unworthy  though I am to  speak in
the presence of such a power as yours, beg  leave to congratulate you on
one  of the  finest feats of the conjurerÆs art it has been my privilege
to witness!Æ
   Sarah stared at him with widening eyes.
   æMay I show these people  what you have wrought?Æ he asked earnestly.
   Very faintly she  nodded, and he  fetched  her formerly precious, but
now sadly discredited, pot a sharp rap on the table.
   It split into two irregular parts,  the caked clay with which it  was
surrounded falling in jagged  shards on  the table.  One side of the pot
fell away, leaving the rest standing.
   SarahÆs  eyes goggled  at  the  stained  and  tarnished  but  clearly
recognisable silver college salt  cellar, standing jammed in the remains
of the pot.
   æStupid old fool,Æ muttered Cawley.
   After  the  general  disparagement and  condemnation  of  this  cheap
parlour trick had  died  down  -- none of  which  could  dim  the awe in
SarahÆs eyes -- Reg turned to Richard and said, idly:
   æWho  was that friend  of  yours when you were here, do you ever  see
him?  Chap with  an  odd East  European  name.  Svlad  something.  Svlad
Cjelli. Remember the fellow?Æ
   Richard looked at him blankly for a moment.
   æSvlad?Æ  he  said.  æOh,  you mean  Dirk. Dirk Cjelli. No.  I  never
stayed in  touch. IÆve  bumped into him a couple  of times in the street
but thatÆs all. I think he changes his  name from  time to time.  Why do
you ask?Æ


[::: CHAPTER 5 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   High on his rocky promontory the  Electric Monk continued to sit on a
horse which was  going quietly and uncomplainingly spare. From under its
rough  woven cowl the Monk gazed unblinkingly down into the valley, with
which it was  having a  problem, but the  problem was  a new and hideous
one to the Monk, for it was this -- Doubt.
   He  never suffered  it  for  long, but when he did, it  gnawed at the
very root of his being.
   The day  was hot; the sun  stood in an  empty hazy sky and  beat down
upon the grey rocks  and the scrubby, parched grass. Nothing moved,  not
even the Monk. But strange things  were beginning  to fizz in its brain,
as they did from  time to time when  a piece of data became misaddressed
as it passed through its input buffer.
   But then the Monk began to believe,  fitfully and nervously at first,
but  then with a great searing  white flame of belief  which  overturned
all  previous  beliefs, including the stupid one about the valley  being
pink, that  somewhere down in the valley, about a mile from where he was
sitting,  there  would  shortly  open  up  a mysterious doorway  into  a
strange and distant world,  a doorway  through  which he might enter. An
astounding idea.
   Astoundingly  enough,  however, on this one occasion he was perfectly
right.
   The horse sensed that something was up.
   It pricked up its ears and gently  shook its head. It had gone into a
sort of  trance looking at the same  clump of rocks for so long, and was
on the verge of imagining them  to be pink  itself.  It shook its head a
little harder.
   A slight  twitch on the reins, and a prod from the  MonkÆs  heels and
they were off, picking  their way carefully down the  rocky incline. The
way was difficult. Much of  it  was loose shale -- loose brown and  grey
shale,  with  the  occasional  brown  and  green  plant  clinging  to  a
precarious   existence   on  it.   The   Monk   noticed   this   without
embarrassment. It was  an older, wiser Monk  now, and  had put  childish
things  behind it. Pink  valleys,  hermaphrodite  tables, these were all
natural  stages  through  which one  had to pass  on  the path  to  true
enlightenment.
   The sun beat hard on  them. The Monk wiped the sweat and dust off its
face and  paused, leaning forward  on  the horseÆs  neck. It peered down
through the shimmering heat haze  at a large outcrop of rock which stood
out on  to the  floor  of  the  valley. There, behind that  outcrop, was
where the Monk thought, or  rather passionately believed to  the core of
its  being, the door would appear. It tried to focus  more closely,  but
the details of the view swam confusingly in the hot rising air.
   As it  sat  back  in  its  saddle,  and was about to  prod the  horse
onward, it suddenly noticed a rather odd thing.
   On a flattish  wall of rock  nearby,  in fact so nearby that the Monk
was surprised not to have noticed it  before, was a  large painting. The
painting  was crudely drawn, though  not without a certain stylish sweep
of  line, and seemed very old, possibly very, very old indeed. The paint
was faded, chipped  and patchy, and it was difficult to discern with any
clarity what  the  picture  was.  The  Monk  approached the picture more
closely. It looked like a primitive hunting scene.
   The  group  of  purple,  multi-limbed  creatures  were  clearly early
hunters. They  carried rough spears, and were in hot pursuit of a  large
horned  and armoured creature,  which  appeared  to have been wounded in
the hunt  already. The  colours  were now  so dim  as  to be almost non-
existent. In fact, all that could  be clearly seen was  the white of the
huntersÆ teeth, which  seemed to shine with a whiteness whose lustre was
undimmed by the passage of what must have been  many thousands of years.
In fact they even put the MonkÆs own  teeth to shame, and he had cleaned
them only that morning.
   The  Monk had seen  paintings like this before,  but only in pictures
or on the TV,  never  in  real life.  They were usually  to  be found in
caves where they were protected from  the elements, otherwise they would
not have survived.
   The Monk  looked more carefully at the immediate environs of the rock
wall  and   noticed  that,  though  not  exactly  in   a  cave,  it  was
nevertheless protected by a large  overhang and was  well sheltered from
the  wind and rain. Odd, though, that it should  have managed to last so
long. Odder  still that it should appear  not  to  have been discovered.
Such cave paintings as  there  were were all famous and familiar images,
but this was not one that he had ever seen before.
   Perhaps  this  was  a dramatic and historic find he had made. Perhaps
if he  were  to return to the  city and announce this discovery he would
be welcomed back,  given a  new motherboard  after  all  and allowed  to
believe --  to believe  --  believe what? He paused, blinked, and  shook
his head to clear a momentary system error.
   He pulled himself up short.
   He  believed in a door. He  must find that door. The door was the way
to... to...
   The Door was The Way.
   Good.
   Capital letters were always the best way  of dealing with things  you
didnÆt have a good answer to.
   Brusquely he tugged the horseÆs head round and  urged  it onward  and
downward. Within  a  few  minutes more of  tricky  manoeuvring  they had
reached  the  valley  floor,  and  he was  momentarily  disconcerted  to
discover  that  the fine top layer of dust that had settled on the brown
parched earth  was indeed a very pale brownish pink, particularly on the
banks  of  the sluggish trickle  of mud  which was all that remained, in
the  hot season, of the river that flowed  through  the  valley when the
rains  came.  He dismounted and bent down to feel the pink dust  and run
it  through his  fingers. It was very fine and soft and felt pleasant as
he  rubbed it  on his skin.  It was about  the same  colour,  perhaps  a
little paler.
   The  horse  was  looking  at  him.  He realised,  a  little belatedly
perhaps, that the  horse  must  be  extremely  thirsty. He was extremely
thirsty  himself, but  had tried to  keep his mind  off it. He unbuckled
the  water  flask  from  the  saddle.  It  was  pathetically  light.  He
unscrewed  the  top and took  one  single swig. Then  he poured a little
into his cupped hand and offered  it to  the horse, who  slurped  at  it
greedily and briefly.
   The horse looked at him again.
   The Monk shook his head sadly, resealed  the bottle and  replaced it.
He  knew,  in  that  small part  of  his mind where  he kept factual and
logical information,  that  it  would  not  last much  longer, and that,
without it, neither  would they. It  was only  his Belief that  kept him
going, currently his Belief in The Door.
   He  brushed  the pink dust  from his  rough  habit,  and  then  stood
looking  at the rocky outcrop, a mere  hundred yards  distant. He looked
at  it not without a slight, tiny trepidation. Although  the  major part
of his  mind  was firm in its  eternal and unshakeable Belief that there
would be a Door behind the outcrop, and that the Door would be The  Way,
yet the tiny  part of his brain that  understood  about the water bottle
could  not help but recall past disappointments  and sounded a very tiny
but jarring note of caution.
   If he  elected not to go and see The  Door for himself, then he could
continue  to believe in it forever. It  would be the  lodestone  of  his
life (what little  was  left of it, said the part of his brain that knew
about the water bottle).
   If on  the other hand he went to pay his  respects to the Door and it
wasnÆt there... what then?
   The horse whinnied impatiently.
   The  answer, of  course, was very  simple. He had  a  whole board  of
circuits  for  dealing with exactly this  problem, in fact  this was the
very heart of his function. He would continue to believe in  it whatever
the facts turned out to be, what else was the meaning of Belief?
   The Door would still be there, even if the door was not.
   He pulled himself together. The Door would be there, and he  must now
go to it, because The Door was The Way.
   Instead of remounting his  horse, he led it.  The Way was but a short
way, and he should enter the presence of the Door in humility.
   He  walked, brave  and erect, with solemn slowness. He approached the
rocky outcrop. He reached it. He turned the corner. He looked.
   The Door was there.
   The horse, it must be said, was quite surprised.
   The Monk fell to his knees in awe  and bewilderment. So braced was he
for dealing with the disappointment that  was  habitually  his lot that,
though he would  never know to  admit it,  he was completely  unprepared
for this. He stared at The Door in sheer, blank system error.
   It was  a door such as he  had  never  seen before. All  the doors he
knew  were great  steel-reinforced things,  because  of  all  the  video
recorders and dishwashers that  were  kept behind them,  plus  of course
all the expensive Electric Monks that were needed  to believe in it all.
This  one was simple, wooden and small, about his  own size. A Monk-size
door, painted white, with a single, slightly dented  brass knob slightly
less than halfway up one side. It was set simply in the  rock face, with
no explanation as to its origin or purpose.
   Hardly knowing how he dared, the poor startled  Monk staggered to his
feet  and, leading  his  horse, walked  nervously forward towards it. He
reached  out and touched it.  He was so startled when no alarms went off
that he jumped back. He touched it again, more firmly this time.
   He  let  his hand drop slowly to  the handle -- again, no  alarms. He
waited to be sure, and then he turned  it, very, very gently. He felt  a
mechanism  release.  He  held  his  breath. Nothing.  He  drew the  door
towards him, and  it came easily. He looked inside, but the interior was
so dim  in  contrast with  the  desert  sun  outside that  he could  see
nothing.  At  last,  almost  dead  with wonder, he entered,  pulling the
horse in after him.

   A few minutes  later,  a figure that had been sitting  out  of  sight
around  the  next outcrop of  rock  finished  rubbing dust on  his face,
stood  up, stretched his limbs  and made his way back towards the  door,
patting his clothes as he did so.


[::: CHAPTER 6 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æIn Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:Æ

   The  reader clearly  belonged to  the school of  thought which  holds
that a sense of the  seriousness or greatness of a poem is best imparted
by  reading  it  in a silly voice. He  soared  and swooped at the  words
until they seemed to duck and run for cover.

   æWhere Alph, the sacred river ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
      Down to a sunless sea.Æ

   Richard  relaxed  back  into his  seat.  The words  were  very,  very
familiar to him, as they could  not help but  be to any English graduate
of St CeddÆs College, and they settled easily into his mind.
   The  association  of  the  college  with  Coleridge  was  taken  very
seriously indeed,  despite the manÆs well-known predilection for certain
recreational  pharmaceuticals under  the influence  of  which  this, his
greatest work, was composed, in a dream.
   The  entire  manuscript was lodged in the safe-keeping of the college
library,  and it was from  this itself,  on the  regular occasion of the
Coleridge Dinner, that the poem was read.

   æSo twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.Æ

   Richard wondered how long it took. He glanced  sideways at his former
Director of Studies  and was  disturbed by the sturdy purposefulness  of
his reading  posture.  The  singsong  voice irritated  him at first, but
after a while it began to lull him instead,  and he watched a rivulet of
wax  seeping over the  edge  of a  candle  that was  burning low now and
throwing a guttering light over the carnage of dinner.

   æBut oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As eÆer beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!Æ

   The small  quantities of  claret that he  had  allowed himself during
the course  of the meal seeped warmly  through his veins,  and  soon his
own mind began to wander, and provoked by RegÆs question earlier in  the
meal, he  wondered  what had lately become of  his  former... was friend
the word? He seemed more like a  succession of extraordinary events than
a person. The idea of him  actually having friends as such seemed not so
much unlikely, more  a sort of mismatching of concepts, like the idea of
the Suez crisis popping out for a bun.
   Svlad Cjelli. Popularly known as Dirk,  though, again, æpopularÆ  was
hardly right. Notorious,  certainly; sought  after, endlessly speculated
about,  those  too  were  true. But popular?  Only in the  sense  that a
serious  accident on the motorway might  be  popular  --  everyone slows
down  to have a good look,  but no one will get too close to the flames.
Infamous was more like it. Svlad Cjelli, infamously known as Dirk.
   He  was  rounder than the average  undergraduate and wore more  hats.
That is  to say,  there was  just the one hat  which he habitually wore,
but  he wore  it with a passion  that was rare  in one so young. The hat
was dark  red and round, with a very flat brim, and it appeared to  move
as  if balanced on  gimbals, which  ensured its perfect horizontality at
all  times,  however  its  owner  moved  his head.  As  a  hat it was  a
remarkable   rather   than   entirely   successful  piece   of  persona!
decoration. It would make  an elegant  adornment, stylish,  shapely  and
flattering,  if the wearer were a small bedside lamp, but not otherwise.
   People gravitated around  him,  drawn  in by  the stories  he  denied
about himself, but  what the source  of  these  stories might be, if not
his own denials, was never entirely clear.
   The  tales  had to do  with the psychic  powers that heÆd  supposedly
inherited from his  motherÆs  side of  the family  who he  claimed,  had
lived  at  the  smarter end of Transylvania. That  is to say, he  didnÆt
make any  such claim at all, and  said it was  the most absurd nonsense.
He strenuously  denied  that there  were bats of any kind  at all in his
family  and  threatened  to  sue  anybody  who put about  such malicious
fabrications, but  he affected  nevertheless to  wear a large and flappy
leather  coat,  and had one  of  those  machines  in his  room which are
supposed  to help cure bad  backs if  you hang upside down from them. He
would  allow  people to  discover  him hanging from this  machine at all
kinds  of odd hours  of  the  day,  and more  particularly of the night,
expressly so that he could  vigorously deny that it had any significance
whatsoever.
   By means  of an ingenious series of strategically deployed denials of
the  most exciting and  exotic things,  he  was able to create the  myth
that   he   was   a  psychic,  mystic,   telepathic,  fey,  clairvoyant,
psychosassic vampire bat.
   What did æpsychosassicÆ mean?
   It was his  own word and he  vigorously denied that it meant anything
at all.

   æAnd from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted...Æ

   Dirk had also been perpetually broke. This would change.
   It  was  his  room-mate  who  started  it, a credulous fellow  called
Mander,  who,  if  the  truth  were known,  had  probably been specially
selected by Dirk for his credulity.
   Steve  Mander noticed that  if ever Dirk  went to bed drunk  he would
talk in his sleep. Not  only  that, but the sort of things  he would say
in his sleep  would be things like,  æThe opening up of  trade routes to
the mumble  mumble burble was the turning point for the growth of empire
in the snore footle mumble. Discuss.Æ

   æ...like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresherÆs flail:Æ

   The first time  this happened Steve  Mander  sat bolt upright in bed.
This was shortly before prelim  exams in the second year,  and what Dirk
had  just said, or  judiciously  mumbled, sounded remarkably like a very
likely question in the Economic History paper.
   Mander quietly  got up, crossed over to  DirkÆs bed and listened very
hard,  but other than  a  few  completely disconnected  mumblings  about
Schleswig-Holstein  and   the  Franco-Prussian  war,  the  latter  being
largely directed by Dirk into his pillow, he learned nothing more.
   News, however, spread -- quietly, discreetly, and like wildfire.

   æAnd æmid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.Æ

   For  the  next month  Dirk found  himself  being constantly wined and
dined  in  the hope  that  he  would  sleep very soundly that night  and
dream-speak a few  more exam questions.  Remarkably, it seemed that  the
better he was fed, and the finer the vintage  of the  wine  he was given
to drink, the less  he would  tend to  sleep facing  directly  into  his
pillow.
   His scheme, therefore, was  to exploit his alleged gifts without ever
actually claiming to have them. In fact he would react to  stories about
his supposed powers with open incredulity, even hostility.

   æFive miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And æmid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!Æ

   Dirk  was also,  he  denied,  a clairaudient.  He would sometimes hum
tunes  in his sleep  that two weeks later would turn out to be a hit for
someone. Not too difficult to organise, really.
   In fact,  he had always  done the bare  minimum of research necessary
to support these  myths. He was  lazy, and  essentially what he did  was
allow peopleÆs enthusiastic  credulity  to do  the  work  for  him.  The
laziness was  essential -- if his  supposed feats  of the paranormal had
been  detailed and accurate,  then people might have been suspicious and
looked  for other  explanations. On the  other hand,  the more vague and
ambiguous  his  æpredictionsÆ   the  more  other  peopleÆs  own  wishful
thinking would close the credibility gap.
   Dirk never made much  out  of it -- at least, he appeared  not to. In
fact, the benefit  to  himself, as a student, of being continually wined
and dined  at other peopleÆs  expense was more  considerable than anyone
would expect unless they sat down and worked out the figures.
   And,  of course, he never claimed  -- in fact, he actively  denied --
that any of it was even remotely true.
   He was  therefore well placed to execute a very nice and tasty little
scam come the time of finals.

   æThe shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!Æ

   æGood heavens...!Æ Reg suddenly seemed  to  awake  with  a start from
the light  doze into  which he had gently slipped under the influence of
the  wine  and  the  reading,  and  glanced  about  himself  with  blank
surprise,  but  nothing  had changed.  ColeridgeÆs words sang through  a
warm  and  contented silence  that had settled on the great hall.  After
another quick frown, Reg  settled back into another doze, but  this time
a slightly more attentive one.

   æA damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.Æ

   Dirk allowed himself to be persuaded to make, under  hypnosis, a firm
prediction  about what  questions  would  be set  for  examination  that
summer.
   He himself  first  planted the idea by explaining exactly the sort of
thing that  he would never, under any circumstances,  be prepared to do,
though  in  many ways he  would  like to,  just to  have  the chance  to
disprove his alleged and strongly disavowed abilities.
   And it  was on these grounds, carefully prepared, that  he eventually
agreed  -- only because it would once and for all scotch the whole silly
--   immensely,  tediously  silly  --   business.  He  would  make   his
predictions by means of automatic writing under  proper supervision, and
they would  then  be  sealed  in an envelope and  deposited at  the bank
until after the exams.
   Then they would be opened  to see how accurate they had been  /after/
the exams.
   He  was, not  surprisingly, offered some pretty hefty bribes  from  a
pretty hefty number  of  people to  let them see the predictions  he had
written  down, but he was absolutely shocked by the idea. That, he said,
would be /dishonest/...

     æCould I revive within me
      Her symphony and song,
      To such a deep delight ætwould win me,
    That with music loud and long,
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!Æ

   Then,  a  short time  later,  Dirk allowed himself to be seen  around
town wearing something of a  vexed and  solemn  expression. At  first he
waved aside  enquiries  as to  what  it was that  was bothering him, but
eventually he  let  slip  that  his mother was going  to have to undergo
some extremely expensive dental  work which, for reasons that he refused
to discuss, would  have to  be done  privately,  only  there wasnÆt  the
money.
   From here, the path downward to accepting donations for his  motherÆs
supposed  medical  expenses in return  for quick  glances at his written
exam predictions proved to be sufficiently steep  and well-oiled for him
to be able to slip down it with a minimum of fuss.
   Then  it further transpired that the only dentist who  could  perform
this mysterious  dental  operation was  an  East  European  surgeon  now
living  in Malibu, and it was  in consequence necessary to  increase the
level of donations rather sharply.
   He still  denied, of  course, that his  abilities  were all that they
were cracked  up to be, in fact he denied that they existed at all,  and
insisted that he would never have embarked on  the exercise at all if it
wasnÆt to  disprove  the whole  thing  --  and  also, since other people
seemed, at  their  own risk, to have a  faith in his  abilities  that he
himself did  not, he was happy to indulge them  to the extent of letting
them pay for his sainted motherÆs operation.
   He could only emerge well from this situation.
   Or so he thought.

   æAnd all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Æ

   The exam papers Dirk  produced  under hypnosis, by means of automatic
writing,  he  had,  in fact, pieced together simply  by  doing the  same
minimum  research that  any  student  taking  exams would  do,  studying
previous  exam  papers, and  seeing what, if any, patterns emerged,  and
making intelligent guesses about  what might come up. He was pretty sure
of getting  (as  anyone would  be)  a strike rate that was  sufficiently
high to  satisfy  the credulous,  and  sufficiently  low  for the  whole
exercise to look perfectly innocent.
   As indeed it was.
   What  completely blew him out of the water, and caused a furore which
ended with him  being driven  out of Cambridge  in the  back of a  Black
Maria, was the  fact that all the exam papers he  sold turned  out to be
the same as the papers that were actually set.
   Exactly. Word for word. To the very comma.

   æWave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed,
    And drunk the milk of Paradise...Æ

   And that, apart from a flurry of sensational newspaper  reports which
exposed  him  as a fraud, then trumpeted him as the real  thing  so that
they  could have another round of exposing him as a fraud again and then
trumpeting him  as  the real thing again, until they got bored and found
a nice juicy snooker player to harass instead, was that.
   In the  years since then, Richard had run into Dirk from time to time
and had usually been greeted with that  kind  of guarded half smile that
wants to know  if  you think it owes  you money  before it blossoms into
one that  hopes you  will  lend  it  some.  DirkÆs regular name  changes
suggested to Richard that he wasnÆt alone in being treated like this.
   He felt a  tug  of sadness that  someone  who had seemed so shiningly
alive within  the small  confines of a university community  should have
seemed  to fade  so much in the light of common day. And he wondered  at
RegÆs asking after him  like that, suddenly and out of the blue, in what
seemed altogether too airy and casual a manner.
   He glanced  around him  again, at his lightly snoring neighbour, Reg;
at  little Sarah rapt in silent attention;  at the  deep hall swathed in
darkly  glimmering light; at the  portraits  of old  prime ministers and
poets hung  high  in the darkness with just the odd glint of candlelight
gleaming  off  their teeth; at the  Director of English Studies standing
reading  in his  poetry-reading voice; at the book of æKubla  KhanÆ that
the  Director  of  English  Studies  held  in  his  hand;  and  finally,
surreptitiously, at his watch. He settled back again.
   The voice  continued,  reading  the second,  and altogether  stranger
part of the poem...


[::: CHAPTER 7 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   This was  the evening  of the last day  of Gordon WayÆs  life, and he
was wondering if the rain would hold off for  the weekend. The  forecast
had said changeable  -- a  misty  night tonight  followed by  bright but
chilly days on Friday  and  Saturday  with maybe a few scattered showers
towards  the end  of Sunday when everyone  would  be  heading  back into
town.
   Everyone, that is, other than Gordon Way.
   The weather  forecast  hadnÆt  mentioned that, of course, that wasnæt
the job of the weather forecast, but  then his horoscope had been pretty
misleading as well.  It had  mentioned  an  unusual amount  of planetary
activity in his sign and had urged him to differentiate between  what he
thought he wanted and  what he actually  needed, and  suggested  that he
should  tackle  emotional  or  work   problems  with  determination  and
complete  honesty, but  had inexplicably failed to mention that he would
be dead before the day was out.
   He turned  off the motorway near  Cambridge and  stopped  at a  small
filling station for some  petrol, where he sat  for a moment,  finishing
off a call on his car phone.
   æOK,  look, IÆll  call  you  tomorrow,Æ  he  said,  æor  maybe  later
tonight. Or call me. I should be at the  cottage in half an hour. Yes, I
know  how  important  the  project  is  to you.  All  right,  I know how
important it is, full stop. You want it, I want  it. Of course I do. And
IÆm not saying  that we wonÆt continue to  support  it. IÆm  just saying
itÆs expensive and  we should look at the whole thing with determination
and complete honesty. Look,  why  donÆt you come out to the cottage, and
we can  talk it through.  OK,  yeah, yes,  I know. I  understand.  Well,
think about it, Kate. Talk to you later. Bye.Æ
   He hung up and continued to sit in his car for a moment.
   It was a large car.  It was a large silver-grey Mercedes  of the sort
that  they  use  in advertisements,  and  not  just  advertisements  for
Mercedes.  Gordon  Way, brother of  Susan, employer of Richard  MacDuff,
was a rich man,  the founder and owner  of WayForward  Technologies  II.
WayForward Technologies  itself  had of  course gone bust, for the usual
reason, taking his entire first fortune with it.
   Luckily, he had managed to make another one.
   The æusual reasonÆ  was that he had  been in the business of computer
hardware  when  every  twelve-year-old in the  country  had suddenly got
bored with boxes  that went  bing. His second fortune  had been made  in
software instead. As a result of two major  pieces of  software,  one of
which  was /Anthem/  (the other, more profitable one had never  seen the
light of day), WFT-II was the  only British software  company that could
be mentioned  in the same  sentence  as  such major  U.S.  companies  as
Microsoft or Lotus.  The sentence would probably run  along the lines of
æWayForward Technologies, unlike  such major U.S. companies as Microsoft
or Lotus...Æ but it was a  start. WayForward was  in there. And he owned
it.
   He pushed a tape into the slot on the stereo console. It  accepted it
with a soft and decorous  click,  and  a  moment  or two  later  RavelÆs
/BolΘro/  floated out of  eight  perfectly  matched  speakers with fine-
meshed  matte-black  grilles. The  stereo was so smooth and spacious you
could  almost sense the whole ice-rink. He tapped his fingers lightly on
the  padded rim  of  the  steering  wheel. He  gazed  at  the dashboard.
Tasteful  illuminated figures and tiny,  immaculate  lights gazed  dimly
back at him. After a while he suddenly realised this  was a self service
station and got out to fill the tank.
   This took  a  minute or two. He  stood gripping  the  filler  nozzle,
stamping his feet  in the cold  night air, then walked over to the small
grubby kiosk,  paid for the petrol,  remembered to buy a couple of local
maps, and then  stood chatting enthusiastically to the cashier for a few
minutes  about  the  directions the computer industry was likely to take
in the following year, suggesting that parallel processing  was going to
be  the key to really intuitive productivity software, but also strongly
doubting   whether   artificial   intelligence   research    /per   se/,
particularly  artificial  intelligence  research  based  on  the  ProLog
language, was really  going  to produce any serious  commercially viable
products  in the foreseeable future, at  least as far as the office desk
top environment  was concerned, a topic that fascinated the  cashier not
at all.
   æThe man just liked  to talk,Æ he would later tell the  police. æMan,
I  could have walked away  to the toilet for ten minutes and he wouldÆve
told it all to the till.  If IÆd  been  fifteen minutes  the till  would
have walked away  too.  Yeah, IÆm  sure thatÆs him,Æ he would  add  when
shown  a picture of Gordon Way. æI only wasnÆt  sure at first because in
the picture heÆs got his mouth closed.Æ
   æAnd   youÆre  absolutely  certain  you  didnÆt   see  anything  else
suspicious?Æ the policeman insisted. æNothing that struck you as  odd in
any way at all?Æ
   æNo,  like  I said, it  was just an ordinary customer  on an ordinary
night, just like any other night.Æ
   The  policeman  stared  at   him  blankly.  æJust  for  the  sake  of
argument,Æ  he went on to say,  æif I were suddenly to do this...Æ -- he
made himself  go  cross-eyed, stuck his tongue  out of the corner of his
mouth and danced up and down twisting his  fingers in his ears -- æwould
anything strike you about that?Æ
   æWell,  er,  yeah,Æ said the  cashier,  backing away nervously.  æIÆd
think youÆd gone stark raving mad.Æ
   æGood,Æ  said  the policeman, putting his notebook  away. æItÆs  just
that different  people sometimes  have a  different  idea of  what ôoddö
means, you see, sir.  If last night  was an ordinary night just like any
other  night,  then  I am  a  pimple  on  the bottom  of the Marquess of
QueensburyÆs aunt. We shall  be requiring a statement  later, sir. Thank
you for your time.Æ
   That was all yet to come.
   Tonight, Gordon  pushed  the  maps in his  pocket  and  strolled back
towards  his car. Standing under the lights in the mist  it had gathered
a finely beaded  coat of matte moisture on it,  and looked like -- well,
it  looked  like  an  extremely  expensive Mercedes-Benz.  Gordon caught
himself, just for a  millisecond, wishing that  he  had  something  like
that,  but he was now quite adept at fending off that particular line of
thought, which  only led off  in circles  and left him feeling depressed
and confused.
   He patted  it in a proprietorial  manner,  then,  walking around  it,
noticed that the  boot wasnÆt  closed  properly and  pushed it shut.  It
closed with  a  good  healthy  clunk. Well,  that made it all worth  it,
didnÆt  it?  Good  healthy  clunk  like  that.  Old-fashioned values  of
quality and workmanship. He thought of a dozen things he  had to talk to
Susan about  and climbed  back into the car,  pushing the auto-dial code
on his phone as soon as the car was prowling back on to the road.
   æ...so if  youÆd  like to  leave a message,  IÆll get back to you  as
soon as possible. Maybe.Æ
   /Beep./
   æOh, Susan, hi,  itÆs Gordon,Æ he said,  cradling the phone awkwardly
on his  shoulder.  æJust on  my way  to the  cottage. ItÆs er,  Thursday
night, and  itÆs,  er... 8.47.  Bit misty  on the roads. Listen,  I have
those people from the States coming  over this weekend to thrash out the
distribution on /Anthem/  Version 2.00, handling the promotion, all that
stuff,  and look you know I donÆt like to  ask you  this  sort of thing,
but you know I always do anyway, so here it is.
   æI just  need to know that Richard is on the case. I mean /really/ on
the case. I can ask him,  and he says, Oh sure, itÆs  fine, but half the
time -- shit, that lorry had bright lights,  none of these bastard lorry
drivers ever dips them properly, itÆs a  wonder I  donÆt end up dead  in
the ditch,  that would be something, wouldnÆt  it, leaving  your  famous
last words on somebodyÆs answering machine, thereÆs no  reason why these
lorries shouldnÆt have automatic light-activated dipper switches.  Look,
can you make a note  for  me to  tell  Susan  --  not  you,  of  course,
secretary Susan at the  office  -- to tell her  to send a letter from me
to  that  fellow at  the  Department  of the Environment saying  we  can
provide the technology if he can provide the legislation?  ItÆs for  the
public  good, and anyway he  owes me a  favour plus whatÆs the point  in
having  a CBE if  you  canÆt kick a little ass?  You can tell IÆve  been
talking to Americans all week.
   æThat  reminds  me,  God,  I  hope I remembered to pack the shotguns.
What  is it with these Americans that theyÆre always  so mad to shoot my
rabbits? I  bought  them some maps in the hope that I  can persuade them
to go on long healthy walks and take their minds  off  shooting rabbits.
I  really feel  quite sorry for the creatures. I think I should  put one
of those signs on my lawn  when the Americans are coming, you know, like
they have in Beverly Hills, saying `Armed ResponseÆ.
   æMake a note to Susan, would you  please,  to get an `Armed ResponseÆ
sign  made up with a  sharp  spike on the bottom at the right height for
rabbits  to see.  ThatÆs  secretary  Susan  at the office  not  you,  of
course.
   æWhere was I?
   æOh yes. Richard and /Anthem/ 2.00. Susan, that  thing has got  to be
in beta testing in two  weeks.  He tells me itÆs  fine. But every time I
see him  heÆs  got  a picture of a sofa spinning on his computer screen.
He says itÆs  an  important concept, but all  I see is furniture. People
who want  their  company accounts  to sing  to them do not want to buy a
revolving  sofa. Nor  do  I  think  he  should  be turning  the  erosion
patterns of the Himalayas into a flute quintet at this time.
   æAnd as for what  KateÆs up to, Susan,  well, I canÆt  hide the  fact
that I get anxious  at the salaries  and  computer time  itÆs eating up.
Important long-term  research and development it might be, but  there is
also the  possibility, only a possibility, IÆm saying, but  nevertheless
a possibility which I think we  owe it  to ourselves fully  to  evaluate
and  explore, which is that  itÆs a  lemon. ThatÆs odd, thereÆs a  noise
coming from the boot, I thought IÆd just closed it properly.
   æAnyway,  the main thingÆs  Richard. And the  point  is  that thereÆs
only one  person whoÆs really  in a position to know if heÆs getting the
important work  done,  or if heÆs just dreaming, and that one person is,
IÆm afraid, Susan.
   æThatÆs you, I mean, of course, not secretary Susan at the office.
   æSo can you, I donÆt like to  ask you  this, I really donÆt, can  you
really get on his  case? Make  him  see  how important  it is? Just make
sure  he  realises  that  WayForward  Technologies  is  meant  to  be an
expanding commercial business, not an  adventure playground  for crunch-
heads. ThatÆs the problem with  crunch-heads -- they have one great idea
that actually  works and then they expect you to carry  on funding  them
for  years  while  they  sit and  calculate  the  topographies  of their
navels.  IÆm  sorry,  IÆm  going  to  have to stop  and  close the  boot
properly. WonÆt be a moment.Æ
   He put the telephone down on the seat beside him,  pulled  over on to
the grass  verge,  and got  out. As he went to the  boot,  it  opened, a
figure rose out of it, shot him  through the chest with both barrels  of
a shotgun and then went about its business.
   Gordon WayÆs  astonishment at being suddenly shot dead was nothing to
his astonishment at what happened next.


[::: CHAPTER 8 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æCome in, dear fellow, come in.Æ
   The  door to  RegÆs set  of rooms in college was up a winding  set of
wooden stairs  in  the corner of  Second Court, and was not well lit, or
rather  it was  perfectly well  lit when the light was  working, but the
light  was  not  working,  so  the  door  was  not  well  lit  and  was,
furthermore,  locked. Reg was having difficulty in  finding the key from
a  collection which looked like something that a fit Ninja warrior could
hurl through the trunk of a tree.
   Rooms in  the  older parts  of  the college have  double  doors, like
airlocks,  and like airlocks they  are fiddly to open. The outer door is
a  sturdy slab of grey painted oak, with no features other  than  a very
narrow slit  for letters, and a Yale lock, to which suddenly Reg at last
found the key.
   He unlocked  it  and pulled it open. Behind it lay an ordinary white-
panelled door with an ordinary brass doorknob.
   æCome in, come in,Æ repeated Reg,  opening this and  fumbling for the
light switch. For  a moment only the dying embers of a fire in the stone
grate  threw  ghostly  red  shadows dancing  around the  room,  but then
electric  light flooded it and  extinguished the magic. Reg hesitated on
the threshold  for a moment,  oddly tense,  as if wishing to be  sure of
something  before  he  entered,  then  bustled  in  with  at  least  the
appearance of cheeriness.
   It  was a  large  panelled room, which a  collection of gently shabby
furniture  contrived to  fill  quite comfortably.  Against  the far wall
stood a large and battered old  mahogany table with fat ugly legs, which
was  laden  with books,  files, folders and teetering  piles of  papers.
Standing in  its own space on the desk, Richard  was amused to note, was
actually a battered old abacus.
   There was  a  small Regency writing desk standing nearby which  might
have been quite valuable had it not been  knocked  about so much, also a
couple of elegant Georgian chairs, a portentous  Victorian bookcase, and
so on. It  was, in  short, a donÆs  room. It had a donÆs framed maps and
prints  on  the walls a  threadbare and faded donÆs carpet on the floor,
and  it looked as if  little had changed  in  it for decades, which  was
probably the case because a don lived in it.
   Two  doors led out from either end of the opposite  wall, and Richard
knew from  previous  visits  that  one led  to a study which looked much
like a smaller and  more intense  version of this room -- larger  clumps
of  books,  taller  piles of paper  in  more imminent danger of actually
falling,  furniture which, however old and valuable,  was heavily marked
with myriad  rings  of  hot  tea  or  coffee cups, on  many of which the
original cups themselves were probably still standing.
   The other door  led to a small and rather basically equipped kitchen,
and a  twisty internal staircase at the top of which lay the ProfessorÆs
bedroom and bathroom.
   æTry  and  make  yourself  comfortable  on  the sofa,Æ  invited  Reg,
fussing around hospitably. æI donÆt know if youÆll  manage it. It always
feels to  me  as if  itÆs been stuffed with cabbage leaves and cutlery.Æ
He peered  at Richard seriously. æDo you have a good sofa?Æ he enquired.
   æWell, yes.Æ Richard  laughed. He was cheered by the silliness of the
question.
   æOh,Æ said Reg solemnly. æWell, I wish  youÆd tell me where  you  got
it. I  have endless  trouble  with them, quite  endless. Never  found  a
comfortable one  in all my life. How do you find yours?Æ He encountered,
with a slight air of surprise, a  small silver tray he had left out with
a decanter of port and three glasses.
   æWell, itÆs odd you should  ask that,Æ said Richard. æIÆve  never sat
on it.Æ
   æVery wise,Æ  insisted  Reg earnestly,  ævery,  very  wise.Æ He  went
through a palaver similar to his previous one with his coat and hat.
   æNot that  I  wouldnÆt like  to,Æ said  Richard. æItÆs just that itÆs
stuck halfway up  a long  flight of stairs which leads up into  my flat.
As  far as I  can  make  it out, the delivery men got it part way up the
stairs, got it stuck,  turned it around any way they could, couldnÆt get
it any further,  and  then  found,  curiously enough, that they couldnÆt
get it back down again. Now, that should be impossible.Æ
   æOdd,Æ   agreed   Reg.  æIÆve   certainly  never  come   across   any
irreversible mathematics  involving  sofas. Could  be  a new field. Have
you spoken to any spatial geometricians?Æ
   æI did  better than that. I called in a neighbourÆs kid who  used  to
be able to  solve  RubikÆs cube  in seventeen seconds. He sat  on a step
and stared at it  for  over an  hour before  pronouncing  it irrevocably
stuck. Admittedly heÆs  a few  years older now and  has  found out about
girls, but itÆs got me puzzled.Æ
   æCarry on  talking,  my dear fellow, IÆm most interested,  but let me
know first if  thereÆs anything  I can get you. Port perhaps? Or brandy?
The port I think  is the better bet,  laid down by  the college in 1934,
one  of the finest vintages I think youÆll find, and on the other hand I
donÆt  actually have  any  brandy.  Or  coffee? Some  more wine perhaps?
ThereÆs an excellent Margaux  IÆve  been looking for an  excuse to open,
though it should of course be allowed to stand open for an  hour or two,
which  is  not  to  say  that  I  couldnÆt...  no,Æ he  said  hurriedly,
æprobably best not to go for the Margaux tonight.Æ
   æTea is  what I would really like,Æ said Richard, æif you have some.Æ
   Reg raised his eyebrows. æAre you sure?Æ
   æI have to drive home.Æ
   æIndeed. Then  I shall be a  moment or two  in  the  kitchen.  Please
carry on, I shall still  be able  to hear  you. Continue  to tell me  of
your sofa, and do feel  free in the meantime to sit on mine. Has it been
stuck there for long?Æ
   æOh,  only about three weeks,Æ  said Richard,  sitting down. æI could
just saw it up  and  throw it away, but I canÆt believe that there isnÆt
a  logical answer. And it also  made  me  think --  it  would be  really
useful  to  know before  you  buy a  piece  of  furniture  whether  itÆs
actually  going to fit  up the  stairs  or  around  the  corner. So IÆve
modelled the problem in three  dimensions on my  computer -- and  so far
it just says no way.Æ
   æIt says what?Æ called Reg, over the noise of filling the kettle.
   æThat it canÆt be done. I told it  to compute the moves necessary  to
get the sofa out, and it  said  there  arenÆt any. I said ôWhat?ö and it
said  there arenÆt  any.  I  then  asked  it,  and  this  is the  really
mysterious  thing, to compute  the moves necessary  to get the sofa into
its present position in  the first  place, and it said  that it couldnÆt
have got there. Not without  fundamental restructuring of the walls. So,
either thereÆs  something  wrong  with the fundamental structure of  the
matter in my  walls or,Æ he added with a sigh,  æthereÆs something wrong
with the program. Which would you guess?Æ
   æAnd are you married?Æ called Reg.
   æWhat? Oh, I  see what you  mean. A sofa  stuck on the  stairs for  a
month. Well,  no, not married as such, but yes, there is a specific girl
that IÆm not married to.Æ
   æWhatÆs she like? What does she do?Æ
   æSheÆs  a  professional  cellist. I have  to  admit that the sofa has
been  a bit of a talking point. In fact sheÆs moved back to her own flat
until I get it sorted out. She, well...Æ
   He was suddenly sad,  and he stood up and wandered around the room in
a desultory sort  of way  and ended up in  front of the dying  fire.  He
gave it  a bit  of a poke and threw on a couple of extra logs to try and
ward off the chill of the room.
   æSheÆs GordonÆs  sister,  in  fact,Æ he added at last.  æBut they are
very  different.  IÆm not sure she  really  approves of  computers  very
much.  And she  doesnÆt much like his attitude to money. I donÆt think I
entirely blame her, actually, and she doesnÆt know the half of it.Æ
   æWhich is the half she doesnÆt know?Æ
   Richard sighed.
   æWell,Æ he  said, æitÆs to do  with the  project which first made the
software  incarnation of the company profitable. It was called /Reason/,
and in its own way it was sensational.Æ
   æWhat was it?Æ
   æWell, it was a kind of back-to-front  program. ItÆs funny  how  many
of  the best ideas are just  an old  idea  back-to-front.  You see there
have  already been several programs written  that help you  to arrive at
decisions by properly ordering  and  analysing all the relevant facts so
that they then point naturally  towards the right decision. The drawback
with  these is  that the  decision which all  the properly  ordered  and
analysed facts point to is not necessarily the one you want.Æ
   æYeeeess...Æ said RegÆs voice from the kitchen.
   æWell, GordonÆs great insight was to  design a  program which allowed
you  to specify  in advance what decision  you  wished it  to reach, and
only then  to give  it all  the facts.  The programÆs task, which it was
able  to accomplish  with consummate  ease,  was  simply to construct  a
plausible series of logical-sounding steps to connect  the premises with
the conclusion.
   æAnd  I  have to  say that  it worked brilliantly. Gordon was able to
buy himself a Porsche  almost immediately despite being completely broke
and  a hopeless driver. Even his  bank manager was unable  to find fault
with his reasoning. Even when Gordon wrote it off three weeks later.Æ
   æHeavens. And did the program sell very well?Æ
   æNo. We never sold a single copy.Æ
   æYou astonish me. It sounds like a real winner to me.Æ
   æIt was,Æ  said  Richard hesitantly. æThe entire project  was  bought
up, lock,  stock and barrel, by the Pentagon. The deal put WayForward on
a very  sound  financial foundation. Its moral foundation, on  the other
hand, is  not  something  I  would  want  to  trust  my  weight to. IÆve
recently been analysing a  lot of the arguments put forward in favour of
the Star Wars  project, and if  you  know what youÆre looking  for,  the
pattern of the algorithms is very clear.
   æSo  much  so, in  fact, that looking  at  Pentagon policies over the
last  couple of years I think  I can be fairly sure that the  US Navy is
using version 2.00 of  the program, while  the Air Force for some reason
only has the beta-test version of 1.5. Odd, that.Æ
   æDo you have a copy?Æ
   æCertainly not,Æ said Richard, æI wouldnÆt  have  anything to do with
it.  Anyway,  when   the   Pentagon   bought   everything,  they  bought
everything. Every scrap  of code, every disk, every notebook. I was glad
to see the back of it.  If indeed we have.  I just busy  myself with  my
own projects.Æ
   He  poked at the fire again  and wondered what he was doing here when
he had so much work  on. Gordon was on at him continually  about getting
the new,  super  version of  /Anthem/ ready  for taking advantage of the
Macintosh II, and he was  well  behind with  it. And as for the proposed
module  for converting  incoming Dow Jones stock-market information into
MIDI data in real time, heÆd only  meant that as a joke, but Gordon,  of
course,   had   flipped  over   the  idea  and  insisted  on  its  being
implemented. That  too was  meant to be ready  but wasnÆt.  He  suddenly
knew exactly why it was he was here.
   Well, it  had been a pleasant evening, even  if he  couldnÆt see  why
Reg had been quite so keen to see  him. He picked  up a  couple of books
from the table. The  table obviously doubled as a dining table,  because
although  the piles looked as  if they had  been  there for  weeks,  the
absence of  dust immediately around them showed that they had been moved
recently.
   Maybe,  he  thought,  the  need  for  amiable chit-chat  with someone
different  can  become as urgent as  any other  need when  you live in a
community  as enclosed as a Cambridge college was, even nowadays. He was
a  likeable old fellow,  but it was  clear from dinner that  many of his
colleagues found  his eccentricities formed rather a rich sustained diet
-- particularly when they  had so many of  their own  to contend with. A
thought about  Susan nagged  him, but  he was used  to  that. He flipped
through the two books heÆd picked up.
   One  of  them, an elderly  one,  was an account of the  hauntings  of
Borley  Rectory,  the  most  haunted  house in  England.  Its  spine was
getting raggedy, and the photographic plates were  so grey and blurry as
to be virtually indistinguishable.  A picture he thought must be a  very
lucky (or  faked) shot  of a  ghostly  apparition  turned  out, when  he
examined the caption, to be a portrait of the author.
   The other book  was more  recent,  and  by an odd  coincidence was  a
guide to  the Greek  islands. He thumbed  through it idly and a piece of
paper fell out.
   æEarl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?Æ called  out Reg. æOr Darjeeling?  Or
PG  Tips? ItÆs all  tea bags anyway, IÆm  afraid. And none of  them very
fresh.Æ
   æDarjeeling  will do fine,Æ replied Richard,  stooping to pick up the
piece of paper.
   æMilk?Æ called Reg.
   æEr, please.Æ
   æOne lump or two?Æ
   æOne, please.Æ
   Richard slipped the  paper back into the book, noticing  as he did so
that it had a  hurriedly scribbled  note  on it. The  note  said,  oddly
enough,  æRegard  this  simple silver salt  cellar. Regard  this  simple
hat.Æ
   æSugar?Æ
   æEr, what?Æ said Richard, startled.  He  put the  book hurriedly back
on the pile.
   æJust a tiny joke of mine,Æ said Reg  cheerily, æto see if people are
listening.Æ He emerged beaming  from the  kitchen  carrying a small tray
with two cups on  it,  which he  hurled suddenly to the  floor.  The tea
splashed over the  carpet.  One  of  the  cups shattered  and the  other
bounced under the table. Reg leaned  against the door frame, white-faced
and staring.
   A  frozen instant of  time  slid  silently by while  Richard was  too
startled  to  react,  then he leaped awkwardly forward to help.  But the
old  man was already apologising  and offering to make him  another cup.
Richard helped him to the sofa.
   æAre  you  all right?Æ  asked  Richard  helplessly. æShall  I  get  a
doctor?Æ
   Reg waved  him down. æItÆs all  right,Æ  he insisted, æIÆm  perfectly
well.  Thought  I  heard,  well,  a  noise that startled me. But  it was
nothing. Just overcome with the tea fumes,  I expect.  Let me just catch
my breath.  I think  a little, er, port  will revive me excellently.  So
sorry, I didnÆt mean to startle you.Æ He waved in the general  direction
of the port  decanter.  Richard hurriedly poured  a small glass and gave
it to him.
   æWhat kind  of noise?Æ he asked, wondering what on earth could  shock
him so much.
   At  that  moment  came  the   sound  of  movement  upstairs   and  an
extraordinary kind of heavy breathing noise.
   æThat...Æ  whispered Reg.  The glass  of port  lay shattered  at  his
feet. Upstairs someone seemed to be stamping. æDid you hear it?Æ
   æWell, yes.Æ
   This seemed to relieve the old man.
   Richard  looked  nervously up  at  the ceiling. æIs there someone  up
there?Æ he asked,  feeling this was a lame question, but one that had to
be asked.
   æNo,Æ said Reg in a low voice  that  shocked Richard with the fear it
carried, æno one. Nobody that should be there.Æ
   æThen...Æ
   Reg was  struggling  shakily to his  feet, but there  was suddenly  a
fierce determination about him.
   æI must  go up there,Æ he said  quietly.  æI must. Please wait for me
here.Æ
   æLook, what is this?Æ demanded Richard,  standing between Reg and the
doorway.  æWhat  is it, a burglar? Look, IÆll go. IÆm sure itÆs nothing,
itÆs just the wind or something.Æ Richard didnÆt know why he  was saying
this.  It clearly  wasnÆt  the  wind,  or even anything like  the  wind,
because though the  wind  might conceivably make heavy breathing noises,
it rarely stamped its feet in that way.
   æNo,Æ the old man said,  politely but firmly moving him aside, æit is
for me to do.Æ
   Richard followed  him helplessly  through the  door  into  the  small
hallway, beyond which lay the tiny kitchen.  A dark wooden staircase led
up from here; the steps seemed damaged and scuffed.
   Reg turned on a light.  It  was  a dim one that hung naked at the top
of the stairwell, and he looked up it with grim apprehension.
   æWait here,Æ  he  said, and walked up  two steps. He then turned  and
faced Richard with a  look of the most profound seriousness on his face.
   æI  am sorry,Æ he said, æthat you have become  involved in what is...
the  more  difficult  side  of  my  life.  But  you  are  involved  now,
regrettable though that  may be,  and there is something I must ask you.
I do not know  what awaits me up there,  do not know exactly. I  do  not
know if it is  something which I have foolishly brought upon myself with
my... my  hobbies, or  if it is  something to  which  I  have fallen  an
innocent victim. If it  is the former, then I have only myself to blame,
for  I  am like  a doctor  who cannot give up smoking, or perhaps  worse
still, like an ecologist who cannot  give up  his car -- if  the latter,
then I hope it may not happen to you.
   æWhat  I must ask you is  this. When I come  back  down these stairs,
always supposing  of course that I do, then if my behaviour strikes  you
as being  in any  way odd,  if I appear not  to be myself, then you must
leap on  me and wrestle me to  the  ground. Do you understand?  You must
prevent me from doing anything I may try to do.Æ
   æBut how will I  know?Æ  asked an incredulous Richard. æSorry I donÆt
mean it to sound like that, but I donÆt know what...?Æ
   æYou will know,Æ said Reg. æNow please wait for me in  the main room.
And close the door.Æ
   Shaking his head in bewilderment, Richard stepped back and  did as he
was asked.  From inside the large  untidy room he listened to the  sound
of the ProfessorÆs tread mounting the stairs one at a time.
   He mounted them with a  heavy deliberation,  like the  ticking  of  a
great, slow clock.
   Richard heard him reach the top landing. There he paused  in silence.
Seconds  went  by,  five, maybe  ten,  maybe twenty. Then came again the
heavy movement and breath that had first so harrowed the Professor.
   Richard moved quickly to the door but did not open  it.  The chill of
the  room  oppressed and disturbed  him. He  shook  his  head to try and
shake off the  feeling,  and  then held  his  breath  as  the  footsteps
started once again slowly to traverse the two yards  of the landing  and
to pause there again.
   After only a few  seconds,  this  time  Richard  heard the  long slow
squeak of a door  being opened  inch by  inch,  inch by  cautious  inch,
until it must surely now at last be standing wide agape.
   Nothing further seemed to happen for a long, long time.
   Then at last the door closed once again, slowly.
   The footsteps crossed  the landing and paused again. Richard backed a
few  slight paces from  the  door, staring  fixedly at it. Once more the
footsteps  started  to  descend  the stairs,  slowly,  deliberately  and
quietly,  until at last they  reached  the  bottom.  Then  after  a  few
seconds more the door  handle began to rotate. The  door opened and  Reg
walked calmly in.
   æItÆs  all right,  itÆs  just  a horse  in  the  bathroom,Æ  he  said
quietly.
   Richard leaped on him and wrestled him to the ground.
   æNo,Æ  gasped  Reg,  æno, get  off me,  let me go, IÆm  perfectly all
right,  damn it. ItÆs just  a  horse, a perfectly  ordinary  horse.Æ  He
shook  Richard  off  with no great difficulty and sat  up,  puffing  and
blowing and  pushing his hands  through his limited  hair. Richard stood
over him warily,  but  with great and  mounting  embarrassment. He edged
back, and let Reg stand up and sit on a chair.
   æJust  a horse,Æ said Reg, æbut, er, thank  you  for taking me  at my
word.Æ He brushed himself down.
   æA horse,Æ repeated Richard.
   æYes,Æ said Reg.
   Richard went out and looked up the stairs and then came back in.
   æA /horse/?Æ he said again.
   æYes, it is,Æ  said the  Professor. æWait --Æ he motioned to Richard,
who was about to go out again and  investigate -- ælet  it  be. It wonÆt
be long.Æ
   Richard stared  in  disbelief.  æYou  say  thereÆs  a horse  in  your
bathroom, and all you can do is stand there naming Beatles songs?Æ
   The Professor looked blankly at him.
   æListen,Æ he  said,  æIÆm sorry if I... alarmed you earlier,  it  was
just  a slight  turn.  These things happen, my dear fellow,  donÆt upset
yourself about it. Dear me, IÆve known odder things in my  time. Many of
them. Far  odder. SheÆs only a horse, for heavenÆs sake. IÆll go and let
her  out later. Please donÆt concern yourself. Let us revive our spirits
with some port.Æ
   æBut... how did it get in there?Æ
   æWell,  the  bathroom windowÆs  open. I  expect  she came in  through
that.Æ
   Richard looked at him, not for the  first and  certainly not for  the
last time, through eyes that were narrowed with suspicion.
   æYouÆre doing it deliberately, arenÆt you?Æ he said.
   æDoing what, my dear fellow?Æ
   æI  donÆt  believe  thereÆs a  horse in your bathroom,Æ  said Richard
suddenly. æI  donÆt  know what is there, I donÆt know what youÆre doing,
I  donÆt know  what  any of  this  evening means, but  I  donÆt  believe
thereÆs  a  horse in  your bathroom.Æ  And brushing  aside RegÆs further
protestations he went up to look.

