“It’s a relativist argument, Miss Next—desperate situations require desperate measures. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But listen, we have a great deal of money at our disposal and Acheron is willing to be generous in the use of Mr. Next’s notable invention.”
“And that is?”
“Ever seen one of these?” asked Schitt, waving the stubby weapon he held at us both.
“It’s a plasma rifle.”
“Correct. A one-man portable piece of field artillery, firing supercharged quanta of pure energy. It will cut through a foot of armor plate at a hundred yards; I think you will agree it is the high ground for land forces anywhere.”
“If Goliath can deliver—” put in Bowden.
“It’s a mite more complicated than that, Officer Cable,” replied Schitt. “You see—it doesn’t work. Almost a billion dollars of funding and the bloody thing doesn’t work. Worse than that, it has recently been proved that it will never work; this sort of technology is quite impossible.”
“But the Crimea is on the brink of war!” I exclaimed angrily. “What happens when the Russians realize that the new technology is all bluff?”
“But they won’t,” replied Schitt. “The technology might be impossible out here but it isn’t impossible in there.”
He patted the large book that was the Prose Portal and looked at Mycroft’s genetically engineered bookworms. They were on rest & recuperation at present in their goldfish bowl; they had just digested a recent meal of prepositions and were happily farting out apostrophes and ampersands; the air was heav’y with th’em&. Schitt held up a book whose title was clearly visible. It read: The Plasma Rifle in War. I looked at My-croft, who nodded miserably.
“That’s right, Mis’s Next.”
Schitt smiled & tapped the cover with the back of his hand.
“In he’re the Pla’sma Rifle work’s perf&ectly. All we ha’ve to do is open’ the book with the Pros’e Portal, bring out the we’apons & is’sue them. It’ ”s the ultimate weapon, Mis’s’ Next.”
But he wasn’t referring to the plasma rifle. He was pointing to the Prose Portal. The bookworms responded by belching out large quantities of unnecessary capitalizations.
“Any’thing That The Hu’man Imag’ination Can Think Up, We Can Reproduce. I Look At The Port’al as Les’s Of A Gateway To A Million World’s, But More Like A Three Dim’ensional P’hotocopier. With It We Can Ma’ke Anything We Want; Even Another Portal—a H&held Version. Chri’stmas Every Day, Miss Next.”
“More Death In The Cr’imea; I Ho’pe You Can Sleep W’ell At Night, Schitt.”
“On The Co’ntrary, Miss’ Next. Russia Will Roll Over & Piss’ Over Itself When It Witnesse’s The Power Of Stonk. The Czar Will Permanently Cede The Peninsula To England; a New Riviera, Won’t That be nice?”
“Nice? Sun Lounger’s & High-Rise Hotel’s? Built On L& That Will Be Dem&ed Back Half a Century From Now? You’re Not S’olving Anything, Schitt, Merely Delaying It. When The Russian’s Have a Plasma Rifle Of Their Own, Then What?”
Jack Schitt was unrepentant.
“Oh, Don’t Worry About That, Miss Next, I’ll Charge The’m Twice What I’ll Charge The Eng’lish Gov’ernment!”
“Hear, Hear!” put in Hades, who was deeply impressed by Schitt’s total absence of scruples so far.
“A Hundred Million’ Dollars Fo’r The Portal, Thursday,” added Hades excitedly, “& a 50% Cut On Every’thing That’ Comes Out Of It!”
“A Lackey For The Goliath Corpor’ation, Acheron? That Doesn’t Sound Like You At All.”
Hades’ cheek quivered but he fought it, answering:
“Out Of Small Acorn’s, Thur’sday . . .”
Schitt looked at him suspiciously. He nodded to one of his men, who levelled a small anti-tank gun at Hades.
“Hade’s, The Instructio’n Manual.”
“Please!” pleaded Mycroft. “You’re Upsetting The Wor’ms! They’re Starting to hy-phe-nate!”
“Shut-up, My-croft,” snapped Schitt. “Ha-de’s, please, The In-Struc-tion Man-ual.”
“Man-ual, My De’ar Chap?”