Here Comes the Sun

by Tom Holt

  The charge-hand made a note in his pocketbook. ‘Got that,’ he said. ‘Right.’

  ‘After that,’ his superior went on, ‘we’ll need a couple of buckets and some mops.’

  ‘Two - buckets,’ the charge-hand said slowly as he wrote, ‘assorted - mops. Yes?’

  ‘That’ll do to be going on with,’ said his superior. ‘So I’ll leave you to it, all right?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘After all,’ said his superior, a rainbow plainly visible through his torso, ‘you’re the charge-hand. It says so on your badge. Good luck.’

  He retreated rapidly, and soon was nothing more than a tiny speck, indistinguishable among the flock of ibises circling the helipad on the roof of the First Consolidated Bank.

  The charge-hand stood for a while, looking in the direction he had taken, and then frowned and said something under his breath. It might have been ‘bucket’, or at least something quite similar.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The charge-hand turned to find a smallish female mortal standing behind him. She was wearing, he noticed with mingled amazement and disgust, a bright blue lapel-badge with ‘Inspector’ written on it.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ he demanded.

  ‘The badge, you mean?’ Jane said. ‘Oh, a man gave it to me. A man by the name of Staff, if that means anything to you.’

  The charge-hand blinked four times, said, ‘Oh,’ and then took off his cap. ‘How can I help you, miss?’ he added warily.

  Jane looked down at the city below her. Out of irresistible force of habit, the mighty river was depositing its massive cargo of alluvial silt in through the windows of third-floor offices. She wasn’t quite sure what the people in those offices did for a living, but she was prepared to bet money that it wasn’t growing rice.

  ‘It’s more a case of how I can help you,’ she said. ‘You see, I’ve been assigned.’

  ‘Assigned?’

  ‘To help,’ Jane explained. ‘I’m new, you see. It’s a . . .’ She searched the back end of her mind for the right phrase. ‘It’s a management training programme. I’m here to learn the work of various departments, before I’m finally placed where they think I’ll be most suitable.’

  ‘I see,’ said the charge-hand. ‘You, er, know something about tidal rivers, then?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Jane replied. ‘I had a sort of idea that they aren’t supposed to flow slap bang through the middle of major urban thoroughfares, but maybe I’m a bit behind on the latest developments.’

  The charge-hand sat down on a lump of scrap cloud, put his index finger in his ear and wiggled it about. ‘If that’s irony,’ he said, ‘then it’s not allowed. There’s strict rules about irony.’

  ‘Really,’ Jane said, looking at the city. ‘You know, I think we ought to do something, don’t you?’

  The charge-hand sighed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll fetch the buckets.’

  Jane looked at him for a moment and considered reminding him about the irony statutes. Then it occurred to her that he might be serious.

  ‘No,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘Don’t do that. I’ve got an idea.’

  EIGHT

  It was lucky that the Mayor’s office was on the top floor of the City Hall building. Had it been anywhere else, it would have been flooded out, with grave consequences for the smooth and efficient administration of the City. As it was, the nerve-centre of the governmental system was intact and functioning, which made up to a certain extent for the fact that the rest of the system was under three feet of muddy water. The Mayor, a pragmatist whose electoral image was ‘early laid-back pastoral’, had decided to face the challenge posed by the inundation, borrowing a hat with some hooks stuck into it and hanging a sign on his door-handle which read Gone Fishin’.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, in answer to the knock on the door. Then he frowned.

  ‘How did you get here?’ he asked.

  Jane came in, shooed out an inquisitive crocodile with her handbag, closed the door behind her, smiled, and sat down. ‘Easy,’ she said. ‘I walked.’

  The Mayor was about to argue when he caught sight of the bright blue badge. For some reason which his mind couldn’t adequately process in the time available, it seemed to explain everything.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a problem, right?’

  Jane put her head on one side and gave him a quizzical look. ‘You could look at it that way,’ she said. ‘I’d see it as more of an opportunity myself, but you know what they say, two nations divided by a common language.’

  The Mayor tried to work that one out for a moment, but it was beyond him. He looked at the badge instead. He had confidence in the badge.

  ‘Opportunity,’ he repeated.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ Jane smiled. ‘Millions of cubic tonnes of mineral-rich alluvial silt deposited right on your doorstep,’ she said, ‘not to mention your window-sill,’ she added, ‘at a time when the situation in the Middle East means that the price of phosphates on the world commodities exchange is pretty near an all-time high.’ She winked. ‘I think somebody up there loves you, don’t you?’

  ‘Um,’ said the Mayor. He could feel a sort of prickly itch in the small of his back. ‘Mineral-rich, you said?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Jane replied confidently. ‘Pump out the water and carry it away and sell it, simple as that. I suggest you put it out to commercial tender.’ She stood up and straightened her skirt. ‘Then you use the proceeds to rebuild the city, you see. And, well, I don’t have to tell a man of your obvious intelligence and sensitivity what a wonderful opportunity this’ll be to get on with all those wonderful slum clearance and highway improvement projects you’ve been talking about all these years. You know, show the voters that you really are a man of your word, that sort of thing. But I expect,’ she added sweetly, ‘I can leave all the details to you.’

  On her way out, her high heels pecking at the surface of the water as she went, she met the charge-hand. He had a full bucket of water in each hand, and was trudging slowly east.

  ‘You needn’t bother with all that now,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve sorted it. We’d better be going.’

  ‘How d’you mean, sorted it?’ demanded the chargehand. ‘I mean, who’s going to clear up the mess?’

  A crocodile the size of a middling to large park bench waddled towards them, jaws agape. Jane tossed it a peppermint and it retreated, coughing. ‘The mortals,’ she replied. ‘Coming?’

  The charge-hand frowned. ‘Will they want paying?’ he said. ‘Because there’s not much left in petty cash after we bought a new handle for the mop, and you can’t go using the cocoa money, the lads won’t stand for it.’

  ‘They’ll do it for free,’ Jane replied. ‘Now hurry up and get rid of those buckets, and then we’d better nip over to Egypt.’

  The charge-hand rubbed his chin. He didn’t want to be caught out a second time.

  ‘That’s Egypt in Africa, right?’ he said.

  ‘More or less,’ Jane replied. ‘They don’t know it yet, but they’re just about to discover that this is a heaven-sent opportunity to build hydro-electric plants without the water getting in the way. All right?’

  The charge-hand furrowed his eyebrows, and then he caught sight of the badge on Jane’s lapel. It was very bright and singularly blue.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, relieved, ‘right. That’s a pretty good idea, that is.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ Ganger said, leaning forward and switching off the monitor. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Novel, certainly,’ Staff replied. He put the tips of his fingers together and frowned.

  ‘Not all that novel,’ Ganger replied. ‘It’s been done before. Basically, it’s just persuading the mortals to turn our mistakes to their advantage. And you’ve got to admit, it’s worked all right in the past. Think,’ he added with an involuntary grin, ‘of manna.’

  In spite of himself, Staff grinned too. The manna story was an old
chestnut in Departmental circles; the story of how a containerised shipment of manna had got spilt all over the Sinai desert once upon a time, just as a party of mortals came wandering along and walked right into it. The fortunate part of it was that, although the Public Servants knew precisely what manna was (hence the Departmental expressions ‘dropping someone right in the manna’ and ‘up manna creek without a paddle’), the mortals had never come across the stuff before and were quite remarkably taken with it.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Staff said. ‘I’m not denying the girl has -’ He paused while the librarians of his mind shuffled their card-indices furiously, ‘- talent, but that’s not what I’m mainly concerned about. There’s a lot of people out there with talent, some of them,’ he admitted, ‘mortals . . .’

  ‘Most of them,’ Ganger interrupted softly. Staff didn’t contradict him.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he went on, ‘talent’s no use if using it is counterproductive. If it, well, rocks the boat.’

