Flying Dutch

by Tom Holt

  “Quite,” Jane said, rather unsympathetically. “Go on, please.”

  “Basically,” said the Professor, “if you put a person who has drunk elixir into the very heart of an atomic reaction, it adjusts the molecular structure. It loosens them up and jiggles them about. But the sort of jiggling I want—jiggling out the smell without jiggling the whole thing out of existence—isn’t easy, and I haven’t quite got it right yet. The obvious difficulty was that radiation is dangerous, and I wasn’t keen on experimenting on myself; nor, for that matter, on anyone else, not even Captain Vanderdecker—even though he got me into this situation in the first place. But then I remembered the cat who had drunk the elixir when I first tested it out, and eventually I tracked it down and acquired it. After some experiments at Dounreay in Scotland, I found that the smell could be temporarily suppressed by prolonged exposure to intense radiation of a certain type; a bit like the modern process of food irradiation. The longest period it’s lasted so far is a month, and soon Percy and I will have to go back for another dose.”

  “Percy?”

  Montalban flushed slightly. “I call my cat Percy,” he said, “short for Parsifal. The Holy Innocent, you see.”

  Jane didn’t see, but wasn’t too bothered. She asked the Professor to continue.

  “And that,” he said, “is my work. That is all that concerns me. The Cirencester Group, which has operated from here ever since I first built the house, comprises all the people whose assistance I require—bankers, financiers, public relations people, industrialists, heads of Government agencies…”

  “Hold on,” said Danny, whose pen had just run out. “Now, then. What came after bankers?”

  “…And, of course, the most important of them all, the Controller of Radio Three. Without these people…”

  Danny had dropped his new pen. “What did you just say?”

  “Radio Three,” said the Professor. “Without him, the whole system would break down, obviously. Now…”

  “Why?” Danny demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” Montalban said, “I thought I had explained all that. I said my computer used a system based on musical notation. Now, to all intents and purposes, it is musical notation. You can sit down at the piano and play one of my programmes with no difficulty at all, and usually (may I say, in all modesty) with great pleasure. In fact, I’d be prepared to wager that you know a great many of my programmes by heart. Of course, I wrote them all under several noms-de-plume…”

  “Such as?” Danny asked.

  “Bartok,” replied the Professor, “Mendelssohn, Sibelius, Chopin, Mozart, Elgar, Delius, Handel, Ravel, Schubert, Jelly Roll Morton…”

  Danny’s mouth fell open. “You did?”

  “Yes indeed.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  The Professor smiled. “You’re prepared to believe that I invented the computer and the electric light, but not that I wrote the Eroica or Rhapsody in Blue—which is, as it happens, little more than a simple word-processing programme. Ah well, they say a prophet is never honoured in his own country. Let me give you a demonstration.”

  The Professor got up and walked over to the rather impressive stereo system. He selected a compact disc and fed it into the machine.

  “What’s sixty-six,” he asked Danny, “multiplied by the square root of nineteen, divided by five and squared?”

  Danny started counting on his fingers and then gave up. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Here is a pocket calculator,” said the Professor. “You work it out on your machine, while I do it on mine.”.

  Danny started pressing buttons, while Montalban played a short snatch from Handel’s Messiah. Then he switched off the stereo and said, “Nine hundred and eighty-four point nine five nine nine seven. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Danny confirmed. The Professor nodded.

  “As you can tell by the date of the composition,” he said, “that was one of my first programmes, a simple calculating system. Catchy, though.”

  Danny handed the calculator back in stunned silence, and the Professor went on.

  “Hence,” he said, “the need to be able to dictate what is played on Radio Three at certain times; it’s my way of programming a number of other computers running my musical language in strategic positions all over the world. The consequences of the wrong thing being played at the wrong time can be catastrophic. For instance, the recent stock market slump was the result of some foolish person deciding to broadcast “The Ride of the Valkyries” at half-past five on a Friday afternoon. I didn’t compose that, by the way, but by pure chance it’s perfectly intelligible to one of my computers as an urgent command to sell short-dated Government stocks. I’m only thankful it wasn’t the overture to HMS Pinafore.”

  There was a very long silence, disturbed only by the assistant cameraman humming “I Did It My Way”, during which the Professor drank the rest of his tea. Then Jane rallied the remaining shreds of her mental forces and asked a question.

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “That depends,” said the Professor, “on you. If you and your friends would be happy to forget all about what I’ve just told you, I can continue with my work until it’s finished; after that, I intend to retire and keep bees. If you refuse, of course, I shall have to do my best to carry on regardless. No doubt you will broadcast your discovery to the world, and although I will naturally use all my considerable influence and power to prevent you, you may possibly be believed, and then the world will have to make up its mind what it wants to do with me. I cannot be killed, or even bruised. I can do incalculable damage before I’m got rid of—all I have to do to cause an immediate recession is to pick up the telephone and ask the BBC to play “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” at three-fifteen tomorrow afternoon. It will take hundreds of years of poverty and darkness to dismantle the structures that I have built, and the immediate result of my overthrow—for want of a better word—will be the destruction of the economies of the free world…”

  “Not you as well,” Jane said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing,” Jane said wearily. “Go on.”