   The bathroom was not large.
   The walls were  panelled in old  oak  linenfold which, given the  age
and nature  of the building, was quite probably priceless, but otherwise
the fittings were stark and institutional.
   There  was  old,  scuffed, black-and-white checked  linoleum  on  the
floor, a  small basic bath, well cleaned  but  with very elderly  stains
and chips in the enamel, and also a small basic  basin with a toothbrush
and toothpaste  in a Duralex beaker standing next  to  the taps. Screwed
into the probably priceless  panelling above the basin was a tin mirror-
fronted bathroom cabinet. It looked  as if  it had  been repainted  many
times,  and  the mirror was  stained  round the edges with condensation.
The  lavatory  had an old-fashioned cast-iron  chain-pull cistern. There
was an old cream-painted wooden  cupboard standing  in the corner,  with
an  old brown bentwood chair next to it, on which lay some neatly folded
but threadbare small towels. There was also a large  horse  in the room,
taking up most of it.
   Richard stared at  it, and it stared at Richard in an appraising kind
of way. Richard swayed slightly. The  horse stood  quite still. After  a
while  it  looked at the cupboard instead.  It  seemed, if  not content,
then at  least perfectly resigned to being where it was until it was put
somewhere else. It also seemed... what was it?
   It was  bathed in the glow of the moonlight that streamed in  through
the window.  The  window  was open  but small and was,  besides, on  the
second  floor,  so  the notion  that the horse had entered by that route
was entirely fanciful.
   There was something odd  about the horse, but  he couldnÆt say  what.
Well,  there was one thing that  was clearly  very  odd about it indeed,
which was that it was  standing  in a college bathroom.  Maybe  that was
all.
   He reached out, rather tentatively, to pat the  creature on its neck.
It felt normal --  firm, glossy, it was in good condition. The effect of
the  moonlight  on its coat was a  little mazy, but  everything looks  a
little  odd by moonlight.  The horse  shook its  mane  a little when  he
touched it, but didnÆt seem to mind too much.
   After the  success  of patting it, Richard stroked it a few times and
scratched  it  gently  under  the jaw. Then he  noticed that  there  was
another door  into  the bathroom, in the far corner. He moved cautiously
around the horse and approached the other door. He backed up against  it
and pushed it open tentatively.
   It  just opened into the ProfessorÆs bedroom, a small room  cluttered
with  books  and shoes  and a small  single  bed.  This  room,  too, had
another door, which opened out on to the landing again.
   Richard noticed that the floor of the landing was newly  scuffed  and
scratched as the stairs had been,  and these marks were consistent  with
the  idea  that  the  horse  had somehow been pushed  up the stairs.  He
wouldnÆt have liked to  have  had  to do it himself,  and he would  have
liked  to have been the horse having  it done to him  even less,  but it
was just about possible.
   But why? He  had one last  look at the horse, which had one last look
back at him, and then he returned downstairs.
   æI agree,Æ he said. æYou have  a horse in your  bathroom and  I will,
after all, have a little port.Æ
   He poured some  for himself,  and then some for Reg,  who was quietly
contemplating the fire and was in need of a refill.
   æJust as  well  I  did  put  out  three glasses after all,Æ said  Reg
chattily. æI wondered why earlier, and now I remember.
   æYou asked if you could  bring a friend, but  appear not to have done
so. On  account of the sofa  no doubt. Never mind,  these things happen.
Whoa, not too much, youÆll spill it.Æ
   All horse-related questions left RichardÆs mind abruptly.
   æI did?Æ he said.
   æOh yes. I  remember now. You rang me back  to ask me if it would  be
all right, as I  recall.  I said I would be charmed, and  fully intended
to be. IÆd saw  the thing up if I were you. DonÆt want to sacrifice your
happiness to a sofa. Or maybe she decided that an evening with your  old
tutor would be  blisteringly dull  and  opted  for the more exhilarating
course of washing  her hair instead. Dear me,  I  know what I would have
done. ItÆs  only  lack of  hair  that forces me to  pursue such a hectic
social round these days.Æ
   It was RichardÆs turn to be white-faced and staring.
   Yes, he had assumed that Susan would not want to come.
   Yes, he  had  said to her  it  would be terribly  dull.  But  she had
insisted that she wanted  to come because it would be the only way sheÆd
get  to  see his  face for  a few  minutes not bathed in the light  of a
computer screen,  so  he had agreed and arranged that he would bring her
after all.
   Only he had completely forgotten this. He had not picked her up.
   He said, æCan I use your phone, please?Æ


[::: CHAPTER 9 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Gordon Way lay on the ground, unclear about what to do.
   He  was  dead. There  seemed little doubt  about  that.  There was  a
horrific hole in his chest, but the  blood that  was gobbing  out of  it
had slowed  to a trickle. Otherwise there was no movement from his chest
at all, or, indeed, from any other part of him.
   He looked up, and from side to side, and it became clear to  him that
whatever part of him  it was that was moving, it wasnÆt any part of  his
body.
   The mist rolled slowly  over  him, and explained  nothing.  At  a few
feet distant from him his shotgun lay smoking quietly in the grass.
   He continued  to lie there, like someone lying awake  at four oÆclock
in  the morning,  unable to  put  their mind to rest, but unable to find
anything to do  with it. He realised that he had just had something of a
shock, which  might  account for his  inability to  think  clearly,  but
didnÆt account for his ability actually to think at all.
   In  the great debate  that has  raged for centuries  about  what,  if
anything, happens to you  after death, be it heaven, hell,  purgatory or
extinction,  one thing has never  been in  doubt  -- that you  would  at
least know the answer when you were dead.
   Gordon Way was dead, but he simply hadnÆt the  slightest idea what he
was meant  to do  about  it.  It  wasnÆt a situation he had  encountered
before.
   He sat up. The  body that sat  up seemed as real to him as  the  body
that still lay  slowly cooling on the ground, giving  up its blood  heat
in  wraiths of  steam that mingled with the mist of the chill night air.
   Experimenting   a   bit  further,  he   tried  standing  up,  slowly,
wonderingly  and wobblingly. The ground  seemed to give him  support, it
took his weight.  But  then of course he appeared to have no weight that
needed to be  taken.  When he bent  to  touch  the ground he could  feel
nothing  save a  kind of distant rubbery resistance  like the  sensation
you get if you try and pick something  up when your arm has  gone  dead.
His arm  had gone  dead. His legs too,  and his  other arm,  and all his
torso and his head.
   His body was dead. He could not say why his mind was not.
   He stood  in a kind of frozen, sleepless horror while the mist curled
slowly through him.
   He looked back  down at the him, the ghastly, astonished-looking him-
thing  lying still and mangled on  the ground, and  his flesh  wanted to
creep. Or rather, he wanted flesh that could creep.  He wanted flesh. He
wanted body. He had none.
   A  sudden cry of  horror escaped from his mouth  but  was nothing and
went nowhere. He shook and felt nothing.
   Music and  a pool of light seeped from his car. He walked towards it.
He tried  to  walk  sturdily,  but  it was  a faint  and feeble  kind of
walking,  uncertain  and, well,  insubstantial.  The  ground  felt frail
beneath his feet.
   The door of the  car was  still open on the driverÆs  side, as he had
left it  when he had leaped out to deal with the boot lid, thinking heÆd
only be two seconds.
   That was all of two minutes ago now, when heÆd been alive.  When heÆd
been  a person. When  heÆd thought  he was going to be  leaping straight
back in and driving off. Two minutes and a lifetime ago.
   This was insane, wasnÆt it? he thought suddenly.
   He walked  around  the door and  bent down  to peer into the external
rear-view mirror.
   He  looked exactly like himself, albeit like himself after heÆd had a
terrible  fright, which was to  be expected, but that was  him, that was
normal. This must  be something  he was imagining, some horrible kind of
waking dream.  He had  a sudden thought and tried breathing on the rear-
view mirror.
   Nothing. Not a single droplet formed.  That would  satisfy a  doctor,
thatÆs what they always did on television -- if  no  mist formed on  the
mirror,  there was no breath. Perhaps, he thought  anxiously to himself,
perhaps  it was  something to do with having heated wing mirrors. DidnÆt
this car  have heated  wing mirrors? HadnÆt the salesman gone  on and on
about heated this, electric that,  and servo-assisted  the other?  Maybe
they were digital  wing  mirrors. That was  it. Digital, heated,  servo-
assisted, computer-controlled, breath-resistant wing mirrors...
   He  was, he realised,  thinking  complete  nonsense. He turned slowly
and  gazed again in  apprehension at the body lying on the ground behind
him  with half  its chest  blown away.  That  would certainly satisfy  a
doctor. The  sight  would be appalling enough if it  was somebody elseÆs
body, but his own...
   He  was  dead.  Dead...  dead...  He  tried  to  make  the  word toll
dramatically in  his mind,  but it  wouldnÆt. He  was  not  a film sound
track, he was just dead.
   Peering at  his body  in appalled  fascination,  he gradually  became
distressed by the expression of asinine stupidity on its face.
   It was  perfectly understandable,  of  course. It  was  just  such an
expression as somebody  who  is in the middle of being shot with his own
shotgun by somebody who had been hiding in the boot of his car might  be
expected  to wear, but  he nevertheless  disliked the idea  that  anyone
might find him looking like that.
   He knelt down beside it in the hope  of  being able to  rearrange his
features   into   some   semblance   of  dignity,  or  at   least  basic
intelligence.
   It  proved to be almost  impossibly difficult.  He tried to knead the
skin, the sickeningly  familiar skin,  but somehow  he  couldnÆt seem to
get a  proper grip on it, or on  anything.  It  was like trying to model
plasticine  when your arm has gone to sleep,  except that instead of his
grip slipping off the  model,  it  would slip through it. In this  case,
his hand slipped through his face.
   Nauseated  horror  and  rage  swept  through him at his sheer  bloody
blasted  impotence,  and  he  was  suddenly  startled  to  find  himself
throttling and shaking his own dead body with a firm and  furious  grip.
He staggered back in amazed shock. All he had managed  to  do was to add
to the inanely stupefied look of the  corpse  a  twisted-up  mouth and a
squint. And bruises flowering on its neck.
   He  started to  sob, and  this time sound seemed  to come, a  strange
howling  from  deep within  whatever  this  thing  he  had  become  was.
Clutching his hands to his  face,  he staggered  backwards, retreated to
his  car  and flung himself  into the  seat. The seat received  him in a
loose and distant kind of way, like an aunt who disapproves of the  last
fifteen years of your life and  will therefore  furnish you with a basic
sherry, but refuses to catch your eye.
   Could he get himself to a doctor?
   To avoid  facing the absurdity of the idea he grappled violently with
the  steering wheel,  but  his  hands slipped  through it. He  tried  to
wrestle with  the automatic transmission shift and ended up thumping  it
in rage, but not being able properly to grasp or push it.
   The  stereo  was  still  playing  light  orchestral  music  into  the
telephone,  which  had  been  lying  on  the  passenger  seat  listening
patiently all this time. He  stared  at it and realised with  a  growing
fever of  excitement  that he  was still connected to SusanÆs telephone-
answering  machine.  It was the type that would simply run and run until
he hung up. He was still in contact with the world.
   He tried  desperately to pick up the receiver, fumbled, let  it slip,
and was in the end reduced to  bending himself down over its mouthpiece.
æSusan!Æ  he cried into it, his voice a hoarse and distant wail  on  the
wind. æSusan, help  me! Help me for GodÆs sake. Susan,  IÆm  dead... IÆm
dead...  IÆm  dead and...  I  donÆt know what  to  do...Æ He  broke down
again, sobbing in desperation, and  tried  to cling  to the phone like a
baby clinging to its blanket for comfort.
   æHelp me, Susan...Æ he cried again.
   æ/Beep/,Æ said the phone.
   He looked down  at it again  where he was cuddling it. He had managed
to push something after  all. He  had managed to  push the  button which
disconnected the  call.  Feverishly  he attempted  to grapple  the thing
again, but it  constantly slipped through his fingers and eventually lay
immobile  on the seat.  He could not  touch  it. He could  not push  the
buttons. In  rage  he flung it at the windscreen.  It responded to that,
all right.  It hit the windscreen, careered  straight  back  though him,
bounced off the seat  and then lay  still  on the  transmission  tunnel,
impervious to all his further attempts to touch it.
   For several  minutes still  he sat there,  his head nodding slowly as
terror began to recede into blank desolation.
   A  couple of cars  passed by, but would have noticed nothing odd -- a
car  stopped  by  the  wayside.  Passing  swiftly  in  the  night  their
headlights would  probably not have picked out  the body  lying  in  the
grass behind  the car.  They  certainly would not have  noticed  a ghost
sitting inside it crying to himself.
   He didnÆt  know how  long he sat  there. He was  hardly aware of time
passing, only that  it  didnÆt seem to pass quickly.  There  was  little
external  stimulus to mark its passage. He  didnÆt feel cold. In fact he
could almost not  remember what cold  meant or felt like,  he just  knew
that it was something he would have expected to feel at this moment.
   Eventually  he stirred from his pathetic  huddle. He would have to do
something, though he didnÆt  know what. Perhaps  he should try and reach
his cottage, though he didnÆt know what  he would do when he got  there.
He just needed something to  try  for.  He needed to make it through the
night.
   Pulling himself together  he slipped  out  of  the  car, his foot and
knee  grazing easily  through  part of  the door frame.  He went to look
again at his body, but it wasnÆt there.
   As  if the night hadnÆt  produced enough shocks already.  He started,
and stared at the damp depression in the grass.
   His body was not there.


[::: CHAPTER 10 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Richard made the hastiest departure that politeness would allow.
   He said thank  you very much and what a splendid evening it had  been
and that any time  Reg was coming up to London he must let him, Richard,
know and  was there  anything he could do  to help  about the horse. No?
Well, all right then, if youÆre sure, and thank you again, so much.
   He  stood there for a  moment  or  two after the door finally closed,
pondering things.
   He had noticed during  the short time that the  light from RegÆs room
flooded out on to the landing of  the main staircase, that there were no
marks on the floorboards  there  at all.  It  seemed odd  that the horse
should only have scuffed the floorboards inside RegÆs room.
   Well, it all  seemed very odd,  full stop, but here  was  yet another
curious fact to  add to the growing pile. This was supposed to have been
a relaxing evening away from work.
   On an impulse he knocked on the door opposite to RegÆs. It took  such
a long time to be answered that Richard had given  up and was turning to
go when at last he heard the door creak open.
   He had a slight shock  when  he saw that  staring  sharply  up at him
like  a small and suspicious bird was the don with the racing-yacht keel
for a nose.
   æEr, sorry,Æ  said  Richard,  abruptly,  æbut, er,  have you  seen or
heard a horse coming up this staircase tonight?Æ
   The man stopped  his obsessive twitching  of  his fingers.  He cocked
his head slightly on one side and then seemed  to need  to go  on a long
journey  inside himself to find a voice, which when found  turned out to
be a thin and soft little one.
   He  said,  æThat is  the  first  thing  anybody has  said to  me  for
seventeen  years,  three  months  and  two  days,  five  hours, nineteen
minutes and twenty seconds. IÆve been counting.Æ
   He closed the door softly again.
   Richard virtually ran through Second Court.
   When he  reached First Court he steadied himself and slowed down to a
walking pace.
   The chill night air was rasping in his lungs and  there  was no point
in running. He hadnÆt  managed to  talk  to  Susan  because RegÆs  phone
wasnÆt  working,   and   this  was   another  thing  that  he  had  been
mysteriously coy  about. That at least  was  susceptible  of a  rational
explanation. He probably hadnÆt paid his phone bill.
   Richard was about  to emerge  out on  to  the  street when instead he
decided to  pay  a quick visit to the  porterÆs lodge, which was  tucked
away inside the great archway entrance into the  college. It was a small
hutchlike place filled with keys, messages  and a  single  electric  bar
heater. A radio nattered to itself in the background.
   æExcuse me,Æ  he said to  the large black-suited man standing  behind
the counter with his arms folded. æI...Æ
   æYes, Mr MacDuff, what can I do for you?Æ
   In  his  present state  of mind Richard would have been  hard-pressed
himself  to remember  his own  name  and  was  startled  for  a  moment.
However,  college porters  are  legendary  for their ability to  perform
such feats  of  memory, and  for their tendency  to show them off at the
slightest provocation.
   æIs  there,Æ said Richard, æa horse  anywhere in  the college -- that
you know  of?  I  mean, you would know  if  there  was a  horse  in  the
college, wouldnÆt you?Æ
   The porter didnÆt blink.
   æNo,  sir,  and yes,  sir. Anything  else  I can  help  you with,  Mr
MacDuff, sir?Æ
   æEr, no,Æ said Richard and tapped his  fingers  a couple of times  on
the counter. æNo. Thank you. Thank you very much for your  help. Nice to
see you again, er... Bob,Æ he hazarded. æGood-night, then.Æ
   He left.
   The porter  remained  perfectly  still  with  his  arms  folded,  but
shaking his head a very, very little bit.
   æHereÆs some  coffee for you,  Bill,Æ  said  another porter,  a short
wiry one, emerging from an inner sanctum  with a steaming cup.  æGetting
a bit colder tonight?Æ
   æI think it is, Fred, thanks,Æ said Bill, taking the cup.
   He  took a  sip. æYou can  say what you like about people, they donÆt
get any  less  peculiar.  Fellow in here just now  asking if there was a
horse in the college.Æ
   æOh yes?Æ Fred sipped at his own coffee, and  let the steam smart his
eyes.  æI had a  chap  in here earlier. Sort of strange foreign  priest.
CouldnÆt understand a word  he said at first.  But he seemed  happy just
to stand by the fire and listen to the news on the radio.Æ
   æForeigners, eh.Æ
   æIn the end I told him  to shoot off.  Standing in  front  of my fire
like that. Suddenly he says is that really what he must  do? Shoot  off?
I said, in my best Bogart voice, ôYou better believe it, buddy.öÆ
   æReally? Sounded more like Jimmy Cagney to me.Æ
   æNo, thatÆs my Bogart voice.  This is my Jimmy  Cagney  voice -- ôYou
better believe it, buddy.öÆ
   Bill frowned at  him.  æIs  that your  Jimmy  Cagney  voice? I always
thought that was your Kenneth McKellar voice.Æ
   æYou donÆt listen properly,  Bill, you havenÆt got the ear.  This  is
Kenneth  McKellar.  ôOh, you take  the high road and IÆll take  the  low
road...öÆ
   æOh,  I see. I was thinking of the Scottish Kenneth McKellar. So what
did this priest fellow say then, Fred?Æ
   æOh, he just looked me straight  in the eyes, Bill, and  said in this
strange sort of...Æ
   æSkip the  accent, Fred,  just  tell me what  he said, if itÆs  worth
hearing.Æ
   æHe just said he did believe me.Æ
   æSo. Not a very interesting story then, Fred.Æ
   æWell,  maybe not. I  only  mention it because he also said that heÆd
left his horse in a washroom and would I see that it was all right.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 11 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Gordon Way drifted miserably along the  dark road,  or  rather, tried
to drift.
   He felt that  as a  ghost -- which is what he had to admit to himself
he  had become --  he  should  be able to drift. He  knew  little enough
about  ghosts, but he felt that if you were  going to be  one then there
ought to be certain compensations for  not having a physical body to lug
around,  and that among  them ought to be the ability simply  to  drift.
But no, it seemed he was going to have to walk every step of the way.
   His aim was to try and  make it to  his house. He didnÆt know what he
would  do  when he  got  there, but even  ghosts have to spend the night
somewhere, and he felt that  being in familiar  surroundings might help.
Help what, he  didnÆt know. At  least the journey gave him an objective,
and he would just have to think of another one when he arrived.
   He trudged despondently from  lamppost  to lamppost, stopping at each
one to look at bits of himself.
   He was definitely getting a bit wraithlike.
   At  times he  would  fade  almost to  nothing, and would  seem  to be
little  more  than a shadow playing in the mist, a dream of himself that
could just evaporate  and be gone. At other times he seemed to be almost
solid  and real again.  Once or  twice  he  would try  leaning against a
lamppost, and would fall straight through it if he wasnÆt careful.
   At last,  and with great reluctance, he actually  began  to turn  his
mind to what  it  was that had happened. Odd, that reluctance. He really
didnÆt want to think about  it. Psychologists  say that  the  mind  will
often  try to suppress  the memory of  traumatic events,  and  this,  he
thought, was probably the answer. After  all, if having a strange figure
jump out of the boot of your own car and  shoot you dead didnÆt count as
a traumatic experience, heÆd like to know what did.
   He trudged on wearily.
   He  tried  to recall the  figure to  his mindÆs  eye, but it was like
probing a hurting tooth, and he thought of other things.
   Like, was  his  will up-to-date? He couldnÆt  remember,  and  made  a
mental note to  call his lawyer  tomorrow, and  then made another mental
note that he would have to stop making mental notes like that.
   How would his company survive without  him?  He didnÆt like either of
the possible answers to that very much.
   What about his obituary? There was  a thought that chilled him to his
bones, wherever  theyÆd  got to. Would he be able to get hold of a copy?
What  would  it  say? TheyÆd  better  give  him  a  good  write-up,  the
bastards. Look  at  what  heÆd done.  Single-handedly saved  the British
software industry:  huge  exports,  charitable  contributions,  research
scholarships,  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  a  solar-powered   submarine
(failed,  but a good try)  --  all sorts of things. TheyÆd better not go
digging up  that Pentagon stuff again or heÆd get his lawyer on to them.
He made a mental note to call him in the mor...
   No.
   Anyway, can a dead person sue for libel? Only his lawyer  would know,
and he was  not going  to  be able to  call  him in the morning. He knew
with  a  sense  of creeping  dread that  of all  the  things he had left
behind in the land of the living it was the telephone that he  was going
to miss  the most,  and then  he  turned his  mind  determinedly back to
where it didnÆt want to go.
   The figure.
   It  seemed to him that the  figure  had been  almost like a figure of
Death itself; or was  that  his imagination playing tricks with him? Was
he dreaming that it was  a cowled figure? What would any figure, whether
cowled or just casually dressed, be doing in the boot of his car?
   At that moment a car zipped past him on the  road and disappeared off
into the  night, taking its  oasis  of  light with  it.  He thought with
longing of the  warm, leather-upholstered, climate-controlled comfort of
his  own  car  abandoned  on the  road behind him,  and  then  a  sudden
extraordinary thought struck him.
   Was there  any way he could  hitch a lift?  Could anyone actually see
him? How  would anyone react if they could? Well, there was only one way
to find out.
   He  heard another car coming up in the distance behind him and turned
to face it. The twin pools of hazy lights  approached  through  the mist
and Gordon gritted his phantom teeth and stuck his thumb out at them.
   The car swept by regardless.
   Nothing.
   Angrily  he  made  an indistinct  V  sign  at  the  receding red rear
lights,  and  realised, looking straight  through his own  upraised arm,
that he  wasnÆt at his  most visible at  the  moment. Was there  perhaps
some  effort of will  he  could make to render himself more visible when
he wanted to? He  screwed  up his eyes  in concentration,  then realised
that he would need to have  his eyes open in order to judge the results.
He tried  again, forcing  his mind as hard  as he could, but the results
were unsatisfactory.
   Though  it  did  seem  to  make  some  kind  of  rudimentary, glowing
difference,  he couldnÆt  sustain  it, and it  faded almost immediately,
however  much  he  piled on the  mental pressure. He would have to judge
the timing very carefully if he was  going to make his presence felt, or
at least seen.
   Another  car  approached  from  behind,  travelling  fast. He  turned
again, stuck his thumb  out, waited till the moment was right and willed
himself visible.
   The car swerved slightly,  and then carried on its way, only a little
more slowly.  Well, that  was something. What else could he do? He would
go and stand under  a lamppost for  a start, and he  would practise. The
next car he would get for sure.


[::: CHAPTER 12 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æ...so if  youÆd like to leave  a  message, IÆll get back  to you  as
soon as possible. Maybe.Æ
   /Beep./
   æShit. Damn. Hold on a minute. Blast. Look... er...Æ
   /Click./
   Richard pushed the phone back into  its  cradle  and slammed his  car
into  reverse for twenty yards  to have another look at the sign-post by
the road  junction  heÆd  just sped past  in the mist.  He had extracted
himself from  the  Cambridge one-way  system  by the usual method, which
involved going round and round it faster  and faster until he achieved a
sort of  escape  velocity  and  flew  off  at  a  tangent  in  a  random
direction, which he was now trying to identify and correct for.
   Arriving back at  the junction he  tried to correlate the information
on the  signpost with  the  information  on the  map. But it couldnÆt be
done. The road junction was quite deliberately  sitting on a page divide
on the  map, and  the signpost was revolving  maliciously  in  the wind.
Instinct told him that he was  heading  in the  wrong direction,  but he
didnÆt want  to  go back  the way  heÆd come for  fear of getting sucked
back into the gravitational whirlpool of CambridgeÆs traffic system.
   He turned left, therefore, in the  hope of finding  better fortune in
that  direction,  but  after  a  while  lost  his  nerve  and  turned  a
speculative right, and then  chanced another  exploratory left and after
a few more such manoeuvres was thoroughly lost.
   He  swore to himself and turned up the heating in  the car. If he had
been concentrating on where he was going rather than trying to  navigate
and telephone at the same time, he told  himself, he would at least know
where  he  was now.  He  didnÆt actually like having a  telephone in his
car, he found  it a bother and an intrusion. But Gordon had insisted and
indeed had paid for it.
   He  sighed  in  exasperation,  backed  up the  black  Saab and turned
around again. As  he did so he nearly ran  into  someone lugging  a body
into a  field. At least that was what it looked like for a second to his
overwrought brain, but in  fact it  was  probably a local  farmer with a
sackful of  something nutritious, though what he was doing with it  on a
night like  this was  anyoneÆs  guess.  As his headlights  swung  around
again, they caught for a  moment a silhouette of the figure trudging off
across the field with the sack on his back.
   æRather him than me,Æ thought Richard grimly, and drove off again.
   After a few  minutes he  reached a junction with what looked a little
more  like  a main road, nearly turned right  down  it, but  then turned
left instead. There was no signpost.
   He poked at the buttons on his phone again.
   æ...get back to you as soon as possible. Maybe.Æ
   /Beep./
   æSusan, itÆs Richard. Where do I  start? What a mess. Look IÆm sorry,
sorry, sorry. I  screwed up very badly, and itÆs all my fault. And look,
whatever it takes to make up for it, IÆll do it, solemn promise...Æ
   He  had a  slight feeling that  this  wasnÆt the  right tone to adopt
with an answering machine, but he carried straight on.
   æHonestly, we can  go away, take a  holiday  for a week, or even just
this  weekend if  you  like. Really, this  weekend. WeÆll  go  somewhere
sunny.  DoesnÆt matter how much pressure Gordon tries to put on me,  and
you  know  the sort of pressure he can muster, he is your brother, after
all.  IÆll just... er, actually, it might have to be next weekend. Damn,
damn, damn. ItÆs just that I really have  promised to get, no,  look, it
doesnÆt  matter. WeÆll just  do it. I  donÆt care about getting /Anthem/
finished  for  Comdex.  ItÆs  not the end of  the world. WeÆll just  go.
Gordon will just have to take a running jump -- Gaaarghhhh!Æ
   Richard swerved  wildly  to  avoid  the  spectre of Gordon Way  which
suddenly loomed in his headlights and took a running jump at him.
   He slammed on the  brakes, started to skid, tried to remember what it
was  you were supposed to  do  when you found yourself skidding, he knew
heÆd seen it  on  some television programme about driving heÆd seen ages
ago,  what was the  programme? God, he  couldnÆt even remember the title
of the programme,  let alone -- oh yes, theyÆd said you  mustnÆt slam on
the  brakes. That was it. The world swung sickeningly  around  him  with
slow and appalling  force  as  the car  slewed across  the  road,  spun,
thudded against the grass verge, then  slithered  and rocked itself to a
halt, facing the wrong  way. He collapsed, panting, against the steering
wheel.
   He picked up the phone from where heÆd dropped it.
   æSusan,Æ he gasped, æIÆll get back to you,Æ and hung up.
   He raised his eyes.
   Standing  full in the glare of his headlights was the spectral figure
of  Gordon Way staring straight in  through the windscreen with  ghastly
horror in its eyes, slowly raising its hand and pointing at him.

   He wasnÆt sure how long  he just sat there. The apparition had melted
from view  in a few seconds,  but  Richard simply sat, shaking, probably
for not more than  a minute,  until a sudden squeal  of brakes and glare
of lights roused him.
   He shook his head. He  was, he realised,  stopped in the road  facing
the wrong  way. The car that had just screeched to an abrupt halt almost
bumper to bumper with him was a  police car.  He took two or three  deep
breaths  and then, stiff and trembling, he climbed out and  stood  up to
face the officer who was  walking slowly towards him, silhouetted in the
police carÆs headlights.
   The officer looked him up and down.
   æEr, IÆm sorry, officer,Æ said Richard, with as much  calmness  as he
could wrench into  his  voice.  æI, er, skidded. The  roads are slippery
and I, er... skidded. I spun round. As you  see, I, IÆm facing the wrong
way.Æ He gestured at his car to indicate the way it was facing.
   æLike to  tell  me why it  was you  skidded then,  exactly, sir?Æ The
police  officer  was looking him straight in the eye while pulling out a
notebook.
   æWell,  as  I  said,Æ  explained  Richard, æthe  roads  are  slippery
because of  the  mist,  and,  well, to be perfectly honest,Æ he suddenly
found himself saying,  in spite of all his attempts  to stop himself, æI
was  just driving along  and  I suddenly imagined that I saw my employer
throwing himself in front of my car.Æ
   The officer gazed at him levelly.
   æGuilt  complex, officer,Æ added Richard  with a twitch  of  a smile,
æyou know how it is. I was contemplating taking the weekend off.Æ
   The  police  officer seemed  to hesitate,  balanced on a  knife  edge
between sympathy and suspicion. His eyes  narrowed  a little  but didnÆt
waver.
   æBeen drinking, sir?Æ
   æYes,Æ  said Richard,  with a  quick  sigh,  æbut  very  little.  Two
glasses of wine max. Er...  and a  small glass of port. Absolute max. It
was really just a lapse of concentration. IÆm fine now.Æ
   æName?Æ
   Richard gave him  his name and address.  The  policeman  wrote it all
down  carefully  and  neatly  in  his  book,  then  peered  at  the  car
registration number and wrote that down too.
   æAnd who is your employer then, sir?Æ
   æHis name is Way. Gordon Way.Æ
   æOh,Æ  said  the  policeman   raising  his  eyebrows,  æthe  computer
gentleman.Æ
   æEr,  yes,  thatÆs  right.   I  design  software  for   the  company.
WayForward Technologies II.Æ
   æWeÆve  got  one  of  your  computers  down  the  station,Æ  said the
policeman. æBuggered if I can get it to work.Æ
   æOh,Æ said Richard wearily, æwhich model do you have?Æ
   æI think itÆs called a Quark II.Æ
   æOh,  well  thatÆs simple,Æ said  Richard  with relief.  æIt  doesnÆt
work. Never has done. The thing is a heap of shit.Æ
   æFunny  thing,  sir,  thatÆs   what  IÆve  always   said,Æ  said  the
policeman. æSome of the other lads donÆt agree.Æ
   æWell, youÆre absolutely  right, officer. The thing is hopeless. ItÆs
the major reason the original company  went bust. I  suggest you  use it
as a big paperweight.Æ
   æWell,  I wouldnÆt like  to do that,  sir,Æ the  policeman persisted.
æThe door would keep blowing open.Æ
   æWhat do you mean, officer?Æ asked Richard.
   æI use  it  to keep  the door  closed, sir.  Nasty draughts down  our
station this time of year. In the  summer,  of course,  we beat suspects
round the head with it.Æ
   He flipped his book closed and prodded it into his pocket.
   æMy advice to you, sir, is to go nice and easy on the  way back. Lock
up the  car and spend the weekend getting completely pissed. I find itÆs
the only way. Mind how you go now.Æ
   He returned to his car,  wound down the window, and  watched  Richard
manoeuvre  his car around and drive off  into  the  night before heading
off himself.
   Richard took  a deep breath, drove calmly back to London, let himself
calmly into his flat,  clambered  calmly over the sofa, sat down, poured
himself a stiff brandy and began seriously to shake.
   There were three things he was shaking about.
   There was  the simple  physical shock of his near-accident, which  is
the sort of thing that always  churns you up a lot more than you expect.
The  body  floods itself with adrenaline,  which then hangs around  your
system turning sour.
   Then there was the cause of the skid --  the extraordinary apparition
of  Gordon throwing himself in  front of his car  at that moment. Boy oh
boy. Richard took a mouthful of brandy  and  gargled with it. He put the
glass down.
   It was well known that Gordon was  one of the worldÆs richest natural
resources  of  guilt pressure,  and that he could deliver a  ton on your
doorstep fresh every morning, but Richard hadnÆt realised he had  let it
get to him to such an unholy degree.
   He took up his  glass  again, went upstairs and  pushed open the door
to his workroom, which involved shifting  a stack of BYTE magazines that
had toppled against it. He pushed them away with his foot and walked  to
the end of the large room. A lot of glass at this end let  in views over
a large part  of north London, from which  the mist was now clearing. St
PaulÆs glowed in  the dark distance  and he stared at it for a moment or
two but it didnÆt  do anything special. After the  events of the evening
he found this came as a pleasant surprise.
   At the other end of the  room were a couple of long tables  smothered
in, at  the last  count, six Macintosh computers. In the middle was  the
Mac II on which a red  wire-frame model of his sofa was lazily revolving
within  a  blue wire-frame model of  his narrow staircase, complete with
banister rail, radiator and fuse-box details, and  of course the awkward
turn halfway up.
   The  sofa  would  start  out  spinning  in  one  direction,   hit  an
obstruction,  twist itself  in another  plane, hit another  obstruction,
revolve round a  third  axis  until it  was  stopped again,  then  cycle
through the moves again in a different order.  You didnÆt  have to watch
the sequence for very long before you saw it repeat itself.
   The sofa was clearly stuck.
   Three other Macs  were connected  up via long tangles of cable  to an
untidy agglomeration  of synthesisers -- an Emulator II+ HD  sampler,  a
rack of TX  modules, a Prophet  VS, a Roland JX 10, a  Korg  DW8000,  an
Octapad, a left-handed  Synth-Axe  MIDI  guitar controller, and even  an
old drum machine stacked up  and gathering dust in the corner --  pretty
much the works. There was  also a  small and rarely  used cassette  tape
recorder: all the music  was stored in sequencer files on  the computers
rather than on tape.
   He dumped  himself into a seat  in  front of one of  the Macs  to see
what,  if  anything,  it  was doing.  It  was  displaying  an æUntitledÆ
/Excel/ spreadsheet and he wondered why.
   He saved  it  and  looked  to  see if heÆd left himself any notes and
quickly discovered that the  spreadsheet  contained some of the  data he
had  previously  downloaded after  searching  the  /World  Reporter/ and
/Knowledge/ on-line databases for facts about swallows.
   He now had figures which detailed their  migratory habits, their wing
shapes,  their aerodynamic  profile and  turbulence characteristics, and
some sort of rudimentary figures concerning  the patterns  that  a flock
would adopt in flight, but  as  yet  he had only the faintest idea as to
how he was going to synthesise them all together.
   Because  he  was  too  tired  to  think  particularly  constructively
tonight he savagely  selected and copied a whole swathe  of figures from
the spreadsheet at random,  pasted them into his own conversion program,
which scaled and filtered and manipulated  the figures  according to his
own   experimental   algorithms,   loaded   the   converted   file  into
/Performer/,  a  powerful  sequencer  program,  and  played  the  result
through  random MIDI channels  to whichever synthesisers happened  to be
on at the moment.
   The result  was a short burst of  the most  hideous cacophony, and he
stopped it.
   He ran  the  conversion program  again,  this time instructing it  to
force-map  the pitch values  into G  minor.  This was  a  utility he was
determined  in the end to get rid of because he regarded it as cheating.
If  there was any basis to his firmly held belief  that  the rhythms and
harmonies of music which he  found most satisfying could be found in, or
at least  derived from, the rhythms and harmonies of naturally occurring
phenomena,  then  satisfying  forms  of  modality  and intonation should
emerge naturally as well, rather than being forced.
   For the moment, though, he forced it.
   The result  was  a short burst  of the most hideous  cacophony  in  G
minor.
   So much for random shortcuts.
   The first task was a  relatively simple one, which would be simply to
plot the waveform described by  the tip of a swallowÆs wing as it flies,
then  synthesise that waveform. That way he  would end up with  a single
note, which would be a  good start, and it  shouldnÆt take more than the
weekend to do.
   Except, of course, that  he didnÆt have a weekend available to  do it
in because he had somehow  to get Version  2 of /Anthem/ out of the door
sometime during  the course  of  the next  year,  or æmonthÆ  as  Gordon
called it.
   Which  brought  Richard inexorably to the third thing  he was shaking
about.
   There  was absolutely no way that  he  could take the  time off  this
weekend or next to fulfil the  promise he had made to SusanÆs telephone-
answering machine.  And that,  if this eveningÆs dΘbacle had not already
done so, would surely spell the final end.
   But  that was it.  The thing  was  done. There  is nothing you can do
about  a message  on someone  elseÆs  answering  machine other than  let
events take their course. It was done. It was irrevocable.
   An odd thought suddenly struck him.
   It took  him  by considerable  surprise,  but he  couldnÆt really see
what was wrong with it.


[::: CHAPTER 13 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   A  pair  of  binoculars  scanning the  London  night  skyline,  idly,
curious, snooping. A little look here,  a little look there, just seeing
whatÆs going on, anything interesting, anything useful.
   The  binoculars settle on the back of one particular house, attracted
by  a  slight  movement.  One  of  those  large  late-Victorian  villas,
probably  flats  now.  Lots  of  black  iron  drainpipes.  Green  rubber
dustbins. But dark. No, nothing.
   The binoculars  are  just moving onwards when another slight movement
catches in the  moonlight. The binoculars refocus  very slightly, trying
to find  a detail, a hard edge, a  slight contrast in the darkness.  The
mist has lifted now, and the  darkness  glistens. They  refocus  a very,
very little more.
   There it is. Something,  definitely.  Only this  time a little higher
up, maybe a foot or so, maybe a yard. The binoculars settle and relax  -
-  steady, trying  for  the  edge,  trying for  the  detail. There.  The
binoculars settle  again  --  they  have  found  their  mark,  straddled
between a windowsill and a drainpipe.
   It  is a dark figure, splayed against the wall, looking down, looking
for  a  new  foothold,  looking  upwards,   looking  for  a  ledge.  The
binoculars peer intently.
   The figure  is that  of a tall, thin  man. His clothes are right  for
the  job, dark trousers, dark sweater, but his movements are awkward and
angular.  Nervous.  Interesting.  The  binoculars   wait  and  consider,
consider and judge.
   The man is clearly a rank amateur.
   Look  at  his fumbling.  Look at his ineptitude. His feet slip on the
drainpipe, his  hands canÆt reach the  ledge. He nearly falls. He  waits
to catch his breath.  For a  moment he starts to climb back  down again,
but seems to find that even tougher going.
   He  lunges again for  the ledge  and this time  catches it. His  foot
shoots  out to  steady  himself  and nearly misses the pipe. Could  have
been very nasty, very nasty indeed.
   But  now  the way is  easier  and  progress is  better. He crosses to
another pipe, reaches  a  third-floor window  ledge, flirts briefly with
death as he crawls painfully on  to it, and makes the cardinal error and
looks  down. He sways briefly and sits back heavily.  He shades his eyes
and peers inside to check that the  room is dark, and sets about getting
the window open.
   One of the things that distinguish the amateur from  the professional
is that this  is the point when the amateur thinks it  would have been a
good idea  to  bring  along  something  to prise the  window open  with.
Luckily  for  this amateur the householder is  an  amateur too, and  the
sash window slides  grudgingly up. The climber crawls, with some relief,
inside.
   He should be locked up for  his own protection, think the binoculars.
A  hand starts to  reach for the phone.  At the window a face looks back
out and for a moment is  caught  in  the  moonlight, then it  ducks back
inside to carry on with its business.
   The hand  stays hovering over the  phone for  a moment  or two, while
the binoculars wait and consider,  consider and judge.  The hand reaches
instead for the A-Z street map of London.
   There is a  long studious pause, a little more intent binocular work,
and then the hand reaches for the phone again, lifts it and dials.


