Overtime. Part 22

READY?.

'Oh don't sulk!'

WIZMATIC SOFTWARE INC 2965 REGT TRADE MARK.

'Now I've offended you,' Isoud said. 'I'm really very sorry and it's a lovely feather, really. Look, it just goes nicely with my scarf!'

YOU'RE JUST SAYING THAT.

'No I'm not,' said Isoud, through gritted teeth. 'Now, why don't we forget all about it and you bring me something nice.'

SUCH AS?.

'Oh,' said Isoud, 'I don't know. Strawberries. An ice cream. Violets. Anything. Use your b.l.o.o.d.y imagination.'

TOGETHER OR SEPARATELY.

Isoud's fingernails dug into her fine lawn handkerchief. 'Separately, please.'

WRAPPED?.

'If you like, yes.'

The bell rang, the door opened, and a little spring began firing strawberries, individually wrapped in silver foil and ribbon, straight at Isoud, who ducked. Then came the ice cream, which fortunately she was able to avoid, followed by a bombardment of violets, which burst on hitting the opposite wall and went everywhere.

'Thanks,' Isoud said grimly when it was all over. 'Now can I have a vacuum cleaner, please?'

The bell rang, and a beautiful chrome-plated Electrolux rolled out and sat at her feet. It too was festooned in ribbon, which managed to get tangled up with the lead.

Isoud sighed. The hyperfax was all very well in its way, but she could see now why they'd said it needed working on before it was ready for ma.s.s market release. 'All right,' she said. 'Switch from receive mode to transmit mode, please. I want to send all this lot back.'

SUIT YOURSELF.

The door opened, and a great wind blew through the hall. A few moments later, the feather, the strawberries, the ice cream, the violets and the hoover had all gone. So had two cus.h.i.+ons and the heel of one of Isoud's shoes, but she knew better than to try and make something of it. She thanked the machine, decided that she would far rather get on with her embroidery instead, and stood up to switch it off at the mains.

Then the little bell rang again, and a man fell out of the door, rolled round on the carpet a couple of times and came to rest under the sideboard. He lay there very still. The screen read:

STILL RECEIVING.

'Really!' Isoud said, irritably. 'Please prepare to transmit immediately!'

The screen flickered - a sort of digital shrug - and the man was dragged slowly back the way he had come. As his head collided with the leg of the table he let out a pitiful howl and Isoud, on impulse, pressed the Pause b.u.t.ton. The screen went insufferably blank.

'Ouch,' said the man.

Isoud looked down at him. 'Mr Goodlet, isn't it?' she said. 'Would you care for some tea?'

Blondel woke up, hauled himself painfully to his feet, and looked at the notice. It said:

THIS WAY.

That didn't seem to make a great deal of sense. From what little he could see of his surroundings, he was in the middle of a huge empty s.p.a.ce, and the only light was a sort of pale glow around the notice; there was no sign of any roof, sky, walls or anything helpful like that, and there was nothing in the notice itself to suggest which way was the way referred to. On the other hand, he instinctively felt, this wasn't the time to start making difficulties. He had just, as far as he could judge, drowned in time, and the best thing to do was probably keep a low profile, just in case he was really supposed to be dead.

The scabbard by his side was empty, and a quick survey revealed that he had lost all the cherished little artefacts which he had collected over a very long life of time-travel: the map of the tunnel network, for example; the mirror which showed demons in their true shape; his all-purpose combined season ticket, ident.i.ty card, pa.s.sport, museum pa.s.s and phonecard; even his calculator watch and his comb. On the other hand, apart from a number of bruises and a nagging pain in his left wrist, he was reasonably undamaged, so the odds were still on his side. Dum spiro spero, and all that.

He decided to walk; in which direction he neither knew nor cared, now that he'd lost his matchbox with the compa.s.s in the lid. He set out brightly, on past the notice, into pitch darkness. He started to whistle; then it occurred to him that, since he had never been this way before he might just as well give it a shot, and he sang L'Amours Dont Sui Epris.

Another notice loomed up at him out of the darkness. It too seemed to be self-lit, and it said:

MAXIMUM HEADROOM 4' 7".

Since it was at least ten feet high, it was obviously lying, and Blondel ignored it. If any of this was supposed to impress him, it wasn't going to work. He'd been in places that made this seem boringly normal.

A noise behind him - a sort of soft creaking - made him look round, and he saw a s.h.i.+p sailing past, about a hundred yards or so away. He had no reason to suppose that there was any water over there, or certainly not enough water to float a fifteenth-century Flemish merchantman, and so he put it out of his mind. Sure enough, the s.h.i.+p veered slowly away and vanished. Kids' stuff. If someone was doing this deliberately, they hadn't got beyond Grade II yet.

The gradient changed to a fairly steep descent, and Blondel realised that what he was walking on was waves; invisible, bone-dry, rock-solid waves. If he stood still, he could feel them rising and falling very slowly. An English privateer bobbed through the shadows at extreme range, but too far away for him to be able to pick out any identifying marks. He could, however, just make out what they were singing.

'Por li maintaindrai l'us

D'Eneas et Paris

Tristan et Pyramus

Qui amerentjadis.'

With an effort, Blondel closed his mouth, which had fallen open, and then picked up his feet and started to run. The crew were singing: