by Simon Hawke
"Of course, this just gives you an idea of how it moves," said Brewster, after he'd put it through some simple paces and shut off the engine. "We can mount an armored turret on it, with a smaller version of our water gun, and it would make a practical assault vehicle to use against foot soldiers or cavalry. Each tank would require a crew of two. One to drive it and one to be the gunner. Of course, they would be most effective supported by a squad of foot soldiers."
"Doc," said Mac, " 'tis you who should be the general and not I. With this tank of yours, we shall be invincible! Thirty or forty of these would make cavalry charges obsolete!"
"Well, we'll be lucky if we can get just this one built in time," said Brewster. "And it still may have some flaws. I don't know how much time we'll have to test it. And I'm still not entirely happy with the way the engine's running. It's almost as temperamental as Pamela's antique Jaguar."
"A jaguar?" Shannon said. "What sort of creature is that?"
"Uh... a very finnicky one," said Brewster. "If you don't grind the shims just right... oh, well, never mind. The point is, I'm still working out the bugs."
"Bugs?" said Mac.
"Nagging little problems," Brewster explained. "It's just an expression."
"Sometimes, Doc, I don't think we speak quite the same language," Shannon said with a frown.
"Mmmm. I know what you mean. 'Strewth, and all that. Anyway, I've thought of another application for this engine design, on a rather smaller scale. If we can get it working right, I might be able to come up with something else you might find useful. It all depends on how much time we'll have."
"Word has it that the troops are massing in Pitt," said Mac. "King Billy has recruited more soldiers from among his populace and sent out a call for mercenaries. However, we have the jump on him there, as our call went out first, thanks to Harlan's distribution network. We're offering a much higher salary, and we've been attracting some of the best fighters. I've been housing them at the Assassins School. A few of them have even guest lectured some of the classes. I think we're in good shape there."
"When do you suppose Pitt's army will march against us?" Brewster asked.
" 'Tis difficult to say," Mac replied with a shrug. "The new troops must be organized and drilled, and outfitted as well. They have been busy making preparations for the past few months, however, so 'tis possible that they may move against us anytime. How long do you think it will take to get the palace and the fortifications completed?"
"At the rate they're going, if they keep up this pace, the outer walls and the exterior of the castle should be complete by the end of the next month," said Brewster. "Bloody Bob's got all his crews working around the clock, in shifts, and they're making amazing progress. The castle won't be ready to move into for another several months, but it'll be a place where we can make a stand."
"That's the important thing," said Mac.
"How are we doing with arming the troops?" asked Shannon.
"Well, Mick's been busy with Doc's projects, but we have all the smiths and armorers in town producing weapons. And many of the troops we have recruited already have their own. Our biggest problem is with training them, appointing officers and so forth. It is there that King Billy is ahead of us. He has had more time. What is more, his spies have doubtless been reporting to him and he knows by now that we are preparing for war, and that the longer he delays, the better it is for us. I do not think he will wait much longer, and I cannot see how our army will be as well prepared as his."
"About those spies," said Brewster. "You think there's any chance they might have learned about what we're doing here at the keep?"
" 'Tis possible, but I strongly doubt it," Mac replied. "Only our most trusted friends have been admitted through the inner walls, and no one has seen anything you are preparing here save us and Mick's apprentices. And they have been camped out here on the grounds as a condition of their service, the better to ensure the secrecy of the work in which they have been engaged. We may not have succeeded in unmasking Warrick's spies, but neither have they succeeded in discovering what goes on here at the keep."
"Good," said Brewster. "If their army is going to be better trained than ours, then we'll need the element of surprise. And I think I can guarantee a few surprises. But I'm still worried about Warrick. I'm not sure what, if anything, I can do against his magic."
"Have you not been studying the Grimoire of Honorious with Brian?" Shannon asked.
