“Ah!” he said with a smile. “Thursday! Haven’t seen you for a while—all well?”
“Yes,” I replied a bit uncertainly, “I think so.”
“Splendid! I just had an idea for a cheap form of power: by bringing pasta and antipasta together, we could be looking at the utter annihilation of ravioli and the liberation of vast quantities of energy. I safely predict that an average-size cannelloni would be able to power Swindon for over a year. Mind you, I could be wrong.”
“You’re not often wrong,” I said quietly.
“I think I was wrong to start inventing in the first place,” he replied after a moment’s reflection. “Just because I can do it, it doesn’t follow that I should. If scientists stopped to think about their creations more, the world might be a better—”
He broke off talking and looked at me in a quizzical manner.
“You’re staring at me in a strange way,” he said, with uncharacteristic astuteness.
“Well, yes,” I replied, trying to frame my words carefully. “You see…I think…that is to say…I’m very surprised to see you.”
“Really?” he said, putting down the device he was working on. “Why?”
“Well,” I replied with greater firmness, “I’m surprised to see you because…you died six years ago!”
“I did?” inquired Mycroft with genuine concern. “Why does no one tell me these things?”
I shrugged, as there was really no good answer to this.
“Are you sure?” he asked, patting himself on the chest and stomach and then taking his pulse to try to convince himself I might be mistaken. “I know I’m a bit forgetful, but I’m certain I would have remembered that.”
“Yes, quite sure,” I replied. “I was there.”
“Well, goodness,” murmured Mycroft thoughtfully, “if what you say is correct and I am dead, it’s entirely possible that this isn’t me at all, but a variable-response holographic recording of some sort. Let’s have a look for a projector.”
And so saying, he began to ferret through the piles of dusty machinery in his lab. And with nothing better to do and faintly curious, I joined in.
We searched for a good five minutes, but after finding nothing even vaguely resembling a holographic projector, Mycroft and I sat down on a packing case and didn’t speak for some moments.
“Dead,” muttered Mycroft with a resigned air. “Never been that before. Not even once. Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure,” I replied. “You were eighty-seven. It was expected.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, as though some dim memory were stirring. “And Polly?” he added, suddenly remembering his wife. “How is she?”
“She’s very well,” I told him. “She and Mum are up to their old tricks.”
“Annoying market researchers?”
“Among other things. But she’s missing you dreadfully.”
“And I her.” He looked nervous for a moment. “Has she got a boyfriend yet?”
“At ninety-two?”
“Damn good-looking woman—smart, too.”
“Well, she hasn’t.”
“Hmm. Well, If you see someone suitable, O favorite niece, push him her way, won’t you? I don’t want her to be lonely.”
“I’ll do that, Uncle, I promise.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds more, and I shivered.