Saint and the Fiction Makers (7 page)

The screen went dark, and the wooden panel slid quietly back across it.

‘You hear that, Galaxy?’ Simon called. ‘Anything I want, I’ve only to ask.’

‘I heard,’ said Galaxy.

She emerged eagerly from the bathroom and Simon met her hazel eyes with the magnetic power of his startling blue ones.

‘Anything,’ he repeated wickedly.

Galaxy came towards him.

‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked softly.

‘A gun.’

Her lips were suddenly compressed with irritation.

‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘Some people don’t know when they have it good.’

Simon sipped his coffee.

‘You realize that if you don’t give me a gun you’re making Mr. Warlock guilty of false advertising. And if this pleasure palace is all as dandy as you people seem to think it is, what harm could a little automatic do? I happen to like playing with guns, and if we’re all here to play I can’t see why we can’t play some games I like.’

Even Galaxy’s modest brain could distinguish between teasing and seriousness. She stopped pouting and smiled as quickly as the sun might pop out from behind a passing summer cloud.

‘You’re sweet,’ she said, ‘but I can’t give you a gun. I’ve already fetched your breakfast, tested your shower, and I’m about to lay out your clothes and anything else you want, so why can’t you just be co-operative?’

‘I think I might like it if you called me master,’ he said. ‘As long as I’ve got a slave, I might as well enjoy every last tingle.’

Galaxy laughed.

‘All right, master.’

Simon got to his feet, touched his lips with his napkin, and dropped the cloth on the table. He put a strong hand on each of her shoulders.

‘So now, lovely slave, how about getting me a gun? All I want it for is to defend us against the blokes who’ll be trying to shoot their way in here … to get at you.’

Her smile faded and her lips parted. Her eyes seemed to grow smoky with anticipation as he leaned near her.

‘I can’t, she breathed.

Simon threw up his hands and turned towards the bathroom.

‘Then put me out a clean shirt and a blue suit, would you?’ he said matter-of-factly.

Galaxy clenched her fists.

‘You—’

Simon lounged at the bathroom door, pointing up at the panel which covered the television screen.

‘Naughty,’ he said. ‘Remember, you’re my willing slave, and you’ll learn that as long as my every whim is satisfied instantly I’m absolutely super to get along with.’

Once more the cloud passed and she laughed.

‘Very good, master. You run along and take your shower, and I’ll come scrub your back. My orders are to conserve your energy.’

‘You’re too generous.’

‘I’ve hardly even started.’

4

Forty-five minutes later, the Saint stood before a full-length mirror and studied the fit of his blue trousers and white shirt.

‘You must give me the name of Mr. Warlock’s tailor,’ he said, ‘so I can avoid him.’

‘They fit quite well,’ Galaxy said. ‘Not knowing what you were like, we had to get it all different sizes. And now you complain!’

‘A fit is not just a matter of clothes falling somewhere between too large and too small. It’s a product of art. Mr. Warlock would understand that. He has an aesthetic soul.’

‘Well,’ Galaxy replied, giving his shirt a playful but vicious tug, ‘I didn’t choose the clothes. What else can I do for you?’

Simon thought.

T feel mean this morning. How about a … a blue tie with purple spots?’

‘Immediately, master,’ said Galaxy.

A moment later she returned from the wardrobe with a blue tie infected with spots so gorgeously purple as to make a grape turn raisin with envy. Simon sighed and knotted it around his neck.

‘Okay, Friday, you win. Let’s get on to the confrontation.’

Galaxy Rose held Simon’s jacket for him, and led him to the door of his room. Her hand caught his wrist as he started to turn the burnished steel knob.

‘You should know better than that,’ she said. ‘Or do you like the sound of loud bells?’

The Saint’s memory ranged back over the Charles Lake adventures he had read.

‘Electronic locks,’ he said, ‘controlled from a central station. But don’t tell me you have the fingerprint scanning device.’

‘Of course we do.’

Simon was impressed.

‘But it doesn’t really exist,’ he argued. ‘I just made it up.’

‘It exists now,’ Galaxy told him. ‘Warlock says that one of the beauties of your imagination is that the things you come up with almost always really would work, if only somebody took the trouble to make them.’

