Overtime (16 page)

Marco looked up from his drink, most of which he'd managed to spill on his tie. ‘No,' he said, ‘you're wrong there.'

His brothers looked at him. ‘Come again?' Iachimo said.

‘He fell into a timeslip, right?' Marco said. The other two nodded. ‘Well then,' he continued, ‘stands to reason, doesn't it?'

‘Ignore him,' Giovanni said. ‘He still hasn't worked out what a Thursday is.'

‘No, listen,' Marco protested. ‘Look, if he fell into a timeslip, right, then it stands to reason he'll have drowned in time. Loose Cannons. Time Wardens.' Marco made an effort and marshalled his thoughts, which was a bit like trying to produce
Die Frau Ohne Schatten
with a cast of five-year-olds. ‘What's a timeslip made of?' he asked.

Giovanni was about to interrupt, but he didn't. ‘Unstable time,' he said. ‘Like lava from a volcano, you might say. What of it?'

‘Anything that gets trapped in a timeslip,' Marco ground on, ‘gets taken away to the Archives, right?' He looked up, waiting for someone to interrupt him, but for once they were both listening. He smiled happily. This was good fun. ‘And anything that gets taken to the Archives, right, it's like it never existed. So if Blondel's gone there, it's like he never existed.'

‘Jesus Christ,' Giovanni said quietly.

‘And if he never existed,' Marco continued - it was like watching a woodlouse climbing a wall, listening to Marco doing joined-up speaking - ‘then he couldn't have made up any of those songs. Which means his songs don't exist any more. Which means they never existed to start with. Which means - where are you going, Giovanni?'

‘Get your coat.'

‘But Giovanni ...'

‘I said get your coat.'

Marco pulled a face, but it was no good; they weren't listening to him any more. He got his coat.

 

‘And this one,' said La Beale Isoud, ‘is Blondel, my sister Mahaud and me at Deauville.' She squinted at the picture. ‘Summer, 1438,' she added. ‘It's changed a lot since then, of course.'

‘Yes,' said Guy. He was beginning to have second thoughts about being in love with La Beale Isoud. She seemed to have enough photograph albums to fill up at least seventy years of matrimony. ‘Er ...'

‘And this one,' she continued, ‘is Blondel, my sister Mahaud, my sister Ysabel and me in Venice. You can't see Ysabel terribly well, I'm afraid, because she moved just before the picture was taken. That's her, look, behind the prow of the gondola.'

‘Ah yes. Would you mind terribly if—'

‘And this one ...' La Beale Isoud stared at the album for a moment. ‘No,' she said, ‘that one hasn't been taken yet. It's too bad of Blondel, he keeps getting them muddled up and out of order. Oh look,' she said, ‘it's got you in it.'

Guy blinked. ‘Me?'

‘That is you, isn't it?' Isoud said. ‘Standing there on the steps of the church with a bouquet of flowers in your hand. And who's that beside you?'

Guy examined the photograph. ‘That's my friend George,' he said. ‘Who's that?'

‘That's my aunt Gunhilde,' Isoud replied. ‘She's dead now, of course, but she comes back occasionally for visits. Christmas, you know, and weddings. That's the good thing about having all this time travel in the family, it means one can keep in touch.'

Guy was still examining the photograph. ‘Whose wedding is this?' he asked.

‘No idea,' Isoud replied. ‘Oh look, I think that's Mahaud there, in the blue. She never did suit blue, but you couldn't tell her.'

Guy could feel his hand shaking. ‘It looks,' he said, ‘rather like I'm meant to be the bridegroom.'

‘Yes,' Isoud replied, nodding, ‘it does rather, doesn't it? Now this one here ...'

‘So who,' Guy said, ‘is the bride?'

‘You can't see,' Isoud replied. ‘She doesn't seem to be in the photo. Oh look, there's Mummy. What a big hat she's wearing.'

Guy stood up. ‘Well,' he said, ‘thank you ever so much for the tea. I don't think I'll wait for Blondel if you don't mind.' He could feel the sweat running off his forehead. ‘So if you'll just tell me where the time tunnel is ...'

‘Are you leaving?' Isoud said.

