Doughnut
Page 12
“Oh, it’s not his. Well, not really his. He’s got this hedge fund thing. I’m not entirely sure what that means.”
“It’s where a lot of rich people put money in a fund to buy hedges,” Theo said. “Then they sell the blackberries and make an absolute killing. Of course you know what a hedge fund is.”
She glowered at him, then shrugged. “Anyway,” she said, “he took a bunch of money out of that, and then he borrowed some from Nordstrom and the Duchene woman, but that’s nearly all used up now. Which shouldn’t be a problem, provided we can get this thing working.”
“It’d help if you knew what it was,” Theo said warily. “I mean, it makes a difference, where the mathsy stuff’s concerned.”
“Does it?”
“Oh yes. You need a completely different set of equations if it’s supposed to be a quantum particle accelerator, say, than if what you’re trying to build is the last word in pencil-sharpeners. As you well know.” He tried to fix her with a steely glare, but it was a bit like trying to nail custard to a wall. “Admit it,” he said. “You were the girl on the train.”
“What train?”
“You can’t only vanish, you can change what you look like as well. And that’s creepy.”
She gave him a puzzled look. “What girl on what train? I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t ever travel on trains, I get motion sickness.”
The horrible possibility that she was telling the truth seeped into his mind like water through a ceiling. Nevertheless, he told her about the girl on the train; her beauty, her friendliness, her interest in quantum physics and the bloodcurdling manner of her departure. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
But instead of guilty or defiant, she just looked confused. “Sorry,” she said, “definitely not me. Until very recently I thought string theory was trying to explain how balls of wool get knots in them without you even touching them. And I’ve spent half my life trying to change how I look, and I still can’t get my hair to stay straight for more than ten minutes. Which means,” she added with a frown, “there’s somebody else out there who knows about all this stuff.” She looked at him. “That’s bad.”
“And who can disappear?”
“Apparently. Honestly,” she said, looking straight at him, “it wasn’t me. And if it wasn’t me, it had to have been someone else. That’s logic, that is.”
He didn’t want to believe her, but he didn’t seem to have any choice. “If you say so,” he said. “All I’m interested in is what you want me to do. And if I do it, will your uncle call off the police so I can get out of here?”
She actually looked hurt when he said that. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I always said we should be straight with you instead of messing you around, but Uncle Bill reckoned if we did that, you’d want a huge great cut of the profits.”
Theo told her where Uncle Bill could insert the profits, and she replied that that would certainly call for an innovative approach to money-laundering before they’d be able to spend it. “I know we haven’t exactly got off to a good start,” she went on, “but that’s no reason why we can’t make friends and cooperate. Anyway, you can’t leave. You know too much now.” She got to her feet and gathered up an armful of towels. “While you’re deciding what you’re going to do, you can help me with all this lot.”
“Why? This isn’t a hotel.”
“No, but Uncle Bill would like to think you still think it is. I’m not supposed to have told you anything, remember?”
“That still doesn’t mean I have to fold towels.”
“If you don’t, he might fire you.”
Arguing with her was like one of those games where you’ve got to jiggle a little plastic box around until all the little ball-bearings have settled in the holes. He’d always hated them and he’d always got one for Christmas. “Fine,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. But you’re going to talk to your lunatic uncle and get the police off my back. Otherwise, I suggest you buy yourself a really good calculator.”
Folding towels for the next four hours gave him time to think. Although Matasuntha wasn’t the sort of person he’d usually believe if she told him he was breathing, he had the feeling that parts of what she’d told him were probably the truth. Pieter had lured him here as a backup; well, that he could believe, though he wished he couldn’t. Also, the girl on the train hadn’t been Matasuntha, and she didn’t appear to know about YouSpace. In which case, Pieter and Call-me-Bill’s secret, illicit project was something else; and YouSpace –
Didn’t fit in anywhere. Something else Pieter was playing around with, nothing to do with Matasuntha or Uncle Bill. Pure coincidence? Sure, and the soft swishing overhead was the lazy wing beats of the flocks of circling pigs. Refusing to touch with a ten-foot pole the issue of how come a hedge fund manager was also a top-flight quantum physicist – one that he’d never heard of – he tried to come up with some reason why Pieter should’ve inflicted that terrible plaything on him at the same time as enticing him here to do cutting-edge mathsy stuff. He batted the idea round in his mind until his synapses were raw, but he could squeeze out only one possibility. Max. YouSpace was Pieter’s way of passing on some information about Max, while making it impossible for anyone who couldn’t solve the impossible equation that got you inside the bottle to intercept it.
As a hypothesis, it was still about as likely as free universal healthcare in the United States, but it was all he could think of. For one thing, Max was dead, had been for years. Therefore, anything to do with him could hardly be particularly urgent. Had Pieter known Max? No evidence for that whatsoever. His original hypothesis was that Pieter had dropped false hints about Max purely in order to lure him into YouSpace. That still made a kind of sense; turning it on its head, so that the Max stuff was both real and important, made no sense at all. In fact, he’d be inclined to reject the whole theory out of hand, except that it was the only one he’d got. Also, there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that there was something; hopelessly vague but just strong enough to keep him from walking out on the whole horrible mess, changing his name and making a new life for himself in Ulan Bator.
