It connects with and locates into a receiving slot on the underside of a thirteen-thousand-ton slab of kevlar-reinforced concrete directly under the biggest skyscraper in Kansas City (which is, of course, as near as makes no odds the geographical centre of the United States), whereupon ...
The skyscraper is pushed up clear of its foundations into the air; but of course ...
Thanks to the Da Vinci Project, it's linked with steel girders to all the neighbouring buildings, which in turn are linked to all the buildings across the entire nation, with the result that...
(The force being exerted on the piston is, remember, absolutely phenomenal; almost a quarter of the Pacific
Ocean's been turned to steam by now and the water's still coming; and when steam expands, it's got to go somewhere; and those steel girders they've got linking up all the houses aren't rubbish, they make the Golden Gate bridge look like a cheap Taiwanese paper-clip, so ...)
America rises.
Or at least, the buildings do. The ground stays put. The ground, after all, now indefeasibly belongs to the Lundqvist Trust (Holdings) Corporation, and has to be surrendered in accordance with the notice to quit. On the other hand, the buildings are tenants' improvements, and may be removed at any time prior to the surrender of the premises. Ask any lawyer.
A split second after the moment of lifting, of course, the steam pressure in the cylinder blows out the gaskets; the piston goes crashing back down to the centre of the Earth in a cloud of burning steam; the network of girders crumples under the strain like gossamer and falls away ...
But not so the buildings, because for the last thirty-six hours, all the birds in North America, under the direction of two extremely persuasive seagulls, have been feverishly occupied knotting helium-filled balloons to all the cup-hooks screwed into all the roofs of all the buildings in every state in the Union; and a micron of a second before the whole thing is due to succumb to gravity and hit the deck, the balloons take the strain, and ...
America floats ...
Some twenty feet or so above ground level. Fortuitously it's a pretty windless day, and the birds have also tethered the buildings together to stop them drifting too far apart. They're now zooming from building to building (a pigeon's work is never done) with rope-and-plank bridges, to take the place of the sidewalks.
It goes without saying, incidentally, that the balloons are coloured red, white and blue and have been neatly arranged to form an appropriate pattern when viewed from above. Lucky George got them cheap, as a job lot, surplus, after the recent round of party conventions.
And, as a final touch, from the roof of the United Nations building in New York, twenty thousand specially trained white doves take off and glide in perfect formation across the city and out over Long Island. As they fly, they spell out:
OKAY KURT SHE'S ALL YOURS
until, as they pass over Port Jefferson and turn north towards New Haven, they change formation and instead read:
ENJOY
Somewhere in the City of London a young stockbroker dashed into the firm's main office, tore off his coat and tucked his long knees under his computer terminal. Preoccupied with his own concerns, he failed to notice the deathly hush.
`Sorry I'm late, everyone,' he said generally. `Update me, someone. Wall Street gone any higher since we opened?'
One of his colleagues turned his head and gave him a long, strange look.
`In a manner of speaking, yes,' he said.
Impossible.
On the following grounds:
(a) No labour force, however well-equipped or motivated, spectral or otherwise, could dig the tunnels, machine the parts, install the girders, blow up the balloons in so short a time. Nothing was ever built that quickly. Okay, the world was put together in seven days; but that's net working time. What the book of words glosses over is the three weeks between Day Two and Day Three, during which time He sat around
twiddling his thumbs waiting for forty billion reinforced steel joists to be delivered from the foundry.
(b) There isn't enough water in the ocean, let alone the Marianas Trench, to provide enough steam to lift America; or..
(c) Alternatively, the design as specified would have produced so much force that not only would America have lifted, but Manhattan Island would have been shot out through the Earth's atmosphere and into orbit.
(d) In any event it's academic, because that much pressure would blow apart any cylinder small enough to fit inside the Earth's core in three seconds flat.
(e) Besides which, absolutely no way could you join all the buildings in the USA together like that; and if you could, it's completely out of the question that any steel framework built by Man could withstand the leverage you'd get under the Da Vinci design.
