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“Mr Schitt,” Phoebe added, turning to Jack, “we’re extremely sorry for this intrusion upon your leisure time. We had a miscommunication but had to act on short notice—hence our lack of preparedness.”
“Polite of you, Officer . . . ?”
“Detective Judith Trask—Swindon PD.”
Phoebe could lie well when she wanted to.
“Polite of you, Officer Trask. But I feel that Thursday owes me the bigger apology.”
“I apologize unreservedly,” I said through clenched teeth. Jack was good—real good. He’d have had a Plan B and most probably a Plan C, too.
“Then we’ll say no more,” he declared, staring intently at me without blinking. “But heed my words: My sources tell me that you were designated NUT-4 in a recent appraisal—‘prone to strange and sustained delusional outbursts.’ If that is the case, then threatening a Goliath executive and making ridiculous claims about Day Players while demanding to see my genitals at gunpoint wouldn’t go down very well in an official complaint, now, would it?”
“In that,” I said slowly, “I think we are in complete agreement.”
“If anyone but you had done this, I would use my full powers to ensure that the perpetrator was ruined personally and financially, not to mention enmeshed in suicidally wearisome litigation for the rest of her natural life. But I have Protocol 451 to consider and more important matters to deal with, such as an alternative plan to save Swindon due to your daughter’s failings.”
He paused to let this sink in.
“So we’ll just forget this ever happened. Am I not magnanimous?”
I glared at him hotly and opened my mouth in order to make things worse. Luckily, Phoebe was there first, told Jack that we would most definitely leave him well alone, that we were terribly sorry for disturbing him, that he was truly magnanimous, and then she took me by the arm. The door slammed shut behind us, and we quickly beat a retreat to the elevators.
“Damn,” I muttered as we walked back down the corridor to the elevators, “he’s got it all sorted out.”
“You’ve got nothing,” said Phoebe. “In fact, you’ve got less than nothing. So until you have, we’re going to do exactly as he says. Who was Flossie, by the way?”
“Flossie Buxton,” I told her. “We were good friends at school. Ver y different career paths. Who’s Judith Trask?”
“The first name that popped into my head,” she said with a shrug.
“I always use ‘Linda Cosgrove’ when I’m in a sticky spot,” I said, thinking things over. “Jack’s Day Player must have died already—or maybe Flossie was a Day Player. Perhaps we should have checked her, too.”
I stopped walking, but Phoebe took my arm again and steered me firmly toward the elevators. She pressed the call button and stared at me.
“Your friend Miss Buxton would doubtless say anything Jack asked her to. I think we were lucky to get away with our jobs.”
“If you want to be a Thursday,” I told her, “being fired is very much an occupational hazard.”
“I heard that. I also heard a rumor that Goliath had SpecOps disbanded simply to get rid of you. And if that is the case, then your being fired had huge and very negative repercussions for law enforcement in general.”
I’d heard the rumor, too.
“That was never proved,” I said. “Besides—ballocks to them. I do what I do.”
“I’ve noticed. Asking to see a top Goliath executive’s whatnot. I ask you.”
She shook her head at my audacity and then started to giggle. I joined her at that point, and we were so helpless with laughter that we dismissed the first lift and caught the second.
Suitably composed, I told Phoebe what had been going on as we descended to the lobby, and the admission from Jack’s Day Player that they were stealing and destroying palimpsests because of something vaguely to do with asteroid HR-6984— and that it was something I put them up to.
“Really? Any idea what?”
“None at all. Lunch? I’m meeting Landen at the Happy Wok at one, and it’s only in Wanborough. I’ve got a Blyton Fundamentalist stuck to me like glue, so she’ll probably come, too.”
“Mrs. Hilly?”
“Met her?”
