by M T McGuire
“So are you,” a shrug, “credit where it’s due.”
“Ah! Yes, but I have an unfair advantage,” said the old man and The Pan raised an eyebrow at him, “I was able to anticipate your actions, you see. I have been watching you for some time, so I have begun to learn a little about your methods.”
“No you haven’t,” said The Pan. Oh! If only he could believe that, but the old man was different, confident, smart, authoritative and well-informed. “Trust me, if you’d been watching me, I’d have seen you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the old man breezily, “we Nimmists have a knack of blending in.” The Pan raised the other eyebrow. “Furthermore,” the old man continued, “there are many ways of watching somebody, not all of them necessitating the observer’s physical presence.”
“Naturally,” said The Pan drily. He wondered what the old boy’s cryptic statement might mean. There were rumours about the higher echelon secret orders of Ninja Nimmists, which told of super-human abilities such as seeing through solid matter, time or enemies, and reading minds. There was even a colourful tale about matter transference. Most sensible people discounted rumours like these as tall stories. Now The Pan was beginning to wonder. If the old man had read his mind, it would explain how he knew the contents of a private conversation. His style of dress was understated for a holy man, but there was a chance he might be a Nimmist priest and he had managed to stand in full view of The Pan’s extra eyes without being seen. He’d have to be seriously gifted at ‘blending in’ to be able to do that, especially since it was unlikely he realised his quarry could see backwards just as well as he could see forwards.
“Hmm,” said the old man, looking him up and down, “do sit down,” and he gestured to the only alternative to the bed, a battered armchair. The Pan did as he was told. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I did come here for a good reason.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Yes,” said the old man slowly, “if my reports are correct I believe you have come by a ring.”
The Pan rolled his eyes, why did it have to be the ring, the only thing he’d already sold?
“Mmm,” he said, “I did have a ring but ...” He glanced helplessly around the room in search of inspiration. “Alright, I admit it, I sold it and if what I heard the other night is correct, I think Lord Vernon has already found it. But then, you know that don’t you?” The old man nodded and sighed heavily.
“Perhaps – but I wanted to confirm. It’s a great pity if it is true.”
“Well, I’m afraid it is,” said The Pan coldly.
“Yes. How much do you know about Nimmism?”
The Pan sighed. He’d had a good old-fashioned Nimmist education but he’d wasted much of it. In theory he should have been better versed than most of his peer group, but in practice he wasn’t confident how much he could remember. He cleared his throat.
“Not much,” he said.
“No,” said the old man. They lapsed into silence and The Pan waited to see what the old boy would do. The interview must have been going differently to the way he’d expected because he seemed to be wondering where to start. He took several deep breaths, as if he were about to speak and then said nothing.
“That ring, was it important?” asked The Pan. The old man narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“I met a Grongle the other night, who said it came from Lord Vernon’s safety deposit box,” said The Pan.
“That would be wishful thinking on Lord Vernon’s part. He is no fool, he knows its worth. If the ring had been in his possession, he would have been wearing it for some years and he would have become Lord Protector Vernon a long time ago.”
The Pan was beginning to have that all too familiar feeling that he was in over his head.
“Does that mean he’s wearing it now?”
“Oh yes,” said the old man sadly.
“Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I needed the money and the ring was the only thing I could sell.”
“Weren’t you tempted to keep it, to wear it yourself?”
The Pan smiled.
“Very,” he said, “but having ‘I’m a Mervinette, please arrest me now’ tattooed on my forehead would have been less dangerous and more subtle.”
“And the other items? How tempted are you to keep those?”
“It,” said The Pan turning the thimble over and over in his hands, “it, there was only one other item.”
The old man shook his head, smiling and held up the bag.
“What about these?”
The Pan shrugged.
“Now, if you’d managed to use that,” he pointed at the thimble, “for a slightly more constructive purpose than ogling a girl, you’d realise how I know.”
The Pan blushed. “You’re beginning to sound like my father,” he said.
“I’m beginning to understand what the poor man was up against,” retorted the old man. The Pan glared at him. “I’m sorry, I haven’t handled this well at all. You see, I have been watching you for so long that I feel I know you. May I start again?”
That was a bolt from the blue. The Pan thought a moment. He nodded.
“Jolly good! Would you like a brandy to calm your nerves?” The old man went on, “I may even have some of Gladys’ home-made Calvados if you’re interested?”
Now that sounded better. Unless it was poisoned of course – then again, Gladys’ home-made Calvados was probably strong enough to neutralise most toxins.
“Alright,” said The Pan cautiously. The old man beamed at him again.
“Marvellous! Now then. Watch this, you might learn something.” He produced a thimble from his pocket. It was similar to the one The Pan had but it was silver instead of gold. He held it in his hand, closed his eyes and concentrated for a few short seconds. Then he held it up to his eye and squinted into the bottom. “Capital,” he said, “that should do.” He held the thimble in his left hand and put the first finger of his right hand into it.
