“Well, well,” I said. “If it isn’t Jack Schitt. What’s Goliath’s interest in my uncle?”
“Can you draw it?” he repeated.
I nodded, and one of the Goliath men gave me a pencil and paper. I sketched out what I had seen, the intricate combination of dials and knobs on the front of the book and the heavy brass straps. Jack Schitt took it from me and studied it with great interest as another Goliath technician walked in from outside.
“Well?” asked Schitt.
The agent saluted neatly and showed Schitt a pair of large and slightly molten G-clamps.
“Professor Next had jury-rigged his own set of cables to the electrical substation just next door. I spoke to the electricity board. They said they had three unexplained power drains of about one point eight megawatts each late last night.”
Jack Schitt turned to me.
“You better leave this to us, Next,” he said. “Kidnapping and theft are not part of the Litera Tec’s responsibility.”
“Who did this?” I demanded, but Schitt didn’t take crap from anyone—least of all me. He wagged a finger in my direction.
“This investigation is nothing to do with you; we’ll keep you informed of any developments. Or not. As I see fit.”
He turned and walked away.
“It was Acheron, wasn’t it?” I said, slowly and deliberately. Schitt stopped in midstride, and turned to face me.
“Acheron is dead, Next. Burned to a crisp at junction twelve. Don’t spread your theories around town, girl. It might make you seem more unstable than you actually are.”
He smiled without the least vestige of kindness and walked out of the workshop to his waiting car.
15.
Hello & Goodbye, Mr. Quaverley
Few people remember Mr. Quaverley anymore. If you had read Martin Chuzzlewit prior to 1985 you would have come across a minor character who lived in Mrs. Todger’s boarding house. He discoursed freely with the Pecksniffs on the subject of butterflies, of which he knew almost nothing. Sadly, he is no longer there. His hat is hanging on the hat rack at the bottom of page 235, but that is all that remains . . .
MILLON DE FLOSS
— Thursday Next Casebook, Volume 6
ASTOUNDING!” SAID Acheron quietly as he surveyed Mycroft’s Prose Portal. “Truly astounding!”
Mycroft said nothing. He had been too busy wondering whether Polly was still alive and well since the poem closed on her. Against his protestations they had pulled the plug before the portal had reopened; he didn’t know if any human could survive in such an environment. They had blindfolded him during the journey and he was now standing in the smoking lounge of what had once been a large and luxurious hotel. Although still grand, the décor was tatty and worn. The pearl-inlaid grand piano didn’t look as though it had been tuned for years, and the mirror-backed bar was sadly devoid of any refreshment. Mycroft looked out of the window for a clue as to where he was being held. It wasn’t hard to guess. The large quantity of drab-colored Griffin motorcars and the absence of any advertising hoardings told Mycroft all he needed to know; he was in the People’s Republic of Wales, somewhere well out of reach of the conventional law enforcement agencies. The possibility of escape was slim, and if he could get away, what then? Even if there was a chance he could make it back across the border, he would never be able to leave without Polly—she was still imprisoned in the poem, itself now little more than printed words on a scrap of paper that Hades had placed in his breast pocket. There seemed to be little chance of regaining the poem without a fearsome struggle, and besides, without the bookworms and the Prose Portal, Polly would stay in her Wordsworthian prison forever. Mycroft bit his lip nervously and turned his attention to the other people in the room. Besides himself and Hades there were four others—and two of them held guns.
“Welcome, Professor Next,” said Hades as he grinned broadly, “from one genius to another!”
He gazed fondly at the machine. He ran a finger along the rim of one of the goldfish bowls. The worms were busy reading a copy of Mansfield Park and were discussing where Sir Thomas got his money from.
“I can’t do this alone, you know,” said Hades without looking up. One of the other men shuffled to get more comfortable on one of the few original upholstered armchairs.
“The next step for me is to gain your full support.” He looked at Mycroft with a serious expression. “You will help me, won’t you?”
“I would sooner die!” replied Mycroft coldly.
Acheron looked at him, then broke into another broad grin.
“I don’t doubt it for one moment, but I’m being rude! I have abducted you and stolen your life’s work and haven’t even introduced myself!” He walked up to Mycroft and shook him warmly by the hand, a gesture that Mycroft didn’t return.
“My name is Hades, Acheron Hades. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Acheron the extortionist?” asked Mycroft slowly. “Acheron the kidnapper and the blackmailer?”