[::: CHAPTER 14 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   SusanÆs flat  was small but spacious, which  was  a trick,  reflected
Richard  tensely as he turned on the light, that only women  seemed able
to pull off.
   It wasnÆt that observation which  made him tense, of course  --  heÆd
thought it  before, many times.  Every time heÆd been  in  her flat,  in
fact. It always struck him,  usually  because he  had just come from his
own  flat,  which was  four times the size and cramped. HeÆd  just  come
from his own flat this time, only via a rather eccentric  route,  and it
was this that made his usual observation unusually tense.
   Despite the chill of the night he was sweating.
   He looked back out  of the window, turned and tiptoed across the room
towards  where the  telephone and the  answering machine  stood on their
own small table.
   There was no point, he  told himself, in tiptoeing. Susan  wasnÆt in.
He would be extremely interested to know  where she was, in fact -- just
as she, he told  himself,  had  probably been  extremely  interested  in
knowing where he had been at the beginning of the evening.
   He realised he  was still tiptoeing.  He hit his  leg to make himself
stop doing it, but carried on doing it none the less.
   Climbing up the outside wall had been terrifying.
   He  wiped  his  forehead with the arm  of  his  oldest  and greasiest
sweater. There had been a nasty moment when his  life had flashed before
his eyes  but he  had been too  preoccupied with falling and had  missed
all the  good  bits.  Most  of  the  good bits had  involved  Susan,  he
realised. Susan or computers.  Never  Susan and  computers  -- those had
largely been  the bad bits.  Which was why he was here, he told himself.
He seemed to need convincing, and told himself again.
   He looked at his watch. Eleven forty-five.
   It occurred to him he had better go and wash  his wet and dirty hands
before he  touched  anything. It wasnÆt the police he was worried about,
but SusanÆs terrifying cleaner. She would know.
   He went into the bathroom,  turned on the light switch, wiped it, and
then stared  at his own  startled  face in the bright neon-lit mirror as
he  ran  the water over his  hands. For  a  moment  he  thought  of  the
dancing, warm candlelight of the Coleridge Dinner, and  the images of it
welled up out of the dim and distant  past  of the earlier part  of  the
evening.  Life  had  seemed  easy  then,  and  carefree. The  wine,  the
conversation,  simple conjuring tricks. He pictured the  round pale face
of Sarah, pop-eyed with wonder. He washed his own face.
   He thought:

   æ...Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Æ

   He brushed  his own hair.  He  thought, too,  of the pictures hanging
high in  the darkness above  their  heads. He cleaned his teeth. The low
buzz  of the neon light snapped him  back to the present and he suddenly
remembered  with  appalled shock  that he  was here in  his capacity  as
burglar.
   Something  made him look himself directly in the face in the  mirror,
then he shook his head, trying to clear it.
   When would Susan be back? That, of course,  would  depend on what she
was doing.  He quickly  wiped  his hands  and made his  way  back to the
answering machine. He prodded at the buttons and his  conscience prodded
back at  him. The tape wound back for what seemed to  be an interminable
time, and he  realised  with a jolt that it was  probably because Gordon
had been in full flood.
   He had forgotten,  of  course, that  there would  be  messages on the
tape other than his own, and listening to  other peopleÆs phone messages
was tantamount to opening their mail.
   He explained to himself once again that all  he was trying to  do was
to undo  a mistake he had made before it  caused any irrevocable damage.
He would just  play  the tiniest snippets  till he found  his own voice.
That wouldnÆt be  too  bad, he wouldnÆt even be able to distinguish what
was being said.
   He groaned inwardly,  gritted  his  teeth  and  stabbed  at the  Play
button so  roughly  that he  missed  it  and  ejected  the  cassette  by
mistake. He put it back in and pushed the Play button more carefully.
   /Beep./
   æOh, Susan,  hi, itÆs Gordon,Æ said  the answering machine. æIÆm just
on my way  to  the cottage.  ItÆs, er...Æ He wound  on for a  couple  of
seconds. æ...need to know that Richard is on the  case. I mean  /really/
on...Æ  Richard set his  mouth  grimly and stabbed at  the  Fast Forward
again. He really  hated  the  fact that Gordon tried  to put pressure on
him via Susan,  which  Gordon  always  stoutly  denied  he did.  Richard
couldnÆt blame Susan  for getting  exasperated about his  work sometimes
if this sort of thing was going on.Æ
   /Click./
   æ...Response. Make  a  note  to  Susan  would  you  please, to get an
ôArmed Responseö sign made up with a sharp  spike on  the  bottom at the
right height for rabbits to see.Æ
   æ/What?/Æ muttered Richard  to himself, and his  finger hesitated for
a second  over the Fast  Forward  button. He had a  feeling  that Gordon
desperately wanted to be like Howard Hughes, and if  he could never hope
to be  remotely as rich, he could at least try to be twice as eccentric.
An act. A palpable act.
   æThatÆs  secretary  Susan  at  the  office,  not   you,  of  course,Æ
continued  GordonÆs voice  on the  answering machine. æWhere  was  I? Oh
yes. Richard and  /Anthem/ 2.00. Susan, that thing has got to be in beta
testing in two...Æ Richard stabbed at the Fast Forward, tight-lipped.
   æ...point is that thereÆs only one person  whoÆs really in a position
to  know  if heÆs  getting  the  important work  done,  or if heÆs  just
dreaming,  and that  one person...Æ  He  stabbed  angrily  again. He had
promised himself  he wouldnÆt  listen  to any of it and now here  he was
getting angry  at  what he was hearing. He should really just stop this.
Well, just one more try.
   When  he listened again  he just got  music. Odd.  He  wound  forward
again,  and still got music. Why would  someone be phoning to play music
to an answering machine? he wondered.
   The phone  rang.  He  stopped  the tape and answered  it, then almost
dropped the  phone like  an  electric  eel as he  realised  what  he was
doing. Hardly daring to breathe, he held the telephone to his ear.
   æRule  One  in  housebreaking,Æ  said  a  voice.  æNever  answer  the
telephone when youÆre in  the  middle  of a job. Who are you supposed to
be, for heavenÆs sake?Æ
   Richard froze. It was a  moment or two before he could find  where he
had put his voice.
   æWho is this?Æ he demanded at last in a whisper.
   æRule  Two,Æ  continued  the voice.  æPreparation.  Bring  the  right
tools. Bring gloves. Try to have the  faintest glimmering  of an idea of
what youÆre about  before you start dangling from  window ledges  in the
middle of the night.
   æRule Three. /Never/ forget Rule Two.Æ
   æWho is this?Æ exclaimed Richard again.
   The voice  was unperturbed. æNeighbourhood Watch,Æ  it  said. æIf you
just look out of the back window youÆll see...Æ
   Trailing the phone, Richard  hurried over  to  the window and  looked
out. A distant flash startled him.
   æRule Four. Never stand where you can be photographed.
   æRule Five... Are you listening to me, MacDuff?Æ
   æWhat? Yes...Æ said Richard in bewilderment. æHow do you know me?Æ
   æRule Five. /Never/ admit to your name.Æ
   Richard stood silent, breathing hard.
   æI run a little course,Æ said the voice, æif youÆre interested...Æ
   Richard said nothing.
   æYouÆre  learning,Æ   continued  the  voice,   æslowly,   but  youÆre
learning.  If  you were learning fast you  would have put the phone down
by now, of course. But  youÆre  curious -- and incompetent -- and so you
donÆt. I donÆt run  a course for novice burglars as it happens, tempting
though  the idea  is. IÆm  sure there  would be grants available. If  we
have to have them they may as well be trained.
   æHowever, if I did run such  a course I would  allow you to enrol for
free, because I too  am curious.  Curious to know why Mr Richard MacDuff
who,  I am given to understand, is now a wealthy young man, something in
the computer industry,  I believe,  should suddenly be needing to resort
to house-breaking.Æ
   æWho -- ?Æ
   æSo  I do  a little research, phone Directory  Enquiries and discover
that the  flat  into  which he is  breaking is  that of a Miss S. Way. I
know that Mr  Richard MacDuffÆs employer  is the famous Mr  G. Way and I
wonder if they can by any chance be related.Æ
   æWho -- ?Æ
   æYou  are  speaking with  Svlad,  commonly  known  as ôDirkö  Cjelli,
currently  trading under the name  of Gently for  reasons which it would
be  otiose, at this moment, to rehearse. I bid you good  evening. If you
wish to know more I will be  at the Pizza Express in Upper Street in ten
minutes. Bring some money.Æ
   æDirk?Æ  exclaimed Richard. æYou... Are you trying to  blackmail me?Æ
   æNo, you fool, for  the pizzas.Æ There was a  click  and Dirk  Gently
rang off.
   Richard stood  transfixed for  a  moment or two,  wiped  his forehead
again, and  gently replaced the phone as if it were an  injured hamster.
His  brain began to  buzz  gently  and  suck its  thumb. Lots of  little
synapses deep  inside his cerebral  cortex  all joined hands and started
dancing around and singing nursery rhymes. He  shook his head to try and
make them stop, and quickly sat down at the answering machine again.
   He fought with himself over  whether or  not he was going to push the
Play  button  again, and then did so anyway before  he  had made up  his
mind.  Hardly  four   seconds  of   light  orchestral  music  had  oozed
soothingly past  when  there came  the  sound of a key scratching in the
lock out in the hallway.
   In panic Richard thumped the  Eject button, popped the  cassette out,
rammed it into his jeans pocket and replaced it  from the pile of  fresh
cassettes that  lay next to the machine. There  was a  similar pile next
to his own machine at home. Susan at  the office provided  them -- poor,
long-suffering  Susan  at the  office. He must remember to feel sympathy
for her in the morning, when he had the time  and  concentration for it.
   Suddenly, without  even  noticing  himself doing  it,  he changed his
mind. In  a  flash he popped  the substitute cassette out of the machine
again,  replaced the one  he  had stolen, rammed down the  rewind button
and made a lunge for  the sofa  where, with two seconds to go before the
door opened,  he tried to arrange  himself into a nonchalant and winning
posture. On an impulse he  stuck his  left hand up behind his back where
it might come in useful.
   He  was just  trying  to  arrange  his features  into  an  expression
composed  in   equal   parts  of  contrition,  cheerfulness  and  sexual
allurement when the door opened and in walked Michael Wenton-Weakes.
   Everything stopped.
   Outside,  the  wind ceased.  Owls  halted in mid-flight.  Well, maybe
they did, maybe  they didnÆt, certainly the  central  heating chose that
moment to shut down, unable perhaps to cope with the  supernatural chill
that suddenly whipped through the room.
   æWhat are you doing  here, Wednesday?Æ demanded Richard. He rose from
the sofa as if levitated with anger.
   Michael  Wenton-Weakes was a large sad-faced man known by some people
as Michael Wednesday-Week, because that was  when he usually promised to
have  things  done by. He was dressed in a  suit that had  been superbly
well tailored when his father,  the late Lord Magna, had bought it forty
years previously.
   Michael Wenton-Weakes came  very high on the small but select list of
people whom Richard thoroughly disliked.
   He  disliked him because  he found the idea  of  someone  who was not
only  privileged, but  was also sorry for himself because he thought the
world  didnÆt  really  understand  the  problems  of  privileged people,
deeply obnoxious. Michael, on the other hand,  disliked  Richard for the
fairly  simple reason that  Richard disliked  him  and made no secret of
it.
   Michael  gave a slow and lugubrious look back out into the hallway as
Susan  walked  through.  She stopped when she saw Richard. She  put down
her handbag, unwound  her scarf,  unbuttoned  her coat, slipped  it off,
handed it to  Michael,  walked  over  to  Richard and smacked him in the
face.
   æIÆve been  saving  that  up  all evening,Æ  she said furiously. æAnd
donÆt  try and  pretend  thatÆs  a bunch  of flowers youÆve forgotten to
bring  which  youÆre hiding behind your  back.  You tried  that gag last
time.Æ She turned and stalked off.
   æItÆs a box  of chocolates I  forgot this time,Æ said  Richard glumly
and held out his empty hand to her retreating  back. æI  climbed  up the
entire outside wall without them. Did I feel a fool when I got in.Æ
   æNot very funny,Æ said Susan. She swept into the  kitchen and sounded
as if  she  was grinding  coffee  with  her bare  hands. For someone who
always looked  so  neat and  sweet and delicate  she packed a hell of  a
temper.
   æItÆs true,Æ  said Richard, ignoring  Michael  completely. æI  nearly
killed myself.Æ
   æIÆm not going to rise to that,Æ said  Susan from within the kitchen.
æIf  you want something big and sharp thrown at  you why donÆt  you come
in here and be funny?Æ
   æI suppose  it  would be pointless saying IÆm sorry at  this  point,Æ
Richard called out.
   æYou bet,Æ said  Susan, sweeping back out of the kitchen  again.  She
looked at him with her eyes flashing, and actually stamped her foot.
   æHonestly, Richard,Æ  she said, æI  suppose youÆre  going  to say you
forgot again. How  can you have  the gall  to stand there with two arms,
two legs  and  a head as if youÆre a human being? This is behaviour that
a bout of  amoebic  dysentery would be ashamed  of. I bet that even  the
very  lowest form of dysentery amoeba shows  up to take  its  girlfriend
out for a quick trot around the stomach lining once in a while.  Well, I
hope you had a lousy evening.Æ
   æI did,Æ said  Richard. æYou wouldnÆt  have  liked  it.  There  was a
horse in the bathroom, and you know how you hate that sort of thing.Æ
   æOh, Michael,Æ said  Susan brusquely, ædonÆt just  stand there like a
sinking  pudding. Thank  you very much for dinner  and the concert,  you
were very  sweet and I did enjoy listening to your  troubles all evening
because they were such a nice change from mine. But I think  it would be
best if  I  just  found your book  and  pushed you  out. IÆve  got  some
serious jumping up and down and  ranting to do, and I know how it upsets
your delicate sensibilities.Æ
   She retrieved  her coat from  him  and hung it up. While he had  been
holding it he had seemed entirely taken  up with this task and oblivious
to anything else. Without  it he seemed a little  lost and naked and was
forced to stir  himself  back into  life. He turned his big  heavy  eyes
back on Richard.
   æRichard,Æ  he said,  æI,  er,  read your piece in... in /Fathom/. On
Music and, er...Æ
   æFractal Landscapes,Æ  said Richard shortly. He didnÆt  want  to talk
to  Michael,  and  he  certainly   didnÆt  want  to  get  drawn  into  a
conversation about MichaelÆs  wretched magazine. Or rather, the magazine
that used to be MichaelÆs.
   That was  the precise aspect of the conversation  that Richard didnÆt
want to get drawn into.
   æEr, yes.  Very interesting, of  course,Æ  said Michael in his silky,
over-rounded  voice.  æMountain shapes and tree  shapes and all sorts of
things. Recycled algae.Æ
   æRecursive algorithms.Æ
   æYes,  of course. Very interesting. But so wrong, so terribly  wrong.
For  the magazine, I  mean. It is, after all, an /arts/ review. I  would
never have allowed such  a thing, of course. Ross has utterly ruined it.
Utterly. HeÆll have to go. /Have/ to. He  has  no sensibilities and heÆs
a thief.Æ
   æHeÆs  not a  thief,  Wednesday, thatÆs absolutely  absurd,Æ  snapped
Richard, instantly  getting drawn into it in spite of his resolution not
to. æHe had nothing to  do  with your getting  the push whatsoever. That
was your own silly fault, and you...Æ
   There was a sharp intake of breath.
   æRichard,Æ said Michael in  his  softest,  quietest voice  -- arguing
with him was like getting  tangled in parachute silk  -- æI think you do
not understand how important...Æ
   æMichael,Æ  said Susan gently  but  firmly, holding  open  the  door.
Michael Wenton-Weakes nodded faintly and seemed to deflate.
   æYour book,Æ Susan added,  holding  out  to him a  small  and elderly
volume on the ecclesiastical  architecture of Kent. He took it, murmured
some slight thanks, looked  about him for a moment as  if heÆd  suddenly
realised something  rather odd,  then gathered himself together,  nodded
farewell and left.
   Richard didnÆt appreciate quite  how tense he had become till Michael
left and  he  was  suddenly able  to  relax.  HeÆd  always  resented the
indulgent  soft  spot  that Susan had for Michael even if she did try to
disguise  it by  being terribly rude to him all the  time.  Perhaps even
because of that.
   æSusan, what can I say...?Æ he started lamely.
   æYou  could  say  ôOuchö  for  a start. You didnÆt even give me  that
satisfaction when I hit you, and I thought  I did  it  rather hard. God,
itÆs freezing in here. WhatÆs that window doing wide open?Æ
   She went over to shut it.
   æI told you. ThatÆs how I got in,Æ said Richard.
   He sounded sufficiently  as if he  meant it to make her look round at
him in surprise.
   æReally,Æ he said.  æLike in the chocolate ads, only I forgot the box
of chocolates...Æ He shrugged sheepishly.
   She stared at him in amazement.
   æWhat on earth  possessed you  to do  that?Æ  she said. She stuck her
head out of the window and  looked down. æYou could  have  got  killed,Æ
she said, turning back to him.
   æWell,  er, yes...Æ  he said. æIt just seemed  the  only way  to... I
donÆt know.Æ He rallied himself. æYou took your key back remember?Æ
   æYes. I got  fed  up with you coming  and raiding my larder when  you
couldnÆt  be  bothered  to do  your  own shopping.  Richard,  you really
climbed up this wall?Æ
   æWell, I wanted to be here when you got in.Æ
   She shook her head in bewilderment. æIt  would have been a great deal
better  if  youÆd been here when I went out. Is  that why youÆre wearing
those filthy old clothes?Æ
   æYes. You donÆt think I went to dinner at St CeddÆs like this?Æ
   æWell, I no longer  know what you consider to be rational behaviour.Æ
She sighed  and fished about in  a small  drawer. æHere,Æ  she said, æif
itÆs going to  save  your life,Æ  and  handed him a  couple of keys on a
ring. æIÆm too tired to  be angry anymore. An evening  of being  lobbied
by Michael has taken it out of me.Æ
   æWell,  IÆll never understand why you put up with him,Æ said Richard,
going to fetch the coffee.
   æI  know you donÆt like him,  but heÆs very sweet and can be charming
in his  sad kind of way. Usually itÆs very relaxing  to  be with someone
whoÆs so  self-absorbed, because it doesnÆt make any demands on you. But
heÆs obsessed with the idea that I can  do something about his magazine.
I  canÆt,  of  course. Life doesnÆt  work like that. I do feel sorry for
him, though.Æ
   æI  donÆt. HeÆs had it very, very easy all his life. He still has  it
very, very easy. HeÆs just  had his toy  taken away from him thatÆs all.
ItÆs hardly unjust, is it?Æ
   æItÆs not  a matter of whether itÆs just or not. I feel sorry for him
because heÆs unhappy.Æ
   æWell,  of course heÆs  unhappy. Al Ross  has  turned /Fathom/ into a
really  sharp,  intelligent  magazine  that everyone  suddenly  wants to
read. It  was  just a bumbling shambles before.  Its only  real function
was to let Michael have lunch  and toady  about with whoever he liked on
the pretext  that maybe they might like to write a little  something. He
hardly ever got  an  actual  issue  out.  The whole thing was a sham. He
pampered  himself  with  it.  I  really  donÆt  find  that  charming  or
engaging. IÆm sorry, IÆm going on about it and I didnÆt mean to.Æ
   Susan shrugged uneasily.
   æI think you overreact,Æ she said,  æthough I  think  I will  have to
steer clear of him  if heÆs going to  keep on at  me to do  something  I
simply  canÆt do.  ItÆs too exhausting. Anyway, listen, IÆm glad you had
a lousy  evening. I want  to talk  about what  we  were going to do this
weekend.Æ
   æAh,Æ said Richard, æwell...Æ
   æOh, IÆd better just check the messages first.Æ
   She  walked past him to the  telephone-answering machine, played  the
first  few seconds  of GordonÆs message  and then suddenly  ejected  the
cassette.
   æI  canÆt  be bothered,Æ she  said, giving it to him. æCould you just
give this straight to Susan at the office  tomorrow? Save her a trip. If
thereÆs anything important on it she can tell me.Æ
   Richard  blinked, said,  æEr, yes,Æ  and pocketed  the tape, tingling
with the shock of the reprieve.
   æAnyway, the weekend --Æ said Susan, sitting down on the sofa.
   Richard wiped his hand over his brow. æSusan, I...Æ
   æIÆm afraid IÆve got to work.  NicolaÆs sick and IÆm going to have to
dep for  her  at  the Wigmore on Friday week. ThereÆs  some Vivaldi  and
some  Mozart I  donÆt  know too  well,  so that  means  a  lot  of extra
practice this weekend, IÆm afraid. Sorry.Æ
   æWell, in fact,Æ said Richard, æI have  to work as well.Æ He sat down
by her.
   æI know.  Gordon keeps  on at me to nag you. I wish he wouldnÆt. ItÆs
none of my business and it puts  me in an invidious  position. IÆm tired
of being pressurised by people, Richard. At least you donÆt do that.Æ
   She took a sip of her coffee.
   æBut IÆm  sure,Æ  she  added, æthat  thereÆs some kind  of grey  area
between being pressurised and being  completely forgotten about that IÆd
quite like to explore. Give me a hug.Æ
   He hugged her, feeling that he was monstrously  and unworthily lucky.
An  hour later he let  himself out and discovered that the Pizza Express
was closed.

   Meanwhile, Michael Wenton-Weakes  made  his way back to  his home  in
Chelsea. As he sat  in the back of the taxi he watched the  streets with
a blank stare and tapped  his fingers lightly against  the window  in  a
slow thoughtful rhythm.
   /Rap tap tap a rap tap a rap a tap./
   He was one of  those  dangerous  people  who  are  soft,  squidgy and
cowlike provided they  have what they  want. And  because he had  always
had what he wanted, and had seemed easily pleased with it,  it had never
occurred to  anybody that  he was anything other than  soft, squidgy and
cowlike. You  would have to  push through a lot of  soft squidgy bits in
order to find a bit that  didnÆt  give when you  pushed it. That was the
bit that all the soft squidgy bits were there to protect.
   Michael Wenton-Weakes  was the younger son of Lord  Magna, publisher,
newspaper  owner  and  over-indulgent  father,  under  whose  protective
umbrella it had  pleased  Michael to  run  his own little magazine at  a
magnificent  loss.   Lord  Magna  had  presided  over  the  gradual  but
dignified   and   well-respected   decline  of  the  publishing   empire
originally founded by his father, the first Lord Magna.
   Michael continued to tap his knuckles lightly on the glass.
   /A rap tap a rap a tap./
   He remembered  the  appalling,  terrible  day  when  his  father  had
electrocuted himself  changing  a plug,  and  his mother, his  /mother/,
took over the business. Not  only took it  over but  started running  it
with completely unexpected verve  and  determination.  She examined  the
company with a very sharp eye  as to how it was being run, or walked, as
she  put it, and eventually even got  around to  looking at the accounts
of MichaelÆs magazine.
   /Tap tap tap./
   Now  Michael knew  just enough  about  the business side of things to
know what the figures ought to  be, and he had simply assured his father
that that was indeed what they were.
   æCanÆt allow this job just  to be a sinecure, you must  see that, old
fellow, you  have to pay your way or how would  it  look,  how  would it
be?Æ his father  used to say, and Michael would nod seriously, and start
thinking  up  the  figures for next month, or  whenever  it was he would
next manage to get an issue out.
   His  mother,  on  the  other hand,  was  not so  indulgent. Not by  a
lorryload.
   Michael  usually referred to his mother as an  old  battleaxe, but if
she was  fairly to  be compared to a battleaxe  it  would only be to  an
exquisitely  crafted, beautifully balanced battleaxe,  with  an  elegant
minimum of  fine engraving  which stopped  just  short of  its  gleaming
razored edge. One swipe from  such an instrument  and  you wouldnÆt even
know youÆd been hit until you tried to look  at  your watch  a bit later
and discovered that your arm wasnÆt on.
   She  had been waiting patiently -- or at least with the appearance of
patience --  in the wings all this  time,  being  the devoted wife,  the
doting but  strict  mother.  Now someone  had  taken  her  --  to switch
metaphors for  a moment -- out of her scabbard  and everyone was running
for cover.
   Including Michael.
   It was  her firm belief that Michael, whom  she quietly  adored,  had
been  spoiled  in the fullest  and worst sense of the  word, and she was
determined, at this late stage, to stop it.
   It  didnÆt take  her more than a few minutes to  see that he had been
simply  making  up  the figures every month,  and that the magazine  was
haemorrhaging  money  as Michael toyed with it,  all the time running up
huge lunch bills, taxi accounts and staff costs that he would  playfully
set against  fictitious  taxes.  The whole  thing had  simply  got  lost
somewhere in the gargantuan accounts of Magna House.
   She had then summoned Michael to see her.
   /Tap tap a rap a tappa./
   æHow do you want me  to treat you,Æ  she  said, æas my son or  as the
editor of one of my magazines? IÆm happy to do either.Æ
   æYour magazines? Well, I am your son, but I donÆt see...Æ
   æRight.  Michael,  I want  you to look  at  these figures,Æ she  said
briskly,  handing over a sheet  of computer printout. æThe  ones  on the
left show the actual  incomings and outgoings  of /Fathom/, the  ones on
the right are your own figures. Does anything strike you about them?Æ
   æMother, I can explain, I --Æ
   æGood,Æ said Lady Magna sweetly, æIÆm very glad of that.Æ
   She took the  piece of paper back. æNow. Do you have any views on how
the magazine should best be run in the future?Æ
   æYes, absolutely. Very strong ones. I --Æ
   æGood,Æ  said Lady  Magna, with  a  bright smile.  æWell,  thatÆs all
perfectly satisfactory, then.Æ
   æDonÆt you want to hear -- ?Æ
   æNo,  thatÆs all right, dear. IÆm just happy to know that you do have
something  to say  on  the matter to clear  it all up. IÆm sure  the new
owner of /Fathom/ will be glad to listen to whatever it is.Æ
   æWhat?Æ said a stunned  Michael. æYou  mean youÆre  actually  selling
/Fathom/?Æ
   æNo.  I mean  IÆve already sold it.  DidnÆt  get  much  for  it,  IÆm
afraid.  One  pound plus a promise that you would be retained as  editor
for  the  next  three  issues, and after  that  itÆs at the  new ownerÆs
discretion.Æ
   Michael stared, pop-eyed.
   æWell,  come  now,Æ said  his  mother  reasonably,  æwe  could hardly
continue  under  the present  arrangement,  could we?  You always agreed
with your  father that the  job should  not be a sinecure  for you.  And
since I would  have a great deal  of difficulty  in either believing  or
resisting your  stories,  I  thought  I  would hand  the  problem on  to
someone with whom  you  could have a more objective relationship. Now, I
have another appointment, Michael.Æ
   æWell, but... who have you sold it to?Æ spluttered Michael.
   æGordon Way.Æ
   æGordon Way! But for heavenÆs sake, Mother, heÆs --Æ
   æHeÆs  very  anxious to be  seen to patronise the arts. And I think I
do mean  patronise. IÆm sure youÆll get on splendidly, dear. Now, if you
donÆt mind --Æ
   Michael stood his ground.
   æIÆve never heard of anything so outrageous! I --Æ
   æDo you know,  thatÆs  exactly what Mr Way  said when  I  showed  him
these figures and then demanded that  you be kept on as editor for three
issues.Æ
   Michael huffed  and puffed and  went  red and wagged  his finger, but
could think of nothing more  to say. Except, æWhat  difference  would it
have made to all this if  IÆd said treat me as the editor of one of your
magazines?Æ
   æWhy, dear,Æ said Lady  Magna with her sweetest  smile, æI would have
called you Mr Wenton-Weakes, of course.  And I wouldnÆt  now be  telling
you  straighten your tie,Æ she added, with a tiny  little gesture  under
her chin.
   /Rap tap tap rap tap tap./
   æNumber seventeen, was it, guv?Æ
   æEr... what?Æ said Michael, shaking his head.
   æIt  was seventeen you said,  was it?Æ said  the  cab driver, ææCause
weÆre æere.Æ
   æOh.  Oh, yes,  thank you,Æ said Michael. He climbed out  and fumbled
in his pocket for some money.
   æTap tap tap, eh?Æ
   æWhat?Æ said Michael handing over the fare.
   æTap  tap tap,Æ  said the cab driver, æall the  bloody way here.  Got
something on your mind, eh, mate?Æ
   æMind your own bloody business,Æ snapped Michael savagely.
   æIf  you  say  so,  mate. Just  thought  you  might  be going  mad or
something,Æ said the cabbie and drove off.
   Michael  let himself into his  house and walked through the cold hall
to the dining room,  turned on the  overhead light  and poured himself a
brandy from the  decanter. He took  off his  coat, threw  it  across the
large mahogany dining table and pulled a chair over to  the window where
he sat nursing his drink and his grievances.
   /Tap tap tap/, he went on the window.
   He  had sullenly  remained as editor for  the stipulated three issues
and was then, with  little ceremony,  let go. A  new editor was found, a
certain A. K. Ross, who was young, hungry  and ambitious, and he quickly
turned  the  magazine   into  a  resounding  success.  Michael,  in  the
meantime, had been lost and naked. There was nothing else for him.
   He tapped on  the  window again and looked, as he  frequently did, at
the  small table lamp that stood on  the  sill.  It was a  rather  ugly,
ordinary  little  lamp, and  the  only thing  about  it  that  regularly
transfixed  his   attention  was  that  this  was  the  lamp  that   had
electrocuted his father, and this was where he had been sitting.
   The old boy  was  such a fool with  anything technical. Michael could
just see him peering  with profound concentration through his half moons
and  sucking   his  moustache  as  he  tried  to  unravel   the   arcane
complexities of a thirteen-amp plug. He had, it  seemed, plugged it back
in the  wall without first screwing the cover  back on and then tried to
change the  fuse /in  situ/.  From this he received the  shock which had
stilled his already dicky heart.
   Such a simple,  simple error, thought  Michael, such  as anyone could
have  made,  anyone,  but the  consequences  of  it  were  catastrophic.
Utterly catastrophic. His fatherÆs death,  his own loss, the rise of the
appalling Ross and his disastrously successful magazine and...
   /Tap tap tap./
   He looked at the window, at  his  own  reflection,  and at  the  dark
shadows of  the  bushes  on the other side of it. He looked again at the
lamp. This was the very object,  this the very place,  and the error was
such a simple one. Simple to make, simple to prevent.
   The only thing  that  separated  him from that simple moment was  the
invisible barrier of the months that had passed in between.
   A  sudden, odd calm  descended on him  as if something inside him had
suddenly been resolved.
   /Tap tap tap./
   /Fathom/ was his. It  wasnÆt meant to be a success, it  was his life.
His life had been taken from him, and that demanded a response.
   /Tap tap tap crack./
   He  surprised  himself by  suddenly  punching  his  hand  through the
window and cutting himself quite badly.


[::: CHAPTER 15 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Some of  the  less pleasant aspects of being dead  were  beginning to
creep up on Gordon Way as he stood in front of his æcottageÆ.
   It was in fact a  rather large  house by anybody elseÆs standards but
he had always wanted to  have  a cottage in the country and  so when the
time came for  him finally  to buy  one and he discovered  that  he  had
rather  more  money  available than he  had ever seriously  believed  he
might  own,  he bought  a large  old rectory and called it a cottage  in
spite of its  seven bedrooms and  its four acres of  dank Cambridgeshire
land. This  did little  to endear him to  people who  only had cottages,
but then  if Gordon  Way had allowed his actions  to be governed by what
endeared him to people he wouldnÆt have been Gordon Way.
   He wasnÆt, of course, Gordon  Way  any  longer.  He was  the ghost of
Gordon Way.
   In his pocket he had the ghosts of Gordon WayÆs keys.
   It was  this realisation that had  stopped  him  for a moment in  his
invisible  tracks.  The idea of walking through walls  frankly  revolted
him.  It  was  something he  had  been trying strenuously  to  avoid all
night. He had  instead  been  fighting to  grip and  grapple  with every
object  he   touched  in  order  to  render  it,  and  thereby  himself,
substantial. To enter his house, his own house, by any means other  than
that of  opening  the front  door and  striding  in  in a  proprietorial
manner filled him with a hurtling sense of loss.
   He  wished,  as  he stared at  it,  that  the house  was not such  an
extreme example of Victorian Gothic, and  that the moonlight didnÆt play
so coldly on  its narrow gabled  windows and its  forbidding turrets. He
had joked, stupidly, when he bought it  that it looked as if it ought to
be haunted, not realising that one day it would be -- or by whom.
   A chill of the spirit gripped him as he made his way silently up  the
driveway, lined by the looming shapes of  yew trees  that were far older
than  the rectory itself. It was a  disturbing thought that anybody else
might be scared  walking up such a  driveway on such a night for fear of
meeting something such as him.
   Behind a screen of  yew  trees off to his left stood the  gloomy bulk
of the old  church,  decaying now, only used in rotation  with others in
neighbouring villages  and  presided  over  by  a vicar  who  was always
breathless  from  bicycling there  and  dispirited by the  few  who were
waiting for  him when he arrived. Behind the steeple  of the church hung
the cold eye of the moon.
   A glimpse  of  movement  seemed  suddenly to catch his eye,  as  if a
figure had moved  in  the  bushes near the house,  but  it was, he  told
himself, only his imagination, overwrought by  the strain of being dead.
What was there here that he could possibly be afraid of?
   He  continued onwards, around  the angle of the wing of  the rectory,
towards  the  front door set deep  within  its gloomy porch  wreathed in
ivy. He was suddenly startled  to  realise that  there was light  coming
from within  the  house.  Electric  light and  also  the dim flicker  of
firelight.
   It  was  a moment  or two before  he realised that he was, of course,
expected that  night, though hardly in  his  present form.  Mrs Bennett,
the elderly housekeeper,  would have  been in to make the bed, light the
fire and leave out a light supper for him.
   The television,  too, would be on,  especially so that he could  turn
it off impatiently upon entering.
   His  footsteps failed  to  crunch  on  the  gravel as he  approached.
Though he knew that he must fail at the  door, he nevertheless could not
but go  there  first, to try if he could open it, and only  then, hidden
within  the  shadows  of  the porch, would  he close  his  eyes and  let
himself slip  ashamedly  through  it.  He  stepped up to  the  door  and
stopped.
   It was open.
   Just half an inch, but  it was open.  His spirit fluttered in fearful
surprise. How could it be open? Mrs Bennett was always  so conscientious
about such  things. He stood uncertainly  for  a  moment  and then  with
difficulty exerted himself against the door.  Under the little  pressure
he could  bring to bear on it, it swung slowly and unwillingly open, its
hinges  groaning in  protest. He stepped through  and slipped along  the
stone-flagged  hallway.  A wide  staircase led up into the darkness, but
the doors that led off from the hallway all stood closed.
   The  nearest door  led into the drawing room, in which  the fire  was
burning, and from  which  he could hear the muted car chases of the late
movie.  He struggled futilely for  a  minute or two with its shiny brass
door knob, but was forced in the end to admit a humiliating  defeat, and
with  a sudden rage  flung  himself straight at the door  -- and through
it.
   The  room  inside  was  a  picture  of  pleasant domestic  warmth. He
staggered violently into it,  and was unable to stop himself floating on
through  a  small  occasional table  set with  thick  sandwiches  and  a
Thermos flask of hot coffee,  through a large overstuffed armchair, into
the fire,  through the thick hot brickwork and into the cold dark dining
room beyond.
   The  connecting door  back  into the  sitting  room  was also closed.
Gordon  fingered   it   numbly  and  then,  submitting  himself  to  the
inevitable,  braced himself, and slid back  through it, calmly,  gently,
noticing for the first time the rich internal grain of the wood.
   The  coziness  of the room was  almost too much  for  Gordon, and  he
wandered  distractedly around  it, unable  to  settle, letting  the warm
liveliness of the firelight play through him. Him it couldnÆt warm.
   What, he wondered, were ghosts supposed to do all night?
   He sat, uneasily, and  watched the television. Soon, however, the car
chases drifted peacefully to  a close  and  there  was  nothing left but
grey snow and white noise, which he was unable to turn off.
   He found heÆd sunk too far into the chair  and  confused himself with
bits  of  it  as he  pushed and  pulled  himself  up. He tried  to amuse
himself by  standing  in the middle of  a  table,  but it did  little to
alleviate   a  mood  that   was  sliding  inexorably   from  despondency
downwards.
   Perhaps he would sleep.
   Perhaps.
   He felt  no tiredness  or drowsiness,  but  just a deadly craving for
oblivion.  He  passed  back through  the closed door and  into the  dark
hallway, from which  the  wide  heavy  stairs  led to  the large  gloomy
bedrooms above.
   Up these, emptily, he trod.
   It  was for  nothing,  he  knew.  If  you  cannot open  the door to a
bedroom you cannot sleep in its  bed.  He slid himself through  the door
and lifted himself on to the  bed which  he knew  to be cold  though  he
could not feel it. The moon  seemed unable  to leave him alone and shone
full on him as he lay  there wide-eyed and empty, unable now to remember
what sleep was or how to do it.
   The horror of hollowness lay  on him, the horror of lying ceaselessly
and forever awake at four oÆclock in the morning.
   He  had nowhere to go, nothing to do when he got there, and no one he
could go and wake up who wouldnÆt be utterly horrified to see him.
   The worst  moment  had  been  when he had seen  Richard on the  road,
RichardÆs face frozen white  in the windscreen.  He saw  again his face,
and that of the pale figure next to him.
   That  had been  the thing which had shaken  out of him  the lingering
shred of warmth  at the back of his mind which said that this was just a
temporary  problem. It seemed terrible in the night hours,  but would be
all right in  the morning when he could  see people and sort things out.
He fingered the memory of  the moment in his  mind and could not let  it
go.
   He had seen Richard and Richard, he knew, had seen him.
   It was not going to be all right.
   Usually when he  felt this bad at  night  he popped downstairs to see
what was in  the fridge, so he went now. It would be more cheerful  than
this  moonlit bedroom. He would  hang around  the kitchen going bump  in
the night.
   He  slid  down --  and  partially through --  the  banisters,  wafted
through the kitchen door without a second  thought and then devoted  all
his  concentration  and energy  for  about five  minutes to  getting the
light switch on.
   That gave  him a  real  sense  of  achievement and  he determined  to
celebrate with a beer.
   After a minute or  two of repeatedly  juggling and  dropping a can of
Fosters he gave it up. He had not the  slightest conception  of  how  he
could manage to open a ring pull, and besides the stuff was  all  shaken
up by  now -- and what was he going to do  with the stuff even if he did
get it open?
   He didnÆt  have a body to keep it in. He hurled the can away from him
and it scuttled off under a cupboard.
   He began to notice  something  about himself,  which was the  way  in
which his ability  to grasp  things  seemed to grow  and fade  in a slow
rhythm, as did his visibility.
   There was an irregularity in the  rhythm,  though,  or perhaps it was
just that  sometimes  the effects of it would  be  much  more pronounced
than at others. That, too, seemed to vary according to a slower  rhythm.
Just at  that moment  it  seemed to him  that his strength  was  on  the
increase.
   In a sudden fever of  activity he tried to see how many things in the
kitchen he could move or use or somehow get to work.
   He pulled open  cupboards,  he yanked out drawers, scattering cutlery
on the floor.  He  got  a  brief  whirr  out of  the  food processor, he
knocked over the electric coffee grinder without  getting it to work, he
turned  on the  gas  on the cooker  hob but then couldnÆt light  it,  he
savaged a  loaf of bread with a  carving knife. He  tried stuffing lumps
of bread  into  his mouth, but they simply fell through his mouth to the
floor.  A mouse appeared, but scurried from the room, its coat  electric
with fear.
   Eventually  he stopped  and sat  at the  kitchen  table,  emotionally
exhausted but physically numb.
   How, he wondered, would people react to his death?
   Who would be most sorry to know that he had gone?
   For  a  while there would be  shock,  then sadness,  then  they would
adjust, and he would be a fading memory as people got on with  their own
lives  without him,  thinking that he had gone on to wherever people go.
That was a thought that filled him with the most icy dread.
   He had not gone. He was still here.
   He sat  facing  one  cupboard  that  he  hadnÆt managed  to open  yet
because  its handle was too stiff, and  that annoyed  him.  He  grappled
awkwardly with a  tin  of tomatoes, then  went  over again to  the large
cupboard and attacked  the handle with  the tin. The door flew open  and
his own missing bloodstained body fell horribly forward out of it.
   Gordon hadnÆt  realised up till this point that it was possible for a
ghost to faint.
   He realised it now and did it.
   He  was woken a couple of hours later  by the sound of his gas cooker
exploding.


[::: CHAPTER 16 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The following morning Richard woke up twice.
   The first time  he assumed he had made a mistake  and turned over for
a fitful few minutes more. The second time  he sat up with a jolt as the
events of the previous night insisted themselves upon him.
   He went  downstairs and had a  moody and  unsettled breakfast, during
which nothing went  right. He burned the toast, spilled  the coffee, and
realised that though  heÆd meant to  buy some more  marmalade yesterday,
he  hadnÆt.  He  surveyed  his feeble  attempt  at feeding  himself  and
thought that  maybe  he could  at least  allow himself  the time to take
Susan out for an amazing meal tonight, to make up for last night.
   If he could persuade her to come.
   There was a restaurant that Gordon  had been enthusing about at great
length  and  recommending  that  they  try.  Gordon was  pretty good  on
restaurants -- he certainly seemed  to spend enough time in them. He sat
and  tapped his teeth  with a pencil for a  couple of  minutes, and then
went up to his workroom and  lugged a telephone directory out from under
a pile of computer magazines.
   LÆEsprit dÆEscalier.
   He phoned the restaurant and tried to book a  table, but when he said
when he wanted it for this seemed to cause a little amusement.
   æAh,  non,  mÆsieur,Æ said  the  maεtre dÆ,  æI  regret  that  it  is
impossible. At  this  moment it is  necessary to  make  reservations  at
least three weeks in advance. Pardon, mÆsieur.Æ
   Richard  marvelled at the  idea that  there were people who  actually
knew what they wanted to do three  weeks  in advance, thanked the maεtre
dÆ  and  rang off.  Well,  maybe  a  pizza  again instead. This  thought
connected  back to the appointment he had failed to keep last night, and
after a moment curiosity overcame  him and he reached for the phone book
again.
   Gentleman...
   Gentles...
   Gentry.
   There was  no Gently at all. Not a  single one.  He  found the  other
directories,  except   for  the  S-Z  book  which   his   cleaning  lady
continually threw away for reasons he had never yet fathomed.
   There was  certainly  no Cjelli, or anything like  it.  There  was no
Jently,  no Dgently,  no Djently,  no  Dzently,  nor  anything  remotely
similar.  He  wondered  about  Tjently,  Tsentli  or Tzentli  and  tried
Directory  Enquiries, but  they  were out.  He  sat and tapped his teeth
with a pencil again and watched his sofa slowly  revolving on the screen
of his computer.
   How very  peculiar it had  been that it had  only  been hours earlier
that Reg had asked after Dirk with such urgency.
   If  you  really  wanted  to find someone, how would you set about it,
what would you do?
   He tried phoning the  police, but they  were out too.  Well, that was
that. He  had done  all he  could do for the moment  short  of  hiring a
private  detective,  and  he had  better  ways of wasting  his  time and
money. He would run into Dirk again, as he did every few years or so.
   He  found it  hard  to believe there were really such people, anyway,
as private detectives.
   What sort  of people were they? What  did they  look like, where  did
they work?
   What sort of tie  would you wear if  you  were  a  private detective?
Presumably  it would have  to be  exactly  the sort  of tie  that people
wouldnÆt expect  private detectives to  wear. Imagine having to sort out
a problem like that when youÆd just got up.
   Just out of curiosity as much as anything else, and because  the only
alternative  was  settling  down to  Anthem  coding,  he  found  himself
leafing through the Yellow Pages.
   Private Detectives -- see Detective Agencies.
   The  words  looked  almost  odd  in  such  a solid  and  businesslike
context. He flipped back through  the book.  Dry Cleaners, Dog Breeders,
Dental Technicians, Detective Agencies...
   At that moment the phone  rang  and he answered  it, a little curtly.
He didnÆt like being interrupted.
   æSomething wrong, Richard?Æ
   æOh, hi, Kate, sorry, no. I was... my mind was elsewhere.Æ
   Kate  Anselm was  another star programmer at WayForward Technologies.
She was  working on  a  long-term Artificial Intelligence  project,  the
sort  of thing that sounded  like an  absurd pipe dream until  you heard
her talking about  it. Gordon needed to hear her talking about  it quite
regularly, partly because he was nervous about  the money it was costing
and partly because, well, there was little  doubt  that  Gordon liked to
hear Kate talking anyway.
   æI didnÆt  want to disturb you,Æ she said. æItÆs just I was trying to
contact Gordon  and canÆt. ThereÆs no reply from London or the  cottage,
or his car or his  bleeper. ItÆs just that for someone as obsessively in
contact as Gordon  itÆs a bit odd. You heard heÆs had a phone put in his
isolation tank? True.Æ
   æI havenÆt  spoken to him since yesterday,Æ said Richard. He suddenly
remembered the  tape  he  had taken  from SusanÆs answering machine, and
hoped  to God  there wasnÆt anything more important in GordonÆs  message
than ravings about  rabbits.  He said,  æI  know  he  was going  to  the
cottage.  Er,  I  donÆt know where he is.  Have  you tried  --Æ  Richard
couldnÆt think of anywhere else to try -- æ...er. Good God.Æ
   æRichard?Æ
   æHow extraordinary...Æ
   æRichard, whatÆs the matter?Æ
   æNothing, Kate. Er, IÆve just read the most astounding thing.Æ
   æReally, what are you reading?Æ
   æWell, the telephone directory, in fact...Æ
   æReally? I must rush out and buy one. Have the film rights gone?Æ
   æLook, sorry, Kate, can I get back to you? I donÆt know where  Gordon
is at the moment and --Æ
   æDonÆt worry. I know  how  it is when you canÆt wait to turn the next
page. They always keep  you guessing  till the end,  donÆt they? It must
have been Zbigniew that did it. Have a good weekend.Æ She hung up.
   Richard  hung up too, and sat staring at the box advertisement  lying
open in front of him in the Yellow Pages.