"I have," said Brewster, "but this magic stuff is not exactly something you can pick up overnight. And apparently, if you try to rush it and overreach yourself, it can be very dangerous. The other night I tried a simple fire spell before I was really ready and I burned one of the big tapestries in the great hall by accident. Brian gave me quite a stern lecture."
"Do the best you can, Doc," Shannon said. " 'Tis all any man can do. You have already done more than enough. 'Tis past time for the rest of us to do our part."
"What do you think Warrick's been doing all this time?" asked Brewster.
"Well, Warrick is not the only one with spies," said Harlan. "We've sent the Awful Urchin Gang as spies to Pittsburgh. However, they report that no one has seen Warrick recently. He has not left his Alabaster Tower, and there is no way of telling what he may be up to in there."
"Up to no good, that much is for certain," Mac said with a grimace. "Still, there is no point in worrying about things we cannot control. He may be preparing spells to aid his army, but we shall have a few tricks up our sleeves, as well."
"I hope so," Brewster said as he watched Mick and his apprentices working on the armor plating for the tank. "I surely hope so."
By now, you're probably wondering what became of Warrick since he vanished in Brewster's time machine. Has he been transported to some limbo, doomed to remain forever trapped between dimensions and thereby written out of the story? Well, in a word, no. Much as I would have liked to have done something like that, I'm afraid it would have been anticlimactic. That wouldn't have satisfied you, would it? No, some of you would have thrown the book across the room and sworn never to buy anything I wrote again, others would have written me angry letters, calling me to task for being sloppy and taking the easy way out; and a few of you, I'm sure, would have come up to me at one of the conventions I attend and read me the riot act, telling me how you would have handled the situation better if you'd been in my place.
Well, never fear, your faithful narrator has not fallen down on the job. I may "not have started this book off as smoothly as I'd have liked and I may have lost control a few times here and there, and I may have whined and bitched a bit about how frustrating life can be when you're a writer, but hey, that's just the sort of thing that brings us closer together, right?
No, huh? Well, okay, maybe not. But haven't I always told you to trust your narrator? Haven't I gotten us all this far without any major mishaps? All right, the occasional expository lump and authorial intrusion notwithstanding, we've made it to this point, haven't we? I mean, we're about three quarters of the way through the story, the big war is coming up, the subplots with Colin and Pamela have come together, we've found out that Queen Sandy is more than just another pretty face ... well, that counts for something, doesn't it?
Okay, okay, so you want to know what happened to Warrick. The fact is, he really had me by the short and curlies. I can't tell you how many hours I spent sitting at my trusty Apple Mac, staring at the screen and trying to come up with some way to do him in that wouldn't completely screw up the story. I'd go to bed at night and lie awake for hours, wishing to God that I could get some sleep, but all I could think about was Warrick. Believe me, lying there at four-thirty in the morning, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, wondering why I ever decided to do this for a living, I knew exactly how Dr. Victor Frankenstein must have felt. I had created a monster and I couldn't figure out a way to get rid of him.
The worst thing about it was that I had laid the ground rules for my own dilemma. I had made W
arrick a mighty wizard with no effective limitations to his powers-or his ambition-and I had given him the ability to stymie all my efforts to control him. Now, this might sound a little silly to some of you, but the fact is, a writer has to believe in his characters. It says so in all those books on writing you see in the stores. I believed in Warrick, and so his magic worked on me. And when he came up with a spell to prevent me from writing him out of the story, there was simply nothing I could do about it. I knew it was only a matter of time before he devised a spell that would allow him to take over the book completely. And what's more, he knew it, too. But there was one thing he didn't know.
Having cast a spell to prevent himself from being written out of the story, he thought he had me beaten. He knew I couldn't kill him off and he thought that by wearing me down and forcing me to show him the secret of the time machine, he could cross the boundaries between the dimensions of reality and nonreality and confront me where I lived. Well, no thanks. I've got enough problems with reality as it is. So guess where he wound up?