‘Better had,' Guy said firmly. He had always previously believed that he was too young to die, but now he was absolutely positive that he was too young to get married. ‘This door here, isn't it?' He opened it and walked through. A moment later he came back again, immediately followed by three raincoats, a hat and an umbrella.

‘No,' said Isoud, ‘that's the coat cupboard.'

‘I rather thought so,' Guy said. ‘Which door leads to the time tunnel, then?'

Isoud looked at him. ‘
I
don't know,' she said. ‘Blondel deals with all that sort of thing.'

‘But you must know ...'

Isoud smiled grimly. ‘It keeps changing,' she explained. ‘One day it's one door and the next day it's a different one. Terribly difficult to know where to put your coat sometimes.'

‘Ah,' said Guy.

‘Not to mention,' Isoud went on, ‘the empty milk bottles. I expect there's a doorstep in the future or the past somewhere with hundreds and hundreds of our milk bottles on it. The milkman must wonder what we do with them all.'

‘Quite probably.' Guy could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. ‘You don't mind if I just, sort of, investigate, do you? Only ...'

‘Oh look,' Isoud said, ‘here's another one of the same wedding. Oh
look!'
She lifted her head and stared at him. ‘Mr
Goodlet!'
she said.

‘Goodbye,' Guy said firmly. He opened a door, saw with great relief that there was nothing on the other side of it, and stepped through.

‘Mr Goodlet,' Isoud said, a few moments later. ‘You seem to have fallen into the coal cellar.'

 

‘Yes,' Giovanni said, ‘but can you do it?'

The man scratched the back of his head doubtfully, and then made a few rough sketches on the back of an envelope, ending up with something that looked perilously like the Albert Memorial. Then he played with a calculator for a while, looked some things up in a price list which seemed to have an awful lot of noughts to each digit, and spat on the floor.

‘Dunno,' he said. ‘It's the stresses, see. Could tear the wings off, the stresses we're talking here. Then there's your frame. Got to be titanium.'

‘Is that expensive?' Iachimo interrupted. He was making a parallel set of notes on the back of another envelope. In fact, the place was beginning to look like a sorting office.

‘Ignore him,' Giovanni said. ‘Look, I don't care what it costs. Can you do it?'

‘And then there's your PCVs,' the man said. ‘I can put you in Bergsons, no difficulty there, mind, Bergsons, but what's that going to do to your lateral stability? You put too much stress on your laterals, you're going to be really stuffed up. Mind you ...'

The man seemed to pass into a sort of coma or trance, from which it would probably be dangerous to arouse him. Any minute now, Giovanni said to himself, he'll be asking if there's anybody here called Vera.

‘Mind you,' said the man, recovering, ‘if you use titanium alloy
throughout'—
he made the word throughout sound so expensive that Iachimo winced, as if something had bitten him - ‘then you might get away with it. Hard to say. Wouldn't want to be responsible, really, I mean titanium alloy B-joints could pack up on you just like that. Real dodgy.'

Giovanni breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘Look ...' he said.

‘All right,' replied the man severely, ‘all right, hold your water a minute. Let the dog see the rabbit.' He bent down and started to leaf through a huge pile of dusty, cobwebby magazines on the floor. ‘Saw something like what you're after in one of these once,' he said, ‘twenty, twenty-five years ago now, mind. One of them big mining companies did it, only they used carbon fibre. Can't use carbon fibre now, of course.'

Giovanni asked why not but the question was obviously beneath contempt. ‘Now then,' the man said. The three brothers leaned forward to look. ‘See that?' the man said, pointing to a picture of something or other, ‘that was one of mine, that was. Nothing to do with what you're after,' he added. He threw the magazine to one side and went on looking.

‘Look,' Giovanni said, ‘all we need to know is—'

‘Magnesium,' the man said suddenly. ‘You just wouldn't believe what some people do with magnesium. No,' he added.

‘No what?'

‘No, I can't do it. Impossible,' he explained. ‘Bloody silly idea to start with.'

‘Thank you so much,' Giovanni replied through gritted teeth.

‘I mean,' the man went on, ‘drill a probe through the Archive walls, absolutely out of the question. What do you want to do that for, anyway?'

‘Pleasure to have met you,' Giovanni said, putting on his hat and pocketing the card he had put on the table at the beginning of the interview. ‘Send us your invoice.'