The Pan was surprised how deep it was – the old man’s entire hand seemed to have disappeared. Come to think of it, it had, along with most of his arm. He watched in awe. There was a sucking noise, like the sound made by the bath emptying in premises equipped with some of K’Barth’s earlier attempts at plumbing, followed by the sound of bottles clinking together. Finally, there was a subdued pop and the old man’s arm reappeared, along with a bottle labelled ‘Calvados’ in Gladys’ copperplate, old-lady handwriting. He placed it carefully on the floor and beamed at The Pan.
“Isn’t it amazing what you can do if you couple a little imagination with the wonders of quantum mechanics? Now, I like to use the right glass for my drinks. Would you be able to find me a couple of brandy balloons from somewhere?”
There were proper brandy glasses behind the bar downstairs, The Pan remembered. He stood up. To his annoyance, the old man glanced at the gold thimble in his hand and tutted.
“You’re not going to walk all the way downstairs, are you?”
“That was my plan, since the brandy glasses are behind the bar.”
“There are other ways,” said the old man nodding at the thimble in his hand.
“You want me to do what you just did?” asked The Pan incredulously.
“Is there a problem?”
The Pan gazed speechlessly at him.
“You’re not afraid are you?” said the old man with a hint of mock incredulity which The Pan didn’t appreciate.
“Of course I’m afraid,” he retorted, “what d’you think I am? An idiot?” The old man smiled at The Pan in a way that made it perfectly obvious that he did, indeed, think he was an idiot.
“Fine, I’ll give it a go.” He glanced at the thimble in his hand and wondered what might go wrong and whether or not it would kill him. The old man was watching him intently. “Seriously, what do I do?”
“You’ve already had a demonstration. Let’s see if you can fathom it out shall we?” repl
ied the old man. “It isn’t so difficult.”
“Is this a test?”
“Perhaps.”
“I see,” said The Pan slowly. “What if I get it wrong? Will I die?”
The old boy chortled.
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Of course not!” He waved The Pan forwards. “Go on! Nothing ventured, nothing won. Try.”
Giving the old boy a withering look, The Pan sat back in his chair for a minute to think. He had to figure out how his thimble worked. Although he had been given a graphic demonstration, combining ‘a little imagination with the wonders of quantum mechanics’ wasn’t the most articulate set of instructions he’d ever heard. He held the thimble in front of him and imagined the shelf behind the bar where the brandy glasses lived. Then he put it close to his eye and glanced inside.
In the fish-eye view through the bottom he saw the exact scene he had imagined complete with brandy glasses and not the girl. Trying to hide his disappointment, he put the thimble gingerly on his finger. There was the same sucking noise he’d heard before and his whole hand disappeared. It was like putting his arm into a turbo-charged vacuum cleaner. The force pulling him in was incredibly strong and it was all he could do not to be sucked in after it. He felt something wooden. The shelf? Maybe. Very cautiously he groped his way forward until his fingers rested on something glass-shaped. Once he’d located the stem, he hooked one finger round it and felt for another one. He found it quickly. Good. Two. There was a chink as he pulled them towards him.
“Mmm,” he said. There was something in the way. There was only one thing for it, he was going to have to look. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and leaned through the thimble, as if he was leaning into a cupboard. He could feel the change in air temperature and opened his eyes. Yes, he was behind the bar and yes, seeing somebody’s right arm, shoulder and head – minus any other body parts – hovering in mid air in front of the glasses shelf had had a remarkably silencing effect on the bar’s occupants. The only two people who didn’t appear to notice were Gladys and Ada. The Pan coughed nervously.
“Sorry,” he said waving the glasses. “Just ... just ... er ... just ...” still waving the glasses about he smiled apologetically, “bye,” he said. He leaned backwards and the sucking noise grew louder while the strength of the force pulling him back began to increase. He shut his eyes – he didn’t want to see what happened when he passed through the thimble. The reappearance of the familiar surroundings of his room was accompanied by the same popping sound he’d heard when the old man removed the bottle from the silver thimble.
“Well done, my boy!” he said, “well done, indeed.” He took the glasses The Pan held out, which were clinking together as his hand shook. “It takes some people years of concerted effort and training to do what you’ve just done.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t difficult.”
“I lied. I wanted to see what you are capable of. Quite a lot, it turns out. That was most impressive, my boy, most impressive.”
“You flatter me,” said The Pan, but he was unaccountably pleased to have exceeded the old man’s expectations. He watched the old boy open the bottle and carefully pour equal amounts into each glass. He handed one to The Pan, who was shaking all over now and had never needed a strong drink so much in his life. However, he was still cautious enough to sniff it carefully and wait for the old man to drink some of his before taking a very small sip. He swirled it around his glass and sniffed it again. Yep, it seemed to be fine. He counted to thirty, but there were no ill effects so he decided it wasn’t drugged and began to relax.