Pamela inserted her EnGulfCo Security ID into the machine to open the steel doors, then pulled her Jaguar E-type into the parking garage. It was late and everyone had long since gone home. She parked the car in her reserved space by the elevators and they got out. She gave Hightower a quick once over.
"Button up your raincoat," she told him. "No self-respecting scientist would wear anything like that frantic sport jacket of yours."
"Well, we can't all shop in Savile Row," said Colin, wryly.
"In your case, Skid Row is more like it," Pamela replied.
"Cute," said Colin.
"Now remember, if we're challenged, let me do all the talking," Pamela said.
"What if someone asks me something?" asked Megan.
"Don't answer," Colin said. "Just roll your eyes and look impatient. Let Pamela handle everything."
They got into the elevator and Pamela pressed the button for the top floor, just beneath the penthouse. As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to ascend, a voice came over a concealed speaker.
"Good evening, Dr. Fairburn. Working late again tonight?"
"No rest for the weary," Pamela replied with a smile. "Is that you, Jerry? How's everything tonight? Keeping it all safe for queen and country?"
The guard on duty at the station chuckled. "All locked up tight. Who is that with you, Doc?"
"Dr. Simmonds and Dr. Radinski."
"They're not on staff here, are they?"
"No, but they're consulting with me on a special research project up at the lab."
"I see." There was a slight pause. "I'm sorry, Dr. Fairburn, but I don't seem to have a clearance registered for them."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"I'm afraid so. I've double-checked."
"Well, that can't be right," said Pamela. "Dr. Davies told me earlier this afternoon that he'd taken care of it personally."
"I'm sorry, Dr. Fairburn, but there's no record of that on the computer."
"Oh, bloody hell," said Pamela in an irate tone. "He told me he was going to take care of it himself. He must have given it to that new secretary of his, Miss Legs and Busoms." Pamela grimaced. "That woman is a bloody disaster. This is the third time she's dropped the ball on something relating to this project. It's simply insufferable."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to check in at the station," the security guard said. "We can give Dr. Davies a call at home and sort this thing out."
"Yes, I suppose-oh, Christ," said Pamela. "We can't reach Dr. Davies at home tonight. He told me he was leaving early for a weekend of fishing in the country." She turned to Colin and Megan. "I'm really sorry, this is all terribly embarrassing."
Colin merely nodded for the benefit of the hidden video camera while Megan shook her head and tapped her foot impatiently.
"Look, Jerry, we're on a very tight schedule here. Dr. Simmonds and Dr. Radinski have a late flight to catch at Heathrow in about"- she glanced at her watch,-"three and a half hours. That's barely enough time for us to go over... well, I can't really discuss it, you understand. I was fortunate to catch them at the Defense Ministry this afternoon and they've both got to be in Washington by tomorrow morning. If we miss this opportunity, it could set the project back by months and Dr. Davies will have an embolism."
"Well... I shouldn't really be doing this, you understand," said Jerry, "but seeing as it's you, Dr. Fairburn, I guess it'll be all right this time."
"You're a lifesaver, Jerry, thank you. But I want you to be sure to mention in your log that we had a problem with this."
"Uhm... if it's all the same with you, Dr. Fairburn, I'd really rather not, because then my supervisors will want to know why I skipped procedure. That, uh, could make things rather sticky."
"Right, of course," said Pamela. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want to cause you any problems, particularly since you're being such a dear about this. I'll just speak to Dr. Davies privately. That new secretary of his has simply got to go, but there's no reason to involve you. We'll just keep this between ourselves.'
"I appreciate that, Dr. Fairburn," said Jerry. "Well, have a good night then. I'll see you on the way out."
"Thank you, Jerry." She turned to Colin and Megan. "I apologize for this."
Colin simply shrugged. They rode the rest of the way up in silence, then stepped out on the top floor. Hightower noted the security cameras outside the elevator and in the hallway, and the security station, now unmanned, by the elevator leading to the penthouse.
"That was very well done," he said in a low voice.