‘What invoice?'

‘Any bloody invoice,' Giovanni said, and closed the door quickly.

 

‘Overtime,' said White Herald, suddenly.

The others looked at him as if he'd just gone mad. The bus went over a patch of turbulence, jolting them about. The sort of turbulence you get in time travel makes a little bit of rogue cumulonimbus over the Alps seem like a feather bed.

‘We could all claim overtime,' White Herald continued. ‘Dunno why I didn't think of it before.'

Nobody said anything. Pursuivant looked at Clarenceaux and then nudged Mordaunt, who giggled. Clarenceaux glared at them both, as if challenging them to make something of it. They beamed at him. Just when he thought he was safe, Mordaunt turned to Pursuivant and said, ‘If we went around asking for overtime, we'd end up with egg on our faces all right, eh?'

‘Look ...' Clarenceaux said angrily. They smiled at him.

‘Sorry?' Pursuivant enquired sweetly.

‘Just watch it,' Clarenceaux replied. ‘That's all.'

‘Sure thing,' Mordaunt replied, and turned back to his companion. ‘No, the yolk would be on us then, wouldn't it?'

‘Did you say something?'

Mordaunt shook his head innocently. Clarenceaux dragged a sigh up from his socks and let it go. Blondel's horrible prophecy had come horribly true, starting with the moment of their return to the Chastel, when Mountjoy King of Arms had seen him squelching up the drive covered all over in custard, jam and cream and had observed, somewhat inevitably, that Clarenceaux was clearly not a man to be trifled with. Since then, if anything, it had got worse.

‘Other people get overtime,' White Herald continued, ‘so why not us? Time and a half, even.'

‘Do you mind?' Clarenceaux said irritably. ‘We got enough trouble travelling through it without claiming it as well. Where are we going this time, anyway? Anybody know?'

Silence. Three blank faces. At least nobody said anything about eggs, or custard, or bananas. If ever he saw that sodding Blondel again, he'd give him bananas all right ...

The bus slowed down, jolted violently, and stopped. After a moment the automatic doors opened, and the crew climbed out. White Herald, whose turn it was to be Sergeant, took out the sealed envelope and opened it.

‘Orders of the day,' he said. ‘Er ...'

‘Give it here,' said Clarenceaux testily. ‘You got it upside down,' he pointed out.

‘Reading isn't everything,' White Herald replied.

‘Cretin.' Clarenceaux ran his finger along the lines.
‘You have arrived at the South-Western Main Archive,'
he read. ‘Here, what's an Archive?' he asked. Nobody knew.
‘Proceed to the oil well which you will find approximately half a mile due east of your arrival point and arrest Jean de Nesle, also known as Blondel. You are authorised to use maximum force if necessary.
Then there's a big blob of red wax with a picture on it. Ouch!' The paper had burst into flames, and soon Clarenceaux was holding only the comer.
‘PS,'
he read,
‘this message will self-destruct in thirty (30) seconds.
'

‘Nice of him to tell you,' Mordaunt commented. ‘Anybody got a compass?'

 

It isn't all fun and games commanding an illicit oil rig in the middle of an insubstantial sea, and unauthorised visitors don't help. To make matters worse, Commander Moorhen was only too aware that he was running about a fortnight behind schedule, as a result of the Mistral Chronologique arriving a month earlier than forecast and the diamond-molybdenum drill-bit breaking, and that there were reports of Warden patrols not a million years away. He was not a happy man.

‘Music while you work,' he said, ‘I can handle. But aliens breaking in and coshing the staff just so's they can sing to them is another matter. Take him away and chuck him off the derrick.'

Sergeant Peewit looked at him and didn't move. The prisoner, for his part, smiled.

‘Come on,' Moorhen shouted. ‘Jump to it.'

‘No sir,' said Peewit, back straight as the proverbial ramrod.

‘You what?'

‘With respect, sir.'

Moorhen stared. ‘And why the hell not, sergeant?'

‘Because, sir,' Peewit replied, ‘with respect, sir, this here is Blondel de Nesle, and the lads won't stand for it.'

The biro in Moorhen's hands snapped, apparently of its own accord. ‘What did you say?'