The Door in the Moon (8 page)

Then she whisked him through a curtain and he was on a boat, a cruise liner, and he was wearing a white uniform and a peaked cap and she was twirling a parasol on the sun deck and staring out at the blue ocean. “You know, George, it's not all dancing. We can go anywhere, do anything.”

The breeze was cool and fantastic on his sticky skin. He took the cap off and wiped his brow with an immaculate handkerchief. “So I see.”

“We could work together,” she said.

“We?”

“You and me.”

“How?”

“Venn is wasting the mirror. He'll never get Leah back. If it was yours, you'd use it more wisely.”

She had plucked the thought from so deep in his mind, he only recognized it with a shock.

“Well. Maybe. But—”

“Think about it.” Summer leaned on the white rail. “Mortals get old, George. They get all wrinkled and crabby. Their teeth fall out. Their brains go. They end up as parodies of themselves. You don't want that, do you?”

He tried to smile. “Summer, you're leaving out all the good things about—”

“Old age?” She looked up at him. “Nonsense. What sort of old age do you face? Some cold and lonely little flat in Shepton Mallet. Just you and the television.” She smiled, and her lips were red and full. “But what if you could live for as long as you liked? If you felt a bit bored, or weary, just go back a few years. A decade maybe. Or even to the time you were twenty. Think of that, George, being young again, but with all the knowledge and wisdom you have now! Think of having your life over again, but so much better!”

He knew what she was doing. It wouldn't work on him.

But, just for a moment, a fatal moment, he allowed himself to think of it. University. Well, he'd pick a better one than that flea-pit he'd gone to. And the exams! Easy for him now. Man of the world, confident, instead of that bluff, cringe-making idiot he'd been in those days. Women . . . well, he wouldn't make those mistakes again. That girl in Devizes. He closed his eyes in dismay.

Summer watched, sidelong. She said softly, “You wouldn't be a teacher this time.”

“No way! Nor the army. I've always wished I'd gone into pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Paintings. Art. Not as an artist—I can't draw for toffee. But as a dealer. Had my own gallery. Bought and sold. Big money in that, and I've always loved art.”

She nodded. Then she walked off the deck onto the sea and said, “Something like this?”

He gaped. They were in a room with white walls, and on the walls hung glorious Monets, a Rembrandt, some pastels by Degas, a van Gogh.

“Oh yes! Oh good Lord, yes. Fantastic! But where . . . ?”

“We're in a private house in New York. A collector's house. Do you like them, George?”

He stared at the riot of color that was van Gogh's
Irises
. “They must be worth millions,” he breathed.

She put her arm in his and for a long moment they admired the painting together. Then, without taking his eyes off it, he said, “Just as a matter of interest . . . no commitment of course, just vaguely curious . . . what exactly would I have to do?”

She tugged him forward and with a small gasp of delight he went with her, and they walked right into the painting, and stood among the brushstrokes, the blue and gold and yellow.

She said, “Sarah has my half coin. The Zeus coin. She has it hidden somewhere in Venn's house. Get it for me, George. Just get it for me. And the mirror and all the time in the world can be yours.”

The black glasse erupts from the deep heart of the erthe. Molten and twisted, it is as if hell itself hath bled and this is what emergeth. It is erthe's wound.

When I found it I wept with delight.

Or was this all a dreme the Mirror made me dream?

From
The Scrutiny of Secrets
by Mortimer Dee

Moll's diary.

So then. Me and JHS went across to this posh hotel opposite the museum and he ordered lunch. He said, “My dear Moll, we must celebrate!” and made the waiter bring champain.

We tapped our glasses. JHS took a swig, gasped a bit, and said, “We have seen our precious bracelet, my dear, and have given the fools that own it no sign of what power it holds. The next question, is how we get hold of it.”

He looked at me, and raised his eyebrows.

I'd already been thinking, you can be sure of that. I sipped the bubbly—it goes right up your nose, Jake—and I said, “Well, it's a museum. We can't just buy it. Let's not mess about. You and I know it has to be nicked.”

He got all aeriated. “Moll! I'm not a thief!”

“Well, we could argue that one. But I am. And I know plenty more. Right?”

JHS squirmed. “I can't say I find it a very ethical situation.”

“So you want to leave the bracelet there?”

He almost went electric. “Of course I don't! Good heavens. To get my hands on it I'd pay a small fortune. But robbing the Ashmolean is not really something I thought I would ever have to do.”

“You don't have to.” The waiter had brort the food and I was stuffing it down me as fast as I could. “You don't have to do anything, cully. Just put up the dosh.”

“Dosh?”

“Lolly. Ackers. Money.”

“Ah.”

“I sort out the rest. I know plenty of people—”

“I'm sure you do.” He held up a flabby white hand. Nervous. “But maybe it's best if I don't hear any of the details at all, Moll. One of us has to stay clean.”

I saw it all then. If we was took, he wasn't in on it, he wouldn't know anything, would shake his head all sad about me, and say, “I dragged up the urchin from the streets and did what I could for her, but oh, officer, look how she has repaid me.”

Fair enough.

That's the way the world rubs, Jake.

So I said, “A hundred should do it. In cash.”

He nearly choked on his guinea fowl. “What!”

Heads turned. I muttered, “Keep it down, JH. Think about it. It ain't the Bank of England, but we still have to get in. Breaking a crib like that ain't easy. I'll need a cracksman, a carriage with fast horses, two, maybe three strong-arm men. They don't come cheap.”

