The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)
Page 63
Acheron stared at him for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across his features.
“Why not? Odious and art-loving! What a divine dichotomy! You shall have your Gainsborough! And now, let us—What is it, Hobbes?”
“You won’t forget to make the ESC put on my improved version of the Scottish play—Macbeth: No More ‘Mr. Nice Guy’?”
“Of course not.”
“A full eight-week run?”
“Yes, yes, and Midsummer Night’s Dream with chainsaws. Mr. Delamare, is there anything that you require?”
“Well,” said the man with the brain of a dog, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, “could I have a motorway services named after my mum?”
“Insufferably obtuse,” remarked Acheron. “I don’t think that should be too difficult. Felix7?”
“I require no payment,” said Felix7 stoically. “I am merely your willing servant. To serve a good and wise master is the best that can be expected of any sentient being.”
“I love that man!” said Hades to the others. He chuckled to himself and then turned back to Hobbes, who was waiting to make the jump.
“So you understand what it is you have to do?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then, Mycroft, open the portal and my dear Hobbes: Godspeed!”
Mycroft pressed the green “open” button and there was a bright flash and a strong electromagnetic pulse that had every compass for miles around spinning wildly. The portal opened rapidly and Hobbes took a deep breath and stepped through; as he did, Mycroft pressed the red “close” button, the portal slid shut and a hush descended on the room. Acheron looked at Mycroft, who stared at the timer on the large book. Dr. Müller read a paperback of Martin Chuzzlewit to check Hobbes’s progress, Felix7 kept an eye on Mycroft, and Delamare looked at something sticky he had found inside his ear.
Two minutes later Mycroft pressed the green “open” button once more and Hobbes came back through, dragging a middle-aged man dressed in a badly fitting suit with high collar and necktie. Hobbes was quite out of breath and sat on a nearby chair, panting. The middle-aged man looked around him in mystification.
“My friends,” he began, looking at their curious faces, “you find me in a disadvantaged state. Pray explain the meaning of what I can only describe as a bewildering predicament—”
Acheron walked up to him and placed a friendly arm around his shoulders.
“Ah, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Welcome to the twentieth century and reality. My name is Hades.”
Acheron extended a hand. The man bowed and shook it gratefully, mistakenly believing he had fallen among friends.
“Your servant, Mr. Hades. My name is Mr. Quaverley, resident of Mrs. Todger’s and a proctor by trade. I have to confess that I have no small notion of the large wonder that has been subjected to me, but pray tell me, since I see you are the master of this paradox, what has happened and how I can be of assistance.”
Acheron smiled and patted Mr. Quaverley’s shoulder affectionately.
“My dear Mr. Quaverley! I could spend many happy hours in discussion with you about the essence of Dickensian narrative, but it would really be a waste of my precious time. Felix7, return to Swindon and leave Mr. Quaverley’s body where it will be found in the morning.”
Felix7 took Mr. Quaverley firmly by the arm.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Felix7—”
“Yes, sir?”
“While you’re out, why don’t you quiet down that Sturmey Archer fellow? He’s of no earthly use to us anymore.”
Felix7 dragged Mr. Quaverley out of the door. Mycroft was weeping.
16.
Sturmey Archer & Felix7