                              DIRK GENTLYÆS
                        HOLISTIC DETECTIVE AGENCY
                       We solve the  /whole/ crime
                       We find the  /whole/ person
          Phone today for the /whole/ solution to your problem
             (Missing cats and messy divorces a speciality)
                33a Peckender St., London N1 01-354 9112

   Peckender  Street  was  only  a  few  minutesÆ   walk  away.  Richard
scribbled down  the  address, pulled on his coat and trotted downstairs,
stopping  to make another quick inspection  of the sofa.  There must, he
thought,  be  something terribly  obvious that he was  overlooking.  The
sofa was jammed on a slight turn in  the long narrow stairway.  At  this
point  the  stairs  were interrupted  for a  couple  of  yards  of  flat
landing,  which  corresponded  with  the position  of  the flat directly
beneath RichardÆs.  However, his  inspection  produced  no new insights,
and he eventually clambered on over it and out of the front door.
   In  Islington  you  can  hardly  hurl a  brick without hitting  three
antique shops, an estate agent and a bookshop.
   Even  if  you didnÆt actually  hit  them you would certainly set  off
their burglar alarms, which wouldnÆt be turned off again till after  the
weekend. A  police car  played its regular  game of dodgems  down  Upper
Street and squealed to  a halt just past him. Richard  crossed the  road
behind it.
   The day  was cold  and bright, which  he liked.  He walked across the
top of Islington Green, where  winos get beaten up, past the site of the
old Collins  Music  Hall which had got  burnt  down, and through  Camden
Passage where  American  tourists get ripped  off.  He browsed among the
antiques for a while and looked  at a pair  of earrings that  he thought
Susan would like, but he  wasnÆt sure. Then he wasnÆt sure that he liked
them, got  confused and gave up. He looked in  at a bookshop, and on  an
impulse  bought  an anthology of ColeridgeÆs  poems  since  it was  just
lying there.
   From here he threaded his way through the  winding back streets, over
the canal,  past  the  council  estates  that lined the canal, through a
number  of  smaller  and   smaller  squares,  till  finally  he  reached
Peckender Street, which  had  turned out to be  a good deal farther than
heÆd thought.
   It was the sort of street where property developers  in large Jaguars
drive  around at  the weekend  salivating.  It was full  of end-of-lease
shops, Victorian  industrial  architecture and  a  short, decaying late-
Georgian terrace, all  just itching to be  pulled  down so  that  sturdy
young concrete boxes could sprout  in their places. Estate agents roamed
the area in hungry packs, eyeing each other  warily, their clipboards on
a hair trigger.
   Number 33,  when he  eventually found it neatly sandwiched between 37
and 45, was in  a poorish state of repair, but no worse than most of the
rest.
   The ground floor  was a dusty travel agentÆs whose window was cracked
and  whose faded  BOAC  posters were  probably  now quite valuable.  The
doorway next to the shop had  been painted bright  red, not well, but at
least recently.  A  push  button  next  to  the  door  said,  in  neatly
pencilled lettering, æDominique, French lessons, 3me FloorÆ.
   The  most striking feature of the door, however,  was  the  bold  and
shiny  brass plaque  fixed in  the dead  centre  of  it,  on  which  was
engraved the legend æDirk GentlyÆs Holistic Detective AgencyÆ.
   Nothing  else. It looked brand new -- even the screws that held it in
place were still shiny.
   The door opened to RichardÆs push and he peered inside.
   He  saw a  short  and musty  hallway  which contained little  but the
stairway that  led up from it.  A  door at  the back of the hall  showed
little  sign of having  been opened in recent  years, and had  stacks of
old metal shelving, a  fish tank  and  the carcass  of a  bike piled  up
against  it.  Everything  else,  the   walls,  the  floor,   the  stairs
themselves, and as  much of the rear door as could be  got  at, had been
painted grey  in an attempt to smarten it up cheaply, but it was all now
badly scuffed, and little  cups of fungus were peeking from a damp stain
near the ceiling.
   The  sounds of angry  voices reached  him, and  as  he started up the
stairs he  was  able to  disentangle the noises of two entirely separate
but heated arguments that were going on somewhere above him.
   One ended abruptly  --  or at least half of it  did  -- as  an  angry
overweight  man  came  clattering down the  stairs pulling his  raincoat
collar  straight. The other half of  the argument continued in a torrent
of aggrieved French from high  above them. The man pushed  past Richard,
said, æSave your money, mate, itÆs  a complete washout,Æ and disappeared
out into the chilly morning.
   The other  argument was more muffled. As  Richard reached  the  first
corridor a  door  slammed  somewhere and brought that too to an  end. He
looked into the nearest open doorway.
   It  led into a small ante-office. The other,  inner door leading from
it was firmly closed. A youngish plump-faced  girl in a  cheap blue coat
was  pulling  sticks of  make-up and  boxes of  Kleenex  out of her desk
drawer and thrusting them into her bag.
   æIs this the detective agency?Æ Richard asked her tentatively.
   The girl nodded, biting her lip and keeping her head down.
   æAnd is Mr Gently in?Æ
   æHe may be,Æ  she said,  throwing back her hair, which  was too curly
for throwing  back properly, æand then again he may not  be. I am not in
a  position to tell. It is not my  business to know of  his whereabouts.
His whereabouts are, as of now, entirely his own business.Æ
   She retrieved  her last  pot of  nail  varnish and  tried to slam the
drawer shut. A fat book sitting upright in the drawer  prevented it from
closing.  She  tried  to  slam the  drawer again,  without  success. She
picked up  the book, ripped out  a  clump of pages and replaced it. This
time she was able to slam the drawer with ease.
   æAre you his secretary?Æ asked Richard.
   æI  am his  ex-secretary  and  I intend to  stay that way,Æ she said,
firmly  snapping  her bag  shut. æIf  he intends  to spend  his money on
stupid expensive  brass plaques rather than on  paying me, then let him.
But  I wonÆt  stay  to  stand  for it,  thank you  very  much. Good  for
business, my foot. Answering the phones  properly is  good for  business
and IÆd  like to see his fancy brass plaque do that. If youÆll excuse me
IÆd like to storm out, please.Æ
   Richard stood aside, and out she stormed.
   æAnd good riddance!Æ shouted a voice  from the inner office. A  phone
rang and was picked up immediately.
   æYes?Æ  answered the voice from the  inner  office, testly.  The girl
popped  back for  her scarf,  but quietly, so  her  ex-employer wouldnÆt
hear. Then she was finally gone.
   æYes, Dirk GentlyÆs Holistic Detective Agency. How can we be  of help
to you?Æ
   The torrent of French from upstairs had ceased. A kind  of tense calm
descended.
   Inside,  the  voice  said,   æThatÆs  right,  Mrs  Sunderland,  messy
divorces are our particular speciality.Æ
   There was a pause.
   æYes,  thank you,  Mrs  Sunderland, not quite that messy.Æ  Down went
the phone  again,  to  be replaced instantly  by the  ringing of another
one.
   Richard looked around  the  grim little office. There was very little
in it. A battered  chipboard veneer desk, an old grey filing cabinet and
a  dark green tin  wastepaper bin. On  the wall was a Duran Duran poster
on  which someone had  scrawled  in fat red felt  tip,  æTake this  down
pleaseÆ.
   Beneath that another hand had scrawled, æNoÆ.
   Beneath that again  the  first hand  had written, æI insist  that you
take it downÆ.
   Beneath that the second hand had written, æWonÆt!Æ
   Beneath that -- æYouÆre firedÆ.
   Beneath that -- æGood!Æ
   And there the matter appeared to have rested.
   He knocked on the  inner door,  but  was  not  answered. Instead  the
voice  continued, æIÆm very glad  you  asked me that, Mrs Rawlinson. The
term ôholisticö refers to  my conviction that what we are concerned with
here is  the  fundamental  interconnectedness of all  things.  I  do not
concern myself  with  such  petty things as fingerprint powder, telltale
pieces of pocket fluff and  inane footprints. I see the solution to each
problem  as being  detectable in the pattern  and web of the whole.  The
connections between causes and  effects are often  much more  subtle and
complex than we with our rough  and ready understanding of the  physical
world might naturally suppose, Mrs Rawlinson.
   æLet me  give you an  example. If  you go to  an  acupuncturist  with
toothache he  sticks a needle  instead into  your thigh. Do you know why
he does that, Mrs Rawlinson?
   æNo, neither  do I,  Mrs  Rawlinson,  but we intend  to find  out.  A
pleasure talking to you, Mrs Rawlinson. Goodbye.Æ
   Another phone was ringing as he put this one down.
   Richard eased the door open and looked in.
   It  was the same  Svlad,  or Dirk, Cjelli.  Looking a  little rounder
about the  middle, a little looser  and redder  about  the eyes  and the
neck, but  it  was still  essentially the same  face that  he remembered
most vividly smiling a grim  smile as its owner climbed into the back of
one of the Black Marias of the  Cambridgeshire constabulary, eight years
previously.
   He wore a  heavy old light brown suit which looked as if  it has been
worn extensively for bramble hacking  expeditions  in  some distant  and
better past,  a red checked  shirt which  failed entirely  to  harmonise
with the suit, and a green  striped tie which refused to speak to either
of them. He  also  wore  thick  metal-rimmed spectacles,  which probably
accounted at least in part for his dress sense.
   æAh,  Mrs Bluthall,  how  thoroughly uplifting  to hear from you,Æ he
was saying.  æI was so distressed  to learn that Miss Tiddles has passed
over.  This is  desperate  news indeed.  And yet, and yet...  Should  we
allow black despair to  hide  from  us  the fairer light in  which  your
blessed moggy now forever dwells?
   æI  think not.  Hark. I  think I hear Miss Tiddles miaowing even now.
She  calls to you, Mrs  Bluthall. She  says she  is  content, she  is at
peace. She  says sheÆll be even more at peace when youÆve paid some bill
or other.  Does that ring a bell with you at all, Mrs  Bluthall? Come to
think of  it  I think  I sent  you  one myself  not three months  ago. I
wonder if it can be that which is disturbing her eternal rest.Æ
   Dirk  beckoned Richard in with a brisk wave and then  motioned him to
pass the  crumpled  pack of French  cigarettes that was sitting just out
of his reach.
   æSunday  night, then, Mrs Bluthall, Sunday night at eight-thirty. You
know the  address. Yes, IÆm sure Miss  Tiddles will  appear, as IÆm sure
will your cheque book. Till then, Mrs Bluthall, till then.Æ
   Another phone was already  ringing as he got rid of  Mrs Bluthall. He
grabbed at it, lighting his crumpled cigarette at the same time.
   æAh, Mrs  Sauskind,Æ he said in answer to  the caller, æmy oldest and
may I say most valued client. Good day  to  you, Mrs Sauskind, good day.
Sadly, no sign  as yet of young Roderick,  IÆm afraid, but the search is
intensifying  as  it  moves  into what  I am confident  are  its closing
stages,  and I am  sanguine that within mere days  from todayÆs date  we
will  have the young rascal permanently restored to your arms and mewing
prettily, ah yes the bill, I was wondering if you had received it.Æ
   DirkÆs crumpled cigarette  turned out to be too crumpled to smoke, so
he hooked the phone  on his shoulder and poked around  in the packet for
another, but it was empty.
   He rummaged  on  his desk for a  piece of paper and a stub  of pencil
and wrote a note which he passed to Richard.
   æYes, Mrs Sauskind,Æ he assured the telephone, æI  am  listening with
the utmost attention.Æ
   The note said æTell secretary get cigsÆ.
   æYes,Æ continued Dirk  into the phone,  æbut as I have endeavoured to
explain to  you, Mrs Sauskind, over the seven years of our acquaintance,
I incline  to the  quantum mechanical view in  this matter. My theory is
that  your  cat is  not lost,  but  that  his  waveform  has temporarily
collapsed and must be restored. Schr÷dinger. Planck. And so on.Æ
   Richard wrote on the note æYou havenÆt got secretaryÆ and  pushed  it
back.
   Dirk considered this for a while, then wrote æDamn and blastÆ on  the
paper and pushed it to Richard again.
   æI grant  you, Mrs Sauskind,Æ continued Dirk blithely, æthat nineteen
years is, shall we  say, a distinguished age for a cat to reach, yet can
we allow  ourselves to  believe  that  a cat  such as Roderick  has  not
reached it?
   æAnd  should we now  in  the autumn  of his  years abandon him to his
fate?  This surely  is the time  that  he most needs the support  of our
continuing investigations. This is  the time that we should redouble our
efforts, and with your permission, Mrs Sauskind, that  is  what I intend
to do.  Imagine,  Mrs Sauskind,  how you would face  him if you had  not
done this simple thing for him.Æ
   Richard fidgeted with the note, shrugged to himself, and  wrote æIÆll
get themÆ on it and passed it back once more.
   Dirk  shook his head  in admonition, then wrote  æI couldnÆt possibly
that would be most kindÆ.  As soon as  Richard had read this,  Dirk took
the note back and added æGet money from secretaryÆ to it.
   Richard looked at the paper thoughtfully, took the pencil  and  put a
tick  next  to  where  he   had  previously  written  æYou  havenÆt  got
secretaryÆ. He  pushed  the paper back across  the  table  to  Dirk, who
merely glanced at it and ticked æI couldnÆt  possibly that would be most
kindÆ.
   æWell, perhaps,Æ  continued Dirk to Mrs Sauskind, æyou could just run
over any of  the areas in the bill  that cause you difficulty.  Just the
broader areas.Æ
   Richard let himself out.
   Running down the stairs, he  passed a young hopeful in a denim jacket
and close-cropped hair peering anxiously up the stairwell.
   æAny good, mate?Æ he said to Richard.
   æAmazing,Æ murmured Richard, æjust amazing.Æ
   He found a nearby newsagentÆs and picked  up  a couple  of packets of
Disque  Bleu  for Dirk, and a  copy  of the  new  edition  of  /Personal
Computer World/, which had a picture of Gordon Way on the front.
   æPity about him, isnÆt it?Æ said the newsagent.
   æWhat? Oh,  er...  yes,Æ  said  Richard.  He  often thought  the same
himself, but  was  surprised to find his  feelings so widely  echoed. He
picked up a /Guardian/ as well, paid and left.
   Dirk  was still on  the phone with his feet on the table when Richard
returned, and it was clear that he was relaxing  into  his negotiations.
   æYes, expenses were,  well, expensive in  the  Bahamas, Mrs Sauskind,
it is in the nature of expenses  to be so. Hence the name.Æ He  took the
proffered packets  of  cigarettes, seemed  disappointed there  were only
two, but  briefly raised his  eyebrows to Richard in acknowledgement  of
the favour he had done him, and then waved him to a chair.
   The sounds  of  an argument conducted partly  in French  drifted down
from the floor above.
   æOf course  I  will  explain to you again why the trip to the Bahamas
was so vitally  necessary,Æ said Dirk Gently  soothingly. æNothing could
give me greater  pleasure. I believe, as you know,  Mrs Sauskind, in the
fundamental   interconnectedness  of  all  things.  Furthermore  I  have
plotted and  triangulated  the vectors  of the interconnectedness of all
things and traced  them  to a beach  in Bermuda  which  it is  therefore
necessary  for me  to  visit  from  time to  time in  the  course of  my
investigations.  I  wish  it were  not  the  case,  since, sadly,  I  am
allergic  to  both  the  sun and rum punches, but then we all  have  our
crosses to bear, do we not, Mrs Sauskind?Æ
   A babble seemed to break out from the telephone.
   æYou sadden me, Mrs  Sauskind. I wish I could find it  in my heart to
tell  you that  I find  your scepticism rewarding and  invigorating, but
with the  best will  in the  world  I cannot.  I am  drained  by it, Mrs
Sauskind,  drained.  I think you  will  find an item in the bill to that
effect. Let me see.Æ
   He picked up a flimsy carbon copy lying near him.
   æôDetecting  and triangulating the  vectors of  interconnectedness of
all things, one hundred and fifty pounds.ö WeÆve dealt with that.
   æôTracing  same to beach on Bahamas, fare and  accommodation.ö A mere
fifteen  hundred.   The  accommodation  was,  of  course,  distressingly
modest.
   æAh yes,  here we  are,  ôStruggling  on  in  the  face  of  draining
scepticism from client, drinks  -- three hundred and twenty-seven pounds
fifty.ö
   æWould that  I  did  not have  to  make  such charges,  my  dear  Mrs
Sauskind,  would  that  the  occasion did  not  continually  arise.  Not
believing in my methods only  makes my job more difficult, Mrs Sauskind,
and hence, regrettably, more expensive.Æ
   Upstairs,  the sounds of  argument were becoming more heated  by  the
moment. The French voice seemed to be verging on hysteria.
   æI do  appreciate, Mrs  Sauskind,Æ continued  Dirk, æthat the cost of
the investigation has strayed somewhat from the  original  estimate, but
I am sure that you  will in your turn appreciate that a job  which takes
seven years  to do must  clearly be  more difficult than one that can be
pulled off  in an  afternoon and must  therefore be  charged at a higher
rate.  I have  continually to revise my estimate  of how  difficult  the
task is in the light of how difficult it has so far proved to be.Æ
   The babble from the phone became more frantic.
   æMy dear Mrs Sauskind -- or may I call you Joyce? Very  well then. My
dear Mrs  Sauskind, let me say  this.  Do not worry yourself  about this
bill, do not let it alarm or discomfit  you. Do not,  I beg you,  let it
become a source of anxiety to you. Just grit your teeth and pay it.Æ
   He  pulled  his feet down off the  table  and leaned forward over the
desk,  inching  the  telephone  receiver  inexorably  back  towards  its
cradle.
   æAs  always,  the  very greatest pleasure  to  speak  with  you,  Mrs
Sauskind. For now, goodbye.Æ
   He at last put down the receiver, picked it up again, and  dropped it
for the moment into the waste basket.
   æMy dear Richard MacDuff,Æ he said, producing a  large flat box  from
under his desk and pushing it across the table at him, æyour pizza.Æ
   Richard started back in astonishment.
   æEr, no thanks,Æ he said, æI had breakfast. Please. You have it.Æ
   Dirk  shrugged.  æI  told  them youÆd  pop in and settle  up over the
weekend,Æ he said. æWelcome, by the way, to my offices.Æ
   He waved a vague hand around the tatty surroundings.
   æThe  light  works,Æ  he  said, indicating the  window, æthe  gravity
works,Æ he said, dropping a pencil  on the floor. æAnything else we have
to take our chances with.Æ
   Richard cleared his throat. æWhat,Æ he said, æis this?Æ
   æWhat is what?Æ
   æThis,Æ exclaimed Richard, æall this. You appear  to  have a Holistic
Detective Agency and I donÆt even know what one is.Æ
   æI  provide a service that is  unique in this world,Æ said Dirk. æThe
term  ôholisticö refers to my conviction that what we are concerned with
here is the fundamental interconnectedness of all --Æ
   æYes, I  got that bit  earlier,Æ said Richard. æI have to say that it
sounded a bit like an excuse for exploiting gullible old ladies.Æ
   æExploiting?Æ  asked  Dirk. æWell, I suppose it would  be if  anybody
ever paid me,  but I  do assure  you, my dear Richard, that there  never
seems  to be the remotest danger  of that.  I live in what are known  as
hopes. I  hope  for  fascinating  and remunerative  cases, my  secretary
hopes that I will  pay  her, her  landlord hopes that  she will  produce
some  rent, the  Electricity Board hopes that he will settle their bill,
and so on. I find it a wonderfully optimistic way of life.
   æMeanwhile I give a lot  of  charming and silly  old ladies something
to be happily cross about  and virtually guarantee the  freedom of their
cats. Is there,  you  ask -- and I  put  the question for you because  I
know you  know I  hate to be interrupted --  is there a single case that
exercises the  tiniest part of my intellect, which, as  you hardly  need
me to  tell you, is  prodigious?  No.  But do  I despair? Am I downcast?
Yes. Until,Æ he added, ætoday.Æ
   æOh, well, IÆm glad of  that,Æ said Richard, æbut what  was all  that
rubbish about cats and quantum mechanics?Æ
   With a sigh Dirk flipped up the lid of the pizza  with a single flick
of practised fingers. He surveyed the cold round thing  with  a kind  of
sadness and then tore off a hunk of it. Pieces of pepperoni and  anchovy
scattered over his desk.
   æI  am  sure,  Richard,Æ  he  said, æthat you  are familiar with  the
notion of Schr÷dingerÆs  Cat,Æ  and  he stuffed  the  larger part of the
hunk into his mouth.
   æOf course,Æ said Richard. æWell, reasonably familiar.Æ
   æWhat is it?Æ said Dirk through a mouthful.
   Richard  shifted irritably in  his seat. æItÆs  an illustration,Æ  he
said, æof the principle that  at a quantum level all events are governed
by probabilities...Æ
   æAt a quantum level, and  therefore at all levels,Æ interrupted Dirk.
æThough at  any level higher than the subatomic the cumulative effect of
those probabilities is, in the normal course of events,
indistinguishable  from  the  effect  of hard  and  fast physical  laws.
Continue.Æ
   He put some more cold pizza into his face.
   Richard  reflected that DirkÆs was a  face  into  which too much  had
already been put.  What with that  and the amount he talked, the traffic
through his  mouth was almost incessant.  His  ears,  on the other hand,
remained almost totally unused in normal conversation.
   It occurred to  Richard that if Lamarck had been right and  you  were
to  take  a line  through  this  behaviour for several generations,  the
chances were  that some radical replumbing  of the interior of the skull
would eventually take place.
   Richard continued, æNot only  are quantum  level events  governed  by
probabilities, but those probabilities arenÆt even resolved  into actual
events until  they  are measured. Or to  use a  phrase that I just heard
you use in  a rather bizarre  context, the act of measurement  collapses
the probability  waveform. Up until that  point all the possible courses
of action  open to, say,  an electron, coexist as probability waveforms.
Nothing is decided. Until itÆs measured.Æ
   Dirk nodded. æMore or less,Æ  he said, taking another  mouthful. æBut
what of the cat?Æ
   Richard decided that there was only  one way to avoid having to watch
Dirk eat his way through  all the rest of the pizza, and that was to eat
the rest himself. He rolled  it up and took a token nibble  off the end.
It was rather good. He took another bite.
   Dirk watched this with startled dismay.
   æSo,Æ said  Richard, æthe idea  behind  Schr÷dingerÆs Cat was  to try
and imagine a way  in which the effects of probabilistic behaviour at  a
quantum level  could be considered at  a macroscopic level. Or letÆs say
an everyday level.Æ
   æYes,  letÆs,Æ said  Dirk, regarding  the  rest of the  pizza  with a
stricken look. Richard took another bite and continued cheerfully.
   æSo  you imagine that you take a cat and put it in a box that you can
seal  completely. Also in the  box you  put a  small lump of radioactive
material, and  a  phial of poison gas.  You arrange it  so that within a
given  period  of time  there is an exactly  fifty-fifty chance that  an
atom  in  the radioactive  lump  will  decay and emit an electron. If it
does decay  then it triggers  the release of the gas  and kills the cat.
If it doesnÆt, the cat lives. Fifty-fifty. Depending  on the fifty-fifty
chance that a single atom does or does not decay.
   æThe  point as  I understand it is  this: since the decay of a single
atom is  a  quantum level event that  wouldnÆt  be  resolved either  way
until it was observed,  and since you donÆt  make the  observation until
you  open the box and see whether the cat is alive or dead, then thereÆs
a rather extraordinary consequence.
   æUntil you do  open the box the cat itself exists in an indeterminate
state.  The possibility that it is alive, and the possibility that it is
dead, are two different  waveforms superimposed on each other inside the
box.  Schr÷dinger put forward this idea to  illustrate  what  he thought
was absurd about quantum theory.Æ
   Dirk  got  up and padded over to the window, probably not so much for
the  meagre  view  it  afforded  over  an  old  warehouse  on  which  an
alternative  comedian  was  lavishing  his  vast  lager  commercial fees
developing into luxury apartments, as  for the lack of  view it afforded
of the last piece of pizza disappearing.
   æExactly,Æ said Dirk, æbravo!Æ
   æBut whatÆs all  that  got to do with this -- this Detective Agency?Æ
   æOh,  that.  Well, some  researchers were  once  conducting  such  an
experiment, but when they opened up the  box,  the cat was neither alive
nor dead  but was in fact  completely missing, and they  called me in to
investigate.  I  was  able  to deduce  that  nothing very  dramatic  had
happened. The cat had  merely got fed up with being repeatedly locked up
in  a box and occasionally gassed and had taken the first opportunity to
hoof it through the window. It was for me  the work of a moment to set a
saucer of milk by the  window and call ôBerniceö in an enticing voice --
the catÆs name was Bernice, you understand --Æ
   æNow, wait a minute --Æ said Richard.
   æ -- and the cat  was  soon  restored. A simple enough matter, but it
seemed to create quite  an impression  in certain  circles, and soon one
thing led to  another as they do  and it all culminated in  the thriving
career you see before you.Æ
   æWait  a  minute, wait  a minute,Æ  insisted  Richard,  slapping  the
table.
   æYes?Æ enquired Dirk innocently.
   æNow, what are you talking about, Dirk?Æ
   æYou have a problem with what I have told you?Æ
   æWell, I hardly know  where to begin,Æ protested Richard. æAll right.
You  said  that  some  people  were performing  the  experiment.  ThatÆs
nonsense.  Schr÷dingerÆs  Cat  isnÆt a  real  experiment.  ItÆs just  an
illustration for  arguing  about  the idea.  ItÆs  not  something  youÆd
actually do.Æ
   Dirk was watching him with odd attention.
   æOh, really?Æ he said at last. æAnd why not?Æ
   æWell, thereÆs nothing you can test.  The whole point of the idea  is
to think about what  happens before you make your observation. You canÆt
know  whatÆs going on  inside  the box  without  looking, and  the  very
instant  you  look  the wave  packet  collapses  and  the  probabilities
resolve. ItÆs self-defeating. ItÆs completely purposeless.Æ
   æYou are, of  course,  perfectly  correct as  far as you go,Æ replied
Dirk, returning  to his  seat. He  drew a cigarette out  of  the packet,
tapped it  several  times on the desk,  and  leant  across the desk  and
pointed the filter at Richard.
   æBut  think  about  this,Æ  he  continued.  æSupposing  you  were  to
introduce   a  psychic,  someone  with  clairvoyant   powers,  into  the
experiment -- someone who is  able  to divine what state of  health  the
cat is in  without opening the box.  Someone who has, perhaps, a certain
eerie  sympathy with cats.  What then? Might  that  furnish  us with  an
additional insight into the problem of quantum physics?Æ
   æIs that what they wanted to do?Æ
   æItÆs what they did.Æ
   æDirk, this is /complete nonsense/.Æ
   Dirk raised his eyebrows challengingly.
   æAll right, all right,Æ said  Richard, holding  up  his palms, æletÆs
just follow it  through. Even  if  I  accepted  -- which I donÆt for one
second -- that there was any basis at  all for clairvoyance, it wouldnÆt
alter the  fundamental  undoableness of  the experiment. As I said,  the
whole thing turns on what  happens inside  the box before itÆs observed.
It  doesnÆt matter how you  observe  it,  whether you look into  the box
with  your  eyes  or  --  well,  with  your  mind,  if  you  insist.  If
clairvoyance works, then itÆs just another way of looking into the  box,
and if it doesnÆt then of course itÆs irrelevant.Æ
   æIt might depend, of course, on the view you take of
clairvoyance...Æ
   æOh yes?  And what view do you take of clairvoyance? I should be very
interested to know, given your history.Æ
   Dirk tapped the cigarette  on  the desk again and looked  narrowly at
Richard.
   There was a deep and prolonged silence, disturbed only  by the  sound
of distant crying in French.
   æI take the view I have always taken,Æ said Dirk eventually.
   æWhich is?Æ
   æThat I am not clairvoyant.Æ
   æReally,Æ said Richard. æThen what about the exam papers?Æ
   The eyes of Dirk Gently darkened at the mention of this subject.
   æA  coincidence,Æ he said,  in  a low, savage voice, æa  strange  and
chilling coincidence,  but  none the less  a coincidence.  One, I  might
add,  which  caused  me   to  spend  a  considerable  time   in  prison.
Coincidences can be frightening and dangerous things.Æ
   Dirk gave Richard another of his long appraising looks.
   æI  have been  watching  you carefully,Æ he  said. æYou  seem  to  be
extremely relaxed for a man in your position.Æ
   This seemed to  Richard  to be  an  odd remark, and he  tried to make
sense  of  it for  a  moment.  Then  the  light  dawned, and  it was  an
aggravating light.
   æGood heavens,Æ he said, æhe hasnÆt got to you as well, has he?Æ
   This remark seemed to puzzle Dirk in return.
   æWho hasnÆt got to me?Æ he said.
   æGordon. No, obviously  not. Gordon Way. He has this  habit of trying
to  get other people to bring pressure on me to get on with what he sees
as important work. I thought for  a moment --  oh, never mind.  What did
you mean, then?Æ
   æAh. Gordon Way /has/ this habit, has he?Æ
   æYes. I donÆt like it. Why?Æ
   Dirk looked long  and  hard at Richard, tapping a  pencil  lightly on
the desk.
   Then he leaned  back in  his chair and said  as follows: æThe body of
Gordon Way was  discovered before dawn this morning.  He had  been shot,
strangled,  and then his  house  was set  on fire. Police are working on
the theory  that he  was  not actually  shot  in  the house  because  no
shotgun pellets were discovered there other than those in the body.
   æHowever,  pellets  were  found  near to  Mr WayÆs Mercedes 500  SEC,
which  was found  abandoned  about  three  miles  from  his house.  This
suggests that  the  body  was  moved after the  murder.  Furthermore the
doctor who  examined the body is of  the opinion that Mr Way was in fact
strangled after he was  shot, which seems to suggest a certain confusion
in the mind of the killer.
   æBy a startling coincidence it  appears  that  the  police last night
had occasion  to  interview  a  very confused-seeming gentleman who said
that he  was suffering from some kind of guilt complex about having just
run over his employer.
   æThat  man  was  a  Mr Richard  MacDuff, and  his  employer  was  the
deceased,  Mr Gordon Way. It has further been  suggested that Mr Richard
MacDuff is  one  of the two people  most likely to benefit from Mr WayÆs
death,  since  WayForward Technologies would  almost certainly  pass  at
least  partly  into  his hands.  The other  person  is his  only  living
relative,  Miss Susan  Way,  into  whose  flat  Mr  Richard  MacDuff was
observed  to  break  last  night. The  police  donÆt  know that bit,  of
course.  Nor, if  we  can help  it, will they. However, any relationship
between the two of  them will naturally  come under  close scrutiny. The
news reports  on  the  radio say  that  they  are  urgently  seeking  Mr
MacDuff,  who they  believe  will  be  able  to  help  them  with  their
enquiries, but the tone of voice says that heÆs  clearly guilty as hell.
   æMy scale of charges  is  as follows: two hundred pounds a day,  plus
expenses. Expenses  are  not negotiable and will sometimes strike  those
who do  not  understand  these matters as  somewhat tangential. They are
all necessary and are, as I say, not negotiable. Am I hired?Æ
   æSorry,Æ  said  Richard,  nodding slightly.  æWould  you  start  that
again?Æ


[::: CHAPTER 17 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The Electric Monk hardly knew what to believe any more.
   He had been through a  bewildering number  of  belief systems  in the
previous few hours,  most  of which  had failed to provide  him with the
long-term  spiritual  solace  that  it  was   his  bounden   programming
eternally to seek.
   He was fed up. Frankly. And tired. And dispirited.
   And furthermore, which  caught him by surprise,  he rather missed his
horse.  A dull and menial creature,  to  be  sure, and  as  such  hardly
worthy of the preoccupation of  one  whose mind was destined  forever to
concern itself  with higher things  beyond the understanding of a simple
horse, but nevertheless he missed it.
   He wanted  to sit on it. He wanted to pat it. He wanted to feel  that
it didnÆt understand.
   He wondered where it was.
   He dangled his  feet  disconsolately from the branch of  the  tree in
which he had spent the  night. He had climbed it in pursuit of some wild
fantastic dream  and then had got stuck and had  to stay there till  the
morning.
   Even  now,  by daylight, he  wasnÆt certain  how he was going  to get
down. He came for a  moment perilously close  to believing that he could
fly, but a  quick-thinking error-checking protocol  cut in and told  him
not to be so silly.
   It was a problem though.
   Whatever burning fire  of faith had borne him,  inspired on  wings of
hope, upwards  through  the branches of the tree  in the magic  hours of
night, had not also  provided him with instructions on how  to  get back
down again  when, like altogether too many of these burning fiery night-
time faiths, it had deserted him in the morning.
   And speaking -- or  rather thinking -- of burning fiery things, there
had been a  major burning fiery thing a little distance from here in the
early pre-dawn hours.
   It lay, he thought, in  the  direction from which he himself had come
when  he  had been drawn  by a deep  spiritual  compulsion towards  this
inconveniently high  but otherwise embarrassingly ordinary tree.  He had
longed to go and worship  at the  fire,  to  pledge himself eternally to
its holy  glare,  but  while he had been struggling hopelessly to find a
way  downwards through  the branches, fire engines  had arrived  and put
the divine  radiance  out, and that had been another  creed  out of  the
window.
   The  sun had been up  for some  hours now, and though he had occupied
the time as best  as  he could, believing in clouds, believing in twigs,
believing in  a peculiar form of  flying beetle, he believed now that he
was fed up, and was utterly convinced,  furthermore, that he was getting
hungry.
   He  wished heÆd  taken the precaution of providing himself with  some
food  from the dwelling place he  had visited in  the night, to which he
had  carried  his  sacred  burden  for  entombment  in  the  holy  broom
cupboard,  but he had left  in  the grip of  a white  passion, believing
that such mundane  matters as food were of no consequence, that the tree
would provide.
   Well, it had provided.
   It had provided twigs.
   Monks did not eat twigs.
   In fact,  now he came to  think of it, he felt a little uncomfortable
about some of the  things he had believed last night and  had found some
of  the results a little confusing. He had been quite clearly instructed
to æshoot offÆ and had felt strangely  compelled to  obey but perhaps he
had made  a mistake  in acting so precipitately on  an instruction given
in a language  he  had learned only two  minutes  before. Certainly  the
reaction of the person he had shot off at  had seemed a  little extreme.
   In  his own  world when people were  shot at like that they came back
next week  for another episode, but he didnÆt think this person would be
doing that.
   A gust of wind  blew  through  the tree, making  it sway giddily.  He
climbed down  a  little way. The  first part  was reasonably easy, since
the branches were  all fairly  close together. It was the  last bit that
appeared  to be an  insuperable obstacle --  a sheer  drop  which  could
cause him severe  internal damage or rupture and might in turn cause him
to start believing things that were seriously strange.
   The sound of voices over in a distant corner of  the  field  suddenly
caught his attention. A lorry had pulled  up by the side of the road. He
watched carefully for a moment, but couldnÆt  see anything particular to
believe in and so returned to his introspection.
   There was,  he  remembered,  an odd  function  call  he had had  last
night, which  he hadnÆt encountered before, but he had a feeling that it
might be  something heÆd  heard of called remorse. He hadnÆt felt at all
comfortable about the way the  person  he  had  shot at  had  just  lain
there, and after  initially  walking  away the Monk had returned to have
another look. There was definitely  an expression  on the  personÆs face
which seemed  to suggest that something was up, that  this didnÆt fit in
with  the scheme  of things. The Monk  worried that  he might have badly
spoiled his evening.
   Still,  he  reflected, so long as you  did what  you believed  to  be
right, that was the main thing.
   The next  thing he had believed to be  right  was that having spoiled
this  personÆs  evening he should at least convey him to his home, and a
quick search of his pockets had produced an address, some maps  and some
keys. The  trip had  been an arduous one, but  he had  been sustained on
the way by his faith.
   The word æbathroomÆ floated unexpectedly across the field.
   He looked up again at  the lorry  in the  distant comer. There  was a
man  in  a  dark blue uniform explaining  something  to  a man  in rough
working clothes, who seemed a  little disgruntled about whatever it was.
The words  æuntil we trace the  ownerÆ and æcompletely batty, of courseÆ
were  gusted  over  on the wind. The man in  the working clothes clearly
agreed to accept the situation, but with bad grace.
   A  few  moments later, a horse was  led out  of the back of the lorry
and  into the field. The Monk blinked. His circuits thrilled and  surged
with  astonishment. Now here at last was something he  could believe in,
a truly miraculous event, a reward at last for his unstinting if  rather
promiscuous devotion.
   The horse walked with a  patient,  uncomplaining  gait.  It had  long
grown used to being wherever it was put,  but for once it felt it didnÆt
mind this. Here,  it thought, was a pleasant field. Here was grass. Here
was a hedge it  could  look at. There was  enough space that it could go
for a trot later on if it  felt the  urge. The humans drove off and left
it to  its own devices,  to  which it  was quite content to be left.  It
went  for a little  amble, and  then, just  for the hell  of it, stopped
ambling. It could do what it liked.
   What pleasure.
   What very great and unaccustomed pleasure.
   It slowly  surveyed the whole field, and  then decided to plan out  a
nice relaxed day for itself. A little trot later on, it  thought,  maybe
around threeish.  After that a bit  of a lie  down over on the east side
of the field  where  the grass was thicker.  It looked  like  a suitable
spot to think about supper in.
   Lunch,  it rather  fancied, could  be  taken  at the south end of the
field where a small stream ran. Lunch by  a  stream, for heavenÆs  sake.
This was bliss.
   It also quite  liked the  notion  of spending  half  an hour  walking
alternately a  little  bit  to  the left  and  then a little bit  to the
right, for no apparent  reason. It didnÆt know  whether the time between
two  and three would  be best spent swishing its tail or mulling  things
over.
   Of course,  it  could always do both, if it so wished, and go for its
trot a little  later.  And it had  just spotted what looked  like a fine
piece  of hedge  for watching things over, and that  would easily  while
away a pleasant pre-prandial hour or two.
   Good.
   An excellent plan.
   And the best thing about  it was that having made it  the horse could
now completely and  utterly ignore  it. It went  instead for a leisurely
stand under the only tree in the field.
   From out of its  branches the Electric Monk dropped on to the horseÆs
back, with a cry which sounded suspiciously like æGeronimoÆ.


[::: CHAPTER 18 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Dirk  Gently  briefly  ran over  the  salient facts  once more  while
Richard  MacDuffÆs  world crashed  slowly  and  silently  into  a  dark,
freezing sea which  he  hadnÆt  even known  was  there,  waiting  inches
beneath his  feet.  When Dirk had finished for  the second time the room
fell quiet while Richard stared fixedly at his face.
   æWhere did you hear this?Æ said Richard at last.
   æThe radio,Æ  said  Dirk, with  a slight shrug,  æat least  the  main
points. ItÆs all over the  news of course.  The details? Well,  discreet
enquiries among contacts here and there.  There are one or  two people I
got  to know at Cambridge police station, for reasons which may occur to
you.Æ
   æI donÆt  even know  whether  to believe you,Æ said  Richard quietly.
æMay I use the phone?Æ
   Dirk  courteously  picked  a telephone receiver out of the wastepaper
bin and handed it to him. Richard dialled SusanÆs number.
   The  phone  was  answered  almost immediately and a frightened  voice
said, æHello?Æ
   æSusan, itÆs Ri --Æ
   æ/Richard!/ Where are you? For  GodÆs sake, where  are you?  Are  you
all right?Æ
   æDonÆt tell her where you are,Æ said Dirk.
   æSusan, whatÆs happened?Æ
   æDonÆt you -- ?Æ
   æSomebody told me that somethingÆs happened to Gordon, but...Æ
   æSomethingÆs  /happened/   --  ?  HeÆs  /dead/,  Richard,  heÆs  been
/murdered/ --Æ
   æHang up,Æ said Dirk.
   æSusan, listen. I --Æ
   æHang  up,Æ repeated  Dirk, and then  leaned forward to the phone and
cut him off.
   æThe  police  will probably have a trace  on the line,Æ he explained.
He took the receiver and chucked it back in the bin.
   æBut I have to go to the police,Æ Richard exclaimed.
   æGo to the police?Æ
   æWhat else can  I do? I have to go to  the police  and tell them that
it wasnÆt me.Æ
   æTell  them that it wasnÆt  you?Æ  said Dirk  incredulously. æWell  I
expect  that will  probably  make it all  right, then.  Pity  Dr Crippen
didnÆt think of that. Would have saved him a lot of bother.Æ
   æYes, but he was guilty!Æ
   æYes, so  it would appear. And so it would appear, at the moment, are
you.Æ
   æBut I didnÆt do it, for GodÆs sake!Æ
   æYou are  talking  to  someone  who  has  spent  time  in  prison for
something  he  didnÆt  do, remember.  I told you  that coincidences  are
strange and  dangerous things. Believe me, it  is a great deal better to
find  cast-iron proof that  youÆre innocent, than to languish in  a cell
hoping that  the police -- who already think youÆre  guilty -- will find
it for you.Æ
   æI  canÆt think  straight,Æ  said  Richard,  with  his  hand  to  his
forehead. æJust stop for a moment and let me think this out --Æ
   æIf I may --Æ
   æLet me think -- !Æ
   Dirk  shrugged and turned his attention back to his cigarette,  which
seemed to be bothering him.
   æItÆs no good,Æ said Richard shaking  his head  after a  few moments,
æI canÆt take it in. ItÆs like trying  to do trigonometry when someoneÆs
kicking your head. OK, tell me what you think I should do.Æ
   æHypnotism.Æ
   æWhat?Æ
   æIt  is hardly surprising in  the circumstances  that  you should  be
unable to gather  your  thoughts clearly.  However,  it  is  vital  that
somebody  gathers them.  It  will  be much simpler for both of us if you
will allow me to hypnotise you. I strongly suspect that there is a  very
great  deal  of information jumbled up in your head that will not emerge
while  you are shaking it up so -- that might not emerge at  all because
you do not realise  its significance. With your permission we can short-
cut all that.Æ
   æWell, thatÆs decided  then,Æ said  Richard,  standing up, æIÆm going
to the police.Æ
   æVery well,Æ said  Dirk, leaning  back and spreading his palms on the
desk, æI wish  you the  very best  of  luck. Perhaps on your way out you
would be kind enough to ask my secretary to get me some matches.Æ
   æYou havenÆt got a secretary,Æ said Richard, and left.
   Dirk  sat  and brooded for a  few  seconds, made  a  valiant but vain
attempt to fold the sadly empty pizza box  into  the wastepaper bin, and
then went to look in the cupboard for a metronome.

   Richard emerged  blinking into the daylight. He stood on the top step
rocking slightly, then plunged  off down  the street with an odd kind of
dancing walk which reflected the whirling dance of his mind.  On the one
hand  he  simply  couldnÆt  believe  that  the  evidence  wouldnÆt  show
perfectly  clearly  that he couldnÆt have committed the  murder;  on the
other hand he had to admit that it all looked remarkably odd.
   He found it impossible to think clearly  or  rationally about it. The
idea that  Gordon  had been murdered kept blowing  up  in  his  mind and
throwing all other thoughts into total confusion and disruption.
   It occurred to him for a moment that whoever did it must  have been a
damn  fast  shot  to  get  the  trigger  pulled  before   being  totally
overwhelmed by waves of guilt, but  instantly he  regretted the thought.
In fact he was a little appalled by  the general quality of the thoughts
that sprang into  his mind. They  seemed  inappropriate and unworthy and
mostly  had to do with how it would  affect his projects in the company.
   He looked  about inside himself for any  feeling of  great sorrow  or
regret, and assumed  that  it must be there  somewhere, probably  hiding
behind the huge wall of shock.
   He arrived back within sight of Islington Green, hardly  noticing the
distance he  had walked. The sudden sight of the police squad car parked
outside  his house  hit him like a hammer and he swung on  his heel  and
stared  with furious concentration  at the menu  displayed in the window
of a Greek restaurant.
   æDolmades,Æ he thought, frantically.
   æSouvlaki,Æ he thought.
   æA  small spicy Greek sausage,Æ passed  hectically  through his mind.
He  tried  to reconstruct  the scene in his mindÆs eye  without  turning
round.  There had been a policeman standing watching the  street, and as
far as he could recall  from the brief  glance he had, it  looked  as if
the side  door of the building  which led  up to his  flat was  standing
open.
   The police  were  in  his  flat.  /In/  his flat.  Fassolia  Plaki! A
filling bowl of haricot beans cooked in a tomato and vegetable sauce!
   He tried to shift his eyes  sideways and  back over his shoulder. The
policeman  was looking  at him. He yanked his eyes back to the menu  and
tried  to fill  his  mind  with finely  ground  meat  mixed with potato,
breadcrumbs, onions and herbs  rolled into small  balls and  fried.  The
policeman  must have recognised  him and was at that very moment dashing
across  the road to grab him and  lug him  off in a  Black Maria just as
they had done to Dirk all those years ago in Cambridge.
   He braced his shoulders against  the  shock, but no hand came to grab
him. He glanced back again, but the policeman was  looking unconcernedly
in another direction. Stifado.
   It  was  very apparent to him that his  behaviour was not that of one
who was about to go and hand himself in to the police.
   So what else was he to do?
   Trying in a  stiff, awkward way  to walk naturally, he yanked himself
away from  the  window,  strolled tensely down the road a few yards, and
then  ducked  back down Camden Passage again, walking fast and breathing
hard. Where could he  go? To  Susan? No -- the  police would be there or
watching.  To the WFT offices in Primrose Hill?  No -- same reason. What
on earth,  he screamed  silently at  himself, was he doing suddenly as a
fugitive?
   He insisted to himself, as he  had insisted to  Dirk,  that he should
not be running away from the police.  The police, he told himself, as he
had been taught when he was  a boy, were  there  to help and protect the
innocent.  This thought caused him instantly to  break into a run and he
nearly  collided  with the proud new owner  of an  ugly Edwardian  floor
lamp.
   æSorry,Æ he  said, æsorry.Æ He was startled  that anyone should  want
such  a thing, and slowed his pace to a walk, glancing with sharp hunted
looks around  him. The very familiar  shop fronts  full of old  polished
brass, old polished  wood and pictures of Japanese fish  suddenly seemed
very threatening and aggressive.
   Who  could possibly have wanted to kill Gordon? This was the  thought
that suddenly  hammered at him as  he turned  down  Charlton  Place. All
that had concerned him so far was that he hadnÆt.
   But who had?
   This was a new thought.
   Plenty  of  people didnÆt  care for  him  much, but  there is  a huge
difference  between  disliking somebody --  maybe even  disliking them a
lot  --  and  actually  shooting  them, strangling  them,  dragging them
through the fields  and setting their house on fire. It was a difference
which kept the vast majority of the population alive from day to day.
   Was it  just theft? Dirk hadnÆt mentioned  anything being missing but
then he hadnÆt asked him.
   Dirk.  The image  of his absurd but oddly  commanding figure  sitting
like a large toad,  brooding in his shabby office, kept insisting itself
upon  RichardÆs mind. He  realised that  he was retracing the way he had
come, and deliberately made himself turn right instead of left.
   That way madness lay.
   He  just  needed a  space,  a bit  of time to think  and collect  his
thoughts together.
   All  right -- so  where was he going? He stopped for a moment, turned
around and  then stopped again.  The  idea of  dolmades suddenly  seemed
very  attractive  and  it occurred  to  him  that  the  cool,  calm  and
collected  course of action would  have been simply to walk in  and have
some. That would have shown Fate who was boss.
   Instead,  Fate was engaged  on exactly the same course  of action. It
wasnÆt actually sitting in  a  Greek restaurant eating dolmades,  but it
might  as well have  been, because it was clearly  in  charge. RichardÆs
footsteps  drew him  inexorably back  through  the winding streets, over
the canal.
   He stopped, briefly, at a corner shop, and  then  hurried on past the
council  estates,  and  into  developer  territory  again  until  he was
standing  once more outside 33, Peckender Street. At about the same time
as Fate would have been pouring itself the  last of  the retsina, wiping
its  mouth and wondering if it had any  room left for baklavas,  Richard
gazed up at  the tall  ruddy  Victorian building with  its soot-darkened
brickwork  and its heavy,  forbidding  windows. A gust  of  wind whipped
along the street and a small boy bounded up to him.
   æFuck off,Æ chirped the  little  boy,  then paused  and looked at him
again.
   ææEre, mister,Æ he added, æcan I have your jacket?Æ
   æNo,Æ said Richard.
   æWhy not?Æ said the boy.
   æEr, because I like it,Æ said Richard.
   æCanÆt see why,Æ muttered  the  boy.  æFuck  off.Æ  He  slouched  off
moodily down the street, kicking a stone at a cat.
   Richard entered the building once more, mounted the  stairs  uneasily
and looked again into the office.
   DirkÆs secretary was sitting at her desk, head down, arms folded.
   æIÆm not here,Æ she said.
   æI see,Æ said Richard.
   æI  only came back,Æ  she said, without looking up  from the spot  on
her desk  at  which  she was staring angrily, æto  make sure  he notices
that IÆve gone. Otherwise he might just forget.Æ
   æIs he in?Æ asked Richard.
   æWho knows? Who cares? Better ask someone  who works for him, because
I donÆt.Æ
   æShow him in!Æ boomed DirkÆs voice.
   She  glowered  for a  moment,  stood up,  went  to  the  inner  door,
wrenched it open, said æShow him in  yourself,Æ  slammed the  door  once
more and returned to her seat.
   æEr, why donÆt I just show myself in?Æ said Richard.
   æI   canÆt  even   hear  you,Æ   said  DirkÆs  ex-secretary,  staring
resolutely at her desk.  æHow do you expect  me  to hear you if  IÆm not
even here?Æ
   Richard made  a  placatory gesture,  which  was ignored,  and  walked
through and opened the door  to  DirkÆs  office himself. He was startled
to find  the  room in semi-darkness. A blind  was drawn  down  over  the
window, and Dirk  was lounging back  in his seat, his face bizarrely lit
by  the  strange arrangement of  objects  sitting on  the  desk.  At the
forward edge of the desk sat  an old grey bicycle lamp, facing backwards
and shining a  feeble light on a metronome which was ticking softly back
and forth, with  a highly polished silver teaspoon strapped to its metal
rod.
   Richard tossed a couple of boxes of matches on to the desk.
   æSit down,  relax, and keep  looking  at the spoon,Æ said Dirk,  æyou
are already feeling sleepy...Æ

   Another  police  car  pulled  itself up to a screeching halt  outside
RichardÆs flat,  and a grim-faced man climbed out and strode over to one
of the constables on duty outside, flashing an identity card.
   æDetective Inspector Mason, Cambridgeshire  CID,Æ he  said. æThis the
MacDuff place?Æ
   The constable nodded and showed him  to the side-door entrance  which
opened on to the long  narrow  staircase leading  up  to  the  top flat.
Mason bustled in and then bustled straight out again.
   æThereÆs a  sofa halfway  up the stairs,Æ he told the constable. æGet
it moved.Æ
   æSome of the lads  have already  tried,  sir,Æ the constable  replied
anxiously. æIt  seems  to be stuck. EveryoneÆs having  to climb over  it
for the moment, sir. Sorry, sir.Æ
   Mason  gave  him another grim  look  from  a  vast repertoire he  had
developed  which  ranged  from  very, very  blackly  grim indeed at  the
bottom  of  the scale,  all the  way up  to  tiredly resigned  and  only
faintly grim, which he reserved for his childrenÆs birthdays.
   æGet  it moved,Æ he repeated grimly, and bustled grimly  back through
the door grimly hauling up  his trousers and coat in preparation for the
grim ascent ahead.
   æNo  sign of him yet?Æ  asked  the  driver  of  the car, coming  over
himself. æSergeant Gilks,Æ he introduced himself. He looked tired.
   æNot as far as  I know,Æ said  the  constable, æbut no one  tells  me
anything.Æ
   æKnow  how you feel,Æ agreed Gilks. æOnce the  CID gets  involved you
just  get relegated to  driving  them  about.  And IÆm  the only one who
knows what he looked  like. Stopped him in the road last  night. We just
came from WayÆs house. Right mess.Æ
   æBad night, eh?Æ
   æVaried. Everything from murder  to hauling  horses out of bathrooms.
No, donÆt  even ask. Do you  have the  same  cars  as these?Æ  he added,
pointing  at  his own. æThis oneÆs been driving me crazy all the way up.
Cold  even  with the heater on full blast, and the  radio  keeps turning
itself on and off.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 19 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The same morning  found Michael Wenton-Weakes  in something of an odd
mood.
   You  would need  to know  him  fairly  well  to know  that it was  an
especially odd mood, because most people  regarded him as being a little
odd  to start with. Few people knew him that well.  His mother, perhaps,
but there  existed  between  them  a  state of cold  war and neither had
spoken to the other now in weeks.
   He also  had an elder brother, Peter, who was now tremendously senior
in the Marines. Apart from  at  their fatherÆs funeral, Michael  had not
seen  Peter since  he came back from  the Falklands,  covered  in glory,
promotion, and contempt for his younger brother.
   Peter had been  delighted that their mother had taken over Magna, and
had  sent  Michael a regimental Christmas card  to that effect.  His own
greatest  satisfaction  still remained  that of throwing himself into  a
muddy  ditch and  firing  a machine  gun for at least  a minute,  and he
didnÆt  think that the British newspaper and publishing  industry,  even
in its current  state of unrest, was likely to afford him that pleasure,
at least until some more Australians moved into it.
   Michael had risen very late after a  night  of cold savagery and then
of  troubled dreams which still disturbed him now  in  the late  morning
daylight.
   His dreams  had been filled with the  familiar  sensations  of  loss,
isolation, guilt  and so forth, but had also been inexplicably  involved
with large  quantities of mud. By the telescopic power of the night, the
nightmare   of  mud  and   loneliness  had  seemed  to  stretch  on  for
terrifying, unimaginable  lengths of time, and had  only  concluded with
the appearance  of slimy things with legs  that had crawled on the slimy
sea. This had been altogether  too much and he had woken with a start in
a cold sweat.
   Though all the  business with  the mud had seemed strange to him, the
sense of loss,  of isolation, and  above all the aggrievement, the  need
to  undo what had  been  done, these had all  found  an easy home in his
spirit.
   Even  the slimy  things with legs  seemed  oddly familiar and  ticked
away  irritably at  the back of his mind while  he made  himself  a late
breakfast, a piece of grapefruit and  some China  tea, allowed  his eyes
to rest lightly on the arts pages of  the /Daily Telegraph/ for a while,
and then rather  clumsily changed the dressing on the cuts on  his hand.
   These small tasks  accomplished,  he was then in two minds as to what
to do next.
   He was  able to  view the  events of  the previous  night with a cool
detachment that  he would not have  expected. It had been right,  it had
been  proper, it had  been correctly  done. But it resolved nothing. All
that mattered was yet to be done.
   All what? He frowned at the odd way his thoughts ebbed and flowed.
   Normally he would pop  along to his club at about  this time. It used
to be  that  he  would  do  this with a luxurious sense of the fact that
there  were many  other things  that  he should be doing. Now there  was
nothing else to  do, which made time spent there, as anywhere else, hang
somewhat heavy on his hands.
   When he went he would do as he  always  did -- indulge in  a  gin and
tonic  and a little light conversation, and  then allow his eyes to rest
gently on the pages  of the  /Times Literary Supplement/, /Opera/,  /The
New  Yorker/ or whatever else  fell  easily  to hand, but  there was  no
doubt that  he did  it  these  days  with  less verve  and  relish  than
previously.
   Then  there would  be  lunch. Today, he had no lunch date planned  --
again  --  and would  probably  therefore have  stayed  at his club, and
eaten  a  lightly  grilled Dover  sole,  with  potatoes  garnished  with
parsley and boiled to bits, followed by a large  heap of trifle. A glass
or two of  Sancerre.  And coffee. And then the  afternoon, with whatever
that might bring.
   But  today  he felt oddly impelled  not  to  do that. He  flexed  the
muscles in  his cut hand, poured himself another cup of tea, looked with
curious  dispassion at  the  large  kitchen knife that still  lay by the
fine bone china teapot, and waited for a moment to see what  he would do
next. What he did next, in fact, was to walk upstairs.
   His house was  rather chill in its formal perfection, and looked much
as people who  buy  reproduction furniture would  like  their houses  to
look. Except of course  that everything  here was  genuine  --  crystal,
mahogany and  Wilton --  and only looked as if  it might be fake because
there was no life to any of it.
   He walked up into his  workroom, which was the only room in the house
that  was  not  sterile with  order, but here the disorder of books  and
papers  was  instead sterile  with neglect.  A  thin  film of  dust  had
settled  over everything. Michael had not been into it in weeks, and the
cleaner was  under strict instructions to leave  it  well alone. He  had
not  worked  here since he edited the last  edition of /Fathom/. Not, of
course, the actual last edition, but the  last proper edition.  The last
edition as far as /he/ was concerned.
   He set his china  cup down in the fine  dust and went to inspect  his
elderly record player.  On  it  he found an elderly  recording  of  some
Vivaldi wind concertos, set it to play and sat down.
   He  waited again to  see what he would  do next and suddenly found to
his surprise that he was  already doing  it, and it  was  this:  he  was
/listening/ to the music.
   A  bewildered look  crept  slowly across his face as he realised that
he had never done this before. He had  /heard/  it many,  many times and
thought that  it  made a very  pleasant noise. Indeed,  he found that it
made a pleasant background against which  to discuss the concert season,
but  it  had  never  before occurred  to  him  that  there was  anything
actually to /listen/ to.
   He  sat thunderstruck  by the interplay  of  melody and  counterpoint
which suddenly stood  revealed to  him  with a clarity that owed nothing
to  the  dust-ridden  surface  of  the  record  or the fourteen-year-old
stylus.
   But  with   this  revelation  came  an  almost   immediate  sense  of
disappointment, which confused  him all  the more.  The  music  suddenly
revealed to  him  was  oddly unfulfilling. It  was as if his capacity to
understand the music had  suddenly increased up  to  and  far beyond the
musicÆs ability to satisfy it, all in one dramatic moment.
   He strained to listen  for what  was missing, and felt that the music
was like a  flightless bird that  didnÆt even know what  capacity it had
lost. It  walked very  well, but  it  walked  where  it should soar,  it
walked where it should swoop, it walked where it  should climb  and bank
and  dive,  it  walked where it should  thrill  with  the  giddiness  of
flight. It never even looked up.
   He looked up.
   After  a  while  he  became aware  that  all he was doing  was simply
staring stupidly at the ceiling. He shook his head, and  discovered that
the perception had faded, leaving him  feeling  slightly sick and dizzy.
It had not vanished entirely, but had  dropped  deep inside him,  deeper
than he could reach.
   The  music  continued.  It  was  an  agreeable  enough  assortment of
pleasant sounds in the background, but it no longer stirred him.
   He needed  some clues as  to what it was he had just experienced, and
a thought  flicked momentarily  at  the back of his  mind as to where he
might find them. He let  go of the thought  in anger, but  it flicked at
him again,  and kept on flicking at  him until at last he acted upon it.
   From  under his desk he  pulled  out the  large  tin  wastepaper bin.
Since he had  barred his  cleaning lady from even coming in here for the
moment,  the bin had remained unemptied  and he found in it the tattered
shreds  of what  he was looking  for  with  the  contents of  an ashtray
emptied over them.
   He overcame his  distaste  with grim determination and slowly jiggled
around the bits  of the hated object on his desk, clumsily sticking them
together with  bits of  sticky tape  that  curled around  and  stuck the
wrong bit to the wrong bit and stuck the right bit  to his pudgy fingers
and  then to the desk,  until  at  last  there lay before  him,  crudely
reassembled, a copy of /Fathom/. As  edited by the execrable creature A.
K. Ross.
   Appalling.
   He turned the sticky lumpish pages as  if he was picking over chicken
giblets. Not a single  line drawing of  Joan Sutherland or Marilyn Horne
anywhere. No profiles  of any of the major Cork Street art  dealers, not
a one.
   His series on the Rossettis: discontinued.
   æGreen Room GossipÆ: discontinued.
   He shook his head  in incredulity  and then he  found  the article he
was after.
   æMusic and Fractal LandscapesÆ by Richard MacDuff.
   He  skipped over  the first couple of paragraphs of introduction  and
picked it up further on:

          Mathematical analysis  and computer modelling are revealing
       to us that the shapes  and processes we encounter in nature --
       the  way that plants  grow, the  way that  mountains erode  or
       rivers flow, the way that snowflakes  or islands achieve their
       shapes, the way that light plays on  a  surface, the  way  the
       milk folds and spins into your coffee as you stir  it, the way
       that laughter sweeps through a crowd of  people  -- all  these
       things in their seemingly  magical complexity can be described
       by  the  interaction  of  mathematical  processes that are, if
       anything, even more magical in their simplicity.
          Shapes that we think of as random  are in fact the products
       of complex shifting webs  of numbers obeying simple rules. The
       very  word  ænaturalÆ   that  we  have  often  taken  to  mean
       æunstructuredÆ in  fact describes  shapes and  processes  that
       appear  so unfathomably  complex  that  we  cannot consciously
       perceive the simple natural laws at work.
          They can all be described by numbers.

   Oddly,  this  idea seemed less  revolting now to Michael than it  had
done on his first, scant reading.
   He read on with increasing concentration.


          We know, however, that the mind is capable of understanding
       these  matters  in  all  their  complexity  and in  all  their
       simplicity. A ball flying through the air is responding to the
       force and direction  with which it was thrown, the  action  of
       gravity, the friction  of  the air  which it  must expend  its
       energy on  overcoming,  the  turbulence  of the air around its
       surface,  and  the  rate  and  direction of the  ballÆs  spin.
          And  yet,  someone  who  might have difficulty  consciously
       trying  to work  out what  3  x 4 x 5 comes to  would  have no
       trouble  in doing differential calculus  and  a whole  host of
       related  calculations  so  astoundingly  fast that  they  /can
       actually catch a flying ball./
          People who  call  this  æinstinctÆ  are  merely giving  the
       phenomenon a name, not explaining anything.
          I  think  that  the  closest  that  human  beings  come  to
       expressing our understanding of these natural  complexities is
       in music. It  is the most abstract  of the arts --  it has  no
       meaning or purpose other than to be itself.
          Every single aspect of a piece of music can  be represented
       by numbers. From the  organisation  of  movements  in  a whole
       symphony, down through the patterns of  pitch and  rhythm that
       make up  the melodies and harmonies, the  dynamics that  shape
       the performance,  all the way down to the timbres of the notes
       themselves, their harmonics, the way they change over time, in
       short, all  the elements  of a noise that  distinguish between
       the sound of  one person piping on a piccolo  and  another one
       thumping  a drum -- all  of these things can  be expressed  by
       patterns and hierarchies of numbers.
          And  in my experience the more internal relationships there
       are between the patterns of numbers at different levels of the
       hierarchy, however complex and subtle  those relationships may
       be, the more satisfying and,  well, whole, the music will seem
       to be.
          In  fact the more subtle  and  complex those relationships,
       and  the  further they are beyond the grasp  of  the conscious
       mind, the more the instinctive part of your mind -- by which I
       mean that part of your mind that  can do differential calculus
       so astoundingly fast that  it will put your hand  in the right
       place to catch a flying ball --  the more  that  part  of your
       brain revels in it.
          Music of  any complexity  (and  even  æThree Blind MiceÆ is
       complex in its way  by the time someone has actually performed
       it  on  an  instrument  with  its own  individual  timbre  and
       articulation) passes  beyond your conscious mind into the arms
       of  your own private mathematical  genius  who dwells in  your
       unconscious  responding  to  all  the inner  complexities  and
       relationships and  proportions that we  think  we know nothing
       about.
          Some  people object to such a view of music, saying that if
       you reduce music  to mathematics, where does the emotion  come
       into  it?  I  would  say that  itÆs  never  been  out  of  it.
          The things by which our emotions can be moved  -- the shape
       of  a  flower or a Grecian urn, the way a baby  grows, the way
       the wind brushes across your face, the way clouds move,  their
       shapes,  the  way  light  dances on the  water,  or  daffodils
       flutter in the breeze,  the way  in which the person you  love
       moves  their head, the way their  hair  follows that movement,
       the curve described by the dying fall  of the  last chord of a
       piece  of music -- all these things  can be  described by  the
       complex flow of numbers.
          ThatÆs  not  a reduction  of it, thatÆs the  beauty  of it.
          Ask Newton.
          Ask Einstein.
          Ask  the  poet (Keats) who said  that  what the imagination
       seizes as beauty must be truth.
          He might also have said that what the hand seizes as a ball
       must be  truth,  but  he didnÆt,  because  he  was a poet  and
       preferred loafing  about under trees with a bottle of laudanum
       and  a  notebook  to playing cricket,  but it  would have been
       equally true.

   This jogged  a  thought at the  back  of  MichaelÆs  memory,  but  he
couldnÆt immediately place it.

          Because that is at the heart of the relationship between on
       the one  hand our æinstinctiveÆ  understanding of shape, form,
       movement, light, and on the other hand our emotional responses
       to them.
          And  that  is  why  I believe that  there must be a form of
       music inherent in  nature, in natural objects, in the patterns
       of  natural  processes.  A  music  that  would  be  as  deeply
       satisfying as any naturally  occurring beauty  -- and  our own
       deepest emotions are, after all, a form of naturally occurring
       beauty...

   Michael stopped  reading and  let  his  gaze gradually drift from the
page.
   He  wondered if he knew what such a music would be and tried to grope
in the dark  recesses of his mind for it. Each part of his mind  that he
visited  seemed  as if  that music  had been  playing there only seconds
before  and all that  was left was the last dying  echo  of something he
was unable to catch at and hear. He laid the magazine limply aside.
   Then  he  remembered what it was that the mention of Keats had jogged
in his memory.
   The slimy things with legs from his dream.
   A  cold  calm came over  him as he felt himself coming very  close to
something.
   Coleridge. That man.

   Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
   Upon the slimy sea.

   æThe Rime of the Ancient Mariner.Æ
   Dazed,  Michael  walked  over  to the bookshelf and  pulled  down his
Coleridge  anthology.  He took it back  to his  seat and  with a certain
apprehension  he riffled through the  pages until he  found the  opening
lines.

   It is an ancient Mariner,
   And he stoppeth one of three.

   The words were very familiar to him, and  yet as  he  read on through
them they awoke  in him strange sensations and  fearful memories that he
knew  were  not  his. There  reared  up inside him  a  sense of loss and
desolation  of terrifying intensity which, while he knew it  was not his
own,  resonated so perfectly  now  with his own  aggrievements  that  he
could not but surrender to it absolutely.

   And a thousand thousand slimy things
   Lived on; and so did I.


[::: CHAPTER 20 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The blind rolled up with a sharp rattle and Richard blinked.
   æA fascinating evening you  appear to have  spent,Æ said Dirk Gently,
æeven though the most interesting aspects  of  it  seem to have  escaped
your curiosity entirely.Æ
   He  returned to  his  seat  and  lounged  back  in  it  pressing  his
fingertips together.
   æPlease,Æ he said, ædo  not  disappoint me by  saying ôwhere am I?ö A
glance will suffice.Æ
   Richard  looked around him in slow puzzlement and felt as  if he were
returning unexpectedly  from a  long sojourn on another planet where all
was peace and  light  and music that went on for  ever and ever. He felt
so relaxed he could hardly be bothered to breathe.
   The wooden toggle on  the end of the blind cord  knocked a few  times
against the window, but otherwise all was now silent.  The metronome was
still. He glanced at his watch. It was just after one oÆclock.
   æYou have been under hypnosis  for a little less than an hour,Æ  said
Dirk, æduring  which I have  learned  many interesting things  and  been
puzzled by some  others which I would  now  like to  discuss with you. A
little fresh air will probably help revive you  and I  suggest a bracing
stroll along the canal. No one will be looking  for  you there. Janice!Æ
   Silence.
   A lot of  things  were still not clear to Richard,  and he frowned to
himself.  When his immediate memory returned a moment later, it was like
an elephant suddenly  barging through  the door and he  sat  up  with  a
startled jolt.
   æJanice!Æ shouted Dirk again. æMiss Pearce! Damn the girl.Æ
   He yanked the  telephone  receivers out of the wastepaper basket  and
replaced them.  An old and battered leather briefcase stood by the desk,
and he picked  this  up,  retrieved his hat from the floor and stood up,
screwing his hat absurdly on his head.
   æCome,Æ  he  said, sweeping through  the  door to  where Miss  Janice
Pearce sat glaring at  a pencil, ælet us go. Let us leave this festering
hellhole. Let us think the  unthinkable, let us do the undoable. Let  us
prepare to  grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff
it after all. Now, Janice --Æ
   æShut up.Æ
   Dirk shrugged, and  then  picked off her  desk the book which earlier
she had mutilated  when trying to slam her drawer. He leafed through it,
frowning, and then  replaced it with a sigh. Janice returned to what she
had  clearly  been doing a moment or  two earlier, which was  writing  a
long note with the pencil.
   Richard  regarded  all this  in  silence,  still  feeling only  semi-
present. He shook his head.
   Dirk said to him,  æEvents may seem to  you  to  be a tangled mass of
confusion  at  the moment. And yet we have some  interesting  threads to
pull on. For  of all the  things  you  have told me that have  happened,
only two are actually physically impossible.Æ
   Richard spoke at last. æImpossible?Æ he said with a frown.
   æYes,Æ said Dirk, æcompletely and utterly impossible.Æ
   He smiled.
   æLuckily,Æ  he  went on, æyou  have come  to exactly the right  place
with   your   interesting  problem,  for  there  is  no  such   word  as
ôimpossibleö  in  my dictionary.  In fact,Æ  he added,  brandishing  the
abused book, æeverything  between ôherringö and ômarmaladeö  appears  to
be missing. Thank  you,  Miss Pearce,  you have  once  again rendered me
sterling service,  for which I thank  you  and will,  in the  event of a
successful outcome  to this endeavour, even attempt to  pay  you. In the
meantime we have much to think on, and I  leave the  office in your very
capable hands.Æ
   The phone rang and Janice answered it.
   æGood  afternoon,Æ   she  said,   æWainwrightÆs  Fruit  Emporium.  Mr
Wainwright is not able to take calls at  this time since he is not right
in the head and thinks he is a cucumber. Thank you for calling.Æ
   She  slammed the  phone down. She  looked up again  to see  the  door
closing softly behind her ex-employer and his befuddled client.

   æImpossible?Æ said Richard again, in surprise.
   æEverything  about  it,Æ insisted Dirk,  æcompletely and  utterly  --
well,  let us  say inexplicable. There is  no point  in  using  the word
ôimpossibleö to describe  something  that  has clearly happened. But  it
cannot be explained by anything we know.Æ
   The briskness of  the  air along the Grand Union Canal  got in  among
RichardÆs  senses and  sharpened them up again. He  was  restored to his
normal  faculties, and though the fact of GordonÆs death kept jumping at
him all over again every few seconds,  he was at least now able to think
more clearly about it. Oddly enough, though, that  seemed for the moment
to be the  last  thing on DirkÆs mind.  Dirk was instead  picking on the
most trivial of  the  nightÆs sequence of  bizarre incidents on which to
cross-examine him.
   A jogger going one  way and a cyclist going the other both shouted at
each  other  to  get  out of the way,  and narrowly avoided hurling each
other into  the  murky,  slow-moving  waters  of the  canal.  They  were
watched carefully  by a very slow-moving old lady  who was  dragging  an
even slower-moving old dog.
   On  the  other  bank  large  empty warehouses  stood startled,  every
window shattered and  glinting.  A burned-out  barge lolled brokenly  in
the  water.  Within  it  a  couple  of  detergent bottles floated on the
brackish water. Over the  nearest bridge heavy-goods  lorries thundered,
shaking the  foundations of the houses, belching  petrol  fumes into the
air and frightening a mother trying to cross the road with her pram.
   Dirk  and  Richard  were  walking  along from  the  fringes  of South
Hackney,  a   mile  from  DirkÆs  office,  back  towards  the  heart  of
Islington, where Dirk knew the nearest lifebelts were positioned.
   æBut  it  was  only a  conjuring  trick,  for  heavenÆs  sake,Æ  said
Richard. æHe does  them all  the time. ItÆs just sleight of  hand. Looks
impossible but IÆm sure if you  asked  any conjurer heÆd  say itÆs  easy
once you know how  these things are done. I once saw a man on the street
in New York doing --Æ
   æI  know how these  things  are done,Æ said Dirk, pulling two lighted
cigarettes and a large glazed fig out of his  nose. He tossed the fig up
in  to  the air,  but  it somehow failed to  land anywhere.  æDexterity,
misdirection,  suggestion. All things you can learn if you have a little
time to waste. Excuse me, dear  lady,Æ he  said  to  the  elderly, slow-
moving dog-owner as they passed her. He bent down  to the dog and pulled
a  long string of  brightly coloured flags from  its bottom. æI think he
will move more comfortably  now,Æ he said, tipped his hat courteously to
her and moved on.
   æThese  things, you see,Æ he said  to a flummoxed Richard, æare easy.
Sawing a lady  in  half is easy. Sawing a lady in half and then  joining
her  up together again is  less easy, but can be done with practice. The
trick you described to  me with the  two-hundred-year-old vase  and  the
college salt cellar is --Æ  he paused  for emphasis  --  æcompletely and
utterly inexplicable.Æ
   æWell there was probably some detail of it I missed, but...Æ
   æOh, without  question. But the benefit of questioning somebody under
hypnosis is that it allows the  questioner to  see  the  scene  in  much
greater detail than the subject  was even aware of at the time. The girl
Sarah, for instance. Do you recall what she was wearing?Æ
   æEr, no,Æ  said Richard, vaguely, æa dress of some kind, I suppose --
Æ
   æColour? Fabric?Æ
   æWell, I canÆt remember, it was dark. She  was sitting several places
away from me. I hardly glimpsed her.Æ
   æShe  was  wearing  a  dark  blue  cotton velvet dress  gathered to a
dropped  waist.  It  had  raglan sleeves gathered to the  cuffs, a white
Peter Pan  collar and six  small  pearl buttons  down  the  front -- the
third  one down had  a small  thread hanging off  it. She had long  dark
hair pulled back with a red butterfly hairgrip.Æ
   æIf youÆre  going to  tell me  you know  all  that from looking  at a
scuff  mark on my shoes, like  Sherlock Holmes, then IÆm afraid  I donÆt
believe you.Æ
   æNo,  no,Æ  said  Dirk, æitÆs  much  simpler than  that. You told  me
yourself under hypnosis.Æ
   Richard shook his head.
   æNot true,Æ he  said, æI donÆt even know what a Peter Pan collar is.Æ
   æBut I  do and you  described  it to me  perfectly accurately. As you
did the conjuring trick. And that trick was not  possible in the form in
which it occurred. Believe  me. I know whereof  I speak.  There are some
other things I  would  like to discover  about the Professor,  like  for
instance who  wrote the note  you discovered on  the  table and how many
questions George III  actually asked, but --Æ
   æWhat?Æ
   æ-- but I  think  I would do  better to question the fellow directly.
Except...Æ  He  frowned  deeply  in  concentration. æExcept,Æ  he added,
æthat  being  rather vain  in these matters I would prefer to  know  the
answers before I  asked  the  questions. And  I do not. I  absolutely do
not.Æ  He  gazed  abstractedly  into  the  distance,  and  made  a rough
calculation of the remaining distance to the nearest lifebelt.
   æAnd the second  impossible  thing,Æ  he added,  just as  Richard was
about  to  get a word in  edgeways,  æor at  least,  the next completely
inexplicable thing, is of course the matter of your sofa.Æ
   æDirk,Æ  exclaimed  Richard in exasperation, æmay I  remind  you that
Gordon  Way is  dead, and  that  I appear  to be  under suspicion of his
murder!  None  of  these things have  the remotest connection with that,
and I --Æ
   æBut I am extremely inclined to believe that they are connected.Æ
   æThatÆs absurd!Æ
   æI believe in the fundamental inter--Æ
   æOh, yeah, yeah,Æ said  Richard,  æthe fundamental interconnectedness
of all things. Listen, Dirk, I am not a gullible  old lady and you wonÆt
be getting any trips  to Bermuda  out of me. If youÆre going  to help me
then letÆs stick to the point.Æ
   Dirk bridled at this. æI believe  that all  things are  fundamentally
interconnected,  as  anyone   who  follows  the  principles  of  quantum
mechanics  to their logical extremes  cannot, if they  are  honest, help
but accept.  But  I also believe that some things are  a great deal more
interconnected than others. And  when  two  apparently impossible events
and  a sequence of highly  peculiar ones  all occur to  the same person,
and when that person suddenly becomes  the suspect  of a highly peculiar
murder, then it seems to me  that we should look for the solution in the
connection  between  these events.  You  are  the  connection,  and  you
yourself have been behaving in a highly peculiar and eccentric way.Æ
   æI have not,Æ said  Richard. æYes, some odd things  have  happened to
me, but I --Æ
   æYou  were  last  night  observed, by me,  to climb the outside  of a
building and break into the flat of your girlfriend, Susan Way.Æ
   æIt may  have been unusual,Æ said Richard, æit may not even have been
wise.  But it  was perfectly logical and rational. I just wanted to undo
something I had done before it caused any damage.Æ
   Dirk thought for a moment, and slightly quickened his pace.
   æAnd what  you did was a perfectly reasonable and  normal response to
the problem of the message you  had left on the tape -- yes, you told me
all  about that  in  our little  session -- itÆs what anyone  would have
done?Æ
   Richard  frowned  as if to say that he couldnÆt see what all the fuss
was  about.  æI donÆt  say  anyone  would  have  done  it,Æ he  said, æI
probably have  a slightly more  logical  and literal  turn  of mind than
many  people,  which  is  why I  can write  computer software. It  was a
logical and literal solution to the problem.Æ
   æNot a little disproportionate, perhaps?Æ
   æIt was very important to me not to disappoint Susan yet again.Æ
   æSo you  are absolutely satisfied  with your  own  reasons  for doing
what you did?Æ
   æYes,Æ insisted Richard angrily.
   æDo  you know,Æ said  Dirk,  æwhat  my old  maiden aunt  who lived in
Winnipeg used to tell me?Æ
   æNo,Æ  said Richard. He quickly  took  off all  his clothes and dived
into  the canal. Dirk leapt for the lifebelt, with which  they  had just
drawn level,  yanked it  out of its holder and flung  it to Richard, who
was floundering in the  middle of the canal looking  completely lost and
disoriented.
   æGrab hold of this,Æ shouted Dirk, æand IÆll haul you in.Æ
   æItÆs all right,Æ spluttered Richard, æI can swim --Æ
   æNo, you canÆt,Æ yelled Dirk, ænow grab it.Æ
   Richard tried to  strike  out  for the bank, but  quickly  gave up in
consternation and  grabbed hold of the lifebelt. Dirk pulled on the rope
till Richard  reached the edge, and then bent  down  to give him  a hand
out. Richard came up out of the  water puffing and spitting, then turned
and sat shivering on the edge with his hands in his lap.
   æGod,  itÆs  foul  in there!Æ he  exclaimed  and  spat  again.  æItÆs
absolutely disgusting.  Yeuchh. Whew.  God.  IÆm usually a  pretty  good
swimmer. Must have got some kind of cramp. Lucky  coincidence we were so
close to the lifebelt. Oh  thanks.Æ This last he said in response to the
large towel which Dirk handed him.
   He rubbed  himself  down  briskly, almost  scraping himself with  the
towel  to get the filthy  canal  water  off him.  He stood up and looked
about. æCan you find my pants?Æ
   æYoung  man,Æ said the  old lady with  the  dog, who had just reached
them. She  stood  looking at them sternly, and  was about to rebuke them
when Dirk interrupted.
   æA  thousand  apologies, dear  lady,Æ  he said,  æfor any offence  my
friend may  inadvertently have  caused you. Please,Æ he added, drawing a
slim  bunch of anemones from  RichardÆs bottom,  æaccept  these  with my
compliments.Æ
   The  lady dashed them out of DirkÆs hand  with her stick, and hurried
off, horror-struck, yanking her dog after her.
   æThat wasnÆt very nice  of you,Æ said Richard, pulling on his clothes
underneath the towel that was now draped strategically around him.
   æI donÆt think sheÆs a  very nice woman,Æ replied Dirk, æsheÆs always
down here,  yanking  her  poor dog around and telling people off.  Enjoy
your swim?Æ
   æNot much, no,Æ said Richard, giving his  hair a quick rub. æI hadnÆt
realised  how filthy it would  be in there.  And  cold.  Here,Æ he said,
handing the towel  back to Dirk, æthanks.  Do you always  carry  a towel
around in your briefcase?Æ
   æDo you always go swimming in the afternoons?Æ
   æNo, I usually go in the  mornings, to the swimming pool on  Highbury
Fields, just to  wake myself  up, get  the brain going. It just occurred
to me I hadnÆt been this morning.Æ
   æAnd, er -- that was why you just dived into the canal?Æ
   æWell, yes.  I just thought  that getting a  bit  of  exercise  would
probably help me deal with all this.Æ
   æNot a little disproportionate,  then, to strip off and jump into the
canal.Æ
   æNo,Æ he said, æit  may  not  have been  wise given the state  of the
water, but it was perfectly --Æ
   æYou were perfectly satisfied with your own  reasons  for doing  what
you did.Æ
   æYes --Æ
   æAnd it was nothing to do with my aunt, then?Æ
   RichardÆs eyes narrowed suspiciously. æWhat on earth are you  talking
about?Æ he said.
   æIÆll  tell you,Æ  said  Dirk. He  went and sat on a nearby bench and
opened his case again.  He  folded the  towel away into it and took  out
instead  a  small Sony tape  recorder. He beckoned Richard over and then
pushed the Play  button. DirkÆs own voice floated from  the tiny speaker
in  a lilting sing-song voice. It  said,  æIn a  minute I will  click my
fingers  and you  will  wake  and forget  all of  this  except  for  the
instructions I shall now give you.
   æIn a little  while we  will go for a walk along the  canal, and when
you  hear me say the words ômy old maiden aunt who lived in Winnipegö --
Æ
   Dirk suddenly grabbed RichardÆs arm to restrain him.
   The tape  continued,  æYou  will  take off all your  clothes and dive
into the canal. You will  find that you are unable to swim, but you will
not panic  or sink,  you will simply tread water until I throw  you  the
lifebelt...Æ
   Dirk  stopped the  tape and looked round  at RichardÆs face which for
the second time that day was pale with shock.
   æI would  be interested to know exactly  what  it was that  possessed
you to climb into Miss WayÆs flat last night,Æ said Dirk, æand why.Æ
   Richard  didnÆt  respond  --  he was continuing to stare  at the tape
recorder in some confusion. Then  he said in a shaking voice, ÆThere was
a  message  from Gordon on SusanÆs tape. He  phoned  from the  car.  The
tapeÆs in my flat. Dirk, IÆm suddenly very frightened by all this.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 21 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Dirk watched the police  officer on duty outside RichardÆs house from
behind  a  van  parked  a few  yards  away.  He had  been  stopping  and
questioning everyone who  tried to enter the small side alley down which
RichardÆs door  was situated, including, Dirk was pleased to note, other
policemen if he  didnÆt immediately  recognise them. Another  police car
pulled up and Dirk started to move.
   A police officer climbed out  of  the car  carrying  a saw and walked
towards the doorway. Dirk  briskly matched his pace with him, a step  or
two behind, striding authoritatively.
   æItÆs  all right,  heÆs  with me,Æ said Dirk,  sweeping  past  at the
exact moment that the one police officer stopped the other.
   And he was inside and climbing the stairs.
   The officer with the saw followed him in.
   æEr, excuse me, sir,Æ he called up after Dirk.
   Dirk  had just  reached  the point  where  the  sofa  obstructed  the
stairway. He stopped and twisted round.
   æStay here,Æ he said, æguard this sofa.  Do not let anyone touch  it,
and I mean anyone. Understood?Æ
   The officer seemed flummoxed for a moment.
   æIÆve had orders to saw it up,Æ he said.
   æCountermanded,Æ barked Dirk. æWatch  it  like a hawk. I shall want a
full report.Æ
   He turned back and climbed up  over the thing. A moment  or two later
he emerged into a large open area.  This was the lower of the two floors
that comprised RichardÆs flat.
   æHave  you searched that?Æ  snapped  Dirk at another officer  who was
sitting  at RichardÆs  dining  table  looking  through some  notes.  The
officer  looked  up  in  surprise  and  started  to stand up.  Dirk  was
pointing at the wastepaper basket.
   æEr, yes --Æ
   æSearch it again. Keep searching it. WhoÆs here?Æ
   æEr, well --Æ
   æI havenÆt got all day.Æ
   æDetective Inspector Mason just left, with --Æ
   æGood,  IÆm having him pulled  off. IÆll  be  upstairs if IÆm needed,
but  I  donÆt  want   any  interruptions  unless  itÆs  very  important.
Understood?Æ
   æEr, who --Æ
   æI donÆt see you searching the wastepaper basket.Æ
   æEr, right, sir. IÆll --Æ
   æI want it deep-searched. You understand?Æ
   æEr --Æ
   æGet cracking.Æ  Dirk swept on upstairs and into  RichardÆs workroom.
   The tape  was lying  exactly  where Richard had told him it would be,
on  the  long  desk on which the six Macintoshes sat. Dirk  was about to
pocket it when his curiosity  was caught  by the image of RichardÆs sofa
slowly  twisting and  turning on  the big Macintosh screen,  and  he sat
down at the keyboard.
   He explored the program Richard had  written for  a short while,  but
quickly  realised  that in  its  present  form it was  less  than  self-
explanatory and he learned little. He  managed at last  to get  the sofa
unstuck  and move  it back down the  stairs, but he realised that he had
had to  turn  part of the  wall off in  order to do it. With a  grunt of
irritation he gave up.
   Another computer he  looked at  was displaying a  steady  sine  wave.
Around the  edges of the screen were the small images of other waveforms
which could  be selected and added  to the main one or used to modify it
in other ways. He quickly discovered  that this enabled you to build  up
very complex waveforms from  simple  ones  and he played with this for a
while.  He added a simple sine wave  to itself, which had the  effect of
doubling the height  of the peaks and  troughs of the wave. Then he slid
one of the waves half  a step  back with  respect to the other, and  the
peaks  and troughs of one simply cancelled out  the peaks and troughs of
the  other,  leaving  a  completely  flat  line.  Then  he  changed  the
frequency of one of the sine waves by a small extent.
   The  result of this was  that  at  some  positions along the combined
waveform  the  two waves reinforced  each  other,  and  at  others  they
cancelled  each other  out. Adding a third  simple wave  of yet  another
frequency resulted in a combined wave  in which  it was hard to see  any
pattern  at all. The  line  danced  up  and  down seemingly  at  random,
staying quite  low for some periods and then suddenly building into very
large peaks and troughs as all three  waves came briefly into phase with
each other.
   Dirk  assumed  that there must be amongst  this array of  equipment a
means for translating  the waveform dancing on the Macintosh screen into
an  actual musical  tone  and  hunted among  the menus available in  the
program. He found one  menu item which invited  him to transfer the wave
sample into an Emu.
   This  puzzled  him. He glanced around the room in search of  a  large
flightless  bird, but was unable  to locate any such thing. He activated
the process anyway, and  then traced  the cable which led from  the back
of the Macintosh, down  behind  the  desk,  along  the  floor,  behind a
cupboard, under a  rug  until  it  fetched up plugged into the back of a
large grey keyboard called an Emulator II.
   This,  he  assumed,  was where  his  experimental waveform  has  just
arrived. Tentatively he pushed a key.
   The nasty farting noise  that surged  instantly out  of the  speakers
was  so loud that for a  moment he didnÆt hear the words æSvlad Cjelli!Æ
that were barked simultaneously from the doorway.

   Richard  sat  in  DirkÆs  office and  threw tiny  screwed-up balls of
paper  at the wastepaper  bin which was  already full  of telephones. He
broke pencils. He  played major extracts from an  old Ginger Baker  solo
on his knees.
   In a word, he fretted.
   He had  been  trying to write down on a piece of DirkÆs notepaper all
that he  could  remember of the events  of the  previous evening and, as
far as he could pinpoint them, the times at  which each had occurred. He
was astonished  at how difficult  it  was, and  how feeble his conscious
memory  seemed to  be in comparison with his unconscious memory, as Dirk
had demonstrated it to him.
   æDamn Dirk,Æ he thought. He wanted to talk to Susan.
   Dirk had told him he must not do so on any account as there would  be
a trace on the phone lines.
   æDamn Dirk,Æ he said suddenly, and sprang to his feet.
   æHave you got any ten-pence pieces?Æ  he said to  the resolutely glum
Janice.

