by Tom Holt
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 airs pace, country music blaring from the cock pit, 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 pause
d, 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-blood, 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.
‘Here, Kurt,’ George called out after a while. ‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Fine, Kurt, fine, so long as you’re sure. It’s just that there’s no deserts in Europe, and this is a desert we’re in, and I thought I’d just mention . . .’
On either side of them, sand dunes rolled away into the fold of horizon and sky. Lundqvist snickered, and turned in his saddle. ‘We’re going the scenic route, George,’ he said. ‘I felt you might like to stretch your legs one last time.’
‘That was thoughtful of you, Smiler.’
‘Before they’re stretched for you, of course.’
‘Of course.’ George grinned. ‘There you go again, Smiler, pulling my leg as usual. Nice sunny day, isn’t it?’
‘You like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s just as well, isn’t it?’
‘You know me, Kurt, never one to complain.’ George yawned. ‘Yes, like I was saying, that was good thinking on your part, getting to me through my friends. My Achilles heel, you thought to yourself, or rather, my fatal flaw, because I expect you get Achilles heel and Achilles tendon muddled up. Sneaky, of course, and despicable, putting everybody to all that trouble, but there we are. All’s fair in love and law enforcement.’
‘They made me give it back.’
George looked at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘America,’ Lundqvist said, with as much bitterness in his voice as there is vermouth in the driest of dry martinis. ‘They made me give it back. Not,’ he added, ‘as if I really wanted it for anything. In fact they’re welcome to it.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ George said. ‘Fun’s fun, and no
body enjoys a good stunt better than I do, but it’d have spoilt it a little bit to think of the entire USA being carbonised just because of me. I was a little bit worried about that, actually, though I don’t know why. It’s not as if it was me that started all this.’
Lundqvist gave the chain another vicious tug, so that George staggered and nearly ended up on the ground. But he found his feet again and started to whistle.
‘Been missing the old place?’
George looked up. ‘Well, to be honest with you, no. Still, there are worse places.’
Lundqvist pulled hard on the reins and stopped his horse. ‘There are?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ George stood on one leg and rubbed his left ankle with his right heel. ‘Millions of ’em. All over the place. Honestly, Smiler, your mob have about as much idea of how to go about torturing souls as my aunt’s cat. Less,’ he added on reflection, and accurately. ‘It was on my mind for a long time to mention it to somebody, because I’m a helpful sort of chap by nature, but then I thought, nah, why bother, nobody’ll thank you for it. So . . .’
Lundqvist’s skin prickled as he sensed a verbal trap, but his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Go on, then,’ he said.
George smiled. ‘One of these days,’ he said, ‘do yourself a favour and get a job in an office somewhere. Any office, anyplace. The term soul-destroying’s a bit of a cliché, but it’s damned accurate. Two years in Accounts has the same effect on your average soul as two teaspoons of salt on a garden slug. Whoomph!’
Lundqvist frowned. ‘You’re winding me up,’ he said.
‘No I’m not,’ George replied. ‘You don’t know because you’ve never tried it. Nice outdoor life, travel, killing interesting people, you don’t know you’re born. And as for all those so-called torments they’ve got down in the Basement there, we’re talking summer holidays compared to being stuck on the end of a telephone all day being shouted at because the green forms at Central don’t tally with the pink paying-in slips.’