* * *
“Whatya want?” the spotty face demanded, head sticking round the fortified security door.
“To string you and your mates up from the nearest lamp-post, Billy, but right now I’ll settle for some answers,” I said frostily.
I shoved at the door, but he wouldn’t budge.
“You can’t come in, it’s top secret. Can’t you see the sign?”
“What? Buffy Fan Club HQ – no vampires by order?”
“No,” he said, blushing. “The other one – Dark Matter Project. Highly Classified. Authorised Personnel Only.”
“But I’m the head of security,” I snarled. “I’m the one who authorises people!”
I’m sure the force of my argument would have won, however Chief Inspector Turner wasn’t waiting. She grabbed poor Billy by the hair and hissed: “Open up, sonny, before you make me really angry.”
He gulped and the door swung open.
“See, Jack,” she said marching in. “Authority. Works every time.”
Our small group – me, Turner, Frank and Doc Mitchells – stood in awe at what we saw before us.
Towering sixty feet to the ceiling a spider’s web of tangled wiring, electric coils, computer innards and heavy duty condensers were draped haphazardly over a framework of metal tubing and glass panels. In the centre was a swirling, churning, dancing storm of multi-coloured particles. As it twirled and spun, electric flashes arced across the front and a deafening roar echoed from deep within its core.
And next to it was what had us really stunned – enough Lord of the Rings action figures, Doctor Who memorabilia and Spiderman comics to stock an entire geeks’ convention. And that didn’t include the dozens of Star Wars models littering the rest of the room.
“That junk must have cost a fortune,” I muttered. “Like to tell me where the cash came from, Billy?”
He looked at me then Chief Inspector Turner and his shoulders sagged. “I told the others we’d get rumbled eventually,” he said sadly. “But they wouldn’t listen.”
He waved half-hearted at the bellowing, growling mega machine crackling and spitting in technological fury. “All the cash has come from Gandalf.”
“Gandalf?” Frank asked, incredulously.
“Our pet name for the trans-mutational inter-epoch spatial manipulation device.”
The what?
Seeing our bemused expressions, Billy simplified his explanation. “It’s what you’d call a time machine…”
An Ugly Way To Go - and other Quintessentially Quirky Tales Page 4