   Dirk turned.
   Framed in the doorway stood a tall dark figure.
   The tall  dark figure  appeared  to be  not at all happy with what it
saw, to  be rather cross about it, in fact. To be  more than  cross.  It
appeared to be a tall dark figure who could  very easily yank  the heads
off half a dozen chickens and still be cross at the end of it.
   It  stepped forward into the light and revealed itself to be Sergeant
Gilks of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.
   æDo   you   know,Æ  said  Sergeant   Gilks   of  the   Cambridgeshire
Constabulary,  blinking with  suppressed  emotion,  æthat when  I arrive
back here to discover one police officer guarding a sofa with  a saw and
another dismembering an innocent wastepaper basket I  have to ask myself
certain questions? And I  have  to  ask them with the  disquieting sense
that I am not going to like the answers when I find them.
   æI then find myself mounting the stairs with a horrible  premonition,
Svlad  Cjelli,  a  very  horrible  premonition indeed.  A premonition, I
might add, that I now find horribly justified.  I suppose you canÆt shed
any light on a horse discovered in  a bathroom as well?  That seemed  to
have an air of you about it.Æ
   æI cannot,Æ said Dirk, æas yet. Though it interests me strangely.Æ
   æI  should  think  it  bloody  did.  It  would  have  interested  you
strangely if youÆd had to get  the bloody thing down  a  bloody  winding
staircase at one oÆclock in the morning as  well. What  the hell are you
doing here?Æ said Sergeant Gilks, wearily.
   æI am here,Æ said Dirk, æin pursuit of justice.Æ
   æWell, I wouldnÆt mix  with me  then,Æ said  Gilks, æand I  certainly
wouldnÆt mix with the Met. What do you know of MacDuff and Way?Æ
   æOf Way?  Nothing beyond what is  common knowledge. MacDuff I knew at
Cambridge.Æ
   æOh, you did, did you? Describe him.Æ
   æTall.  Tall  and absurdly  thin.  And  good-natured.  A  bit like  a
preying mantis that doesnÆt prey --  a non-preying mantis if you like. A
sort of pleasant  genial  mantis thatÆs  given  up preying and  taken up
tennis instead.Æ
   æHmm,Æ  said Gilks  gruffly, turning away and looking about the room.
Dirk pocketed the tape.
   æSounds like the same one,Æ said Gilks.
   æAnd of course,Æ said Dirk, æcompletely incapable of murder.Æ
   æThatÆs for us to decide.Æ
   æAnd of course a jury.Æ
   æTchah! Juries!Æ
   æThough, of course, it  will not come to  that,  since the facts will
speak for  themselves  long before  it  comes  to  a court of law for my
client.Æ
   æYour bleeding client, eh? All right, Cjelli, where is he?Æ
   æI havenÆt the faintest idea.Æ
   æIÆll bet youÆve got a billing address.Æ
   Dirk shrugged.
   æLook,  Cjelli, this is a perfectly normal,  harmless murder enquiry,
and I donÆt want you mucking it  up.  So consider yourself warned off as
of now. If  I see a single  piece of  evidence being levitated IÆll  hit
you so hard you wonÆt know  if  itÆs tomorrow or Thursday. Now  get out,
and give me that tape on the way.Æ He held out his hand.
   Dirk blinked, genuinely surprised. æWhat tape?Æ
   Gilks sighed. æYouÆre a  clever man, Cjelli, I grant  you  that,Æ  he
said, æbut you make  the  same  mistake  a  lot  of clever people  do of
thinking everyone else is stupid. If I turn away itÆs for a reason,  and
the reason was to see  what you picked up. I didnÆt need to see you pick
it up,  I just had to see  what  was missing afterwards.  We are trained
you  know. We used  to get half an hour Observation Training  on Tuesday
afternoons.  Just  as  a break  after  four  hours  solid  of  Senseless
Brutality.Æ
   Dirk hid his anger  with himself  behind a light  smile. He fished in
the pocket of his leather overcoat and handed over the tape.
   æPlay it,Æ  said Gilks, æletÆs see what you  didnÆt want us to hear.Æ
   æIt  wasnÆt  that  I didnÆt want you  to hear it,Æ said Dirk,  with a
shrug.  æI just  wanted  to hear  it  first.Æ  He went over to the shelf
which  carried RichardÆs hi-fi equipment and slipped  the tape  into the
cassette player.
   æSo do you want to give me a little introduction?Æ
   æItÆs  a  tape,Æ said Dirk,  æfrom  Susan  WayÆs telephone  answering
machine. Way apparently had this habit of leaving long...Æ
   æYeah, I  know about  that.  And his secretary goes  round picking up
his prattlings in the morning, poor devil.Æ
   æWell, I  believe  there  may be a message  on the  tape  from Gordon
WayÆs car last night.Æ
   æI see. OK. Play it.Æ
   With a gracious bow Dirk pressed the Play button.
   æOh, Susan, hi, itÆs Gordon,Æ said the tape  once again.  æJust on my
way to the cottage --Æ
   æCottage!Æ exclaimed Gilks, satirically.
   æItÆs, er,  Thursday  night, and itÆs,  er...  8.47. Bit misty on the
roads.  Listen, I have those  people from  the  States coming over  this
weekend...Æ
   Gilks raised  his  eyebrows, looked at his watch,  and made a note on
his pad.
   Both  Dirk  and the police sergeant  experienced a chill as the  dead
manÆs voice filled the room.
   æ-- itÆs  a  wonder  I donÆt end up dead in  the ditch, that would be
something wouldnÆt it,  leaving your  famous  last  words on  somebodyÆs
answering machine, thereÆs no reason --Æ
   They  listened in a tense silence as the tape  played  on through the
entire message.
   æThatÆs the  problem  with  crunch-heads  -- they have one great idea
that actually works  and then they expect  you  to carry on funding them
for years  while  they  sit  and  calculate  the  topographies of  their
navels.  IÆm  sorry,  IÆm going  to  have  to stop  and close  the  boot
properly. WonÆt be a moment.Æ
   Next came  the  muffled bump of  the telephone receiver being dropped
on  the passenger  seat,  and a few seconds later the  sound  of the car
door being opened.  In  the  meantime,  the music  from the  carÆs sound
system could be heard burbling away in the background.
   A  few   seconds  later   still   came   the  distant,  muffled,  but
unmistakable double blam of a shotgun.
   æStop the tape,Æ said Gilks sharply  and glanced at his watch. æThree
minutes and twenty-five seconds since he said  it was  8.47.Æ He glanced
up at Dirk  again. æStay  here.  DonÆt move.  DonÆt touch anything. IÆve
made a note of the position of every particle of air in this room,  so I
shall know if youÆve been breathing.Æ
   He turned smartly and  left.  Dirk heard him  saying as he  went down
the stairs, æTuckett, get on to  WayForwardÆs office, get the details of
WayÆs  carphone, what  number,  which  network...Æ The  voice faded away
downstairs.
   Quickly  Dirk  twisted down  the  volume  control  on  the hi-fi, and
resumed playing the tape.
   The  music  continued for  a  while.  Dirk  drummed  his  fingers  in
frustration. Still the music continued.
   He  flicked  the Fast Forward button for just a moment. Still  music.
It  occurred  to him  that he  was looking  for something,  but that  he
didnÆt know what. That thought stopped him in his tracks.
   He was very definitely looking for something.
   He very definitely didnÆt know what.
   The realisation that he didnÆt know exactly why he  was doing what he
was doing suddenly  chilled and electrified him. He turned slowly like a
fridge door opening.
   There was no  one there, at least no  one  that  he could see. But he
knew the  chill  prickling  through  his skin and  detested it above all
things.
   He said in a low savage  whisper, æIf  anyone can hear me, hear this.
My  mind   is  my  centre  and  everything  that  happens  there  is  my
responsibility.  Other  people  may  believe  what  it pleases  them  to
believe, but  I will do nothing without  I  know the reason why and know
it  clearly. If you want something then let me know, but do not you dare
touch my mind.Æ
   He was  trembling with a deep and  old rage. The chill dropped slowly
and  almost pathetically from him  and seemed to move off into the room.
He tried to follow it  with his senses,  but was instantly distracted by
a  sudden voice that seemed  to come at him on the edge  of his hearing,
on a distant howl of wind.
   It  was  a hollow, terrified,  bewildered  voice,  no  more  than  an
insubstantial  whisper,  but  it was  there,  audible, on the telephone-
answering machine tape.
   It said,  æSusan! Susan,  help me! Help me for GodÆs sake. Susan, IÆm
dead --Æ
   Dirk whirled round and stopped the tape.
   æIÆm sorry,Æ he said under his  breath, æbut I have the welfare of my
client to consider.Æ
   He wound the  tape back  a very short distance, to just  before where
the voice  began, twisted  the  Record  Level  knob to zero and  pressed
Record.  He left the tape to run, wiping off the voice and anything that
might  follow  it. If the tape was going to establish the time of Gordon
WayÆs death, then  Dirk  didnÆt want any embarrassing examples of Gordon
speaking to turn  up on the tape after that  point, even if it was  only
to confirm that he was, in fact, dead.
   There seemed to be  a great  eruption of emotion  in the air near  to
him. A wave of  something surged through the room, causing the furniture
to flutter  in its  wake.  Dirk watched where it seemed to go, towards a
shelf near the door on which,  he suddenly realised, stood RichardÆs own
telephone-answering  machine.  The machine  started to  jiggle  fitfully
where it sat, but then  sat still  as Dirk approached  it. Dirk  reached
out slowly and  calmly  and pushed the button which  set the  machine to
Answer.
   The disturbance  in  the air  then passed back  through the  room  to
RichardÆs  long  desk  where  two  old-fashioned rotary-dial  telephones
nestled among  the piles of  paper and micro floppy disks. Dirk  guessed
what would happen, but elected to watch rather than to intervene.
   One  of the telephone receivers  toppled off  its cradle.  Dirk could
hear the dialling  tone. Then,  slowly  and with obvious difficulty, the
dial  began  to turn. It moved unevenly round, further round, slower and
slower, and then suddenly slipped back.
   There was a momentÆs pause. Then the receiver  rests went down and up
again to  get a new  dialling tone.  The dial began  to  turn again, but
creaking even more fitfully than the last time.
   Again it slipped back.
   There was  a longer  pause this time, and then the entire process was
repeated once more.
   When the  dial slipped back a third time there was a sudden explosion
of fury --  the  whole phone  leapt into the  air and hurtled across the
room. The receiver cord wrapped itself round  an Anglepoise  lamp on the
way and brought it crashing down in a tangle of cables, coffee  cups and
floppy disks.  A pile of books erupted off the desk and on to the floor.
   The figure of Sergeant Gilks stood stony-faced in the doorway.
   æIÆm going to come in again,Æ he said,  æand when I do,  I donÆt want
to see anything of that kind going on whatsoever.  Is that  understood?Æ
He turned and disappeared.
   Dirk leapt  for the cassette  player and hit the Rewind button.  Then
he  turned and hissed at the empty air, æI donÆt know who you are, but I
can guess. If  you want my  help, donÆt you ever  embarrass me like that
again!Æ
   A few moments later,  Gilks  walked in again. æAh, there you are,Æ he
said.
   He  surveyed  the wreckage with an  even  gaze. æIÆll pretend I canÆt
see any of this, so  that I wonÆt have to  ask any questions the answers
to which would, I know, only irritate me.Æ
   Dirk glowered.
   In the moment  or two of  silence  that  followed, a  slight  ticking
whirr could be heard which  caused the sergeant  to look sharply at  the
cassette player.
   æWhatÆs that tape doing?Æ
   æRewinding.Æ
   æGive it to me.Æ
   The tape  reached  the beginning  and stopped  as Dirk reached it. He
took it out and handed it to Gilks.
   æIrritatingly, this  seems to  put  your  client  completely  in  the
clear,Æ said  the sergeant. æCellnet  have confirmed that  the last call
made from the car was at 8.46 pm last night, at  which point your client
was  lightly  dozing  in  front  of  several hundred  witnesses.  I  say
witnesses,  in fact they were  mostly  students, but we will probably be
forced to assume that they canÆt all be lying.Æ
   æGood,Æ said Dirk, æwell, IÆm glad thatÆs all cleared up.Æ
   æWe never thought he had  actually done it, of course. Simply  didnÆt
fit.  But  you know us -- we like to get results. Tell him we still want
to ask him some questions, though.Æ
   æI shall be sure to mention it if I happen to run into him.Æ
   æYou just do that little thing.Æ
   æWell,  I  shanÆt detain you any longer, Sergeant,Æ said Dirk, airily
waving at the door.
   æNo,  but I  shall  bloody detain  you if  youÆre  not out of here in
thirty  seconds, Cjelli. I donÆt know  what youÆre  up to,  but if I can
possibly avoid finding out I shall sleep easier in my office. Out.Æ
   æThen I  shall bid you good  day,  Sergeant. I  wonÆt say itÆs been a
pleasure because it hasnÆt.Æ
   Dirk swept  out of the room, and made his way out of the flat, noting
with sorrow that where there had been  a  large chesterfield sofa wedged
magnificently in the staircase, there was now just a small, sad  pile of
sawdust.

   With a jerk Michael Wenton-Weakes looked up from his book.
   His   mind  suddenly  was  alive  with  purpose.   Thoughts,  images,
memories, intentions,  all crowded in upon him, and the more they seemed
to  contradict each other the  more they seemed to fit together, to pair
and settle.
   The match at last was perfect, the  teeth  of one slowly aligned with
the teeth of another.
   A pull and they were zipped.
   Though  the waiting had seemed an eternity  of eternities when it was
filled with failure, with fading  waves of weakness, with feeble groping
and lonely  impotence,  the  match  once  made cancelled it  all.  Would
cancel it all. Would undo what had been so disastrously done.
   Who  thought that? It did not matter, the match  was made, the  match
was perfect.
   Michael  gazed out  of  the window across the well-manicured  Chelsea
street  and did not care whether what he saw were slimy things with legs
or whether they were all Mr A. K. Ross. What mattered was what  they had
stolen and what they would  be compelled to  return. Ross now lay in the
past. What he was now concerned with lay still further in it.
   His large soft cowlike eyes  returned to the last few lines of æKubla
KhanÆ, which he had just  been reading. The match was  made, the zip was
pulled.
   He closed the book and put it in his pocket.
   His  path  back  now was  clear. He  knew  what  he must  do. It only
remained to do a little shopping and then do it.


[::: CHAPTER 22 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æYou? Wanted for murder? Richard what are you talking about?Æ
   The  telephone  wavered  in RichardÆs hand.  He was  holding it about
half  an inch  away from his ear anyway because it seemed  that somebody
had dipped the earpiece  in some chow  mein recently, but that wasnÆt so
bad. This was  a public telephone so it was clearly an oversight that it
was working at  all. But Richard  was beginning  to feel as if the whole
world had shifted about  half an inch away  from him, like  someone in a
deodorant commercial.
   æGordon,Æ  said  Richard,  hesitantly,  æGordonÆs  been  murdered  --
hasnÆt he?Æ
   Susan paused before she answered.
   æYes,  Richard,Æ  she said in a distressed voice,  æbut no one thinks
you did it. They want to question you of course, but --Æ
   æSo there are no police with you now?Æ
   æNo, Richard,Æ insisted Susan, æLook, why donÆt you come here?Æ
   æAnd theyÆre not out searching for me?Æ
   æNo! Where on earth did you  get the idea that you were wanted for --
that they thought you had done it?Æ
   æEr -- well, this friend of mine told me.Æ
   æWho?Æ
   æWell, his name is Dirk Gently.Æ
   æYouÆve never mentioned him. Who is he? Did he say anything else?Æ
   æHe hypnotised me and, er, made  me jump in the canal, and, er, well,
that was it really --Æ
   There was a terribly long pause at the other end.
   æRichard,Æ said Susan  at last with  the sort of calmness  that comes
over  people  when they realise that however bad things may  seem to be,
there  is absolutely no reason why  they  shouldnÆt simply get worse and
worse, æcome over here.  I  was  going  to say I need  to see you, but I
think you need to see me.Æ
   æI should probably go to the police.Æ
   æGo to the police later. Richard, please. A few hours  wonÆt make any
difference. I... I  can  hardly even think.  Richard, itÆs so awful.  It
would just help if you were here. Where are you?Æ
   æOK,Æ said Richard, æIÆll be with you in about twenty minutes.Æ
   æShall I leave  the window  open or would you like  to try the door?Æ
she said with a sniff.


[::: CHAPTER 23 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æNo, please,Æ said Dirk,  restraining Miss PearceÆs hand from opening
a letter from the Inland  Revenue, æthere  are wilder skies than these.Æ
   He had emerged  from a spell of tense brooding in his darkened office
and there  was  an air of excited  concentration about him. It had taken
his  actual signature on an actual salary cheque to persuade Miss Pearce
to  forgive him for the  latest unwarrantable extravagance with which he
had returned  to the office and he felt that just to sit there blatantly
opening letters from the taxman  was  to take his magnanimous gesture in
entirely the wrong spirit.
   She put the envelope aside.
   æCome!Æ he  said.  æI  have  something  I  wish you  to see. I  shall
observe your reactions with the very greatest of interest.Æ
   He bustled back into his own office and sat at his desk.
   She  followed him in patiently and sat  opposite,  pointedly ignoring
the new unwarrantable extravagance sitting on the desk.
   The flashy brass plaque for the door had stirred  her up pretty badly
but the silly  phone with big  red push buttons  she  regarded  as being
beneath contempt.  And  she certainly wasnÆt going to do  anything  rash
like smile until she knew for certain that  the cheque wouldnÆt  bounce.
The last time he signed a cheque for her he  cancelled it before the end
of the day, to prevent it, as  he explained,  æfalling  into  the  wrong
handsÆ. The wrong hands presumably, being those of her bank manager.
   He thrust a piece of paper across the desk.
   She picked it  up  and looked at  it.  Then  she  turned it round and
looked at it  again.  She  looked  at the other side and then she put it
down.
   æWell?Æ demanded Dirk. æWhat do you make of it? Tell me!Æ
   Miss Pearce sighed.
   æItÆs a  lot  of  meaningless  squiggles done  in blue  felt tip on a
piece  of  typing  paper,Æ  she  said.  æIt  looks  like  you  did  them
yourself.Æ
   æNo!Æ barked Dirk,  æWell, yes,Æ he  admitted,  æbut only  because  I
believe that it is the answer to the problem!Æ
   æWhat problem?Æ
   æThe problem,Æ  insisted  Dirk, slapping the table, æof the conjuring
trick! I told you!Æ
   æYes, Mr  Gently,  several times.  I  think  it was  just a conjuring
trick. You see them on the telly.Æ
   æWith this difference -- that this one was completely impossible!Æ
   æCouldnÆt  have been  impossible or  he wouldnÆt have done it. Stands
to reason.Æ
   æExactly!Æ said  Dirk  excitedly. æExactly! Miss  Pearce,  you are  a
lady of rare perception and insight.Æ
   æThank you, sir, can I go now?Æ
   æWait!  I  havenÆt  finished  yet!  Not  by a  long  way,  not  by  a
bucketful! You have demonstrated to me the depth of  your perception and
insight, allow me to demonstrate mine!Æ
   Miss Pearce slumped patiently in her seat.
   æI think,Æ  said  Dirk,  æyou  will be impressed.  Consider  this. An
intractable problem. In trying to find  the solution to  it I  was going
round and round in  little circles  in my mind,  over  and over the same
maddening  things.  Clearly  I wasnÆt  going  to be  able  to  think  of
anything  else until I had  the answer, but equally clearly I would have
to think of  something  else if I was  ever going to get the answer. How
to break this circle? Ask me how.Æ
   æHow?Æ said Miss Pearce obediently, but without enthusiasm.
   æBy  writing  down what the  answer is!Æ exclaimed Dirk. æAnd here it
is!Æ He slapped the  piece  of paper triumphantly and sat  back  with  a
satisfied smile.
   Miss Pearce looked at it dumbly.
   æWith  the result,Æ  continued Dirk, æthat I am now  able to turn  my
mind to fresh and intriguing problems, like, for instance...Æ
   He  took the piece of paper, covered  with its  aimless squiggles and
doodlings, and held it up to her.
   æWhat language,Æ he said in a low,  dark voice, æis this written in?Æ
   Miss Pearce continued to look at it dumbly.
   Dirk flung the  piece of paper down, put  his  feet  up on the table,
and threw his head back with his hands behind it.
   æYou  see what I have done?Æ  he asked the  ceiling, which seemed  to
flinch slightly  at being  yanked so suddenly into  the conversation. æI
have transformed the problem from an  intractably difficult and possibly
quite  insoluble conundrum  into a  mere linguistic puzzle.  Albeit,Æ he
muttered, after  a  long  moment of silent  pondering,  æan  intractably
difficult and possibly insoluble one.Æ
   He swung back to gaze intently at Janice Pearce.
   æGo on,Æ he urged, æsay  that itÆs insane -- but it might just work!Æ
   Janice Pearce cleared her throat.
   æItÆs insane,Æ she said, ætrust me.Æ
   Dirk  turned away  and  sagged sideways off his  chair,  much as  the
sitter for The Thinker probably  did when Rodin went off  to be excused.
   He suddenly looked profoundly tired and depressed.
   æI know,Æ  he  said  in  a  low,  dispirited  voice,  æthat there  is
something profoundly wrong  somewhere. And  I know  that I  must  go  to
Cambridge  to put it right. But I would feel less fearful if I knew what
it was...Æ
   æCan I get on now, please, then?Æ said Miss Pearce.
   Dirk looked up at her glumly.
   æYes,Æ he said with a  sigh, æbut just -- just tell me --Æ he flicked
at  the  piece of  paper  with  his fingertips -- æwhat do you  think of
this, then?Æ
   æWell, I think itÆs childish,Æ said Janice Pearce, frankly.
   æBut --  but --  but!Æ said  Dirk  thumping the table in frustration.
æDonÆt  you  understand  that  we  need  to  be  childish  in  order  to
understand?  Only  a child sees things with perfect  clarity, because it
hasnÆt developed  all those filters which prevent us from seeing  things
that we donÆt expect to see?Æ
   æThen why donÆt you go and ask one?Æ
   æThank you,  Miss  Pearce,Æ  said  Dirk  reaching  for his hat, æonce
again  you  have  rendered  me  an  inestimable  service for  which I am
profoundly grateful.Æ
   He swept out.


[::: CHAPTER 24 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The weather began to  bleaken  as  Richard made his  way  to  SusanÆs
flat. The sky  which  had started out with such verve and spirit  in the
morning was beginning to lose its concentration and slip  back  into its
normal English condition, that of a  damp and rancid dish cloth. Richard
took a taxi, which got him there in a few minutes.
   æThey should  all be deported,Æ said the  taxi driver as they drew to
a halt.
   æEr,  who  should?Æ  said  Richard,  who  realised   he  hadnÆt  been
listening to a word the driver said.
   æEr  --Æsaid  the  driver,  who  suddenly  realised  he  hadnÆt  been
listening either,  æer, the  whole lot  of them. Get rid  of  the  whole
bloody lot, thatÆs  what  I say.  And their bloody newts,Æ he  added for
good measure.
   æExpect youÆre right,Æ said Richard, and hurried into the house.
   Arriving at the front door  of her flat he could hear from within the
sounds of SusanÆs cello playing a slow, stately melody.  He was  glad of
that,  that  she  was  playing.  She  had  an  amazing   emotional  self
sufficiency  and  control  provided  she  could play her  cello.  He had
noticed an odd  and extraordinary thing about her relationship with  the
music she played. If ever she  was  feeling emotional or upset she could
sit and play some  music with  utter  concentration  and  emerge seeming
fresh and calm.
   The next  time she played the same music, however, it would all burst
from her and she would go completely to pieces.
   He let himself in  as  quietly  as  possible so as not to disturb her
concentration.
   He tiptoed past the small  room she practised in,  but  the door  was
open so he paused and looked at  her, with the slightest of signals that
she shouldnÆt  stop.  She  was  looking pale and drawn but  gave  him  a
flicker of a smile and continued bowing with a sudden intensity.
   With an  impeccable timing of which it is very rarely capable the sun
chose  that moment  to burst briefly  through the gathering  rainclouds,
and  as she played  her  cello a stormy light played on her  and  on the
deep old brown of the wood of  the instrument. Richard stood transfixed.
The turmoil  of  the  day stood still for a moment and kept a respectful
distance.
   He  didnÆt  know the  music,  but  it  sounded  like  Mozart  and  he
remembered her saying  she  had some Mozart  to learn. He walked quietly
on and sat down to wait and listen.
   Eventually she  finished the piece, and there was  about  a minute of
silence before she came through. She blinked  and smiled and gave  him a
long,  trembling  hug, then  released herself and put the phone  back on
the hook. It usually got taken off when she was practising.
   æSorry,Æ  she said, æI didnÆt want to stop.Æ She briskly brushed away
a tear as if it was a slight irritation. æHow are you Richard?Æ
   He shrugged and gave  her a bewildered  look. That  seemed  about  to
cover it.
   æAnd IÆm  going to have to  carry  on, IÆm afraid,Æ said Susan with a
sigh  æIÆm sorry. IÆve just  been...Æ She shook her  head. æWho would do
it?Æ
   æI donÆt know. Some madman. IÆm not sure that it matters who.Æ
   æNo,Æ she said. æLook, er, have you had any lunch?Æ
   æNo. Susan, you keep playing and IÆll see whatÆs  in  the fridge.  We
can talk about it all over some lunch.Æ
   Susan nodded.
   æAll right,Æ she said, æexcept...Æ
   æYes?Æ
   æWell, just for the moment I donÆt  really want to talk about Gordon.
Just till it sinks  in. I feel sort of caught out. It would be easier if
IÆd been closer to him,  but I wasnÆt and IÆm sort of embarrassed by not
having a  reaction  ready. Talking about it would  be  all  right except
that you have to use the past tense and thatÆs whatÆs...Æ
   She clung to him for  a  moment and then quieted herself with a sigh.
   æThereÆs  not  much  in the fridge  at the moment,Æ  she said,  æsome
yoghurt, I think,  and a jar of roll-mop herrings  you could  open.  IÆm
sure  youÆll  be able  to muck it up if you try, but itÆs actually quite
straightforward. The main trick is not to throw them all over the  floor
or get jam on them.Æ
   She  gave him a hug, a kiss and  a glum smile and then retreated back
to her music room.
   The phone rang and Richard answered it.
   æHello?Æ he said. There  was  nothing,  just  a  faint  sort of windy
noise on the line.
   æHello?Æ  he  said  again, waited,  shrugged  and put  the phone back
down.
   æWas there anybody there?Æ called Susan.
   æNo, no one,Æ said Richard.
   æThatÆs  happened a couple  of  times,Æ  said Susan.  æI think itÆs a
sort of minimalist heavy breather.Æ She resumed playing.
   Richard went into the kitchen and opened  the fridge. He  was less of
a  health-conscious  eater  than  Susan  and  was  therefore  less  than
thrilled by what he  found  there, but he  managed to put some  roll-mop
herrings, some  yoghurt, some  rice and  some oranges on a  tray without
difficulty and  tried not to think  that  a couple of fat hamburgers and
fries would round it off nicely.
   He found  a bottle  of white wine and carried  it all  through to the
small dining table.
   After a minute or  two Susan  joined him there. She  was at  her most
calm and  composed,  and after  a  few mouthsful she asked him about the
canal.
   Richard shook  his head in  bemusement and tried to explain about it,
and about Dirk.
   æWhat did you say his name  was?Æ said Susan with a frown when he had
come, rather lamely, to a conclusion.
   æItÆs, er, Dirk Gently,Æ said Richard, æin a way.Æ
   æIn a way?Æ
   æEr,  yes,Æ said Richard  with a difficult  sigh. He  reflected  that
just about anything you could say about Dirk  was subject to  these kind
of vague  and  shifty qualifications. There  was  even,  on  his  letter
heading,  a string  of vague and shifty-looking qualifications after his
name. He  pulled out the piece  of  paper  on  which  he had vainly been
trying to organise his thoughts earlier in the day.
   æI...Æ he started, but the doorbell rang. They looked  at each other.
   æIf itÆs the  police,Æ said Richard,  æIÆd better see them. LetÆs get
it over with.Æ
   Susan pushed back  her  chair, went to  the front  door and picked up
the Entryphone.
   æHello?Æ she said.
   æWho?Æ she  said after a  moment.  She frowned  as she  listened then
swung round and frowned at Richard.
   æYouÆd better  come  up,Æ  she said in  a less than  friendly tone of
voice and then pressed the button. She came back and sat down.
   æYour friend,Æ she said evenly, æMr Gently.Æ

   The  Electric MonkÆs day  was  going tremendously  well and he  broke
into an excited gallop.  That is to say  that, excitedly, he spurred his
horse to a gallop and, unexcitedly, his horse broke into it.
   This world, the  Monk thought, was a good one. He loved it. He didnÆt
know whose it  was or where  it had  come from, but  it was certainly  a
deeply  fulfilling place for someone with  his  unique and extraordinary
gifts.
   He was appreciated.  All day  he  had gone  up to people, fallen into
conversation  with them, listened to  their  troubles, and  then quietly
uttered those three magic words, æI believe you.Æ
   The effect  had  invariably been electrifying. It  wasnÆt that people
on  this  world didnÆt  occasionally say it  to  each  other,  but  they
rarely,  it seemed, managed to  achieve that  deep  timbre of  sincerity
which the Monk had been so superbly programmed to reproduce.
   On his own world, after all, he was  taken  for granted. People would
just expect him to get on and believe things  for them without bothering
them.  Someone  would  come to  the  door  with  some great  new idea or
proposal or even  a new  religion, and  the answer would be æOh, go  and
tell  that to the Monk.Æ And the Monk would sit and listen and patiently
believe it all, but no one would take any further interest.
   Only one  problem seemed to arise on this otherwise  excellent world.
Often, after  he had uttered  the magic words, the subject would rapidly
change to that of money,  and  the Monk of course didnÆt  have  any -- a
shortcoming  that had  quickly  blighted  a  number  of  otherwise  very
promising encounters.
   Perhaps he should acquire some -- but where?
   He  reined his horse in for a moment, and the horse jerked gratefully
to a halt  and started in on  the grass on the roadside verge. The horse
had no  idea what all  this  galloping up  and down  was in aid of,  and
didnÆt  care. All it did care about was that it was being made to gallop
up  and  down past a seemingly perpetual roadside  buffet.  It  made the
best of its moment while it had it.
   The  Monk  peered  keenly up and  down the  road.  It seemed  vaguely
familiar. He trotted a little further up it for another look. The  horse
resumed its meal a few yards further along.
   Yes. The Monk had been here last night.
   He remembered  it clearly, well, sort of clearly. He believed that he
remembered it clearly, and  that, after  all, was the  main  thing. Here
was where he had walked  to in a  more  than  usually  confused state of
mind, and just  around the very  next  corner, if he was not  very  much
mistaken,  again, lay the small  roadside establishment at which  he had
jumped  into  the back of that nice manÆs car  -- the nice  man  who had
subsequently reacted so oddly to being shot at.
   Perhaps they would have some  money there and would let  him have it.
He wondered. Well,  he  would find out.  He  yanked  the horse  from its
feast once again and galloped towards it.
   As  he approached the petrol station he noticed a car parked there at
an arrogant angle. The angle made it quite clear that  the  car  was not
there  for anything so mundane  as to have petrol  put  into it, and was
much too important  to park itself neatly  out of the way. Any other car
that arrived for petrol would just  have to manoeuvre around  it as best
it  could.  The  car  was white with  stripes  and badges and  important
looking lights.
   Arriving at the forecourt  the Monk dismounted and tethered his horse
to  a pump.  He walked  towards  the  small  shop building and saw  that
inside  it  there  was  a man with his back to  him wearing a dark  blue
uniform and a peaked cap. The man was dancing  up  and down and twisting
his  fingers in his  ears, and this was clearly making a deep impression
on the man behind the till.
   The  Monk watched in  transfixed  awe. The man, he  believed with  an
instant  effortlessness which would have impressed even a Scientologist,
must be a God of some  kind to arouse such fervour. He waited with bated
breath to worship him. In a moment the man turned around and  walked out
of the shop, saw the Monk and stopped dead.
   The Monk realised  that the God must  be  waiting for him to  make an
act of  worship,  so  he  reverently  danced up  and  down  twisting his
fingers in his ears.
   His  God stared at him for a  moment, caught hold of him, twisted him
round,  slammed  him  forward  spreadeagled over the car and frisked him
for weapons.

   Dirk burst into the flat like a small podgy tornado.
   æMiss  Way,Æ he  said,  grasping  her  slightly  unwilling  hand  and
doffing his absurd  hat, æit is the  most inexpressible pleasure to meet
you, but also the matter of the deepest regret that  the occasion of our
meeting should  be one of such great sorrow and one which bids me extend
to  you  my most  profound  sympathy  and commiseration.  I  ask  you to
believe me that I would not intrude  upon your private grief for all the
world if it were not  on a matter of  the  gravest moment and magnitude.
Richard --  I  have solved  the  problem of the conjuring trick and itÆs
extraordinary.Æ
   He swept through the room and deposited himself  on a spare chair  at
the small dining table, on which he put his hat.
   æYou will have to excuse us, Dirk --Æ said Richard, coldly.
   æNo,  I am afraid you  will have to excuse me,Æ  returned Dirk.  æThe
puzzle is  solved,  and the solution is  so astounding that  it  took  a
seven-year-old  child  on  the  street  to give  it  to me.  But  it  is
undoubtedly  the  correct  one, absolutely  undoubtedly. ôWhat, then, is
the solution?ö  you  ask me, or rather would  ask me if  you could get a
word  in edgeways, which you  canÆt,  so I will save  you the bother and
ask the question for you, and answer it  as  well by saying that  I will
not tell  you, because you wonÆt believe me. I shall  instead show  you,
this very afternoon.
   æRest assured, however, that it explains everything. It  explains the
trick.  It  explains  the  note you found  -- that  should  have made it
perfectly  clear to  me  but  I  was  a  fool.  And it explains what the
missing third question  was,  or rather  -- and this is the  significant
point -- it explains what the missing first question was!Æ
   æWhat  missing  question?Æ exclaimed Richard,  confused by the sudden
pause, and leaping in with the first phrase he could grab.
   Dirk blinked as if at  an idiot. æThe  missing  question  that George
III asked, of course,Æ he said.
   æAsked who?Æ
   æWell, the  Professor,Æ said Dirk  impatiently. æDonÆt you  listen to
anything you  say? The  whole thing was obvious!Æ he exclaimed, thumping
the table,  æSo  obvious that  the  only thing which prevented  me  from
seeing  the  solution  was the  trifling  fact  that  it  was completely
impossible. Sherlock Holmes  observed that once you have eliminated  the
impossible,  then whatever  remains,  however improbable,  must  be  the
answer.  I, however, do not like  to eliminate  the impossible. Now. Let
us go.Æ
   æNo.Æ
   æWhat?Æ  Dirk glanced up at Susan, from whom this unexpected -- or at
least, unexpected to him -- opposition had come.
   æMr Gently,Æ said  Susan  in a  voice you  could notch  a stick with,
æwhy  did you  deliberately mislead  Richard into  thinking that  he was
wanted by the police?Æ
   Dirk frowned.
   æBut he was wanted by the police,Æ he said, æand still is.Æ
   æYes,  but  just  to answer  questions! Not because  heÆs a suspected
murderer.Æ
   Dirk looked down.
   æMiss  Way,Æ  he  said, æthe  police  are  interested  in knowing who
murdered  your brother.  I, with the  very  greatest respect, am not. It
may, I concede, turn out to  have a bearing on the case, but it may just
as likely turn  out to be a casual  madman. I wanted to know, still need
desperately  to  know, /why Richard climbed into this flat last night/.Æ
   æI told you,Æ protested Richard.
   æWhat you told me  is immaterial -- it only reveals the crucial  fact
that  you do not know the reason yourself! For heavenÆs sake I thought I
had demonstrated that to you clearly enough at the canal!Æ
   Richard simmered.
   æIt  was perfectly clear to me watching you,Æ pursued Dirk, æthat you
had very little idea what you  were doing, and had absolutely no concern
about  the  physical danger  you were in. At first I thought,  watching,
that it was  just a brainless thug  out on his first and quite  possibly
last burgle. But then the figure looked back  and  I realised it was you
-- and  I know you  to  be an  intelligent, rational, and moderate  man.
Richard MacDuff? Risking his  neck carelessly climbing up  drainpipes at
night?  It  seemed to me that  you would  only behave in such a reckless
and  extreme  way if  you were desperately worried  about  something  of
terrible importance. Is that not true, Miss Way?Æ
   He looked  sharply up at Susan, who  slowly  sat down, looking at him
with an alarm in her eyes which said that he had struck home.
   æAnd yet, when you came to  see me this morning  you seemed perfectly
calm and  collected.  You argued  with me  perfectly rationally  when  I
talked a  lot of  nonsense about  Schr÷dingerÆs  Cat.  This was  not the
behaviour of someone who had  the previous night been driven to extremes
by some  desperate purpose. I confess that it was at that  moment that I
stooped  to,  well,  exaggerating your  predicament, simply  in order to
keep hold of you.Æ
   æYou didnÆt. I left.Æ
   æWith  certain  ideas  in  your head. I knew  you  would  be  back. I
apologise most humbly for  having misled you, er,  somewhat, but  I knew
that what  I  had to  find  out  lay  far beyond  what  the police would
concern  themselves  with.  And it  was  this --  if you were not  quite
yourself when you climbed the wall  last night... then /who were you, --
and why/?Æ
   Richard shivered. A silence lengthened.
   æWhat has it got to do with conjuring tricks?Æ he said at last.
   æThat is what we must go to Cambridge to find out.Æ
   æBut what makes you so sure -- ?Æ
   æIt disturbs  me,Æ said Dirk, and a dark and heavy look came into his
face.
   For one so garrulous he seemed suddenly oddly reluctant to speak.
   He continued, æIt disturbs me very greatly when  I  find that  I know
things  and  do  not  know  why  I  know  them.  Maybe  it  is  the same
instinctive processing of data  that  allows  you to catch a ball almost
before youÆve  seen  it.  Maybe  it  is the  deeper and less  explicable
instinct that tells you when  someone is  watching  you.  It  is  a very
great offence to my intellect that the  very things that I despise other
people for being credulous of  actually occur to  me. You will  remember
the... unhappiness surrounding certain exam questions.Æ
   He seemed  suddenly distressed and haggard. He had to dig deep inside
himself to continue speaking.
   He  said,  æThe ability  to put  two  and two  together and  come  up
instantly with four  is one thing. The ability to put the square root of
five  hundred and  thirty-nine point seven  together  with the cosine of
twenty-six point four three  two  and come up  with... with whatever the
answer to that is, is  quite another. And I... well, let  me give you an
example.Æ
   He leant forward intently. æLast  night I saw you  climbing into this
flat.  I  /knew/  that something was  wrong. Today I got you to  tell me
every last detail you knew about what happened last night,  and already,
as a result, using  my  intellect alone, I  have  uncovered possibly the
greatest secret lying hidden  on  this  planet. I swear to you that this
is true and that I  can prove  it. Now  you must believe me  when I tell
you that I know, I know that  there is  something terribly, desperately,
appallingly wrong and that we must  find it. Will you go with me now, to
Cambridge?Æ
   Richard nodded dumbly.
   æGood,Æ said Dirk.  æWhat is this?Æ  he added,  pointing at RichardÆs
plate.
   æA pickled herring. Do you want one?Æ
   æThank you, no,Æ said  Dirk,  rising and  buckling  his coat.  æThere
is,Æ he added as he headed  towards the door, steering Richard with him,
æno such  word as ôherringö in my dictionary. Good afternoon,  Miss Way,
wish us God speed.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 25 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   There was  a rumble  of thunder,  and the onset  of that interminable
tight drizzle from the north-east by which  so many of the worldÆs  most
momentous events seem to be accompanied.
   Dirk turned  up  the  collar  of  his  leather  overcoat against  the
weather,  but  nothing  could  dampen his  demonic exuberance as he  and
Richard approached the great twelfth-century gates.
   æSt  CeddÆs College, Cambridge,Æ  he exclaimed,  looking at them  for
the first time in eight years.  æFounded in the year something or other,
by  someone  I forget  in  honour of someone whose  name for  the moment
escapes me.Æ
   æSt Cedd?Æ suggested Richard.
   æDo  you  know,  I think it  very probably  was? One  of  the  duller
Northumbrian saints. His brother Chad was even  duller. Has a  cathedral
in Birmingham if  that gives you  some idea.  Ah, Bill, how good to  see
you  again,Æ  he added, accosting  the porter who was  just walking into
the college as well. The porter looked round.
   æMr  Cjelli,  nice  to see  you back,  sir. Sorry you had a  spot  of
bother, hope thatÆs all behind you now.Æ
   æIndeed, Bill, it is. You  find me thriving. And Mrs  Roberts? How is
she? Foot still troubling her?Æ
   æNot since  she had  it off, thanks  for asking, sir. Between you and
me,  sir,  I wouldÆve been just  as happy  to have had her amputated and
kept  the  foot.  I  had a  little spot reserved on the mantelpiece, but
there we are, we have to take things as we find them.
   æMr MacDuff,  sir,Æ he  added, nodding  curtly at  Richard.  æOh that
horse you mentioned, sir, when you were here  last night,  IÆm afraid we
had to have it removed. It was bothering Professor Chronotis.Æ
   æI  was only  curious,  er,  Bill,Æ  said Richard. æI hope it  didnÆt
disturb you.Æ
   æNothing  ever disturbs me, sir, so long as it isnÆt wearing a dress.
CanÆt abide it when the young fellers wear dresses, sir.Æ
   æIf the horse  bothers you again,  Bill,Æ  interrupted  Dirk, patting
him  on the shoulder, æsend it up to me and I  shall speak with it. Now,
you  mention the good Professor Chronotis. Is he in at the moment? WeÆve
come on an errand.Æ
   æFar as  I know, sir. CanÆt  check for you because his phoneÆs out of
order.  Suggest you  go and look yourself. Far  left  corner  of  Second
Court.Æ
   æI know it well, Bill,  thank you, and my best to what remains of Mrs
Roberts.Æ
   They swept on through into First Court,  or at least Dirk  swept, and
Richard  walked in  his normal heron-like gait,  wrinkling up  his  face
against the measly drizzle.
   Dirk had obviously mistaken himself for a tour guide.
   æSt CeddÆs,Æ  he  pronounced,  æthe  college  of  Coleridge,  and the
college  of Sir Isaac Newton, renowned inventor  of the milled-edge coin
and the catflap!Æ
   æThe what?Æ said Richard.
   æThe  catflap!  A  device  of the  utmost  cunning,  perspicuity  and
invention. It is a door within a door, you see, a...Æ
   æYes,Æ said Richard, æthere was also the small matter of gravity.Æ
   æGravity,Æ said  Dirk with a slightly  dismissive shrug,  æyes, there
was  that  as  well,  I suppose.  Though that,  of course, was merely  a
discovery. It was there to be discovered.Æ
   He took a penny out  of his pocket and tossed it  casually on to  the
pebbles that ran alongside the paved pathway.
   æYou  see?Æ he  said, æThey even keep  it on at weekends. Someone was
bound to notice sooner or later.  But the catflap... ah, there is a very
different matter. Invention, pure creative invention.Æ
   æI would  have  thought  it  was  quite obvious.  Anyone  could  have
thought of it.Æ
   æAh,Æ said  Dirk,  æit is  a  rare  mind  indeed  that can render the
hitherto  non-existent blindingly obvious. The cry ôI could have thought
of thatö  is a very popular and misleading one,  for  the fact  is  that
they didnÆt, and a very significant  and revealing  fact it is too. This
if I am not mistaken is the staircase we seek. Shall we ascend?Æ
   Without  waiting for an answer he plunged  on up the stairs. Richard,
following uncertainly,  found  him  already knocking on  the inner door.
The outer one stood open.
   æCome  in!Æ  called a  voice from within. Dirk pushed the  door open,
and  they were just in time  to see the  back of RegÆs  white head as he
disappeared into the kitchen.
   æJust  making  some  tea,Æ he called  out. æLike some? Sit down,  sit
down, whoever you are.Æ
   æThat would  be  most kind,Æ  returned Dirk.  æWe are two.Æ Dirk sat,
and Richard followed his lead.
   æIndian or China?Æ called Reg.
   æIndian, please.Æ
   There was a rattle of cups and saucers.
   Richard  looked around the room. It seemed suddenly humdrum. The fire
was  burning quietly away to itself, but the light  was that of the grey
afternoon. Though everything  about it  was the same, the old sofa,  the
table  burdened with  books, there seemed nothing to connect it with the
hectic  strangeness of the previous night. The room seemed to sit  there
with raised eyebrows, innocently saying æYes?Æ
   æMilk?Æ called out Reg from the kitchen.
   æPlease,Æ replied Dirk. He  gave  Richard a smile which seemed to him
to be half-mad with suppressed excitement.
   æOne lump or two?Æ called Reg again.
   æOne, please,Æ said Dirk, æ...and two  spoons of sugar if you would.Æ
   There  was a suspension  of activity  in the kitchen. A moment or two
passed and Reg stuck his head round the door.
   æSvlad Cjelli!Æ  he  exclaimed.  æGood heavens! Well, that  was quick
work,  young MacDuff,  well done. My dear fellow, how very excellent  to
see you, how good of you to come.Æ
   He  wiped  his hands on a tea towel he  was carrying and hurried over
to shake hands.
   æMy dear Svlad.Æ
   æDirk, please, if you would,Æ said Dirk,  grasping his  hand  warmly,
æI prefer it. It  has more  of a sort of Scottish  dagger  feel to it, I
think.  Dirk  Gently  is the  name under  which  I now trade. There  are
certain events in the past,  IÆm  afraid,  from  which  I would  wish to
disassociate myself.Æ
   æAbsolutely,  I  know how  you feel. Most of  the fourteenth century,
for instance, was pretty grim,Æ agreed Reg earnestly.
   Dirk was about  to  correct the misapprehension, but thought  that it
might be somewhat of a long trek and left it.
   æSo  how have you  been, then,  my dear Professor?Æ he  said instead,
decorously placing his hat and scarf upon the arm of the sofa.
   æWell,Æ  said  Reg,  æitÆs  been  an  interesting  time  recently, or
rather,  a dull  time. But  dull for interesting  reasons. Now, sit down
again,  warm  yourselves  by  the fire, and  I  will  get  the  tea  and
endeavour  to  explain.Æ He bustled out again, humming busily, and  left
them to settle themselves in front of the fire.
   Richard  leant over to Dirk. æI had no idea you knew him so well,Æ he
said with a nod in the direction of the kitchen.
   æI  donÆt,Æ  said Dirk  instantly.  æWe  met  once  by chance at some
dinner, but there was an immediate sympathy and rapport.Æ
   æSo how come you never met again?Æ
   æHe  studiously avoided me, of course. Close rapports with people are
dangerous if  you have a secret to hide. And as secrets go, I fancy that
this is  somewhat  of a biggie.  If there is a bigger secret anywhere in
the world  I would  very  much care,Æ  he said quietly, æto know what it
is.Æ
   He  gave  Richard a significant  look and held  his  hands out to the
fire. Since Richard had tried  before without success to draw him out on
exactly what the secret  was, he  refused  to rise  to  the bait on this
occasion, but sat back in his armchair and looked about him.
   æDid  I ask you,Æ said Reg, returning at that moment, æif you  wanted
any tea?Æ
   æEr,  yes,Æ said  Richard, æwe spoke about it  at length.  I think we
agreed in the end that we would, didnÆt we?Æ
   æGood,Æ said Reg, vaguely, æby a happy chance there  seems to be some
ready in  the kitchen.  YouÆll have to  forgive me. I have a memory like
a...  like  a... what  are those things you drain rice  in?  What  am  I
talking about?Æ
   With  a puzzled  look he  turned smartly round  and disappeared  once
more into the kitchen.
   æVery  interesting,Æ said  Dirk quietly,  æI  wondered if his  memory
might be poor.Æ
   He  stood, suddenly, and  prowled  around the  room. His eyes fell on
the abacus  which  stood on the only clear space on  the large  mahogany
table.
   æIs  this the  table,Æ  he asked Richard in a low  voice, æwhere  you
found the note about the salt cellar?Æ
   æYes,Æ said  Richard, standing, and  coming over, ætucked  into  this
book.Æ He picked up the guide  to the Greek islands and flipped  through
it.
   æYes, yes,  of course,Æ said  Dirk,  impatiently. æWe know about  all
that. IÆm just  interested that this was the table.Æ  He ran his fingers
along its edge, curiously.
   æIf  you  think it was  some sort of prior collaboration between  Reg
and  the  girl,Æ Richard said,  æthen I  must say  that I donÆt think it
possibly can have been.Æ
   æOf course it wasnÆt,Æ said Dirk testily,  æI would have thought that
was perfectly clear.Æ
   Richard shrugged in an effort not to  get angry and put the book back
down again.
   æWell, itÆs an odd coincidence that the book should have been...Æ
   æOdd  coincidence!Æ snorted  Dirk. æHa! We  shall see how  much  of a
coincidence. We  shall see  exactly  how odd it  was. I would  like you,
Richard, to ask our friend how he performed the trick.Æ
   æI thought you said you knew already.Æ
   æI do,Æ said Dirk airily. æI would like to hear it confirmed.Æ
   æOh,  I see,Æ  said Richard, æyes, thatÆs rather easy, isnÆt  it? Get
him to explain it, and then say, ôYes,  thatÆs exactly what I thought it
was!ö Very  good, Dirk. Have  we come  all the  way  up here in order to
have him  explain how he did a conjuring trick? I think I must be  mad.Æ
   Dirk bridled at this.
   æPlease do as I ask,Æ  he snapped angrily. æYou saw him do the trick,
you must  ask  how he did it.  Believe me, there is an astounding secret
hidden within it. I know it, but I want you to hear it from him.Æ
   He spun round  as Reg  re-entered, bearing  a tray,  which he carried
round  the sofa and put on to  the low coffee table that sat in front of
the fire.
   æProfessor Chronotis...Æ said Dirk.
   æReg,Æ said Reg, æplease.Æ
   æVery, well,Æ said Dirk, æReg...Æ
   æSieve!Æ exclaimed Reg.
   æWhat?Æ
   æThing you  drain rice  in. A sieve. I  was  trying  to remember  the
word,  though I forget now the reason why. No matter. Dirk, dear fellow,
you look as  if you are about to explode about something. Why  donÆt you
sit down and make yourself comfortable?Æ
   æThank you,  no,  I  would rather  feel free  to  pace  up  and  down
fretfully if I may. Reg...Æ
   He turned to face him square on, and raised a single finger.
   æI must tell you,Æ he said, æthat I know your secret.Æ
   æAh, yes, er  -- do you indeed?Æ  mumbled Reg, looking down awkwardly
and fiddling with the cups and teapot. æI see.Æ
   The cups  rattled violently  as he moved them. æYes, I was afraid  of
that.Æ
   æAnd there are some questions that  we would  like to ask you. I must
tell you that  I await the answers with the very greatest apprehension.Æ
   æIndeed, indeed,Æ Reg muttered. æWell,  perhaps it is at last time. I
hardly know myself what to  make  of  recent  events and  am...  fearful
myself.  Very  well. Ask what you will.Æ He  looked up sharply, his eyes
glittering.
   Dirk nodded  curtly at Richard,  turned, and started to pace, glaring
at the floor.
   æEr,Æ said Richard, æwell. IÆd be... interested to  know  how you did
the conjuring trick with the salt cellar last night.Æ
   Reg seemed  surprised  and  rather  confused  by the  question.  æThe
/conjuring/ trick?Æ he said.
   æEr, yes,Æ said Richard, æthe conjuring trick.Æ
   æOh,Æ said Reg,  taken  aback,  æwell, the conjuring part of  it, IÆm
not  sure I should  -- Magic  Circle rules, you know, very strict  about
revealing these  secrets.  Very strict. Impressive trick, though,  donÆt
you think?Æ he added slyly.
   æWell, yes,Æ said Richard, æit  seemed very  natural at the time, but
now  that  I... think  about  it,  I  have  to admit that it  was  a bit
dumbfounding.Æ
   æAh, well,Æ  said Reg, æitÆs skill.  you see. Practice.  Make it look
natural.Æ
   æIt did  look very natural,Æ  continued Richard, feeling  his way, æI
was quite taken in.Æ
   æYou liked it?Æ
   æIt was very impressive.Æ
   Dirk was getting a little impatient. He  shot a  look  to that effect
at Richard.
   æAnd I can quite see,Æ said Richard  firmly, æwhy itÆs impossible for
you to tell me. I was just interested, thatÆs all. Sorry I asked.Æ
   æWell,Æ said  Reg in  a sudden seizure of doubt, æI suppose...  well,
so long as you absolutely promise  not to  tell anyone else.Æ he carried
on,  æI suppose you can probably work out  for yourself that I  used two
of  the  salt  cellars on the table.  No  one  was  going  to notice the
difference between one  and  another.  The quickness  of the  hand,  you
know,  deceives  the  eye,  particularly  some  of the eyes  around that
table. While I was fiddling with my woolly hat, giving, though I  say so
myself, a very cunning simulation  of clumsiness  and muddle,  I  simply
slipped the salt cellar down my sleeve. You see?Æ
   His earlier agitation had  been swept away completely by his pleasure
in showing off his craft.
   æItÆs  the  oldest trick  in the world, in fact,Æ  he continued, æbut
nevertheless takes a great  deal  of skill  and deftness. Then  a little
later,  of course, I returned it  to the  table  with  the appearance of
simply passing it to someone  else. Takes years of  practice, of course,
to make it look  natural,  but I much  prefer  it to simply slipping the
thing down to  the floor. Amateur stuff that. You canÆt pick it  up, and
the cleaners  never notice it  for at  least a fortnight. I once  had  a
dead thrush under  my seat for  a  month.  No  trick involved there,  of
course. Cat killed it.Æ
   Reg beamed.
   Richard felt he had done his bit, but hadnÆt  the faintest idea where
it was supposed to  have got them. He  glanced at Dirk, who  gave him no
help whatsoever, so he plunged on blindly.
   æYes,Æ  he said, æyes, I understand that that  can be done by sleight
of hand. What I donÆt understand is  how the salt cellar got embedded in
the pot.Æ
   Reg looked puzzled once  again, as if they  were all talking at cross
purposes. He  looked at Dirk, who stopped pacing and stared at  him with
bright, expectant eyes.
   æWell, thatÆs... perfectly straightforward,Æ said  Reg,  ædidnÆt take
any conjuring skill at all. I nipped out for my hat, you remember?Æ
   æYes,Æ said Richard, doubtfully.
   æWell,Æ  said Reg,  æwhile I was out of the room I  went to find  the
man who made the  pot. Took  some  time, of course. About three weeks of
detective work  to track  him down and  another couple of days  to sober
him up, and then with a little difficulty  I  persuaded him  to bake the
salt  cellar  into  the  pot for  me.  After that  I briefly stopped off
somewhere to  find  some,  er, powder  to  disguise  the suntan,  and of
course I had  to time the return a little carefully so as to make it all
look natural.  I bumped into myself  in  the  ante-room, which  I always
find embarrassing,  I never know  where to look, but,  er... well, there
you have it.Æ
   He smiled a rather bleak and nervous smile.
   Richard tried to nod, but eventually gave up.
   æWhat on earth are you talking about?Æ he said.
   Reg looked at him in surprise.
   æI thought you said you knew my secret,Æ he said.
   æI do,Æ said Dirk, with a beam  of  triumph.  æHe, as yet, does  not,
though  he  furnished all the  information I needed  to discover it. Let
me,Æ he added, æfill in  a  couple of little blanks. In  order  to  help
disguise  the fact that you had in fact been  away for weeks when as far
as  anyone sitting at the table was concerned you had only popped out of
the door for a  couple of  seconds,  you had to write  down for your own
reference  the last thing you said, in order that you could  pick up the
thread of conversation  again as naturally  as  possible.  An  important
detail if your memory is not what it once was. Yes?Æ
   æWhat it once was,Æ said Reg,  slowly shaking his  white head, æI can
hardly remember what it  once was. But  yes, you are  very sharp to pick
up such a detail.Æ
   æAnd  then  there  is  the little  matter,Æ  continued Dirk, æof  the
questions that George III asked. Asked you.Æ
   This seemed to catch Reg quite by surprise.
   æHe asked  you,Æ continued  Dirk,  consulting a small notebook he had
pulled from  his pocket, æif  there  was any particular  reason  why one
thing  happened after another and if  there was any way  of stopping it.
Did he not also  ask  you, and ask you first, if it was possible to move
backwards in time, or something of that kind?Æ
   Reg gave Dirk a long and appraising look.
   æI was right  about  you,Æ he said, æyou have a very remarkable mind,
young man.Æ  He  walked slowly over to the window that looked out on  to
Second  Court.  He watched the  odd figures scuttling through it hugging
themselves in the drizzle or pointing at things.
   æYes,Æ  said Reg at last in  a subdued voice, æthat is precisely what
he said.Æ
   æGood,Æ said  Dirk, snapping  shut  his notebook with  a tight little
smile which said that he lived for such praise,  æthen that explains why
the answers were yes,  no and maybe -- in that order. Now. Where is it?Æ
   æWhere is what?Æ
   æThe time machine.Æ
   æYouÆre standing in it.Æ said Reg.