  But the Professor was interested. “You said not me as well,” he said. “Can I take it that you know about the Vanderdecker policy?”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “Do you?”

  “Most certainly,” said the Professor. “It’s one of my most worrying problems.”

  “One of your problems?” Jane repeated.

  “Assuredly,” Montalban replied. “You see, one of the first things I did after the South Sea Bubble collapsed was to buy up the Lombard National Bank.”

  ♦

  Danny Bennett felt better. He had found a television.

  Although no umbilical cord connected him to the instrument, he could feel its reviving power soaking into him, like the sun on Patmos only without the risk of sunburn. Admittedly, there was nothing on except “The Magic Roundabout” but that was better than no telly at all. As he sat and communed with his medium, an idea was germinating inside his brain, its roots cracking the thin, tight shell and groping forcefully for moisture and minerals. He could give the story to someone else.

  Rather out of character? Very much so. A bit like Neil Armstrong saying to Buzz Aldrin, “You do it, I think I’ll stay in and do the ironing,” but the fact remains that Danny was seriously considering it. For all his Bafta-lust, he knew that this was a story that had to be made, and if he couldn’t make it himself, he had no option but to give it to someone else. But who?

  There was Moira Urquhart; no, not really. Danny would gladly have given his jewel to the common enemy of man, but not this story to Moira. She lacked vision. She would probably try and work cuddly animals into it, and that would clutter up its flawless symmetry. Moira worked cuddly animals into everything, even ninety-second clips for “Newsnight” about the European Monetary System. Not Moira, then.

  Or there was Paul. Let Paul do it. Good old Paul.
The Cirencester Group would really love that, because that way the story could break once and for all and nobody would take the slightest bit of notice. Such was Paul’s skill at grabbing the attention of the viewer that if he told you your ears were on fire you’d be so bored with the topic you wouldn’t bother putting them out. Not Paul.

  Which meant it would have to be Diana; a pity but there it was. Just then, Danny noticed that Zebedee and Dougal had yielded place to the news, and there was Diana on the screen, surrounded by fallen masonry, telling the folks back home about the situation in Lebanon. Since Danny didn’t have the Beirut phone-book and had little confidence in Lebanese Directory Enquiries, that ruled her out. Not Diana either. Not, apparently, anybody.

  He stood up and switched the television off. There must be something he could do, but he had no idea what it was.

  “Hello, Danny,” said a voice behind him, and there was Jane, holding a cup of tea and a Viennese finger. “Would you like a cup?”

  “No.” Danny said. “Look, when are we going to get out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane replied. “Nobody seems to have given it any thought.”

  “We can’t stay here for the rest of our lives,” Danny said.

  “You wouldn’t have thought so, would you?” Jane answered. “But I don’t think we’re in any position to leave without permission.”

  “Permission!” Danny snapped. “Haven’t you still got that gun, then?”

  “Yes,” Jane admitted, “but what does that solve? Even if I were to shoot Professor Montalban, all that would achieve would be a hole in his cardigan. Not that I think he’d try and stop us just walking out—not by force, I mean—but he did drop very strong hints that if we make nuisances of ourselves it’ll be Sergeant Pepper time, and personally I don’t want to take responsibility for that.”

  “So, what’s happening?” Danny said. “I mean, we can’t just sit here. Surely someone’s planning to do something.”

  Jane sipped some tea and sat down on a chaise longue. “From what I can gather,” Jane said, “we’ve really got to wait for Vanderdecker to show up. He’s the only person I can think of who’s got any sort of hold over the Professor.”

  Danny frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” Jane said, “first, it looks like when Montalban got off Vanderdecker’s ship all those hundreds of years ago, he left some of his notebooks behind, with all sorts of calculations and results in them that he hasn’t been able to reproduce since. I think Vanderdecker’s still got them, and that’s a start, isn’t it?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And then,” Jane went on, “there’s the Vanderdecker policy. If anyone ever finds out about that, then bang goes the National Lombard Bank, and with it Montalban’s research funding.”

  “But that’s not really a threat,” Danny said, “given that that would achieve exactly the same result as Sergeant Pepper, which is what I imagine we’re trying to prevent. Also,” he added, “I don’t think all that much of your first angle, either.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Try this as a threat. “Montalban,” you say, “give up your whole research project or we won’t let you have your notes on a small part of it back.” Breathtaking. He’s got us all stuffed. Even I can’t do anything.”

  Jane forbore to comment on that one. “Oh well,” she said, “never mind. Have you actually asked yourself what’s so utterly terrible about Montalban’s conspiracy, or whatever it is?”

  Danny stared. “Are you serious?” he said. “It’s a conspiracy. It’s a fundamental threat to the liberty of the free world. It’s…”

  “It’s the way things have been run for the last three hundred odd years,” Jane said thoughtfully. “True, I never liked it much myself, but I don’t think the fact that it’s an organised scheme by a really quite pleasant old Spanish gentleman in Cirencester, rather than the accumulated megalomania and negligence of generations of world statesmen, makes it any the more terrible, do you? I mean, Montalban isn’t planning to overthrow democracy or annexe the Sudetenland, he’s just trying to get rid of a smell. Will it really be so awful if he succeeds?”