(f) Not to mention the fact that even if you could get all those houses and factories and office blocks to go up, it'd take more than a few poxy little balloons to keep them there.
Correct. Impossible.
America swayed in the slight breeze.
Gradually, her population began to come to terms with it.
True, they were hanging out of the sky from balloons; but once the rope and plank bridges were in place, they tentatively began to venture out, not looking down, trying very hard indeed not to think about it all. Within two hours, the first rope-and-plank-bridge-theatre performers were miming the man-inside-a-box routine twenty feet above Central Park.
True, there were no fields to plough, no lumber to jack; worst of all, no roads to drive on. Take away America's cars and you take away her soul. But within an hour and a half, the first Mack airship was bobbing drunkenly across Arizona airspace, country music blaring from the cockpit, the propulsive force being
provided by a propeller and five thousand rubber bands.
True, with no mean streets, there was nowhere for a man to walk down; and for the first forty minutes all the cops in all the precincts in all the states of the Union suddenly found themselves with no excuse whatsoever for not catching up with the paperwork. But there are too many rooftop chase sequences in cinematographic history for the lack of streets to be a problem for terribly long.
True, nobody had the faintest idea what was going on, or what was all behind it, or whose fault it was or how long it was going to last. In other words, normality. The status quo.
Lucky George gritted his teeth and wondered whether, this time, he hadn't been just a trifle over-ambitious.
No trouble at all lifting America by sheer magical force. Keeping it there - child's play. Suspending the disbelief of the entire human race - piece of cake. Putting the idea of staying indoors into the mind of every man, woman and child in America - a doddle. And just as easy to do them simultaneously as one after the other.
Where perhaps he had over-extended himself slightly was in doing all this and trying to make it look as though it was possible. Hence the business with tunnels, furnaces, pistons and steel girders.
Essential, nevertheless. Where there are laws there are lawyers; and the lawyers who enforce the laws of physics are arguably the nastiest ornaments of a universally unsavoury profession. Goof around with relativity, or try having an action without an equal and opposite reaction, and the next thing you know is the usher telling you to speak up because the judge can't hear you.
Bearing in mind the number of times Lucky George had disregarded the simple instructions set out in the Universe's users' manual, he'd figured that breaking every single law in the book apart from parking in the Director of Gravity's reserved space, without at least some show of mechanical activity, would be pushing his luck just that smidgen too far.
Hence all the ironmongery. Right now, the site was swarming with feasibility assessors and reality surveyors, all scratching their heads over the fact that although according to the rules it couldn't possibly work, there was a hell of a lot of existential evidence that it did, and maybe the rules were in need of a little discreet revision. By the time they'd done their sums and could prove it
was all physically impossible, there was a better than average chance that the mess would have been sorted out and America could be put unostentatiously back, some time in the early hours of the morning when all the inhabitants were asleep or watching the late, late film.
Fine. But it made things that bit harder, like trying to break into a hard-boiled egg with a lead-weighted feather. Instead of just keeping the houses in the air, for example, he was having to do it by means of all those countless millions of balloons. You could put your mind out, lifting something like that the wrong way.
Accordingly, George was rather preoccupied.
With the result that he didn't hear the soft splash of oars below the balcony. Or see the shadowy figure climb hand over hand up to the railings and silently hoist himself over.
The first he knew of it, in fact, was the feel of the muzzle of the .40 Glock in his ear, and Lundqvist's voice saying, `Freeze.'
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
If' there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repents, it's a wet Sunday afternoon in mid Wales compared with the ecstatic jubilation in Hell over one escaped sinner that gets his collar felt.
Not surprisingly, the denizens of the Inferno know how to party. Within twenty minutes of the news breaking, the management had declared a half-day's holiday, and five thousand years' worth of tormented souls had formed a whirling, tail-lashing conga that roared and billowed through the various Rings like a rattlesnake on amphetamines. Objectively speaking, what with the noise and the smoke and the crush of bodies, the epicentre of the party was quite markedly worse than the torments from which the revellers had temporarily been released; however, there's absolutely no limit to what the human spirit can endure when it sincerely believes it's enjoying itself.