[::: CHAPTER 26 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   A  party  of  noisy  people  spilled  into  the  train   at  BishopÆs
Stortford.  Some were wearing morning  suits  with carnations  looking a
little battered by  a dayÆs festivity.  The women of  the party were  in
smart dresses and hats,  chattering excitedly about how pretty Julia had
looked in all that silk taffeta, how Ralph still  looked like a smug oaf
even done  up  in all his finery, and generally  giving the  whole thing
about two weeks.
   One of the men stuck his head out of  the window and hailed a passing
railway  employee  just to check  that this was the right train and  was
stopping  at Cambridge. The porter confirmed  that of course  it  bloody
was. The  young man  said that they  didnÆt  all want to find they  were
going off in the  wrong direction, did  they, and made a sound a  little
like  that  of a  fish  barking,  as  if  to  indicate that  this was  a
pricelessly funny remark, and  then pulled his head back in, banging  it
on the way.
   The alcohol content of  the atmosphere in the  carriage rose sharply.
   There seemed to be a general feeling in  the air that the best way of
getting  themselves in  the right  mood  for the post-wedding  reception
party that evening  was to make a foray to the bar  so  that any members
of the  party  who  were not already completely  drunk could  finish the
task.  Rowdy  shouts  of  acclamation  greeted this  notion,  the  train
restarted with a jolt and a lot of those still standing fell over.
   Three young men dropped  into the three empty seats  round one table,
of which the fourth was  already taken by a sleekly overweight man in an
old-fashioned suit.  He  had  a  lugubrious  face  and his  large,  wet,
cowlike eyes gazed into some unknown distance.
   Very  slowly  his eyes began to refocus all the way from infinity and
gradually to  home  in on his  more  immediate surroundings, his new and
intrusive companions.  There was  a need he felt, as he had felt before.
   The  three  men  were discussing loudly whether they  would all go to
the bar, whether some of them would go  to the bar and bring back drinks
for  the  others, whether the ones  who went  to  the bar  would get  so
excited by all the drinks  there  that they would stay put and forget to
bring any  back for  the  others who would  be  sitting  here  anxiously
awaiting their  return, and whether even  if they  did  remember to come
back  immediately  with the  drinks  they  would  actually be capable of
carrying  them and  wouldnÆt simply throw them all over the  carriage on
the way back, incommoding other passengers.
   Some sort  of consensus seemed  to be reached, but almost immediately
none  of  them could remember what it was. Two of them  got up, then sat
down  again as the third one got up.  Then  he sat  down. The  two other
ones stood up  again, expressing  the idea that it might be  simpler  if
they just bought the entire bar.
   The  third  was about to get  up again and follow them,  when slowly,
but with  unstoppable  purpose,  the  cow-eyed man sitting  opposite him
leant across, and gripped him firmly by the forearm.
   The young  man in  his morning  suit  looked  up  as  sharply  as his
somewhat bubbly  brain would  allow  and,  startled, said,  æWhat do you
want?Æ
   Michael  Wenton-Weakes gazed  into  his eyes with terrible intensity,
and said, in a low voice, æI was on a ship...Æ
   æWhat?Æ
   æA ship...Æ said Michael.
   æWhat ship, what are you talking about? Get off me. Let go!Æ
   æWe  came,Æ  continued  Michael, in a quiet,  almost  inaudible,  but
compelling voice, æa  monstrous distance. We came to build a paradise. A
paradise. Here.Æ
   His eyes swam briefly  round the carriage, and then gazed briefly out
through  the spattered  windows at the gathering gloom of a drizzly East
Anglian evening.  He  gazed with  evident  loathing.  His  grip  on  the
otherÆs forearm tightened.
   æLook,  IÆm  going for  a  drink,Æ  said the  wedding  guest,  though
feebly, because he clearly wasnÆt.
   æWe  left  behind  those  who  would  destroy  themselves with  war,Æ
murmured  Michael.  æOurs  was to be a world of peace, of music, of art,
of enlightenment. All that  was petty,  all  that was mundane, all  that
was contemptible would have no place in our world...Æ
   The stilled reveller looked  at Michael wonderingly.  He didnÆt  look
like an  old hippy.  Of course,  you never  could  tell. His  own  elder
brother  had  once spent a  couple of years living in a Druidic commune,
eating LSD doughnuts and  thinking he was a tree, since when he had gone
on to become a  director of a merchant bank. The  difference, of course,
was  that  he hardly ever  still  thought  he was  a  tree, except  just
occasionally, and he had  long ago learnt to avoid the particular claret
which sometimes triggered off that flashback.
   æThere were  those who said we would fail,Æ  continued Michael in his
low tone  that carried  clearly under the  boisterous  noise that filled
the carriage, æwho prophesied that we  too carried  in us  the  seed  of
war, but it was  our  high resolve and  purpose that only art and beauty
should  flourish, the highest art, the highest  beauty -- music. We took
with us only those who believed, who wished it to be true.Æ
   æBut what are you talking about?Æ asked the wedding  guest though not
challengingly, for he had  fallen under MichaelÆs mesmeric spell.  æWhen
was this? Where was this?Æ
   Michael breathed  hard. æBefore you were born --Æ   he  said at last,
æbe still, and I will tell you.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 27 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   There was a  long startled  silence  during  which the  evening gloom
outside seemed to darken appreciably and gather the room  into its grip.
A trick of the light wreathed Reg in shadows.
   Dirk was,  for one of the few times in a life of exuberantly prolific
loquacity,  wordless.  His eyes  shone  with a childÆs  wonder  as  they
passed  anew  over  the  dull  and  shabby furniture  of  the  room, the
panelled walls, the threadbare carpets. His hands were trembling.
   Richard frowned faintly to himself for a  moment  as if he was trying
to work out the square root  of  something  in his head, and then looked
back directly at Reg.
   æWho are you?Æ he asked.
   æI have absolutely no idea,Æ said Reg brightly, æmuch of  my memoryÆs
gone completely.  I am  very old, you see. Startlingly old. Yes, I think
if I were to tell you how old I  was it  would be fair  to  say that you
would be startled. Odds  are that so  would I, because I canÆt remember.
IÆve seen an awful  lot, you  know. Forgotten  most  of it,  thank  God.
Trouble is, when  you start  getting  to my age, which,  as  I  think  I
mentioned earlier, is a somewhat startling one -- did I say that?Æ
   æYes, you did mention it.Æ
   æGood.  IÆd forgotten whether I  had  or not. The  thing is that your
memory doesnÆt actually get  any  bigger, and  a lot of stuff just falls
out. So you  see, the major  difference between  someone  of  my age and
someone of yours is not  how  much  I know, but how much IÆve forgotten.
And  after  a while you even forget  what  it  is youÆve forgotten,  and
after  that you even forget that there was  something to  remember. Then
you tend to forget, er, what it was you were talking about.Æ
   He stared helplessly at the teapot.
   æThings you remember...Æ prompted Richard gently.
   æSmells and earrings.Æ
   æI beg your pardon?Æ
   æThose are  things that linger  for  some reason,Æ  said Reg, shaking
his  head  in  a puzzled  way. He  sat down suddenly. æThe earrings that
Queen  Victoria wore on  her  Silver Jubilee.  Quite startling  objects.
Toned  down in the pictures of  the period, of course. The smell  of the
streets  before there  were cars in  them. Hard to say  which was worse.
ThatÆs why  Cleopatra  remains  so vividly in  the  memory, of course. A
quite devastating combination of  earrings and smell. I think  that will
probably be the last thing that remains when  all else has finally fled.
I shall sit alone in a  darkened room, /sans/ teeth, /sans/ eyes, /sans/
taste, /sans/ everything but  a little grey old head, and in that little
grey  old  head a peculiar  vision  of  hideous  blue and gold  dangling
things  flashing in the  light,  and  the  smell of  sweat,  catfood and
death. I wonder what I shall make of it...Æ
   Dirk  was scarcely breathing  as  he began  to  move slowly round the
room,  gently brushing  his  fingertips over the  walls, the  sofa,  the
table.
   æHow long,Æ he said, æhas this been --Æ
   æHere?Æ  said  Reg. æJust  about two  hundred  years.  Ever  since  I
retired.Æ
   æRetired from what?Æ
   æSearch me.  Must have been  something  pretty  good, though, what do
you think?Æ
   æYou mean  youÆve  been  in this same  set of rooms  here  for... two
hundred years?Æ murmured Richard. æYouÆd think someone would  notice, or
think it was odd.Æ
   æOh, thatÆs  one  of the  delights of  the older Cambridge colleges,Æ
said  Reg,  æeveryone  is so discreet. If we all went around  mentioning
what was odd about  each other weÆd be here till Christmas. Svlad, er --
Dirk, my dear fellow, please donÆt touch that just at the moment.Æ
   DirkÆs hand was  reaching out to touch the abacus standing on its own
on the only clear spot on the big table.
   æWhat is it?Æ said Dirk sharply.
   æItÆs  just  what it looks  like,  an old wooden  abacus,Æ said  Reg.
æIÆll show you  in a moment,  but  first I must congratulate you on your
powers of perception. May I ask how you arrived at the solution?Æ
   æI have  to admit,Æ said Dirk with rare humility, æthat I did not. In
the end I  asked a child. I  told  him the  story of the trick and asked
him how  he thought  it had  been  done, and  he said and I quote, ôItÆs
bleedinÆ  obvious,  innit,  he mustÆve æad  a bleedinÆ  time machine.Æ I
thanked the little  fellow and gave  him a shilling for his  trouble. He
kicked  me  rather sharply on the shin and went about  his business. But
he was the one who solved it. My only contribution  to the matter was to
see  that he /must/ be right. He had even saved me the bother of kicking
myself.Æ
   æBut  you had  the  perception to think of asking a child,Æ said Reg.
æWell then, I congratulate you on that instead.Æ
   Dirk was still eyeing the abacus suspiciously.
   æHow...  does it  work?Æ  he  said,  trying  to make  it sound like a
casual enquiry.
   æWell, itÆs really  terribly simple,Æ said Reg, æit works any way you
want it to.  You see,  the  computer that  runs  it is a rather advanced
one. In  fact it  is  more powerful  than  the  sum  total  of  all  the
computers on this planet including  -- and  this  is the tricky part  --
including itself. Never  really understood that bit myself, to be honest
with you. But over ninety-five  per cent of that power is used in simply
understanding what it is you  want  it  to  do. I simply plonk my abacus
down  there and  it  understands  the way I use it. I think I must  have
been brought  up  to use an  abacus  when  I  was a... well, a  child, I
suppose.
   æRichard, for instance,  would  probably want to use his own personal
computer. If you put it down there, where the  abacus  is  the machineÆs
computer  would simple take  charge  of it and  offer  you lots of  nice
user-friendly  time-travel  applications  complete  with pull-down menus
and desk  accessories if you like.  Except that you point to 1066 on the
screen  and youÆve  got  the Battle  of  Hastings going  on outside your
door, er, if thatÆs the sort of thing youÆre interested in.Æ
   RegÆs  tone of voice suggested  that  his own interests  lay in other
areas.
   æItÆs, er, really  quite  fun  in  its way,Æ he concluded. æCertainly
better  than television and  a  great deal easier to  use  than  a video
recorder.  If I  miss  a programme I just pop back in time and watch it.
IÆm hopeless fiddling with all those buttons.Æ
   Dirk reacted to this revelation with horror.
   æYou have a time machine  and you use it for... watching television?Æ
   æWell, I wouldnÆt use it at all if I could get the hang  of the video
recorder.  ItÆs a very delicate business, time travel, you know. Full of
appalling traps  and  dangers,  if you should  change the wrong thing in
the past, you could entirely disrupt the course of history.
   æPlus, of course, it mucks up the  telephone. IÆm sorry,Æ  he said to
Richard a  little sheepishly, æthat you were unable to phone your  young
lady last night.  There seems to be something fundamentally inexplicable
about  the British telephone system,  and my  time machine doesnÆt  like
it.  ThereÆs never any problem with the  plumbing,  the electricity,  or
even  the  gas. The connection  interfaces  are taken care  of  at  some
quantum  level  I  donÆt  entirely  understand, and  itÆs never  been  a
problem.
   æThe phone on  the  other hand is definitely a problem. Every time  I
use  the  time  machine,  which  is,  of course, hardly  at  all, partly
because of this very problem with the phone,  the phone goes haywire and
I  have to get some lout from the phone  company to come and fix it, and
he  starts asking stupid  questions the  answers to which he has no hope
of understanding.
   æAnyway,  the point is that I have a very strict rule that I must not
change  anything  in  the  past at  all  --Æ Reg sighed -- æwhatever the
temptation.Æ
   æWhat temptation?Æ said Dirk, sharply.
   æOh, itÆs  just  a  little, er, thing IÆm interested in,Æ  said  Reg,
vaguely, æit  is perfectly harmless because I stick very strictly to the
rule. It makes me sad, though.Æ
   æBut  you broke  your  own  rule!Æ  insisted  Dirk.  æLast night! You
changed something in the past --Æ
   æWell,  yes,Æ  said  Reg,  a  little  uncomfortably,  æbut  that  was
different. Very different. If  you had seen the look on the poor childÆs
face. So miserable. She thought the world should be a  marvellous place,
and  all those appalling old dons were pouring their withering  scorn on
her just because it wasnÆt marvellous for them anymore.
   æI mean,Æ he added,  appealing to Richard, æremember Cawley.  What  a
bloodless old goat. Someone  should get  some humanity into  him even if
they  have  to  knock it  in  with  a  brick.  No,  that  was  perfectly
justifiable. Otherwise, I make it a very strict rule --Æ
   Richard looked at him with dawning recognition of something.
   æReg,Æ he said politely, æmay I give you a little advice?Æ
   æOf course  you  may, my dear fellow,  I should adore  you to,Æ  said
Reg.
   æIf our mutual friend here offers to take  you for a stroll along the
banks of the River Cam, /donÆt go/.Æ
   æWhat on earth do you mean?Æ
   æHe means,Æ  said  Dirk  earnestly,  æthat  he thinks  there  may  be
something  a little disproportionate between what  you actually did, and
your stated reasons for doing it.Æ
   æOh. Well, odd way of saying it --Æ
   æWell,  heÆs a very  odd fellow. But  you see, there sometimes may be
other reasons for  things you do which you are not necessarily aware of.
As in the case of post-hypnotic suggestion -- or possession.Æ
   Reg turned very pale.
   æPossession --Æ he said.
   æProfessor --  Reg -- I  believe  there was some reason you wanted to
see me. What exactly was it?Æ

   æCambridge! this  is... Cambridge!Æ  came the  lilting squawk of  the
station public address system.
   Crowds of noisy  revellers  spewed out on to the platform barking and
honking at each other.
   æWhereÆs Rodney?Æ  said  one, who had  clambered with difficulty from
the  carriage in which the bar was situated. He and his companion looked
up and  down  the  platform,  totteringly. The  large figure of  Michael
Wenton-Weakes loomed silently past them and out to the exit.
   They  jostled  their  way  down  the side  of  the  train, looking in
through the  dirty carriage  windows. They  suddenly saw  their  missing
companion  still  sitting, trance-like, in his  seat in  the  now almost
empty compartment.  They banged on the window  and hooted  at him. For a
moment  or two he didnÆt react,  and when he did he  woke suddenly in  a
puzzled way as if seeming not to know where he was.
   æHeÆs pie-eyed!Æ his companions  bawled  happily, bundling themselves
on to the train again and bundling Rodney back off.
   He  stood woozily  on the platform and shook  his head. Then glancing
up he saw through  the railings the  large bulk of Michael Wenton-Weakes
heaving himself and a  large heavy bag  into a taxi-  cab, and  he stood
for a moment transfixed.
   æÆStraordinary thing,Æ  he said, æthat man.  Telling me a long  story
about some kind of shipwreck.Æ
   æHar har,Æ gurgled  one of his  two  companions, æget  any  money off
you?Æ
   æWhat?Æ said  Rodney, puzzled. æNo. No,  I donÆt  think so. Except it
wasnÆt a  shipwreck, more  an accident, an explosion  --  ? He  seems to
think he caused it  in some way. Or rather there was an accident, and he
caused  an explosion trying to put  it right and killed everybody.  Then
he said there  was an awful  lot of rotting mud for years and years, and
then slimy things with legs. It was all a bit peculiar.Æ
   æTrust Rodney! Trust Rodney to pick a madman!Æ
   æI think he must  have been mad.  He suddenly  went off on  a tangent
about  some bird. He  said the  bit about the bird was all nonsense.  He
wished he could get rid of the  bit about  the bird. But then he said it
would be put right. It would all be put right.  For some reason I didnÆt
like it when he said that.Æ
   æShould have come along to the bar with us. Terribly funny, we --Æ
   æI also  didnÆt like the way he said  goodbye. I  didnÆt like that at
all.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 28 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æYou remember,Æ said Reg,  æwhen you arrived  this  afternoon I  said
that times recently had been dull, but for... interesting reasons?Æ
   æI remember it vividly,Æ said Dirk, æit happened  a mere ten  minutes
ago.  You were  standing  exactly  there as  I  recall. Indeed  you were
wearing  the very clothes with which you are currently apparelled, and -
-Æ
   æShut up, Dirk,Æ said Richard, ælet the poor man talk, will you?Æ
   Dirk made a slight, apologetic bow.
   æQuite so,Æ  said  Reg.  æWell,  the  truth  is that  for many weeks,
months even, I have not used the time machine at all,  because I had the
oddest feeling  that someone or  something was trying to make  me do it.
It started  as the  very faintest urge, and then it seemed to come at me
in stronger and  stronger  waves. It was extremely disturbing.  I had to
fight it very hard  indeed because it was trying to make me do something
I actually  wanted  to do.  I donÆt think I would have  realised that it
was something outside of  me creating this pressure  and not just my own
wishes  asserting themselves  if it wasnÆt  for  the fact that I was  so
wary  of allowing  myself to do any such thing. As  soon as  I  began to
realise that it  was  something  else  trying to  invade  me  things got
really  bad  and  the  furniture  began  to fly about.  Quite damaged my
little Georgian writing desk. Look at the marks on the --Æ
   æIs  that  what  you  were  afraid of  last  night, upstairs?Æ  asked
Richard.
   æOh yes,Æ said Reg in a hushed voice,  æmost terribly afraid.  But it
was  only that rather nice horse, so that was  all right.  I  expect  it
just wandered  in  when I was  out  getting  some powder to  cover up my
suntan.Æ
   æOh?Æ said Dirk, æAnd where did you go for that?Æ he asked. æI  canÆt
think of many chemists that a horse would be likely to visit.Æ
   æOh, thereÆs  a planet off in whatÆs known here as the Pleiades where
the dust is exactly the right --Æ
   æYou went,Æ said  Dirk in a  whisper, æto another planet? To get face
powder?Æ
   æOh,  itÆs no distance,Æ said  Reg cheerfully. æYou  see,  the actual
distance between two points in  the whole of the space\time continuum is
almost infinitely  smaller  than  the apparent distance between adjacent
orbits of  an  electron. Really,  itÆs a lot less far than the  chemist,
and  thereÆs  no  waiting  about  at the till.  I never  have  the right
change, do you? Go for the quantum jump is always my preference.  Except
of  course that  you  then  get all  the  trouble  with  the  telephone.
NothingÆs ever that easy, is it?Æ
   He looked bothered for a moment.
   æI think you may be right in  what I think youÆre thinking,  though,Æ
he added quietly.
   æWhich is?Æ
   æThat I went through  a rather elaborate bit of business to achieve a
very small  result. Cheering up a little girl, charming, delightful  and
sad though she was, doesnÆt seem to be  enough explanation for --  well,
it was a  fairly major operation in time-engineering, now that I come to
face  up to  it.  ThereÆs no doubt that  it  would have been  simpler to
compliment her on her dress. Maybe the... ghost  -- we  are talking of a
ghost here, arenÆt we?Æ
   æI think we are, yes,Æ said Dirk slowly.
   æA ghost?Æ said Richard, æNow come on --Æ
   æWait!Æ said Dirk, abruptly. æPlease continue,Æ he said to Reg.
   æItÆs  possible that  the...  ghost  caught  me off my guard.  I  was
fighting so  strenuously against doing one thing that it  easily tripped
me into another --Æ
   æAnd now?Æ
   æOh, itÆs gone completely. The ghost left me last night.Æ
   æAnd where,  we wonder,Æ said Dirk, turning his gaze on Richard, ædid
it go?Æ
   æNo, please,Æ  said Richard, ænot this. IÆm not even sure IÆve agreed
weÆre talking about time machines yet, and now suddenly itÆs ghosts?Æ
   æSo what was it,Æ hissed Dirk,  æthat got into you to make  you climb
the wall?Æ
   æWell,  you suggested that I was under post-hypnotic  suggestion from
someone --Æ
   æI did not! I demonstrated the power of  post-hypnotic suggestion  to
you.  But I  believe that hypnosis and possession  work  in  very,  very
similar  ways.  You can be  made  to do all kinds of absurd  things, and
will  then  cheerfully invent the most transparent  rationalisations  to
explain  them to yourself. But  --  you cannot be  made to do  something
that runs  against  the fundamental  grain of  your  character. You will
fight. You will resist!Æ
   Richard  remembered  then  the  sense  of relief  with  which  he had
impulsively replaced  the tape in  SusanÆs  machine last night.  It  had
been the end of  a struggle which he had suddenly won. With the sense of
another struggle  that he  was now losing  he sighed and related this to
the others.
   æExactly!Æ  exclaimed Dirk. æYou wouldnÆt  do it!  Now  weÆre getting
somewhere!  You see,  hypnosis  works  best  when  the  subject has some
fundamental sympathy with what he  or she is being asked to do. Find the
right subject for your  task and the hypnosis can take a very, very deep
hold indeed. And  I  believe the same to be true of possession. So. What
do we have?
   æWe have  a ghost  that  wants something done and  is looking for the
right person to take possession of to do that for him. Professor --Æ
   æReg --Æ said Reg.
   æReg  -- may I  ask you something that may  be terribly  personal?  I
will understand perfectly if you donÆt want to  answer, but I will  just
keep  pestering you until you  do.  Just  my  methods, you see. You said
there  was something that you  found to be a terrible temptation to you.
That you wanted to do  but would not allow yourself, and that the  ghost
was trying to make you do? Please.  This may be difficult for you, but I
think it would be very helpful if you would tell us what it is.Æ
   æI will not tell you.Æ
   æYou must understand how important --Æ
   æIÆll show you instead,Æ said Reg.

   Silhouetted in the  gates of St CeddÆs stood a  large figure carrying
a large heavy black  nylon bag. The figure was that  of Michael  Wenton-
Weakes,  the voice that asked the  porter  if  Professor  Chronotis  was
currently  in his  room was that of Michael Wenton-Weakes, the ears that
heard  the  porter  say  he was buggered  if he  knew because the  phone
seemed  to be  on the blink again was that of Michael Wenton-Weakes, but
the spirit that gazed out of his eyes was his no longer.
   He  had surrendered  himself  completely.  All  doubt, disparity  and
confusion had ceased.
   A new mind had him in full possession.
   The spirit that was not Michael  Wenton-Weakes surveyed  the  college
which lay  before it, to which it had  grown  accustomed in the last few
frustrating, infuriating weeks.
   Weeks! Mere microsecond blinks.
   Although  the spirit  --  the  ghost  -- that  now  inhabited Michael
Wenton-WeakesÆ  body had known long periods of near  oblivion, sometimes
even for centuries  at a stretch, the time for which it had wandered the
earth  was such that it seemed only minutes ago that the creatures which
had  erected these walls had  arrived.  Most of his personal eternity --
not  really eternity, but a  few billion years could easily seem like it
--  had  been  spent wandering  across  interminable mud, wading through
ceaseless seas, watching with stunned horror when the slimy  things with
legs suddenly  had begun to  crawl from those  rotting seas -- and  here
they  were, suddenly  walking around as  if  they  owned  the place  and
complaining about the phones.
   Deep in  a dark and silent  part  of himself he knew that he was  now
mad, had been driven mad almost  immediately  after the  accident by the
knowledge  of what  he had done  and of the existence he  faced,  by the
memories of his fellows who had  died  and who for a while  had  haunted
him even as he had haunted the Earth.
   He knew that what  he now had  been driven to would have revolted the
self  he only infinitesimally remembered, but that  it was the  only way
for him to end the  ceaseless nightmare in which each second of billions
of years had been worse than the previous one.
   He hefted the bag and started to walk.


[::: CHAPTER 29 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Deep  in the rain  forest it was  doing what it usually does  in rain
forests, which was raining: hence the name.
   It was a gentle, persistent rain, not the heavy  slashing which would
come later in the  year,  in the  hot season. It  formed a fine dripping
mist  through  which  the occasional shaft  of sunlight  would break, be
softened and  pass through on its way towards the wet bark of a calvaria
tree  on which it would settle and  glisten. Sometimes it  would do this
next to a  butterfly or a tiny motionless sparkling lizard, and then the
effect would be almost unbearable.
   Away up  in the  high  canopy  of the trees  an utterly extraordinary
thought  would suddenly strike a bird, and  it  would go flapping wildly
through the branches and settle at  last  in  a different and altogether
better tree where it  would  sit  and  consider things again more calmly
until the  same thought came along  and struck  it again, or it was time
to eat.
   The air  was full of scents -- the  light  fragrance of  flowers, and
the  heavy odour of the sodden mulch  with which the floor of the forest
was carpeted.
   Confusions  of  roots tangled  through  the mulch, moss grew on them,
insects crawled.
   In a space in the forest, on an empty patch of  wet ground between  a
circle of  craning  trees, appeared  quietly  and  without fuss a  plain
white  door. After  a  few  seconds it opened a little way with a slight
squeak. A  tall thin man looked out, looked around, blinked in surprise,
and quietly pulled the door closed again.
   A few seconds later the door opened again and Reg looked out.
   æItÆs  real,Æ  he  said,  æI  promise  you.  Come  out  and  see  for
yourself.Æ  Walking  out into the  forest, he  turned and  beckoned  the
other two to follow him.
   Dirk  stepped  boldly  through, seemed  disconcerted  for  about  the
length of time it takes  to blink twice,  and then announced that he saw
exactly how  it  worked, that it was  obviously  to  do with  the unreal
numbers that  lay between  minimum  quantum distances  and  defined  the
fractal contours of the enfolded Universe  and he was only astonished at
himself for not having thought of it himself.
   æLike the catflap,Æ said Richard from the doorway behind him.
   æEr,  yes, quite  so,Æ  said Dirk,  taking  off  his  spectacles  and
leaning against  a tree  wiping them, æyou spotted of course that  I was
lying.  A  perfectly  natural reflex  in  the  circumstances as I  think
youÆll  agree. Perfectly  natural.Æ  He  squinted  slightly  and put his
spectacles back on. They began to mist up again almost immediately.
   æAstounding,Æ he admitted.
   Richard  stepped  through  more  hesitantly  and stood rocking for  a
moment with one foot still on the  floor in RegÆs room and the  other on
the  wet earth of  the  forest. Then  he stepped  forward  and committed
himself fully.
   His lungs instantly filled with  the heady  vapours and his mind with
the  wonder of the  place.  He turned and looked at  the doorway through
which  he had  walked. It was still a perfectly ordinary door frame with
a  perfectly ordinary little white door  swinging open in it, but it was
standing free in the  open forest,  and through it could clearly he seen
the room he had just stepped out of.
   He  walked wonderingly round the back of the door, testing  each foot
on the muddy ground, not so much for  fear of slipping as for  fear that
it  might  simply not  be there. From  behind  it  was just a  perfectly
ordinary  open  door  frame,  such as you might  fail  to  find  in  any
perfectly ordinary rain forest. He walked through the door  from behind,
and  looking  back again could once more see, as if he had  just stepped
out of them  again, the college rooms of Professor Urban Chronotis of St
CeddÆs  College,  Cambridge,  which  must be  thousands  of miles  away.
Thousands? Where were they?
   He peered off through  the  trees  and  thought  he  caught a  slight
shimmer in the distance, between the trees.
   æIs that the sea?Æ he asked.
   æYou can see  it a little more clearly from up here,Æ called Reg, who
had walked  on a little way up  a slippery incline and was  now leaning,
puffing, against a tree. He pointed.
   The other  two  followed  him up, pulling  themselves noisily through
the branches  and causing  a lot of  cawing and  complaining from unseen
birds high above.
   æThe Pacific?Æ asked Dirk.
   æThe Indian Ocean,Æ said Reg.
   Dirk wiped his glasses again and had another look.
   æAh, yes, of course,Æ he said.
   æNot Madagascar?Æ said Richard. æIÆve been there --Æ
   æHave  you?Æ said Reg.  æOne  of  the most beautiful and  astonishing
places  on Earth,  and  one that  is also  full of the most appalling...
temptations for me. No.Æ
   His voice trembled slightly, and he cleared his throat.
   æNo,Æ  he continued, æMadagascar is  -- let  me see, which  direction
are we -- whereÆs the sun?  Yes.  That way. Westish. Madagascar is about
five hundred miles  roughly west  of  here.  The island of RΘunion  lies
roughly in-between.Æ
   æEr,  whatÆs  the  place  called?Æ  said Dirk  suddenly,  rapping his
knuckles  on the tree and frightening  a lizard. æPlace where that stamp
comes from, er -- Mauritius.Æ
   æStamp?Æ said Reg.
   æYes, you must know,Æ said Dirk,  ævery famous stamp. CanÆt  remember
anything about  it, but it comes  from here. Mauritius. Famous  for  its
very remarkable stamp, all brown and smudged and you  could buy Blenheim
Palace with it. Or am I thinking of British Guiana?Æ
   æOnly you,Æ said Richard, æknow what you are thinking of.Æ
   æIs it Mauritius?Æ
   æIt is,Æ said Reg, æit is Mauritius.Æ
   æBut you donÆt collect stamps?Æ
   æNo.Æ
   æWhat  on /earth/Æs that?Æ said Richard suddenly, but Dirk carried on
with  his  thought  to  Reg, æPity, you  could get  some nice  first-day
covers, couldnÆt you?Æ
   Reg shrugged. æNot really interested,Æ he said.
   Richard slithered back down the slope behind them.
   æSo whatÆs the great  attraction here?Æ said Dirk. æItÆs  not, I have
to confess,  what I was expecting. Very  nice in its way, of course, all
this nature, but  IÆm  a city boy  myself,  IÆm afraid.Æ He cleaned  his
glasses once again and pushed them back up his nose.
   He started  backwards at  what he saw, and  heard  a  strange  little
chuckle from Reg.  Just in front of the door back into  RegÆs  room, the
most extraordinary confrontation was taking place.
   A  large cross bird was looking at Richard and Richard was looking at
a  large cross  bird.  Richard was looking at the bird as  if it was the
most extraordinary thing he  had ever seen in his life, and the bird was
looking at Richard  as if defying  him to find  its  beak  even remotely
funny.
   Once it had  satisfied itself that Richard  did not  intend to laugh,
the bird  regarded him  instead with a sort  of grim irritable tolerance
and  wondered  if he  was  just  going  to stand  there or  actually  do
something useful and feed it. It  padded  a couple  of steps back and  a
couple of steps to the side and then  just a single  step forward again,
on   great  waddling   yellow  feet.  It  then  looked  at   him  again,
impatiently, and squarked an impatient squark.
   The  bird then bent forward  and  scraped its great  absurd  red beak
across the ground  as  if  to give Richard the idea that this might be a
good area to look for things to give it to eat.
   æIt  eats the nuts of the calvaria tree,Æ called out Reg to  Richard.
   The big bird looked sharply  up  at Reg in annoyance, as  if  to  say
that  it  was perfectly  clear to any idiot what it ate.  It then looked
back  at  Richard once more and  stuck its head on one side as if it had
suddenly been struck by  the thought that perhaps it was an idiot it had
to  deal  with,  and  that  it  might  need  to reconsider  its strategy
accordingly.
   æThere are one  or two on the ground  behind you,Æ called Reg softly.
   In  a trance of astonishment Richard turned  awkwardly and saw one or
two large nuts lying  on the ground. He bent and picked one up, glancing
up at Reg, who gave him a reassuring nod.
   Tentatively  Richard  held  the thing out to  the  bird,  which leant
forward and pecked it sharply  from  between  his fingers. Then, because
RichardÆs hand was  still  stretched out, the bird knocked  it irritably
aside with its beak.
   Once Richard  had  withdrawn to  a  respectful distance, it stretched
its neck  up,  closed  its  large  yellow  eyes  and  seemed  to  gargle
gracelessly as it shook the nut down its neck into its maw.
   It appeared then to be at  least partially  satisfied. Whereas before
it  had  been a cross dodo, it was at least now a cross, fed dodo, which
was probably about as much as it could hope for in this life.
   It made a slow, waddling, on-the-spot turn and  padded  back into the
forest  whence it  had  come, as if defying Richard to find  the  little
tuft of curly  feathers  stuck up on top  of its backside even  remotely
funny.
   æI  only come to look,Æ said Reg in  a  small voice,  and glancing at
him  Dirk was discomfited  to  see that the old manÆs eyes were brimming
with tears which he  quickly brushed away. æReally, it is not for  me to
interfere --Æ
   Richard came scurrying breathlessly up to them.
   æWas that a /dodo/?Æ he exclaimed.
   æYes,Æ said Reg, æone  of only three left at this time.  The year  is
1676.  They  will all be dead within four years, and after  that  no one
will ever see them again. Come,Æ he said, ælet us go.Æ

   Behind the  stoutly locked  outer door in the corner staircase in the
Second  Court of  St CeddÆs  College,  where  only a millisecond earlier
there had been  a slight flicker as the inner door  departed,  there was
another slight flicker as the inner door now returned.
   Walking  through the  dark  evening  towards it  the large  figure of
Michael Wenton-Weakes  looked up  at the  corner windows. If  any slight
flicker had been  visible,  it  would  have  gone unnoticed  in  the dim
dancing firelight that spilled from the window.
   The  figure  then looked up into the darkness of the sky, looking for
what it knew to  be there though there  was  not the slightest chance of
seeing it,  even on a clear night  which  this  was  not. The orbits  of
Earth were now so  cluttered  with  pieces of  junk and debris  that one
more item  among them -- even such a large one as this was -- would pass
perpetually unnoticed. Indeed, it had done so,  though its influence had
from time to time exerted itself. From time  to time. When the waves had
been  strong. Not  for nearly two hundred years had  they been so strong
as now they were again.
   And all  at last was  now  in  place. The  perfect  carrier  had been
found.
   The perfect carrier moved his footsteps onwards through the court.
   The Professor  himself  had  seemed the  perfect choice at first, but
that  attempt had  ended  in frustration, fury, and then -- inspiration!
Bring a Monk to Earth!  They were  designed  to believe anything,  to be
completely  malleable. It could  be  suborned to undertake the task with
the greatest of ease.
   Unfortunately,  however,  this  one   had  proved  to  be  completely
hopeless.  Getting it to believe  something was very easy. Getting it to
continue to believe the same  thing for more than five minutes at a time
had proved to be an  even more impossible task than that of getting  the
Professor to  do  what  he fundamentally wanted to do but wouldnÆt allow
himself.
   Then another failure and  then, miraculously, the perfect carrier had
come at last.
   The  perfect  carrier  had already  proved  that  it  would  have  no
compunction in doing what would have to be done.
   Damply, clogged  in  mist, the moon struggled in a corner of  the sky
to rise. At the window, a shadow moved.


[::: CHAPTER 30 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   From the  window overlooking Second Court Dirk watched the  moon. æWe
shall not,Æ he said, æhave long to wait.Æ
   æTo wait for what?Æ said Richard.
   Dirk turned.
   æFor the  ghost,Æ he said, æto return  to us. Professor  --Æ he added
to Reg, who was sitting anxiously by the fire, ædo you have  any brandy,
French cigarettes or worry beads in your rooms?Æ
   æNo,Æ said Reg.
   æThen  I  shall have to  fret  unaided,Æ said  Dirk  and returned  to
staring out of the window.
   æI have yet to be convinced,Æ  said Richard, æthat there is  not some
other explanation than that of... ghosts to --Æ
   æJust as you  required actually to  see a  time  machine in operation
before you could  accept it,Æ returned Dirk. æRichard, I  commend you on
your scepticism, but even  the sceptical mind must be prepared to accept
the unacceptable when there is no alternative.  If it looks like a duck,
and quacks  like a  duck, we have  at least to  consider the possibility
that we have a small aquatic bird of  the family Anatidae on our hands.Æ
   æThen what is a ghost?Æ
   æI think  that a  ghost...Æ said  Dirk, æis  someone who died  either
violently or unexpectedly  with unfinished business on his,  her  --  or
its  --  hands. Who  cannot rest  until  it  has  been  finished, or put
right.Æ
   He turned to face them again.
   æWhich  is  why,Æ  he  said,  æa  time  machine  would  have  such  a
fascination for  a ghost once it knew of its  existence. A  time machine
provides  the  means to  put right  what,  in the  ghostÆs opinion, went
wrong in the past. To free it.
   æWhich is why it will be back.  It  tried first to take possession of
Reg himself, but he resisted. Then came the  incident with the conjuring
trick, the face  powder and  the  horse  in the  bathroom which I --Æ he
paused -- æwhich even I  do not understand, though  I intend  to  if  it
kills me. And then you, Richard, appear on the scene.  The ghost deserts
Reg and concentrates instead on you.  Almost immediately there occurs an
odd but  significant  incident. You do something that you then wish  you
hadnÆt done.
   æI refer, of course, to the phone call  you made to Susan and left on
her answering machine.
   æThe ghost seizes its chance  and tries to induce you to undo it. To,
as it were,  go back  into the  past and erase that message -- to change
the mistake  you had made. Just to see if you  would do it.  Just to see
if it was in your character.
   æIf  it  had been, you would now be totally under its control. But at
the very last second your  nature  rebelled and you would not do it. And
so the ghost gives you up  as a bad job and deserts you in turn. It must
find someone else.
   æHow long has it been doing this? I do  not know. Does this now  make
sense to you? Do you recognise the truth of what I am saying?Æ
   Richard turned cold.
   æYes,Æ he said, æI think you must be absolutely right.Æ
   æAnd at what moment, then,Æ said Dirk, ædid the ghost leave you?Æ
   Richard swallowed.
   æWhen Michael Wenton-Weakes walked out of the room,Æ he said.
   æSo  I wonder,Æ said  Dirk quietly, æwhat possibilities the ghost saw
in him.  I wonder whether this  time it found  what it wanted. I believe
we shall not have long to wait.Æ
   There was a knock on the door.
   When it opened, there stood Michael Wenton-Weakes.
   He said simply, æPlease, I need your help.Æ
   Reg and Richard stared at Dirk, and then at Michael.
   æDo you  mind  if I  put this  down somewhere?Æ  said Michael.  æItÆs
rather heavy. Full of scuba-diving equipment.Æ

   æOh,  I see,Æ  said  Susan, æoh well, thanks, Nicola, IÆll  try  that
fingering.  IÆm  sure  he only  put  the E flat  in  there just to annoy
people.  Yes, IÆve  been  at  it  solidly  all afternoon.  Some of those
semiquaver runs  in  the second movement  are absolute  bastards.  Well,
yes,  it helped  take my mind  off it  all. No,  no news. ItÆs all  just
mystifying and  absolutely horrible. I donÆt want even to -- look, maybe
IÆll give you a call again later  and  see  how youÆre feeling. I  know,
yes,  you  never  know  which   is  worse,  do  you,  the  illness,  the
antibiotics, or the doctorÆs bedside manner. Look after yourself,  or at
least, make sure  Simon  does. Tell him  to  bring you  gallons  of  hot
lemon. OK. Well, IÆll talk to you later. Keep warm. Bye now.Æ
   She  put  the  phone down  and returned to  her cello. She had hardly
started to reconsider the problem  of  the  irritating  E flat when  the
phone  went  again.  She  had  simply  left  it  off  the hook  for  the
afternoon, but had forgotten  to do so again after making her own  call.
   With  a sigh she propped up the cello, put down the bow,  and went to
the phone again.
   æHello?Æ she demanded.
   Again, there was nothing,  just a distant cry of wind. Irritably, she
slammed the receiver back down once more.
   She waited a few seconds for the line to  clear,  and then  was about
to  take the phone off the hook once more when she realised that perhaps
Richard might need her.
   She hesitated.
   She  admitted to  herself  that  she hadnÆt  been using the answering
machine, because she  usually just put it  on for GordonÆs  convenience,
and  that was  something of  which  she did  not  currently  wish to  be
reminded.
   Still,  she  put  the answering  machine on,  turned the volume right
down,  and returned again to the E flat that  Mozart had put  in only to
annoy cellists.