  Ganger frowned. ‘It strikes me,’ he said, ‘that nobody notices very much if you rock the boat when it’s sinking rapidly anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Staff replied sharply. ‘I read a book once,’ he added, and Ganger noticed with surprise that his voice had dropped rather low, until it was scraping its hubcaps on furtiveness. ‘Social Interaction In The Workplace, it was called. There was a rule in it.’

  ‘Get away.’

  Staff scowled. ‘Don’t be so bloody funny,’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s a prohibited book, I’ll have you know.’

  Ganger nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I was forgetting where I was. Where I used to work, remember, all we’re allowed is prohibited books. I remember the scandal once when someone smuggled in a copy of The Swiss Family Robinson. They were fighting like maniacs to get hold of it . . .’

  Staff blinked and paused until he could remember where he had got to. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘this rule said that in order to preserve the natural equilibrium within an enclosed workplace, the pressure of internal paranoia rises to counter-balance the level of external pressure from without. It’s a well-known phenomenon, apparently.’

  ‘I think I get you,’ Ganger replied, stroking his chin. ‘Sort of, if you can’t stand the heat, knife the chef.’

  Staff raised an eyebrow. ‘You could say that,’ he replied. ‘What I’m getting at is, the worse things get, the more touchy and difficult the high-ups are going to be about anybody trying anything that isn’t, well - you know, done.’

  ‘Not a lot is done around here these days,’ Ganger couldn’t help replying. ‘Specially maintenance. But I think I can see what you’re getting at. This is one sinking ship where the rats are staying put and everyone else is leaving, yes?’

  Staff fiddled with his propelling pencil, breaking the lead. ‘Indeed,’ he said.

  ‘So we’ve got to be careful, in other words?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right.’ Ganger stood up and put his hands in the side pockets of his jacket, his thumbs remaining outside. ‘So we’ll be careful. No problem. What’ll we try her out on next?’

  Rocco Consanguinetti was one of those people who do one thing at a time, and do it well. At the moment, he was making a pizza, and he was concentrating. The result was obvious; it was the sort of pizza that would get hung in the Metropolitan Museum of Art one of these days if some thoughtless idiot didn’t eat it first.

  ‘Rocco, for Christ’s sake.’ His sister Rosa’s head snaked round the swing door and scowled at him. ‘There’s people chewing the tablecloths out there. How long does it take to make a pizza?’

  ‘It takes as long as it takes,’ Rocco replied without looking up. He had a feeling that he had used one olive too many, and Rocco felt about waste the way Nature feels about vacuums. ‘Give them some more bread or something.’

  Rosa scowled at him. ‘Bread costs money, Rocco,’ she replied. ‘Also, if hungry people stuff themselves full of bread, they make do with antipasti, they don’t want the main course as well. They certainly don’t order ice-cream to follow. We owe the bank money, Rocco. Work faster.’

  But her brother merely set his jaw and studied the pizza from another angle. He had been wrong. The tenth olive was indispensable.

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, for . . .’ Rosa retracted her head, and Rocco started to lay the pepperoni; slowly, one slice at a time. A Double Roman isn’t built in a day.

  The jaw he had set was rather a remarkable one. It projected. It had magnitude. You would feel comfortable about mooring a new and expensive yacht to it if you wanted to be sure it would still be there when you came back from the Casino. It was, in fact, the Hapsburg jaw, as worn by Charles V, in full and exuberant flower; and Rocco, completely unknown to himself or anyone else, was, and had been for some years now, the Holy Roman Emperor. His election had been perfectly valid, and he had even been properly and correctly crowned and anointed - under anaesthetic, admittedly, while he was under the impression that he was having his teeth capped.

  As the saying goes: just because a river goes underground doesn’t mean it stops flowing.