She pointed to a small, faintly glowing translucent disc set into the wall beside the door handle. She pressed her thumb against it for two seconds, while supposedly (Simon was not entirely convinced that the system was genuine) a photo-electric cell scanned the thumbprint and transmitted its pattern to the memory bank of a central computer which made its recognition and signalled approval by electrically unlocking the door.

‘Warlock is very thorough,’ said the Saint.

There was a light ping as the lock was disengaged. He turned the handle without producing a fusillade of alarm bells, and Galaxy Rose preceded him into the hallway.

‘This way to the stairs,’ she said.

The hall, simply carpeted and devoid of furnishings, had none of the luxury-hotel quality that had characterized the Saint’s room. Except for the carpet, it reminded him of the spotlessly clean and purely utilitarian companionway of a ship. He could imagine the exotic gadgets which might reside behind some of the metal panels in the white walls. And the circular grids in the ceiling probably protected more interesting devices than mere electric light bulbs. There were numbered doors at intervals on either side of the corridor; all were closed.

Simon, still a little dazed by the sheer implausibility of everything that had happened to him, was somewhat like a man in a dream who is telling himself that he’s only dreaming and that he must wake up. He wanted to maintain his scepticism, to remind himself that the statements he had heard made about this building and its occupants were too far-fetched to believe. Yet he had been given evidence that the claims had at least some foundation to them. For the time being he could only go along with the gag, keep himself ready for anything, and hope that his future experiences with the Secret World Organization for Retribution and Destruction would be even a fraction as pleasant as his room, his breakfast, and Galaxy Rose.

The corridor opened on to the landing of a wide staircase which led down to a large living room furnished eighteenth-century style, enriched with armour, landscape paintings, and neo-classic sculpture. The room was in no way particularly different from the main reception room of any other English country mansion, except for one thing: he had the unsettling experience of deja vu, as if he knew the place intimately and yet at the same time knew that he had never been there. Then he realized the reason for the sensation: the room had been described in Amos Klein’s books, and the designer of the room in which Simon now stood had gone to great pains to duplicate every detail.

Galaxy was watching her charge’s reactions, half-smiling at his bemusement.

‘Something wrong?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s just that everything’s too right. It’s a little hard to believe.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Galaxy said cheerfully. For a split second the cloud shadow that Simon had noticed before crossed her face, but her voice betrayed nothing. ‘I had a hard time believing it myself for a while.’

As he followed her down the long room towards closed doors of heavy oak, he was more fascinated than ever by the operations of his own mind in these strange circumstances. His powers of recall had always been exceptional and had more than a few times brought him success or even saved his life because of the advantage they gave him. But when he had read the Charles Lake books he had done so entirely for entertainment, or even derision, and with no thought at all that there would be any point in remembering even details of the plots, much less the names of characters, the descriptions of rooms, or the mechanisms of the fantastic devices so prevalent in Charles Lake’s weird world.

But now Simon had new confirmation of something he had always believed—that nothing in one’s experience was ever really lost, though the calling up to consciousness of long ‘forgotten’ facts seemed more responsive to accidental association than to a deliberate effort of will. The stimulus of the Saint’s surroundings—the names, the gadgets, the furnishings—began to revive more and more details of the Amos Klein novels he had read. At first the trickle of recollections had been small, but now the revelations came like the rapid thawing of tributaries in the spring—streams flowing into larger brooks, brooks flowing into rivers. Now Simon’s mind was filling with a torrent of facts about the world of Charles Lake which was astonishing in its completeness.

As Amos Klein—a role that had been thrust upon him, and which he welcomed in the circumstances—he had to know those things about the novels he had supposedly written. He was grateful to the mental gift which renewed a knowledge that he might reasonably have expected to have lost for ever.

‘Here we are,’ Galaxy said.

They were standing in front of another pair of oaken doors, but before she could expose her thumb to the glowing yellow disc beside them, they swung open from within, revealing what Warlock called the planning room.

‘Greetings, Mr. Klein, and welcome to your rightful place in the world.’