Meanwhile, in the large conference room, the Board were taking counsel as to the reception to be accorded the returning guest.
`It's got to have manure in it somewhere,' insisted the Production Director. `I may be old-fashioned and set in my ways, but...'
The Personnel Director shook his head emphatically. `With respect, Mr Chairman,' he said, `no offence, but my colleague is talking through his arse. You -'
The Finance Director frowned and lifted his index finger slightly to indicate that he required silence. `Hold on,' he said, looking dispassionately at the Production Director's rather bizarre anatomy. `Point taken, Dennis, and excuse me if I seem pedantic, but Harry always talks through his arse. It's the way he's made, you see, what with his head being in his tummy and all back to front ...'
`My colleague,' said the Personnel Director frostily, `is, if you prefer, talking nonsense. Dammit, this isn't the time for poncing about, we're looking at brimstone here, because -'
`Excuse me,' interrupted the Production Director, icier still, `but perhaps my friend from Personnel would be kind enough to let me know where I'm supposed to get brimstone from, since he's so bloody keen on the stuff. In fact,' he added spitefully, `perhaps he'd just tell us, briefly and in his own words, exactly what brimstone is, because I've been in this business three thousand years, imp and fiend, and the amount of your actual brimstone that I've seen around here you could fit into a very small egg-cup -'
`All right, Harry, thank-'
`And still have room for the egg.'
`Quiet!' The Finance Director raised his hand. `Thank you both very much for your views, which are noted, but I think I can offer you all an alternative suggestion which does have quite a lot going for it.'
The Directors turned and looked at him. He smiled.
`Just to recap for a moment,' he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, `so far we've had a bed of red-hot coals from Jerry, and Colin's forty-foot earthworm, and Steve's very innovative Game For A Laugh concept - far be it from me, by the way, Steve, but in my opinion there's such a thing as over the top, even for us - and of course Terry's Moebius loop of Dame Kiri Te Kanawa Sings Country, which we're definitely going to have to use somewhere, but not here, I think. Plus, of course, Harry's shitwell and Dennis's brimstone.' He paused, and flicked though his microchip Organiser. `While we're on the subject, Harry, from memory I think Fiends' Provident do synthetic brimstone in fifty-kilo tubs, if that's any help to you.'
He paused and took a sip of water; then went on:
`It's all good stuff, lads, but where's the money coming from? Just think about that for a moment, would you, because once we've paid Lundqvist's invoice and settled the compensation claims for all those practical jokes George pulled while still nominally in our charge and therefore our responsibility, there'll 'probably still be enough left in the Entertainments budget for a cup of tea and a ginger nut, but nothing else. Anybody got any thoughts on that one?'
There was silence, except for the soft fizzing of the varnish on the boardroom table where the Sales Director had breathed on it. The Finance Director nodded.
`Okay,' he said, `here's a suggestion. I took the liberty,' he went on, standing up and walking to the back of the room, `of bringing along a few slides to illustrate what I've got in mind. The lights please, someone.'
The lights went out, and a few seconds later the back wall was covered with an eye-catching, rather familiar image. The Finance Director pointed to it with his right index claw.
`You all should know what this is by now,' he said. `It's the right-hand panel of the Garden of Earthly Delights, courtesy of our very own artist in residence, Ron Bosch. Now, as you're all well aware, Ron's using this as the central tableau for the main shopping and recreation area of the theme park. Can I have the next slide, please?'
A machine clunked softly in the background, and the image on the screen zoomed in to show a close-up of the justly celebrated centre-piece of the panel; the bird-headed demon with a cauldron on the back of its head and its feet in two water-jugs, perched in a high-chair-cum-hourglass arrangement, daintily chewing on a human torso and legs. If Hell had a mascot, this was it; the Guinness toucan, the Esso tiger, the Andrex puppy, and Captain Beaky.