  It is, after all, essential that there be an Emperor: without him, absolutely nothing at all could be done. As the very title suggests, the post represents the fusion of temporal and celestial authority, and the Emperor himself is the spark-plug who transmits the divine fire to the profane cylinder of humanity. His assent (albeit given in his name by his agents under the authority of an eleven-hundred-year-old power of attorney, mistakenly signed by Charlemagne, who thought he was giving someone his autograph) is a prerequisite for the ratification of any statute, human or superhuman. But centuries of experience have taught the College of Electors that if the Emperor ever gets to realise what he actually is, he tends to interfere, usually with tedious results. On a need-to-know basis, therefore, it is generally held that His Majesty doesn’t.

  Apart from his virtually undiluted Hapsburg blood, Rocco VI was chosen because of his wisdom, his tolerance, his broad grasp of current affairs and because the present College of Electors (who are also the Emperor’s trusted advisers and agents) like to do business over working lunches. A really great Emperor, they argue, ought to know how to handle anchovies.

  The agenda for today’s cabinet was short, even shorter than usual.

  ‘To start,’ said the Lord High Cardinal, ‘I’ll have the minestrone. Phil, you’re having the insalata di mare Adriatica, Tony’s plumped for the fish soup, and Mario’s going to try the artichokes. They are fresh today, aren’t they, Rosa?’

  ‘They’re always fresh,’ replied the Emperor’s sister. ‘How many years have you guys been coming in here, anyway? You ever know the artichokes not to be fresh?’

  The Lord High Cardinal assured her that he was only kidding. ‘To follow,’ he went on, ‘I’m having the Sardinian veal, plus two sole. Mario, do you want the Messina chicken or the veal?’

  ‘I’ll have the veal,’ confirmed the County Palatine. ‘Chicken I can get at home.’

  When they had all finished eating and drunk their coffee and picked their teeth with the proper wooden toothpicks you got at Rocco’s instead of those damned plastic ones they have everywhere these days, the cabinet turned to the last item on the agenda. It was Mario’s turn.

  ‘Any other business?’ he asked.

  The Lord High Cardinal looked at his watch. ‘If there is,’ he said, ‘it’ll have to be adjourned till next time, because the game starts in half an hour and I need to go to the drugstore first. Next Tuesday?’

  The other Electors confirmed that Tuesday would be fine. Then, in accordance with ancestral tradition, the Imperial Treasurer took four toothpicks from the glass and broke one, and they drew lots to see which of them was going to sign the bill.

  NINE

  ‘Thank you,’ said Staff, cautiously. ‘That’s very, ‘ um . . .’

  Clerical gave him a slightly distant smile and retur
ned to her desk, leaving him with rather mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was touching to think that she had remembered his birthday; on the other hand, it was profoundly tiresome that she had chosen a present more than usually unidentifiable. If he assumed it was an executive paperweight and left it lying on his desk, it would most probably turn out to be a labour-saving kitchen device and its continued presence in the office would cause immortal offence. If, however, he took it home and put it in the big box in the cupboard under the stairs, it would undoubtedly turn out to be an executive paperweight, and he’d end up having to make his own coffee every morning for the next two thousand years. Difficult.

  ‘Many happy returns, Skip.’ It was Denzil, from the post room, with a palpably bottle-like shape suffused in brown paper. Staff smiled warmly. He didn’t drink, but at least he knew what the present was and could guess approximately how much it had cost. It was the sort of present the authors of Social Interaction In The Workplace heartily recommended. He could give it, he decided, to the window-cleaner for Solstice.

  ‘Memo to the head of department, general supplies,’ he said into his dictating-machine. ‘Re, colon, Truth with a capital T, underlined, new line. I note with concern that the raw material cost of Beauty has risen yet again, comma, this time in excess of six point four two per cent, comma, whereas the budget allocation for resources in this area has been reduced by two point eight per cent, full stop. I must therefore ask you to revise the existing Beauty oblique Truth ratio as from the first of next month full stop. I would propose that until future notice, comma, Beauty shall be sixty-six point six per cent Truth, comma, with a proportionate adjustment in the inverse ratio for Truth oblique Beauty, full stop. New paragraph, row of dots. Chief of Staff etcetera. Thank you. Tape ends.’