Nothing for it; he was going to have to try YouSpace again. As soon as he made the decision, a heavy weight seemed to press down on him, making him wonder if being stuck where he was with a bunch of devious lunatics was really as bad as all that. Or prison, even; he could go to the police and they’d put him in a nice quiet cell for a few months until they figured out that he couldn’t possibly have killed Pieter, during which time he could catch up on his reading, sew a few mailbags, nothing taxing or bewildering, and no being suddenly plunged into unexpected life-threatening situations where everybody knew what was going on except him. It was tempting, no question about that. But-
Screw you, Max, he thought. But.
“Where are you going?” she asked, as he headed for the door.
“Toilet.”
“Oh.” She frowned at him, as though he’d just claimed a day off for the funeral of his sixth grandmother. “Well, don’t be long.”
“I’ll be as long as it takes,” he replied with dignity, and bolted.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice in his head, “Could you repeat that?”
He stared. This wasn’t –
Not in his head. In his helmet. “Mission Control calling Alpha One. Please repeat. Over.”
In front of him, through the glass of his helmet visor, he saw a red desert meet a pink sky. He turned his head, and the movement nearly knocked him off his feet. He staggered, left the ground for a split second, and landed gently.
“To refresh your memory,” the voice said, “you got as far as one small step for. You were saying?”
“Shit.”
Pause. Crackle. “Um, you might care to rephrase that. Bear in mind, there’s two billion people watching this live back home.”
“Where the hell,” Theo asked, “is this?”
“Um. Missi
on Control to Alpha One, are you experiencing difficulties, over?”
Very carefully, Theo moved his head about ten degrees left. “This isn’t Earth.”
“No, Alpha One, that’s the point. Look, are you feeling OK? Any dizziness, nausea—?”
“Jesus Christ,” Theo yelled. “Get me out of here. Now.”
Two sharp crackles. “Alpha One, this is Mission Control, we’re having technical problems, so we’re signing off, we’ll get back to you soonest.” Crackle. Buzz. “What’s the matter with him, is he nuts or something? He’s fucking lost it, man, what do you mean, the mike’s still—?”
The voice cut off abruptly. Theo looked down at his legs, and saw that they were covered in silver-foil trousers, which made him feel as though he really belonged in an oven. The boots were also silver, and huge. His arms were covered in the same material, and both of them were visible. He lifted his left foot, and it seemed to want to rise up in the air and float away.
Mission Control, he thought. Oh God.
He stared at the red desert, which was nothing but sand dunes, as far as the eye could see. Very carefully he turned round and looked behind, and saw what was presumably his landing module. It didn’t inspire confidence; a silver and white box on four frail, shiny legs, like a spider made out of biscuit tins and cardboard. I’m supposed to fly all the way back to Earth in that, he told himself. Yeah, sure.
Something nudged his leg, which made him jump. Not, with hindsight, the most sensible reaction; he soared his own height off the ground and nearly flipped over before sinking slowly back down again. As he touched down, he saw a creature, squatting in the sand, looking at him.
The first thing he noticed was the eyes. There were eight of them, in two bunches of four, like shiny black grapes, and they were set in an upside-down pear-shaped head that tapered steeply to a point. The creature’s head was slightly larger than its body, which was supported by three stumpy legs and from which hung four long, spindly arms. What he could see of its skin was green; the rest was covered in what looked like dark blue cloth, and around its foot-long neck was something that looked disconcertingly like a fat, drooping bow tie. It raised a nine-fingered hand and waved at him.
Little green men. Bug-eyed monsters. Oh please.
He edged round until he was facing the pathetic-attempt-at-a-spaceship thing and took a long step towards it, only to find he wasn’t moving. He looked down and saw a thin green hand wrapped round his ankle.
In space, proverbially, no one can hear you scream. So that was all right.
At the third try, he managed to yank his leg free of the hand, but that only made matters worse; once loose from his anchor, he sailed swiftly and gracefully through the whatever-passed-for-air and collided, head first, with the lowered ramp of the spaceship. He must have hit it at just the right angle; the foot of the ramp bounced and lifted, and all he could do was watch as it swung upwards and latched itself shut, about ten feet off the ground, sealing the spaceship as tight as a can of beans.
You clown.
The voice was inside his head, not his helmet, so it wasn’t Mission Control. At first he assumed it was his inner voice, the one that had taken over the job of nagging him when his mother left home. But it didn’t sound like the voice, with which he was all too familiar. Not that it –
It’s all right. I’ve got a ladder. But you want to be a bit more careful.
That wasn’t right; because his inner voice didn’t have a ladder. He pushed himself up off the ground with his hands, sat up and looked back. The little green man was standing next to him, shaking his head.
I’m assuming you’ve got a key or an access code or something.
He stared. The little green man’s lips weren’t moving, mainly because he didn’t have any. Of course, for an entirely telepathic species that wouldn’t be an insuperable problem –
He concentrated harder than he’d ever done before, and thought, Are you talking to me?