Chapter 35
The Pan had no idea who the old man was, but it was clear he had not yet divulged the true purpose of his visit. It was now obvious he’d known what had happened to the ring, and his enquiries about it were merely an excuse to introduce himself, or make his displeasure known. Then there was that neat trick with the thimble; there’d been no need to give up a secret like that unless he was going to ask The Pan for a favour in return, a big favour. His enigmatic visitor seemed harmless enough, sitting on the bed sipping his drink, but The Pan suspected he was a man of principle who was brave enough to risk getting into trouble with the authorities for his beliefs. The Pan had great admiration for brave people, but he was in enough trouble with authority as it was, without going looking for more. He took another sip of brandy and waited.
“There is something else you could do for us,” the old man said eventually.
‘Us’ The Pan noted. It seemed the old man was part of an organisation; he was afraid it would be the Resistance.
“Who’s ‘us’?” he asked. “More to the point, who are you?”
The old man paused.
“You’re really not very well-informed, are you?”
“I’ve never met you before in my life so, unsurprisingly, no.”
“Haven’t Gladys and Ada said anything?” The Pan remembered the strange conversation he’d had with them after the Grongles had visited the Parrot, all those cryptic hints about other ways to resist and that they had contacts if he was in trouble. He could imagine that the old man was one of the very few people who might conceivably be able to get The Pan out of trouble in the right situation.
“Not in so many words.”
“Perhaps I should start from the beginning.”
“It might help,” said The Pan. “I’m not an idiot, but the kind of intuition you’re expecting is beyond most people. It would be a big ask from a magician, let alone an everyday petty thief like me.”
“You’re not an everyday petty thief though, are you?” No smile, but a definite twinkle.
“Maybe not—but doing my job is a simple case of common sense.”
“Don’t sell yourself short—there’s talent involved. You’re the best getaway man in K’Barth and you’re the only man alive who has ever outrun the Interceptor. That, alone, is extraordinary. Even I know it takes more than common sense. You’ve got something, my boy, anyone can see that.”
“Thank you. You flatter me,” The Pan smiled, “I get very frightened. Perhaps that gives me an unfair advantage. After all, cowards are good at running away.”
“Are you a Nimmist?” asked the old man.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No, and you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ve never really thought about it but I suppose I am,” said The Pan.
“Do you remember much about the Looking?”
“The search for the new Architrave?” He shrugged, “I was—”
“No, of course you don’t,” the other interrupted him. “Before your time. You probably weren’t even born before they made it illegal.”
“I don’t know if it was legal at the time, I was only a kid, but I do remember something I think.”
The old man seemed surprised.
“Do you?”
“I believe so. I think my father was involved, although I can’t be sure, he was very cagey about his university stuff, so I never found out exactly. I was only about eight and none of us were supposed to know what was going on.”
“Did they ever interview you?”
“Not really. If they did, then not in the normal way.” The Pan remembered his chagrin when his father wouldn’t allow him to meet the holy woman who’d come to question the other kids in his year. They hadn’t been told it was the Looking, of course, although many of their parents suspected it. Officially, they were being interviewed by members of staff from Ning Dang Po University as part of a scheme to sponsor the education of gifted children from poorer backgrounds. “Dad asked me some strange questions, over the course of a week—maybe longer—and there was some odd stuff left lying around the house for a while. I kept getting told off for playing with it.”
The old man smiled.
“Did you play with it much?”
“Arnold yes! I couldn’t leave it alone. Red rag to a bull. I’d been told not to touch it and you know how it is ...” he stopped. “Looking b
ack on it now, I reckon that was the point when things started to go wrong.”
The Pan thought of the sun-drenched carefree days of his childhood. His father had been his idol at that point, before their relationship deteriorated. He was a lecturer in Random Mathematics at the University of Hamgee. It was a distinguished post and he was an equally distinguished scholar, which may have explained why, in later years, his youngest son’s academic ineptitude and generally wayward behaviour had become such a bone of contention between them.
“Yes,” said the old man thoughtfully, “your father was involved,” he paused, “somehow.” The word hung in the air. The Pan surmised the old man knew more about his father than he did but then, that wasn’t difficult. “However,” he continued, “that is another story. What is your understanding of the Looking?”
“They talk to everyone between the ages of eight and ten until they find somebody with the right criteria who gives the right answers to their questions—it’s a secret and only the senior priests know the answers. Then they take the kid to the High Priest and the Architrave and show him a load of stuff that has always belonged to the Architraves and the clincher is whether or not he recognises any of it or knows what it’s all for.”
“That’s roughly what happens,” said the old man. “There’s a thread, an inspiration if you like, which is passed on from generation to generation. The Architraves are not the same soul, but theirs are interrelated. There are physical signs—characteristics borne by all of them—and prophecies, too.”
The Pan grinned, his courage fortified by the generous measure of Calvados settling on his empty stomach.
“I’d heard the prophecies were part of the problem,” he said, “I heard Arnold of Nim liked to cover his options and nobody ever had a clue what he meant.”
“Then you have heard wrong,” said the old man. “What do you understand by the term Reality Theory?”
The Pan stared at the old boy blankly. This conversation was entering uncharted waters and he was rapidly approaching his maximum depth.