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“You know about Trask?” asked Phoebe.
“He knows things,” I said. “I’m not sure asking questions actually helps.”
“Right,” said Phoebe.
We left Tim at the railway station. I told Phoebe all about Jack Schitt and the Day Players and the palimpsests and the Dark Reading Matter and HR-6984 and everything else he’d been up to—and that Goliath would doubtless continue this course without him.
“There are many more like Jack at Goliath,” I said.
“If he was Laddernumber ninety-one,” said Phoebe, “then there are probably about ninety worse than him. With Jack dead, the object of my hatred has moved to Goliath. What would you say to a merger of our departments? Your funding would be restored. We can recruit from within the library service and then really start to hit Goliath where it hurts.”
“Let’s see: run the Wessex Library Services, assist at the new SO-27 and kick some Goliath butt?”
“How about it?” asked Phoebe.
I smiled. “I am so totally on board.”
I gave her my hand to shake, and she squeezed it gratefully.
We drove back to my house in silence, and I let her take the Sportina into town. Phoebe, I reflected, was a good sort, reli
able in a scrap, driven, and she disliked big business and all that it stood for—particularly Goliath. We’d make a good team.
I pushed open the doors to be greeted by Landen and the others. My erstwhile assassin was being carted off by the local police.
“What happened to your arm?” asked Landen.
“Long story.”
I related the day’s events over lunch and described as best I could what it was like to be within spitting distance when a truly sinful man is vaporized by the all-consuming wrath of God.
“Cool,” said Gavin once I’d finished the story. “So all’s well that ends well?”
“Not precisely,” I replied, glancing at the clock. “It’s now one-thirty. Destiny is heading toward you and Friday and will be with them in thirty-two minutes and four seconds. If it can be sidestepped, so much the better.”
“How do you sidestep destiny?”
“It depends what sort of mood she’s in—warm and forgiving or cold and immovable.”
“How do we tell?”
“We can’t—until afterward.”
Gavin’s face fell. “Bummer.”
39.
Friday: Destiny
Of all the implausible notions with which the unconventional scientist has to battle, destiny is the one that gives the most trouble. The notion of predestination, that the future might be already fixed, irrespective of the billions of random interactions that precede it, sits poorly within the laws of physics and probability. But from a spiritual point of view, destiny sits very comfortably and in some cases is the sole guide to a sentient being. A beacon to follow, a guiding light in an otherwise empty existence.
Millon de Floss, Intelligent-Sounding Stuff to Spout, from The Hermiting Manual (edition 2)
“Okay,” I said once everyone had gathered in Tuesday’s lab, only because it was conveniently large, “let’s just talk this through point by point. Friday, you’re not due to kill Gavin for”—I looked at my watch—“another twenty-six minutes.”
“I think I might stand in front of him if you try,” said Tuesday.
“And I think I might let you,” said Gavin, who was clearly eager to add “coward” to his long list of personal failings.