Yes. And there’s no need to shout. Look, if you’ve locked yourself out I know a guy with a cutting torch, but that’s going to make a mess of your flying-in-the-sky-thing. Did you really come here from another world in that heap of shit, by the way? You must be brave as two short planks where you come from.
You can hear me.
Well, yes. Oh, and why don’t you take that stupid hat off? You’ll be far more comfortable.
I can’t. I need it to –
Bull. The atmosphere here is 78 per cent nitrogen, 19 per cent oxygen and some other stuff. I’m not a zoologist, but your brain says you should be fine with that.
How do you—?
When I said take the helmet off, a chemical analysis of your home atmosphere flashed across your subconscious mind. I compared it with the local stuff, and it looks like it’s basically OK. Therefore losing the goldfish bowl should be no big deal, and then we can have a civilised conversation. How about it?
Yes, but—
Also, those other aliens that look like you can breathe our air just fine.
The sun chose that moment to rise, flooding the desert with red light the precise colour of strawberry jam. It was probably just a coincidence.
What other aliens?
The ones that look just like you.
Theo hesitated; then he fumbled for the catches of his helmet. In the end, the alien had to help him. That’s better, isn’t it? said its voice in his head, as he breathed in a lungful of air that tasted overpoweringly of soap, with a hint of maple syrup. It also made his head swim slightly, like whisky on an empty stomach. Now you can have a G’ntyhtruhjty cake.
A what?
The alien pulled its face off; or, rather, it lifted a tubular flap of skin up over its head, to reveal a sort of compartment, inside which was what looked very much like a doughnut, except that it was green. It lifted the doughnut out and put it on one of its stick-insect fingers, like a grossly oversized ring. Then it pulled the flap down again. A G’ntyhtruhjty cake. We offer them to guests as a token of friendship and hospitality.
Ah.
Refusing to accept a G’ntyhtruhjty cake is a mortal insult that can only be avenged through the complete annihilation of the offender’s tribe, or in your case, species, the voice pointed out. Go on, you don’t actually have to eat it. Stick it down your jumper and have it later.
There were no pockets in the space suit, so Theo hooked it over a projecting toggle on his chest. Thanks, he thought.
Don’t mention it. Well, I guess you’ll be wanting me to take you to our leader.
Not really, no.
Oh. You sure? He’s not that bad once you get to know him.
I’m sure he’s very busy, and I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance. No, I’m rather more interested in the other aliens you mentioned.
Really?
Yes.
The alien scratched the top of its head with eighteen fingers. Let me get this straight. You came all this way in that bizarre contraption just to talk to a couple of your own kind.
Yes.
You don’t want a guided tour of the therion reactors, or a trip along the Hanging Canyons of Foom?
Later, perhaps. First, though, I’d quite like to see these two aliens. How many of them are there, by the way?
Two. A tall one and a very tall one.
The alien was maybe four feet, so that wasn’t much help.
Did they happen to mention their names?
Long pause. What’s a name?
Fine. Could you just tell me where I can find them, please?
No. But I can take you to them, if that’d be any use.
That’d be fine, thank you, he thought fervently; and the alien pulled open its shoulder (this time it wasn’t quite so bad) and took out a little green box. It pressed a couple of buttons, and a panel on the box slid open. From it, the alien took a tiny little plant in a tiny little flowerpot, and a tiny little bottle, the contents of which it poured over the plant.
Won’t take a moment, the alien said.
A bit slow today, sorry about that.
Under his feet, Theo could feel the tree’s roots disturbing the ground as they forced their way down. Meanwhile, enormous blossoms formed on the tree’s lower branches. The petals fell away, revealing long bean-shaped pods, which lengthened and swelled until they were the size of a two-man canoe.
You might want to step back a bit.
Just in time; one of the pods quivered and fell to the ground, splitting open lengthwise to reveal a shiny, sticky, open-topped green sports car. With a single frog-like hop the alien jumped in and prodded something; the car started to purr like a cat. Get in, said the voice in Theo’s head. It’s not far.
The passenger seat was a bit too small, and Theo had to perch on top of it, clinging to the dashboard with both hands. Ready? He nodded, and the car sprang into the air.
A true scientist would have kept his eyes open, but Theo felt much happier with them shut, and he kept them that way for the next ten minutes, even when the alien prodded him in the thigh and urged him to look down and see the magnificent groves of washing-machine trees, which it claimed were one of the wonders of the continent. A slight bump suggested that they’d landed, but Theo wasn’t taking any chances. Only when all sensations of motion had stopped and the alien said we’re here did he open one eye about half a millimetre.
They were in a city. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the pink sky, the pink, red and mauve buildings and the blood-red sidewalk, he could have believed he was back home. The streets were deserted –
Well, of course they are. It’s the middle of the day.
– which was probably no bad thing. The alien hopped out of the car and told Theo to do the same; then it pressed a button and the car began to wither, until there was nothing left but a pale green papery husk. The alien screwed this up into a ball and dropped it into a nearby trash can. Come on, it said, and waddled away up the street so briskly that Theo had to break into a jog to keep up.