The Finance Director grinned. `Get the picture?' he said. There was a bemused silence.
`Frankly,' said the Production Director at last, `but no, not really. I expect I'm being really thick here, but what's Captain Beaky got to do with getting even with Lucky George?'
`Plenty, if you agree with my proposal,' the Finance Director replied. He motioned for the next slide. `Here,' he continued, `we've got the design specs for the fibreglass model of Beaky we're all set to order for the Park.' He tapped the bottom left-hand corner of the screen with his pointer. `Note particularly,' he said, `the price. Now please don't think I'm advocating corner-cutting because I'm not, but that really is a lot of bread.'
`Too bloody right,' commented the Production Director sourly. `I've said it before, these boys from the pattern-makers are ripping us off, and we're doing bugger-all about it.'
The Finance Director smiled. `Maybe,' he said, `but in this instance I don't think the pricings are excessive, because the whole point about the Beaky model is that it actually works. Moving parts, all singing, all dancing. What you do is, you put a coin in here -' He indicated the hindquarters of a soul in torment just below the high chair. `- and immediately Beaky eats the sinner, with realistic noise and odour effects and piped screams. Boschy reckons it's going to be a real moneyspinner once it's up and running, but in the meantime there's the capital costs to find. Bad news, gentlemen, bad news. On present costings, it's going to be a tight squeeze.'
There was a rustle and a ripple around the boardroom table, which the Finance Director noticed. He nodded his approval.
`I can see you're way ahead of me, gentlemen,' he said. `I think that with a little ingenuity, we've got the whole damn
flock with one small pebble. Just to make sure we're all on the same wavelength, however, I'll quickly run it past you and we'll see what happens. Instead of a fibreglass disposable sinner - $750 each according to the quotes, and we estimate he'll get through ten or twelve in a day - if we could substitute a flesh-and-bloo
d, perpetually reusable organic sinner, not only would we save on parts but the whole sideshow's going to be one hell of a lot more authentic and appealing to the punters. What d'you reckon, gentlemen?'
After a short interval, the comments started to flow. Diabolic humour is to a large degree shaped by its environment; hence the Production Director's comment that it was the sort of thing he'd like to chew over for a while, the Personnel Manager's remark that it was the sort of design you could really get your teeth into, the Company Secretary's observation that Harry had taken the words right out of his mouth and the Senior Redcoat's warning that they shouldn't bite off more than they could chew. When the Finance Director had had about as much of this sort of thing as he could stand, he raised his finger for silence.
`Agreed, then,' he said cheerfully. `I'll tell Lundqvist to deliver on site first thing in the morning. Thank you, gentlemen.'
`You planned the whole thing, didn't you?'
Lundqvist nodded. `And you fell for it.'
`Well, yes.' Lucky George tried to nod, but the huge steel collar clamped round his neck precluded movement of more than a thousandth of an inch. `If it's any satisfaction to you, Smiler, yes I did. Happy now?'
`Don't call me Smiler,' Lundqvist growled dangerously.
`Why not, Smiler?' George raised an eyebrow, about the only part of him above waist level capable of motion. `It's your nickname, isn't it? I mean, yes, when we were at school together you did use to ponce around the yard telling everyone that from now on you were to be known as Captain Death the Terminator, but I thought Nick Machiavelli and I had kicked that out of you by the end of third year.'
`That'll do, George.'
`Sorry, Smiler.'
Lundqvist pulled savagely on the chain attached to the collar and made no reply. For his part, he blamed his entire collection of terminal personality disorders on the way George and his gang had spent their mutual schooldays running verbal rings round him and then beating him up, just because he was small and delicate and liked setting fire to people in their sleep. He'd waited a long time to get even, and he wasn't going to be hurried or flustered.
Faust Amongst Equals Tom Holt Page 20