"Relax, the corridors aren't wired for sound. But we're not out of the woods yet," said Pamela. "Getting in is only half the problem. Smuggling Marvin's notes out is going to be the trick."
"You think your friend Jerry's going to insist on searching us?" asked Colin.
"It's standard procedure for everyone working in a restricted area," said Pamela, indicating the unmanned security station with a nod. "During the day, there's always a guard stationed there, and there are checkpoints at every floor with restricted access. Not much goes on here at night, so they just use a skeleton crew. With all the surveillance equipment they have installed, they can monitor the whole building from the central station just off the lobby. Jerry's a good man, but he's already bent the rules by allowing you up without a registered clearance, merely on my say so. If I tried to get us out without checking in with him, I'd be pushing my luck."
"What if we're in a big rush to make our so-called flight to Washington?" asked Colin.
"It could be worth a try," said Pamela as she pressed her palm against the scanner panel of the elevator to the penthouse, "but Jerry's not a fool. EnGulfCo doesn't hire run-of-the-mill security personnel. They're all either former police officers or executive protection specialists. And some are former military. They're all very well paid. I told Jerry we have a limited amount of time, but he'll become suspicious if I press the issue. I know what the procedures are. And going through security on the way out wouldn't take more than a few minutes, anyway, so he'll want to know why I'm avoiding it."
"Okay," said Colin, "just how complete is the security check on the way out?"
"All personal baggage such as purses and briefcases are examined, and there's a body search," said Pamela.
"Are there any female security personnel on duty at this time?" asked Colin.
"No, I don't think so," Pamela replied. "Why?"
"I've got a miniature spy camera in my coat pocket," Colin said. "We could simply photograph what we need, and then conceal the camera. I can think of a good place to hide it. On a woman, that is."
Pamela stared at him. "Surely, you don't mean..."
"Well, I'm trying to be somewhat delicate about this," Hightower replied. "We could have Megan do it, but I think you'd be a safer bet. I doubt your friend Jerry would get that personal with you."
The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Pamela simply stared at him
, and her look conveyed exactly what she thought of his suggestion. Colin merely shrugged.
They got out at the penthouse and Pamela placed her palm against the scanner, then punched in the special entrance code. The laboratory doors opened automatically and they went inside. Almost immediately, Pamela halted in her tracks and caught her breath.
"What is it?" Colin asked.
Sitting in the center of the lab was the duplicate time machine she had constructed from Brewster's plans, an exact copy in every detail save that it was nonfunctional without the Buckminsterfullerine inside the torus that encircled it. And beside it was an absolutely identical machine.
"It's a second time machine!" she said. "It's Marvin's! It has to be!" She rushed into the lab, glancing all around her. "Marvin? Marvin, darling, where are you?"
She came to an abrupt halt as a man stepped out from behind the machine. He looked perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, but his shoulder-length hair was snow-white. He wore white robes, a loose-fitting white tunic, white breeches, and white velvet boots.
"And who might you be?" he asked in a demanding tone.
Pamela stared at him, shocked speechless for a moment.
Megan gasped. "Warrick the White!" she said, cowering behind Hightower.
Warrick glanced at her and smiled. "I remember you," he said. "You were one of my experimental subjects, were you not?"
"What are you doing here?" demanded Pamela. "Where's Marvin? What have you done with him?"
Warrick turned toward her and raised his eyebrows. "I do not know who this Marvin may be, but who are you?"
"My name is Dr. Pamela Fairburn," she replied tensely, "and you are in a restricted area. If you don't tell me where Marvin is and what you've done with him, I'm going to call security and have you taken into custody!"
"That sounds rather threatening," said Warrick, unperturbed.
"Oh, I can do a lot more than threaten," Pamela replied, heading for the phone.
"Watch out!" cried Megan. "He is a fearsome sorcerer!"
"I don't care what the hell he is," said Pamela. She put her hand on the phone. "Are you going to answer my question or do we do this the hard way?"