   In the darkness  of the offices  of Dirk  GentlyÆs Holistic Detective
Agency,  Gordon Way clumsily  fumbled the telephone receiver back on  to
its rest and  sat slumped  in the deepest dejection. He didnÆt even stop
himself slumping  all the way through  the seat  until he rested lightly
on the floor.
   Miss Pearce  had fled the  office  the first time  the telephone  had
started actually  using itself, her patience with all this sort of thing
finally exhausted again, since which time  Gordon  had had the office to
himself.   However,  his   attempts  to  contact   anybody  had   failed
completely.
   Or  rather,  his  attempts  to contact  Susan, which was all he cared
about.  It was Susan he had been speaking to when he died and he knew he
had somehow  to speak to  her again. But she  had left her phone off the
hook  most of the afternoon and even when she had answered she could not
hear him.
   He gave up.  He roused himself from the floor, stood up,  and slipped
out  and  down into the  darkening streets. He  drifted aimlessly  for a
while, went for a walk on the canal, which was a trick  that palled very
quickly, and then wandered back up to the street again.
   The houses  with  light and  life streaming from them upset  him most
particularly since  the  welcome  they  seemed to  extend would  not  be
extended to him. He wondered if  anyone would mind if  he simply slipped
into their house and watched television for  the evening. He wouldnÆt be
any trouble.
   Or a cinema.
   That would be better, he could go to the cinema.
   He turned with more positive, if  still insubstantial, footsteps into
Noel Road and started to walk up it.
   Noel Road, he thought. It  rang  a vague bell. He  had a feeling that
he had recently  had  some  dealings with someone  in Noel Road. Who was
it?
   His thoughts were interrupted  by a  terrible  scream of  horror that
rang through  the street. He stood  stock  still.  A few seconds later a
door flew open a few yards  from him and  a woman ran  out of  it, wild-
eyed and howling.


[::: CHAPTER 31 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Richard had never  liked Michael Wenton-Weakes and he liked  him even
less with a ghost in  him. He couldnÆt say  why, he had nothing  against
ghosts  personally, didnÆt think a  person  should  be  judged adversely
simply for being dead, but -- he didnÆt like it.
   Nevertheless, it was hard not to feel a little sorry for him.
   Michael  sat forlornly on a stool with his elbow resting on the large
table and his  head resting on his  fingers. He looked ill  and haggard.
He  looked  deeply tired.  He  looked  pathetic.  His story had  been  a
harrowing one, and concluded with his attempts  to possess first Reg and
then Richard.
   æYou were,Æ he concluded, æright. Entirely.Æ
   He said this  last to  Dirk, and Dirk  grimaced as if trying  not  to
beam with triumph too many times in a day.
   The  voice  was  MichaelÆs and  yet  it was  not  MichaelÆs. Whatever
timbre a  voice  acquires through a  billion or  so  years  of dread and
isolation, this voice had acquired it, and it  filled those who heard it
with a dizzying chill akin  to that which  clutches the mind and stomach
when standing on a cliff at night.
   He  turned  his  eyes on Reg  and  on Richard, and  the effect of the
eyes, too, was  one that provoked pity and  terror. Richard had to  look
away.
   æI owe you both an apology,Æ said the  ghost within  Michael æwhich I
offer you from the  depths of my  heart, and  only hope that as you come
to understand the  desperation  of my  predicament,  and  the hope which
this machine offers me, you will understand  why I have acted as I have,
and that you will find it within  yourselves to forgive me.  And to help
me. I beg you.Æ
   æGive the man a whisky,Æ said Dirk gruffly.
   æHavenÆt  got any whisky,Æ said Reg.  æEr, port?  ThereÆs a bottle or
so of Margaux I  could  open. Very  fine one. Should be  chambrΘd for an
hour, but I can do that of course, itÆs very easy, I --Æ
   æWill you help me?Æ interrupted the ghost.
   Reg bustled to fetch some port and some glasses.
   æWhy have you taken over the body of this man?Æ said Dirk.
   æI  need to have a voice with which to speak and a body with which to
act. No harm will come to him, no harm --Æ
   æLet me ask the  question  again. Why have you taken over the body of
this man?Æ insisted Dirk.
   The ghost made MichaelÆs body shrug.
   æHe was willing. Both of these  two  gentlemen  quite  understandably
resisted  being... well,  hypnotised -- your analogy is fair.  This one?
Well, I  think his sense of self is at a low ebb, and he has acquiesced.
I am very grateful to him and will not do him any harm.Æ
   æHis sense  of self,Æ repeated Dirk thoughtfully, æis at a  low ebb.Æ
   æI suppose  that is probably true,Æ said Richard quietly to Dirk. æHe
seemed very depressed  last night. The one thing that  was important  to
him had been taken away because he, well, he wasnÆt really very  good at
it. Although heÆs proud I expect he was probably quite receptive  to the
idea of actually being wanted for something.Æ
   æHmmm,Æ  said Dirk, and said it  again. He said it a  third time with
feeling. Then he whirled round and barked at the figure on the stool.
   æMichael Wenton-Weakes!Æ
   MichaelÆs head jolted back and he blinked.
   æYes?Æ  he said,  in  his  normal lugubrious voice. His eyes followed
Dirk as he moved.
   æYou can hear me,Æ said Dirk, æand you can answer for yourself?Æ
   æOh, yes,Æ said Michael, æmost certainly I can.Æ
   æThis...  being, this  spirit. You know he is  in you? You accept his
presence? You are a willing party to what he wishes to do?Æ
   æThat is correct. I was much moved by his account of himself, and  am
very willing to  help him. In fact I think it is right for me to do so.Æ
   æAll right,Æ said Dirk with a snap of his fingers, æyou can go.Æ
   MichaelÆs  head slumped forward suddenly, and then after a  second or
so it slowly  rose again, as if being pumped up from inside like a tyre.
   The ghost was back in possession.
   Dirk took hold of a  chair, spun it round  and sat astride  it facing
the ghost in Michael, peering intently into its eyes.
   æAgain,Æ he said, ætell me again. A quick snap account.Æ
   MichaelÆs body tensed slightly. It reached out to DirkÆs arm.
   æDonÆt  -- touch  me!Æ snapped Dirk.  æJust  tell me the  facts.  The
first time you try  and make me feel sorry  for you IÆll poke you in the
eye. Or at least, the one  youÆve  borrowed. So leave  out all the stuff
that sounded like... er --Æ
   æColeridge,Æ  said   Richard  suddenly,  æit   sounded  exactly  like
Coleridge. It was like  ôThe Rime of the Ancient  Marinerö. Well bits of
it were.Æ
   Dirk frowned. æColeridge?Æ he said.
   æI tried to tell him my story,Æ admitted the ghost, æI --Æ
   æSorry,Æ said Dirk,  æyouÆll have to excuse  me -- IÆve never  cross-
examined  a four-billion-year-old ghost before.  Are we  talking  Samuel
Taylor  here?  Are  you  saying you  told  your  story  to Samuel Taylor
Coleridge?Æ
   æI was  able to enter his mind at... certain times. When he was in an
impressionable state.Æ
   æYou mean when he was on laudanum?Æ said Richard.
   æThat is correct. He was more relaxed then.Æ
   æIÆll  say,Æ snorted  Reg, æI  sometimes encountered him when  he was
quite astoundingly relaxed. Look, IÆll make some coffee.Æ
   He disappeared into  the kitchen, where he could be heard laughing to
himself.
   æItÆs another  world,Æ  muttered Richard to himself, sitting down and
shaking his head.
   æBut unfortunately when  he was fully in  possession of himself I, so
to speak, was not,Æ said  the ghost,  æand so that failed. And  what  he
wrote was very garbled.Æ
   æDiscuss,Æ said Richard, to himself, raising his eyebrows.
   æProfessor,Æ  called  out  Dirk,  æthis  may  sound  absurd.  Did  --
Coleridge  ever try  to... er...  use  your  time  machine? Feel free to
discuss the question in any way which appeals to you.Æ
   æWell, do you know,Æ said Reg, looking round  the door, æhe did  come
in  prying around on one occasion, but I think he  was in  a  great deal
too relaxed a state to do anything.Æ
   æI  see,Æ said Dirk. æBut why,Æ  he added turning back to the strange
figure  of Michael  slumped on its stool, æwhy  has it taken you so long
to find someone?Æ
   æFor long, long periods I am  very weak, almost totally non-existent,
and  unable to influence anything at all. And  then,  of course,  before
that time there was no time  machine here, and... no hope for me at  all
--Æ
   æPerhaps ghosts exist like wave  patterns,Æ  suggested Richard, ælike
interference patterns  between the actual with the possible. There would
be irregular peaks and troughs, like in a musical waveform.Æ
   The ghost snapped MichaelÆs eyes around to Richard.
   æYou...Æ he said, æyou wrote that article...Æ
   æEr, yes --Æ
   æIt moved me very  greatly,Æ said the ghost, with a sudden remorseful
longing  in his  voice which  seemed  to catch itself almost as  much by
surprise as it did its listeners.
   æOh. I see,Æ  said  Richard, æWell,  thank you. You didnÆt like it so
much last time you mentioned it. Well, I know that wasnÆt you as  such -
-Æ
   Richard sat back frowning to himself.
   æSo,Æ said Dirk, æto return to the beginning --Æ
   The ghost gathered MichaelÆs breath for  him  and started again.  æWe
were on a ship --Æ it said.
   æA spaceship.Æ
   æYes.  Out from  Salaxala, a  world in... well, very far from here. A
violent and troubled  place.  We -- a  party of some nine dozen of us --
set out, as people  frequently did, to find a  new world  for ourselves.
All the  planets  in this  system were  completely  unsuitable  for  our
purpose,  but  we  stopped on  this  world  to replenish some  necessary
mineral supplies.
   æUnfortunately  our  landing ship was  damaged on its  way  into  the
atmosphere. Damaged quite badly, but still quite reparable.
   æI  was the engineer on board and it fell to me to supervise the task
of repairing the  ship and preparing it to return to our main ship. Now,
in order  to  understand what happened  next you must  know something of
the nature of  a highly-automated society.  There is no task that cannot
be done more  easily with the aid of advanced computerisation. And there
were  some very specific  problems associated  with  a  trip with an aim
such as ours --Æ
   æWhich was?Æ said Dirk sharply.
   The ghost in Michael blinked as if the answer was obvious.
   æWell, to find a new  and better world on which we could all live  in
freedom, peace and harmony forever, of course,Æ he said.
   Dirk raised his eyebrows.
   æOh,  that,Æ  he said.  æYouÆd  thought  this  all out  carefully,  I
assume.Æ
   æWeÆd  had  it  thought  out  for  us.  We  had  with  us  some  very
specialised  devices  for helping  us  to  continue to  believe  in  the
purpose  of  the  trip even  when things got  difficult.  They generally
worked very  well, but  I think we probably  came to  rely  on them  too
much.Æ
   æWhat on earth were they?Æ said Dirk.
   æItÆs probably hard  for you to  understand how reassuring they were.
And that  was why I made my fatal mistake. When I wanted to know whether
or not it was safe  to take  off, I  didnÆt want  to know  that it might
/not/ be safe. I just wanted  to be reassured  that it /was/. So instead
of checking it myself, you see, I sent out one of  the Electric  Monks.Æ


[::: CHAPTER 32 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The  brass plaque on the red door in Peckender Street glittered as it
reflected the yellow light of a street lamp.  It glared for  a moment as
it  reflected  the violent  flashing  light  of  a  passing  police  car
sweeping by.
   It dimmed slightly as  a  pale, pale wraith slipped  silently through
it.  It glimmered as it dimmed, because  the  wraith was trembling  with
such terrible agitation.
   In  the  dark  hallway  the  ghost of Gordon  Way  paused. He  needed
something to lean on  for  support,  and of course there was nothing. He
tried to get a grip on himself, but there was nothing to get a  grip on.
He retched at  the horror of what he had seen, but there was, of course,
nothing in his stomach. He half stumbled, half swam up  the stairs, like
a drowning man trying to grapple for a grip on the water.
   He  staggered through  the wall, through the  desk, through the door,
and tried to compose and settle himself  in front of the desk  in DirkÆs
office.
   If anyone had  happened  into  the office  a few minutes  later  -- a
night  cleaner perhaps, if Dirk Gently  had  ever employed one, which he
didnÆt on the  grounds  that they wished to be paid and he did  not wish
to pay them, or a burglar, perhaps, if  there had been  anything in  the
office worth burgling, which there wasnÆt -- they would  have  seen  the
following sight and been amazed by it.
   The receiver of the large red  telephone  on the desk suddenly rocked
and tumbled off its rest on to the desk top.
   A dialling  tone  started  to burr. Then, one  by  one,  seven of the
large, easily pushed  buttons  depressed themselves, and after the  very
long pause which  the British  telephone system allows  you within which
to gather your thoughts and forget who it is  youÆre  phoning, the sound
of a phone ringing at the other end of the line could be heard.
   After a  couple  of rings there was a click, a whirr,  and a sound as
of a machine  drawing breath. Then a  voice started to say, æHello, this
is  Susan. I canÆt come  to the phone right at  the  moment  because IÆm
trying to  get an E flat right, but if youÆd like to leave your name...Æ

   æSo then,  on the say so of  an -- I can hardly bring myself to utter
the  words  --  Electric Monk,Æ  said  Dirk  in  a  voice  ringing  with
derision,  æyou   attempt  to  launch  the   ship  and  to  your   utter
astonishment it explodes. Since when -- ?Æ
   æSince when,Æ said the ghost, abjectly,  æI  have been  alone on this
planet.  Alone  with  the knowledge  of what I had done to my fellows on
the ship. All, all alone...Æ
   æYes,  skip that, I said,Æ snapped Dirk angrily. æWhat about the main
ship? That presumably went on and continued its search for --Æ
   æNo.Æ
   æThen what happened to it?Æ
   æNothing. ItÆs still there.Æ
   æStill /there/?Æ
   Dirk leapt to  his feet  and whirled off  to pace the room,  his brow
furiously furrowed.
   æYes.Æ MichaelÆs head  drooped a little, but  he looked up pitieously
at Reg and at Richard.  æAll  of  us were aboard  the landing  craft. At
first I felt myself to be haunted by the ghosts of the rest,  but it was
only  in  my imagination.  For  millions  of years, and then billions, I
stalked the mud utterly alone.  It  is impossible for you to conceive of
even the tiniest part of  the torment of such eternity. Then,Æ he added,
æjust  recently life arose on the planet.  Life.  Vegetation, things  in
the sea, then, at last, you. Intelligent life.  I turn to you to release
me from the torment I have endured.Æ
   MichaelÆs head sank abjectly on to  his  chest for some  few seconds.
Then  slowly,  wobblingly, it  rose and  stared at  them again, with yet
darker fires in his eyes.
   æTake me  back,Æ he  said, æI beg you, take  me back to  the  landing
craft. Let me undo what was  done. A word from me, and it can be undone,
the  repairs  properly made,  the landing craft can  then return  to the
main  ship, we can be on our way, my torment will be extinguished, and I
will cease to be a burden to you. I beg you.Æ
   There was a short silence while his plea hung in the air.
   æBut that canÆt  work,  can it?Æ said  Richard. æIf we do  that, then
this wonÆt have happened. DonÆt we generate all sorts of paradoxes?Æ
   Reg stirred himself  from  thought. æNo  worse  than many that  exist
already,Æ he said. æIf the Universe came to  an end every time there was
some uncertainty about what had happened in it, it would never have  got
beyond the  first picosecond.  And many  of course  donÆt. ItÆs  like  a
human body, you  see. A  few cuts and bruises here and there donÆt  hurt
it.  Not  even major surgery if  itÆs done properly. Paradoxes  are just
the  scar  tissue.  Time  and space heal themselves  up  around them and
people simply  remember a version of events which makes as much sense as
they require it to make.
   æThat  isnÆt to say  that  if  you  get involved in a paradox  a  few
things wonÆt strike you  as  being very  odd, but  if youÆve got through
life  without  that already  happening to  you,  then I donÆt know which
Universe youÆve been living in, but it isnÆt this one.Æ
   æWell, if  thatÆs the  case,Æ said Richard, æwhy were  you  so fierce
about not doing anything to save the dodo?Æ
   Reg sighed. æYou  donÆt understand  at  all.  The dodo wouldnÆt  have
died if I hadnÆt worked so hard to save the coelacanth.Æ
   æThe coelacanth?  The prehistoric fish?  But  how could  one possibly
affect the other?Æ
   æAh. Now there youÆre asking.  The complexities  of cause and  effect
defy analysis. Not  only is the continuum like a human  body, it is also
very  like  a  piece  of  badly put up  wallpaper.  Push down  a  bubble
somewhere, another one pops up somewhere  else. There  are no more dodos
because of my interference.  In the  end  I imposed the  rule  on myself
because I simply couldnÆt bear it  any more. The  only thing that really
gets hurt when you try  and change time is yourself.Æ He smiled bleakly,
and looked away.
   Then he  added,  after a  long momentÆs reflection, æNo,  it  can  be
done. IÆm just cynical because itÆs gone wrong so many times. This  poor
fellowÆs story is  a very pathetic one, and  it can do no harm to put an
end to his  misery. It happened so very, very long ago on a dead planet.
If we do this  we will each remember whatever it is that has happened to
us individually.  Too bad if the rest of the world doesnÆt  quite agree.
It will hardly be the first time.Æ
   MichaelÆs head bowed.
   æYouÆre very silent, Dirk,Æ said Richard.
   Dirk glared  angrily at him. æI want to see this  ship,Æ he demanded.

   In  the  darkness,  the  red  telephone  receiver  slipped  and  slid
fitfully back across the desk. If  anybody had been there to see it they
might just have discerned a shape that moved it.
   It shone only  very faintly, less than would the hands of a  luminous
watch. It  seemed more  as if the darkness around it was just that  much
darker  and the ghostly  shape sat within it  like thickened scar tissue
beneath the surface of the night.
   Gordon grappled one last  time  with  the  recalcitrant  receiver. At
length  he got a  final grip and slipped it  up on  to  the  top of  the
instrument.
   From there  it fell back on to its rest and disconnected the call. At
the  same  moment  the  ghost  of Gordon  Way,  his  last  call  finally
completed, fell back to his own rest and vanished.


[::: CHAPTER 33 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   Swinging slowly round  in  the  shadow of the  Earth, just  one  more
piece of debris  among that which floated now forever in high orbit, was
one dark shape that was larger and more  regularly formed than the rest.
And far, far older.
   For  four  billion  years it had continued  to  absorb  data from the
world below  it,  scanning, analysing, processing. Occasionally it  sent
pieces  back if it thought they would help,  if it thought they might be
received. But otherwise,  it watched, it listened, it recorded.  Not the
lapping of a wave nor the beating of a heart escaped its attention.
   Otherwise,  nothing  inside  it  had moved  for  four  billion years,
except for  the air which circulated still, and the motes of dust within
the air that danced and danced and danced and danced... and danced.
   It  was  only a very slight  disturbance that occurred  now. Quietly,
without fuss,  like a dew drop precipitating from the air on  to a leaf,
there  appeared in  a wall  which had  stood  blank  and  grey for  four
billion years,  a  door.  A  plain, ordinary  white-panelled door with a
small dented brass handle.
   This  quiet  event,  too,  was  recorded   and  incorporated  in  the
continual  stream  of   data   processing   that  the  ship  ceaselessly
performed. Not only the  arrival  of the  door, but the arrival of those
behind the door, the  way they looked, the way they  moved, the way they
felt about being there. All processed, all recorded, all transformed.
   After a moment or two had passed, the door opened.
   Within  it could be seen a room unlike any  on  the ship.  A room  of
wooden floors,  of shabby upholstery, a room in which a fire danced. And
as the fire danced, its  data danced within the  shipÆs  computers,  and
the motes of dust in the air also danced with it.
   A  figure stood in  the doorway -- a large  lugubrious figure with  a
strange light that  danced now  in  its eyes. It stepped forward  across
the threshold into  the ship, and its face was suddenly suffused with  a
calm for  which it had longed but had thought never again to experience.
   Following  him  stepped out  a smaller, older  man with hair that was
white and wayward. He stopped and blinked with wonder  as he passed from
out of  the realm of his room and into the realm  of the ship. Following
him  came  a third  man, impatient  and  tense,  with  a  large  leather
overcoat  that flapped about him. He,  too, stopped and  was momentarily
bewildered  by  something he  didnÆt understand. With a look of  deepest
puzzlement on  his face he walked forward and looked  around at the grey
and dusty walls of the ancient ship.
   At last  came  a fourth man,  tall and thin.  He stooped as he walked
out of the door, and  then instantly stopped as if he  had walked into a
wall.
   He had walked into a wall, of a kind.
   He stood transfixed. If anyone  had been looking  at his face at that
moment, it would have  been abundantly  clear to them  that  the  single
most  astonishing  event of  this  manÆs  entire existence was currently
happening to him.
   When slowly he began  to  move it was with a curious gait, as  if  he
was  swimming  very slowly. Each tiniest movement  of his head seemed to
bring fresh floods of awe and astonishment into his  face.  Tears welled
in his eyes, and he became breathless with gasping wonder.
   Dirk turned to look at him, to hurry him along.
   æWhatÆs the matter?Æ he called above the noise.
   æThe... music...Æ whispered Richard.
   The air  was  full  of  music.  So full it seemed  there was room for
nothing  else. And each particle of air seemed to have its own music, so
that  as Richard moved  his  head  he heard a  new and different  music,
though  the  new and  different music fitted quite  perfectly  with  the
music that lay beside it in the air.
   The modulations  from one to another were perfectly  accomplished  --
astonishing  leaps  to  distant  keys  made  effortlessly  in  the  mere
shifting  of  the head. New themes, new strands of melody, all perfectly
and astoundingly proportioned, constantly  involved themselves into  the
continuing  web.  Huge  slow  waves  of  movement,  faster  dances  that
thrilled through them, tiny scintillating  scampers  that danced  on the
dances,  long  tangled tunes  whose ends were so like  their  beginnings
that they  twisted around upon  themselves, turned  inside  out,  upside
down,  and  then rushed  off  again on the back  of  yet another dancing
melody in a distant part of the ship.
   Richard staggered against the wall.
   Dirk hurried to grab him.
   æCome on,Æ  he said, brusquely, æwhatÆs the matter?  CanÆt  you stand
the music?  ItÆs a  bit  loud,  isnÆt  it? For GodÆs sake, pull yourself
together.  ThereÆs  something here  I  still donÆt  understand. ItÆs not
right. Come on --Æ
   He  tugged  Richard  after  him,  and  then  had to  support  him  as
RichardÆs  mind sank further and further  under  the overwhelming weight
of music.  The visions  that  were  woven  in his  mind  by the  million
thrilling  threads  of  music  as  they were  pulled  through  it,  were
increasingly  a welter  of  chaos, but the more the  chaos burgeoned the
more  it fitted with the other chaos, and the next greater chaos,  until
it all  became  a  vast exploding  ball of harmony expanding in his mind
faster than any mind could deal with.
   And then it was all much simpler.
   A  single tune danced  through his mind and all  his attention rested
upon it. It was a tune  that seethed through  the  magical flood, shaped
it, formed  it, lived through it  hugely, lived through it minutely, was
its very  essence.  It  bounced  and  trilled  along, at first  a little
tripping  tune,  then it  slowed,  then it danced  again  but  with more
difficulty,  seemed to founder  in eddies  of doubt  and  confusion, and
then  suddenly revealed that the eddies were just the first ripples of a
huge new wave of energy surging up joyfully from beneath.
   Richard began very, very slowly to faint.

   He lay very still.
   He  felt he was an old sponge steeped in paraffin and left in the sun
to dry.
   He felt like the body of an old  horse burning hazily  in the sun. He
dreamed of oil, thin and  fragrant, of  dark heaving  seas. He  was on a
white  beach,  drunk with fish, stupefied with sand, bleached, drowsing,
pummelled  with light, sinking, estimating the density of vapour  clouds
in  distant  nebulae, spinning with dead delight. He was a pump spouting
fresh water in the  springtime, gushing into a  mound of reeking newmown
grass. Sounds, almost unheard, burned away like distant sleep.
   He ran and was falling. The lights  of a harbour spun into night. The
sea like a dark spirit slapped infinitesimally at  the sand, glimmering,
unconscious. Out where it was  deeper and colder he sank easily with the
heavy sea swelling  like oil  around his ears, and was disturbed only by
a distant burr burr as of the phone ringing.
   He  knew he had been listening to the music of life itself. The music
of  light dancing on water that rippled  with the wind and the tides, of
the life that  moved through the water, of  the life  that moved  on the
land, warmed by the light.
   He  continued to lie  very still. He  continued to be  disturbed by a
distant burr burr as of a phone ringing.
   Gradually he became aware  that the distant  burr  burr as of a phone
ringing was a phone ringing.
   He sat up sharply.
   He was lying on a small crumpled  bed in a small untidy panelled room
that he knew  he recognised but  couldnÆt place. It  was cluttered  with
books and shoes. He blinked at it and was blank.
   The phone by the bed was ringing. He picked it up.
   æHello?Æ he said.
   æRichard!Æ  It  was  SusanÆs voice, utterly distraught. He shook  his
head and had no recollection of anything useful.
   æHello?Æ he said again.
   æRichard, is that you? /Where are you?/Æ
   æEr, hold on, IÆll go and look.Æ
   He  put the  receiver  down  on the  crumpled  sheets, where  it  lay
squawking,  climbed  shakily off the  bed,  staggered  to  the  door and
opened it.
   Here  was a  bathroom.  He  peered  at  it  suspiciously.  Again,  he
recognised it  but felt that there  was something missing. Oh yes. There
should be a horse in it. Or at least,  there had been a  horse in it the
last time he had  seen it. He crossed the bathroom floor and went out of
the other door. He found his way shakily down the  stairs and into RegÆs
main room.
   He was surprised by what he saw when he got there.


[::: CHAPTER 34 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   The  storms  of the day before,  and of  the day before that, and the
floods of  the  previous week,  had now  abated.  The skies still bulged
with  rain, but all that actually  fell  in the  gathering evening gloom
was a dreary kind of prickle.
   Some wind whipped across the darkening  plain, blundered through  the
low hills and gusted across  a shallow valley where stood a structure, a
kind of tower, alone in a nightmare of mud, and leaning.
   It was  a blackened stump of  a tower. It stood like an  extrusion of
magma from one  of the more pestilential pits of  hell, and it leaned at
a  peculiar angle, as if oppressed by something altogether more terrible
than  its own  considerable  weight.  It seemed a dead thing, long  ages
dead.
   The only movement was that of a river  of  mud that moved  sluggishly
along  the bottom of the valley past the tower. A mile or so further on,
the river ran down a ravine and disappeared underground.
   But  as the  evening darkened it became  apparent that the  tower was
not entirely without  life. There was a  single dim red  light guttering
deep within it.
   It was this scene  that Richard  was surprised to  see  from  a small
white doorway  set in the side of the valley wall,  a  few hundred yards
from the tower.
   æDonÆt  step out!Æ said  Dirk, putting up an arm, æThe atmosphere  is
poisonous. IÆm not sure  whatÆs  in  it but it would certainly  get your
carpets nice and clean.Æ
   Dirk  was standing in  the  doorway  watching  the valley  with  deep
mistrust.
   æWhere are we?Æ asked Richard.
   æBermuda,Æ said Dirk. æItÆs a bit complicated.Æ
   æThank you,Æ said Richard and walked  groggily back across the  room.
   æExcuse me,Æ  he said  to  Reg,  who was  busy fussing round  Michael
Wenton-Weakes,  making sure  that the scuba diving  suit he was  wearing
fitted  snuggly  everywhere,  that  the mask was  secure  and  that  the
regulator for the air supply was working properly.
   æSorry, can I just get past?Æ said Richard. æThanks.Æ
   He  climbed back up  the  stairs, went back  into RegÆs bedroom,  sat
shakily on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone again.
   æBermuda,Æ he said, æitÆs a bit complicated.Æ
   Downstairs, Reg finished  smearing Vaseline  on all the  joins of the
suit  and  the  few  pieces of exposed  skin around  the mask, and  then
announced that all was ready.
   Dirk swung  himself  away  from  the door  and  stood aside  with the
utmost bad grace.
   æWell  then,Æ he said, æbe  off  with  you. Good riddance. I wash  my
hands  of the  whole affair. I suppose we will have to wait here for you
to  send back the empty, for what itÆs worth.Æ He stalked round the sofa
with an angry gesture.  He didnÆt like this.  He  didnÆt like any of it.
He  particularly  didnÆt like Reg knowing more about  space\time than he
did. It made him angry that he didnÆt know why he didnÆt like it.
   æMy dear fellow,Æ said Reg in a conciliatory  tone, æconsider what  a
very small  effort it is for  us to help the poor  soul. IÆm sorry if it
seems  to you  an  anti-climax after  all  your  extraordinary  feats of
deduction. I know  you feel that a mere errand of mercy seems not enough
for you, but you should be more charitable.Æ
   æCharitable,  ha!Æ  said  Dirk. æI pay  my taxes,  what  more do  you
want?Æ
   He threw himself on  to the sofa, ran  his hands through his hair and
sulked.
   The  possessed figure of  Michael shook hands with Reg and said a few
words  of thanks. Then he  walked stiffly to the  door, turned and bowed
to them both.
   Dirk  flung  his  head  round and  glared  at him,  his eyes flashing
behind  their spectacles and his hair flying wildly. The ghost looked at
Dirk,  and  for   a   moment   shivered  inside   with  apprehension.  A
superstitious instinct suddenly made the ghost wave. He waved  MichaelÆs
hand round in a circle, three times, and then said a single word.
   æGoodbye,Æ he said.
   With that  he turned  again, gripped  the sides  of  the  doorway and
stepped resolutely out  into the mud, and into  the  foul and  poisonous
wind.
   He paused for a moment to be sure that  his footing  was  solid, that
he had his balance, and then without another  look back  he walked  away
from them, out of  the reach of the slimy things with legs, towards  his
ship.
   æNow,  what on earth did /that/ mean?Æ said Dirk, irritably mimicking
the odd triple wave.
   Richard  came thundering  down the stairs, threw  open the  door  and
plunged into the room, wild-eyed.
   æRoss has been murdered!Æ he shouted.
   æWho the hellÆs Ross?Æ shouted Dirk back at him.
   æWhatsisname  Ross,  for  GodÆs  sake,Æ  exclaimed  Richard, æthe new
editor of /Fathom/.Æ
   æWhatÆs /Fathom/?Æ shouted Dirk again.
   æMichaelÆs bloody  magazine, Dirk! Remember?  Gordon chucked  Michael
off the magazine  and gave  it to  this Ross guy to fun instead. Michael
hated him for that. Well,  last night Michael  went and bloody  murdered
him!Æ
   He  paused,  panting.  æAt least,Æ he  said,  æhe  was  murdered. And
Michael was the only one with any reason to.Æ
   He ran  to the door, looked out at the retreating figure disappearing
into the gloom, and spun round again.
   æIs he coming back?Æ said Richard.
   Dirk leapt to his feet and stood blinking for a moment.
   æThatÆs  it...Æ  he  said,  æ/thatÆs/  why Michael  was  the  perfect
subject. /ThatÆs/  what  I should have been  looking for.  The thing the
ghost made  him do in order  to establish  his hold, the thing he had to
be  fundamentally  /willing/  to do,  the  thing  that  would  match the
ghostÆs own purpose. Oh  my  dear God. He  thinks weÆve  supplanted them
and thatÆs what he wants to reverse.
   æHe  thinks this is their world not ours. /This/  was where they were
going to settle and build their blasted paradise. It matches every  step
of the way.
   æYou see,Æ he said, turning  on Reg, æwhat we have done? I  would not
be surprised to discover that the accident your  poor tormented soul out
there is trying to reverse is the very thing which  started life on this
planet!Æ
   He turned  his eyes  suddenly from Reg, who was  white and trembling,
back to Richard.
   æWhen did you hear this?Æ he said, puzzled.
   æEr, just now,Æ said Richard, æon... on the phone. Upstairs.Æ
   æWhat?Æ
   æIt was Susan, I  donÆt know how -- said  she  had a  message  on her
answering machine  telling  her about  it. She  said  the message... was
from --  she said  it was from  Gordon,  but I think she was hysterical.
Dirk, what the hell is happening? Where are we?Æ
   æWe are  four billion  years  in  the past,Æ  said  Reg  in a shaking
voice, æplease  donÆt ask  me why it is that the phone works when we are
anywhere in  the  Universe  other than  where  itÆs actually  connected,
thatÆs a  matter you will have  to take up with British Telecom, but --Æ
   æDamn  and blast  British  Telecom,Æ shouted  Dirk,  the words coming
easily from force of habit. He ran to the door  and peered again at  the
dim shadowy figure trudging through the mud  towards the Salaxalan ship,
completely beyond their reach.
   æHow long,Æ said  Dirk,  quite  calmly,  æwould  you guess  that itÆs
going to take  that fat self deluding bastard to reach his ship? Because
that is how long we have.
   æCome. Let us sit down. Let us  think. We  have two minutes  in which
to decide what we are going to do. After that, I very much  suspect that
the three  of  us,  and  everything  we have ever known,  including  the
coelacanth  and  the  dodo,  dear  Professor,  will cease  ever to  have
existed.Æ
   He  sat  heavily  on  the  sofa,  then  stood up  again  and  removed
MichaelÆs discarded jacket from  under  him. As  he did so,  a book fell
out of the pocket.


[::: CHAPTER 35 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æI think itÆs an appalling act of desecration,Æ said Richard to  Reg,
as they sat hiding behind a hedge.
   The night was full of summer smells from the cottage garden, and  the
occasional whiff  of  sea  air which came  in  on the light breezes that
were entertaining themselves on the coast of the Bristol Channel.
   There  was a  bright  moon  playing over the sea off in the distance,
and  by its light it was also possible to see some distance over  Exmoor
stretching away to the south of them.
   Reg sighed.
   æYes, maybe,Æ he said,  æbut IÆm afraid heÆs right, you know, it must
be  done. It  was the only sure way. All  the  instructions were clearly
contained in  the piece once you knew what you were looking for.  It has
to be suppressed.  The ghost will  always be around. In fact  two of him
now. That is,  assuming this  works.  Poor devil.  Still, I  suppose  he
brought it on himself.Æ
   Richard fretfully pulled  up some blades  of grass  and  twisted them
between his fingers.
   He held  them up to  the moonlight, turned them to  different angles,
and watched the way light played on them.
   æSuch music,Æ he said. æIÆm  not religious, but if I were I would say
it was like a glimpse  into the mind of God. Perhaps it was  and I ought
to  be  religious. I  have to  keep reminding  myself that  they  didnÆt
create the music, they only  created the instrument which could read the
score. And the score was life itself. And itÆs all up there.Æ
   He glanced into the sky. Unconsciously he started to quote:

     æCould I revive within me
      Her symphony and song
      To such a deep delight ætwould win me
    That with music loud and long
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!Æ

   æHmmm,Æ said Reg to himself, æI wonder if  he arrived early  enough.Æ
   æWhat did you say?Æ
   æOh, nothing. Just a thought.Æ
   æGood God, he can talk, canÆt he?Æ Richard exclaimed suddenly.  æHeÆs
been in there over an hour now. I wonder whatÆs going on.Æ
   He  got up  and  looked  over the hedge  at  the  small farm  cottage
basking in the moonlight behind  them.  About  an hour  earlier Dirk had
walked boldly up to the front door and rapped on it.
   When the door  had opened, somewhat reluctantly, and a slightly dazed
face had looked out,  Dirk had doffed his absurd hat and said in a  loud
voice, æMr Samuel Coleridge?
   æI  was just  passing by, on my way from Porlock, you understand, and
I  was wondering  if I might trouble you  to vouchsafe me  an interview?
ItÆs  just for a little parish  broadsheet  I edit. WonÆt  take  much of
your time I promise, I know you must be busy, famous poet like you,  but
I do so admire your work, and...Æ
   The rest was lost,  because by  that time Dirk had effected his entry
and closed the door behind him.
   æWould you excuse me a moment?Æ said Reg.
   æWhat?  Oh sure,Æ  said  Richard, æIÆm just going to have a  look and
see whatÆs happening.Æ
   While Reg wandered off behind a tree Richard  pushed open  the little
gate and was just about to make his way up  the path when  he  heard the
sound of voices approaching the front door from within.
   He hurriedly darted back, as the front door started to open.
   æWell, thank you very much  indeed, Mr Coleridge,Æ said  Dirk, as  he
emerged, fiddling with  his hat and bowing, æyou have been most kind and
generous with your time,  and I do appreciate  it very much, as IÆm sure
will  my  readers. IÆm  sure it will work up  into a  very  nice  little
article, a copy of  which you may rest assured  I  will send you for you
to peruse at  your  leisure. I will most certainly welcome your comments
if you have any, any points of  style,  you know, hints, tips, things of
that nature. Well, thank you again,  so much, for your time, I do hope I
havenÆt kept you from anything important --Æ
   The door slammed violently behind him.
   Dirk turned  with another in a long  succession  of triumphant  beams
and hurried down the path to Richard.
   æWell,  thatÆs  put  a  stop  to  that,Æ he said,  patting his  hands
together,  æI think heÆd made a start  on writing  it down, but he wonÆt
remember  another  word,  thatÆs  for  certain.  WhereÆs  the  egregious
Professor?  Ah, there you  are. Good heavens, IÆd no idea IÆd  been that
long. A most fascinating  and entertaining fellow, our  Mr Coleridge, or
at least IÆm  sure he would have been if IÆd given him the chance, but I
was rather too busy being fascinating myself.
   æOh, but I  did do  as  you  asked, Richard, I  asked him  at the end
about the  albatross and he said what albatross? So I said, oh it wasnÆt
important, the albatross did not signify. He said  what albatross didnÆt
signify, and I said never mind the albatross, it didnÆt  matter,  and he
said it  did matter -- someone comes  to his  house in the middle of the
night raving  about albatrosses, he wanted to know why. I said blast the
bloody  albatross  and  he  said he had a good mind  to  and  he  wasnÆt
certain that that didnÆt give him an idea for a poem he was  working on.
Much better,  he said,  than being hit  by an asteroid, which he thought
was stretching credulity a bit. And so I came away.
   æNow. Having saved the entire  human race from extinction  I could do
with a pizza. What say you to such a proposal?Æ
   Richard didnÆt  offer an  opinion. He  was staring instead  with some
puzzlement at Reg.
   æSomething troubling you?Æ said Reg, taken aback.
   æThatÆs a good trick,Æ  said  Richard, æI could have sworn you didnÆt
have a beard before you went behind the tree.Æ
   æOh  --Æ Reg  fingered  the  luxuriant three-inch growth -- æyes,Æ he
said, æjust carelessness,Æ he said, æcarelessness.Æ
   æWhat have you been up to?Æ
   æOh,  just  a few  adjustments.  A  little surgery,  you  understand.
Nothing drastic.Æ
   A  few  minutes later as he ushered  them  into the extra door that a
nearby  cowshed  had mysteriously acquired, he looked back  up into  the
sky  behind  them,  just  in  time to  see a  small light flare  up  and
disappear.
   æSorry, Richard,Æ he muttered, and followed them in.


[::: CHAPTER 36 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

   æThank you,  no,Æ  said  Richard  firmly, æmuch  as I would love  the
opportunity to buy you  a pizza and watch you eat it, Dirk, I want to go
straight  home.  I  have  to  see  Susan. Is  that  possible,  Reg? Just
straight to my flat? IÆll come up  to Cambridge next week and collect my
car.Æ
   æWe are already there,Æ  said Reg, æsimply step out of the door,  and
you are  home in your own  flat. It is early on  Friday evening  and the
weekend lies before you.Æ
   æThanks.  Er,  look,  Dirk,  IÆll see  you  around, OK? Do  I owe you
something? I donÆt know.Æ
   Dirk waved  the  matter aside  airily.  æYou will hear  from my  Miss
Pearce in due course,Æ he said.
   æFine, OK, well  IÆll  see you when  IÆve had  some rest. ItÆs  been,
well, unexpected.Æ
   He  walked  to the door  and  opened  it.  Stepping outside  he found
himself halfway up his own  staircase, in the wall of which the door had
materialised.
   He  was  about to  start  up  the stairs  when  he  turned again as a
thought struck him. He stepped back in, closing the door behind him.
   æReg, could we make one  tiny detour?Æ he said. æI think it would  be
a  good move if I took  Susan out for a  meal tonight, only the place  I
have in  mind  you have to book in advance. Could you manage three weeks
for me?Æ
   æNothing could be easier,Æ said Reg, and made a  subtle adjustment to
the disposition of  the beads on the abacus. æThere,Æ he said,  æWe have
travelled backwards in  time  three weeks. You know where the phone is.Æ
   Richard  hurried  up  the  internal  staircase to  RegÆs bedroom  and
phoned LÆEsprit dÆEscalier.  The maεtre dÆ was charmed and  delighted to
take  his reservation, and looked forward to seeing him in three  weeksÆ
time. Richard went back downstairs shaking his head in wonder.
   æI need a weekend  of  solid reality,Æ  he said. æWho  was  that just
going out of the door?Æ
   æThat,Æ said  Dirk, æwas your sofa being delivered. The man  asked if
we minded him  opening the door so they  could manoeuvre it round and  I
said we would be delighted.Æ

   It was only  a few minutes later that Richard found  himself hurrying
up  the stairs to SusanÆs  flat.  As he arrived at her front door he was
pleased, as he always  was,  to hear the deep  tones of her cello coming
faintly from within.  He quietly let himself in and then as he walked to
the door  of her music room he suddenly froze in astonishment.  The tune
she  was  playing  was one he had heard  before. A little tripping tune,
that slowed, then danced again but with more difficulty...
   His face was so amazed that she  stopped playing the instant she  saw
him.
   æWhatÆs wrong?Æ she said, alarmed.
   æWhere did you get that music?Æ said Richard in a whisper.
   She  shrugged.  æWell, from the music shop,Æ she  said, puzzled.  She
wasnÆt being facetious, she simply didnÆt understand the question.
   æWhat is it?Æ
   æItÆs from a cantata IÆm playing in in a  couple of weeks,Æ she said,
æBach, number six.Æ
   æWho wrote it?Æ
   æWell, Bach I expect. If you think about it.Æ
   æWho?Æ
   æWatch my lips. Bach. B-A-C-H. Johannes Sebastian. Remember?Æ
   æNo, never heard of him. Who is he? Did he write anything else?Æ
   Susan put  down her bow, propped up her cello, stood up and came over
to him.
   æAre you all right?Æ she said.
   æEr, itÆs rather hard to tell. WhatÆs...Æ
   He caught sight of  a  pile of music books sitting in a corner of the
room with the same name  on the  top one. BACH. He threw  himself at the
pile and started to scrabble through it.  Book after book -- J. S. BACH.
Cello sonatas. Brandenburg Concertos. A Mass in B Minor.
   He looked up at her in blank incomprehension.
   æIÆve never seen any of this before,Æ he said.
   æRichard my  darling,Æ she said, putting her hand to his cheek, æwhat
on earthÆs the matter? ItÆs just Bach sheet music.Æ
   æBut  donÆt you understand?Æ he said, shaking a handful of the stuff.
æIÆve never, ever seen any of this before!Æ
   æWell,Æ she said  with mock gravity, æperhaps if you didnÆt spend all
your time playing with computer music...Æ
   He looked at her  with wild surprise, then slowly he sat back against
the wall and began to laugh hysterically.

   On Monday afternoon Richard phoned Reg.
   æReg!Æ he said. æYour phone is working. Congratulations.Æ
   æOh  yes, my dear fellow,Æ said  Reg,  æhow delightful  to hear  from
you. Yes. A very capable young man arrived and fixed  the phone a little
earlier. I donÆt  think it will go wrong again now. Good news, donÆt you
think?Æ
   æVery good. You got back safely then.Æ
   æOh yes, thank  you. Oh, we had high excitement here when we returned
from  dropping you off. Remember the horse? Well he turned up again with
his owner. TheyÆd  had some unfortunate encounter with the  constabulary
and  wished to be taken  home. Just  as  well. Dangerous sort of chap to
have on the loose I think. So. How are you then?
   æReg... The music --Æ
   æAh, yes, I thought youÆd be pleased. Took a bit of work,  I can tell
you. I saved only the tiniest  tiniest  scrap, of course, but even so  I
cheated.  It  was  rather  more than  one  man  could actually do  in  a
lifetime,  but I donÆt suppose anybody will look at that too seriously.Æ
   æReg, canÆt we get some more of it?Æ
   æWell, no. The ship has gone, and besides --Æ
   æWe could go back in time --Æ
   æNo, well, I told  you. TheyÆve  fixed the phone so it wonÆt go wrong
again.Æ
   æSo?Æ
   æWell,  the time machine wonÆt work now. Burnt out. Dead as a dodo. I
think  thatÆs it  IÆm afraid.  Probably just as well, though, donÆt  you
think?Æ

   On  Monday,  Mrs  Sauskind phoned Dirk  GentlyÆs  Holistic  Detective
Agency to complain about her bill.
   æI  donÆt  understand  what  all  this  is  about,Æ she  said,  æitÆs
complete nonsense. WhatÆs the meaning of it?Æ
   æMy dear Mrs Sauskind,Æ he  said,  æI  can hardly tell you how much I
have been looking forward to  having  this exact  same conversation with
you yet again. Where shall we begin  today? Which  particular item is it
that you would like to discuss?Æ
   æNone of them, thank you  very much, Mr Gently. I do not know who you
are  or why you  should  think my  cat is missing.  Dear Roderick passed
away in my arms two years ago and I have not wished to replace him.Æ
   æAh, well  Mrs  Sauskind,Æ  said  Dirk,  æwhat  you  probably fail to
appreciate  is that it is as a direct result of  my efforts that -- If I
might explain about  the interconnectedness  of  all...Æ  He stopped. It
was pointless. He slowly dropped the telephone back on its cradle.
   æMiss Pearce!Æ he  called out,  æKindly send out a revised bill would
you to our dear Mrs Sauskind. The  new bill reads ôTo  saving human race
from total extinction -- no charge.öÆ
   He put on his hat and left for the day.