  “But…” Danny spluttered. He knew exactly why it was so pernicious and so wrong, but he couldn’t quite find the words. “But he’s just one man, one selfish individual, and he’s controlling the lives of millions and millions of people. You can’t do that. It’s not right.”

  “Oh, I see,” Jane said. “So if we have third world poverty and nuclear weapons and East—West hostility and economic depressions, but all brought about by means of the democratic process, then that’s all right, but if just one man is responsible then it’s tyranny. Sorry, I never did history at school, I don’t understand these things.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Danny said, “you entirely fail to grasp…”

  “Very likely,” Jane said sweetly. “But before you found out about Montalban, you would have given your life to defend the fundamental basics of our society and our way of life against the Montalbans of this world; the status quo, you’d probably call it. And now it turns out to be all his doing, you suddenly realise it’s evil and it’s got to go. Please explain.”

  Danny glared at her and drew in a deep breath. “So you’re on his side now, are you? I see.”

  Jane shook her head. “I’m not on anybody’s side. You make it sound like hockey matches at school. I don’t care at all whether Montalban gets rid of his smell or not—or rather, I do; I think it must be rather awful to smell, and besides, if he finds a cure for it then Vanderdecker will be cured too, and I…well, I like him. And I also don’t want to see some sort of dreadful Wall Street Crash, and everybody jumping out of windows the length and breadth of King William Street, because that isn’t going to help anyone, now is it? Whereas—” Jane suddenly realised that she’d used the word “whereas” in conversation, and didn’t know whether to feel ashamed or proud—“whereas if everybody’s sensible and we all act like grown-ups, we can all sort things out and everyone can have what they want.”

  “Can they?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jane replied. “Vanderdecker can swap the Vanderdecker Policy for the antidote to the smell and a cash lump sum, he can give the Professor his recipe back, the Professor can wind up his various businesses—he just wants to retire and keep bees when he’s finished his work, so perhaps he could put it all into some sort of gigantic trust fund for the Ethiopians or something like that. And perhaps we’ll insist that he finds a substitute for atomic power and a replacement for petrol and things—to judge by his track record, he shouldn’t have any trouble with that—and…”

  “And everybody will live happily ever after?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “And why not?”

  “So you fancy this Vanderdecker, do you?”

  It was Jane’s turn to stare. “What did you say?”

  “Well,” Danny said, “it’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re prepared to sell the whole of Western civilisation down the river for a man who’s old enough to be your great-great-great-great—…”

  Jane got up and brushed crumbs of Viennese finger off her skirt. “Good morning, Mr Bennett,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To ask Harvey and Neville to tie you up and put you back in the cellar,” she said. “With the rat.”

  “Mouse.”

  “Rat,” Jane said firmly, and left.

  Although she wouldn’t admit it to herself, Danny’s suggestion had made Jane very cross indeed, and she felt that she needed some fresh air. She walked out through the front door and round the back of the house, where there was a huge lawn, and sort of thing the early Edwardians used to play cricket on.

  Suddenly she looked up. There was a clattering noise. A helicopter was coming down to land. Jane groaned from the soles of her feet upwards. Now what?

  And then she was aware of something—very horrible and unfamiliar, but extremely faint and far away. It was a smell; a smell so p
ungent and horrible that even she could smell it.

  The helicopter hovered for a moment over the immaculate turf and flopped down like a tired seagull. Out of it jumped a man in a gas mask. He was running for all he was worth, but another man—Sebastian, the suicidal maniac—was after him, caught up with him and brought him to the ground with a low tackle. The man in the gas mask seemed to give up and tried to bury his head under his body.

  Then someone else jumped out of the helicopter; and Jane, who was able to ignore the smell, ran to meet him.

  “Hello,” she said, “what on earth are you doing here?”

  Vanderdecker was looking surprised. “Did you just kiss me?” he said, as if a nun had stopped him in the street and sprayed whipped cream in his ear from one of those aerosol cans.

  “Yes,” Jane said. “You need a bath, mister.”

  “This is very forward of you,” Vanderdecker said. “Usually I never kiss people I haven’t known for at least three hundred and fifty years.”

  “We’ll go into all that later,” Jane said, feeling suddenly foolish. “Look, what are you doing here? What’s going on?”

  “There’s trouble,” Vanderdecker said.

  “Yes,” Jane said, “but…”

  “No,” said the Flying Dutchman, “a different sort of trouble. Where’s Montalban?”

  “In there,” Jane said, pointing to the house. “Where did you get the helicopter from?”

  “Well,” Vanderdecker said, “there was this destroyer, and when we sailed up alongside, all the crew ran to the side and jumped off into the water. Luckily we managed to fish out one of the helicopter pilots and intimidate him into bringing us here. Have you ever been in one of those things? They’re awful. Like being inside a Kenwood mixer.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “Well,” Vanderdecker said, “Sebastian threatened him.”

  “With a gun?”

  “No,” said Vanderdecker, “with a sock.”