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“What the hell,” interjected Schitt. “Tell ’em.”
Braxton looked at Schitt, who continued to practice his putting.
“You may have the honor, Schitt,” said Braxton angrily. “It’s your show after all.”
Schitt shrugged and finished the putt. The ball hit its mark and he smiled.
“Over the last hundred years there has been an inexplicable cross-fertilization between works of fiction and reality. We know that Mr. Analogy has been investigating the phenomenon for some time, and we know about Mr. Glubb and several other characters who have crossed into books. We knew of no one to have returned so we considered it a one-way journey. Christopher Sly changed all that for us.”
“You have him?” asked Victor.
“No; he went back. Quite of his own accord, although unfortunately because he was so drunk he went back not to Will’s version of The Taming of the Shrew, but to an uneven rendition in one of the Bad Quartos. Melted into thin air one day while under observation.”
He paused for effect and polished his putter with a large red-spotted handkerchief.
“For some time now, the Goliath Advanced Weapons Division has been working on a device that will open a door into a work of fiction. After thirty years of research and untold expenditure, all we have managed to do is synthesize a poor-quality cheddar from volumes one to eight of The World of Cheese. We knew that Hades was interested, and there was talk of clandestine experiments here in England. When the Chuzzlewit manuscript was stolen and we found that Hades had it, I knew we were on the right track. Your uncle’s kidnapping suggested that he had perfected the machine and the Quaverley extraction proved it. We’ll get Hades, although it’s the machine that we really want.”
“You forget,” I said slowly, “that the machine does not belong to you; knowing my uncle he’d destroy the idea forever rather than sell out to the military.”
“We know all about Mycroft, Miss Next. He will learn that such a quantum leap in scientific thought should not be the property of a man who is incapable of understanding the true potential of his device. The technology belongs to the nation.”
“You’re wrong,” I said obstinately, getting up to leave. “About as wrong as you can possibly be. Mycroft destroys any machine that he believes might have devastating military potential; if only scientists stopped to think about the possible effects of their discoveries, the planet would be a much safer place for all of us.”
Schitt clapped his hands slowly.
“Brave speech but spare me the moralizing, Next. If you want your fridge-freezer and your car and a nice house and asphalt on the roads and a health service, then thank the weapons business. Thank the war economy that drives us to this and thank Goliath. The Crimea is good, Thursday—good for England and especially good for the economy. You deride the weapons business but without it we’d be a tenth-rate country struggling to maintain a standard of living anywhere near that of our European neighbors. Would you prefer that?”
“At least our conscience would be clear.”
“Naive, Next, very naive.”
Schitt returned to his golf and Braxton took up the explanation:
“Officer Next, we are extending all possible support to the Goliath Corporation in these matters. We want you to help us capture Hades. You know him from your college days and he addressed this to you. We’ll agree to his demands and arrange a drop. Then we tail him and arrest him. Simple. Goliath gets the Prose Portal, we get the manuscript, your uncle and aunt are freed, and SpecOps-5 gets Hades. Everyone gets something so everyone is happy. So for now, we sit tight and wait for news of the drop.”
“I know the rules on giving in to extortionists as well as you do, sir. Hades is not one to try and fool.”
“It won’t come to that,” replied Hicks. “We’ll give him the money and nab him long before he gets away. I have complete confidence in Schitt’s operatives.”
“With every respect, sir, Acheron is smarter and tougher than you can possibly imagine. We should do this on our own. We don’t need Schitt’s hired guns blasting off in all directions.”
“Permission denied, Next. You’ll do as I tell you, or you’ll do nothing. I think that’s all.”
I should have been more angry but I wasn’t. There had been no surprises—Goliath never compromised. And when there are no surprises, it’s harder to get riled. We would have to work with what we were given.
When we got back to the office I called Landen again. This time a woman answered; I asked to speak to him.
“He’s asleep,” she said shortly.
“Can you wake him?” I asked. “It’s kind of important.”
“No, I can’t. Who are you?”
“It’s Thursday Next.”
The woman gave a small snigger that I didn’t like.
“He told me all about you, Thursday.”