The speaker was Warlock himself. He stood just a few feet inside the doorway, and even in his immaculate grey suit he managed to look like a jovial Caligula. The room which provided the setting for his welcome was large, richly panelled with rosewood, and strikingly modern in contrast to the room Simon was leaving. Behind the expansive Warlock was a long mahogany table. Around the table stood four men, two of whom the Saint recognized immediately as the phoney policemen of the night before.

‘Overwhelmed,’ said the Saint, inclining slightly.

Warlock did not miss the mocking twist of Simon’s lips. He nodded approvingly.

‘So far, Mr. Klein, you have lived up to my fondest expectations. I might have known you’d take all this with the same aplomb as Charles Lake … although of course I had no way of telling whether or not you’d resemble him in the slightest.’

Warlock spoke precisely, with a neutral British accent which told nothing about him except that he had probably artificially cultivated his present way of speaking—in the same way that a radio announcer or actor tends to lose the speech patterns of his native region. Warlock’s accent, as a matter of fact, resembled that of the actor who played the role of Warlock in the Charles Lake films.

‘We’re always told,’ he continued, ‘that one should never meet one’s favourite author. The man might be so much less impressive than his work that one could be terribly disappointed. But I must say, Mr. Klein, that I’m not disappointed at all. I’m delighted! You’re much more Charles Lake than the man who plays his part in the films.’

Simon bowed his thanks.

‘I hope I’ll be half as delighted when I find out why you gassed and kidnapped me.’

Warlock looked hurt. His jowls sagged.

‘I wish you wouldn’t look at it that way, Mr. Klein. It seemed to me that since you were understandably dubious about my original offer, I must use unorthodox methods … for the good of both of us. I trust you’ll soon forgive me when you hear my plan.’

‘I don’t have much choice at the moment,’ said the Saint.

Warlock gave a deprecating wave of his hand, as if pretending not even to hear such an unworthy remark.

‘Now, Mr. Klein, please come in, won’t you? This is your planning room. You’ll recognize it, of course.’

Simon accompanied Warlock across the thick carpet, glancing at the beamed ceiling, the high windows which allowed a view only of the sky, and the walls lined with books, maps, and graphs.

‘I do recognize it,’ Simon said. He had decided to bring a little more of the overawed author into his characterization. ‘It’s hard to believe. A perfect replica of the S.W.O.R.D. planning room.’

Warlock rubbed his hands delightedly.

‘Not a replica,’ he said. ‘This is the S.W.O.R.D. planning room—the only one on earth. Not in your mind, not on paper, not on film, but here, in reality!’

‘And you’ve done all this yourselves?’ Simon asked.

‘I have done it,’ Warlock said. ‘These gentlemen by the table were chosen after the building was completed. It has been absolutely guaranteed that my interests are theirs. Their loyalty is beyond question. You’ll recognize them, I think? You created them.’

Warlock stood happily by while Simon inspected the troops, who stood in varying postures of respectful unease on either side of the table.

‘Bishop,’ Simon said to the one who had come to the cottage door as P.C. Jarvis.

Bishop, whose chin displayed a dark bruise where Simon had hit him, forced a smile. He was no longer in uniform but like the other men wore a conservatively tailored suit.

‘Mr. Klein,’ he said politely, by way of acknowledgement.

‘Feeling chipper this morning, Bishop? That’s good.’

Simon moved on to the giant who had accompanied Bishop in the impersonation of police constables.

‘Simeon Monk, as I live and breathe. Do you really bend railroad irons with your bare hands?’

‘Yes,’ said Simeon Monk succinctly.

‘Better have that throat looked after, Sim. Sounds as if you’re talking from down in a barrel.’

Simeon rubbed his throat and looked confused.

‘He always sounds that way,’ Warlock explained unnecessarily. ‘Remember, in Volcano Seven, you described …’

‘Right,’ the Saint agreed. ‘He’s perfect. And this handsome fellow here will be … don’t tell me, let me guess … Frug!’

The word ‘handsome’ had probably never been applied to Frug before, even as a joke. He would have been more aptly described, by a speaker less sardonic and more brutally honest than the Saint chose to be at the moment, as an ugly little shrimp. Opposite the huge Neanderthal called Monk, he looked even shorter and more shrimpy than he was, the perfect caricature of the chain smoker who spends his afternoons at the racetrack and his evenings in a billiards hall.