He chewed a bit, thoughtful. Then he wiped bread round the last gravy, swallowed it, and said, “Very well. But not a penny more, Moll.”

So much for the small fortune.

“And I must demand”—now he came over all hoity-toity—“that you ensure your friends do no damage. The hallowed portals of such a temple of learning . . . its exhibits, priceless to science . . .”

“They won't have time.”

“And nothing else is to be stolen. I insist.”

The waiter came. “Would miss like dessert?” Miss would. Miss ordered the most expensive one. When he'd gone, I sat back and gave it to the old sod straight. “Can't be done, cully. If only the bracelet is gone the rozzers'll ask about who showed any interest in it, and they'll be knocking on your door before you can say Wormwood Scrubbs. Best take a few more bits and pieces too—gold, mostly. Just to keep the law thinking these were just thicko thieves.”

“Ah. Yes. I see. Well. If you think so.”

Dear old JHS. The poor old bird doesn't have a clue. He sipped his coffee and sat back, gazing round the big room with its waiters and la-di-dah diners. “If only they knew, Moll! That we were planning a robbery right here, and as a result of it we will journey far into the future!” His bald head glistened, his eyes were wide and greedy. “We will achieve such things, Moll!”

“Course we will,” I said, folding my napkin on the table. Got to confess, Jake, luv, I was thinking of you.

Finding you.

Venn stepped back; Maskelyne grabbed the black pen from his hand and stared at it with something like horror. “Are you mad? You have no idea—”

The mirror gave a great crack.

For a moment they all thought it had broken; then it sparked and seemed to ripple. Gideon leaped away, Shee-swift, sure it would explode. Piers gave a moan of terror.

The black glass was gone. Instead, inside the silver frame they saw a sudden endless tunnel into utter darkness, and the tunnel was hung with lanterns, a small flame guttering in each.

“What's going on?” Venn stared, fascinated. “This is not how it usually works.”

Maskelyne seemed frozen with dismay. “You asked him a question.”

“What?”

“Janus! You asked him. Did you think he wouldn't answer? He's coming.”

And now Gideon could hear them, the footsteps, softly approaching down the tunnel that led to the future, could hear them coming calmly and resolutely, and somewhere tiny in the distance a shadow began to flicker past the lanterns.

Venn snapped, “Piers. The glass weapon!”

The small man swore and raced for the safe.

“That will only kill Replicants.” Maskelyne ran to the controls. “Don't you see, maybe this is really him. If he gets in here, he'll have an open channel to send anything through. His Time Wolves and his distorted creatures. His Adjusted Children.”

“Like Sarah?”

Maskelyne spared him a haunted glance. “Worse. You have no idea.”

“What do we do?”

“Stop him. We have to stop him.”

The scarred man was stabbing at the controls. The mirror darkened; a few of the lanterns flickered. But the passage stayed open. A strange, cold draft of air gusted from it. Gideon took a step closer, curious despite his disquiet. He could smell the future down that tunnel, and it was a metallic, toxic smell, the smell of a bitter and windy November day, somewhere without sunlight. There was an absence in it, a lack of life that made him shiver.

Piers had the glass weapon. Venn took it from him.

“I told you that won't stop him!” Maskelyne's voice was bleak.

“Then close the mirror.”

“I can't.”

“Rub the writing off!” Gideon ran forward and lifted his sleeve, but then, if Venn had not grabbed him, he would have plunged straight in; the glass was a vacancy and the written words hung in the air, demanding an answer. And the approaching figure was clear to them all now, a small man in a neat uniform, his graying hair tied back, his eyes hidden behind round blue spectacles.

“Don't come any closer.” Venn lifted the gun.

Janus kept coming. “Don't you want to know the answer to your question, Venn? I've done nothing with Jake. I have no idea where he is. Such a risk for such a useless answer.”

“Stay back.”

Janus did not even pause. He paced steadily toward them, past lanterns that flickered in his draft. In the lab, all the alarms triggered; lights flashed urgently on the panel.

A ripple ran through the Abbey walls; one of the columns shifted. Dust cascaded from the roof.

Piers clutched his hands together. “Do something! Excellency!”

“Shut up!” Venn swung a savage glare on Maskelyne. “You! This thing responds to you! Close it down!
Now!
”

Maskelyne was still. Only his fingers danced on the controls. The scream of the alarms was deafening; Gideon wanted to cover his ears in agony. Instead he grabbed a knife from the desk and stood shoulder to shoulder with Venn. His heart was pounding. Strange joy was surging in him. This was something he had never known in the Summerland. He felt terrified, exhilarated.
He felt alive.

Maskelyne abandoned the controls and moved to the mirror. Pushing Venn aside, he grasped the silver frame with both hands. His whole body shivered, as if some current had passed from it and through him. It seemed to re-energize him. He stood tall, his dark shape blocking the portal.

Janus said, “You won't stop me, scarred man. I told you once you would never stand in my way again.”

Maskelyne ignored him. He spoke to the mirror. “Close! You must close. Don't let him through.”

Janus passed the last lantern. They could see that the passageway was made of gray stone, and the wind that blew from its depths was icy. Small fragments of snow drifted on it. He was almost at the threshold. Around them, the Abbey creaked and shivered.

Venn, without turning, said, “Piers. Get the baby out of the house.”

“But—”

“Do it!”

Piers snatched up Lorenzo and fled.

“You too, changeling.”

Gideon shook his head, stubborn. “Summer's more scary.”

Venn snorted, kept the glass weapon steady.

Janus said, “Stand aside.”

“No,” Maskelyne said, tense.

“I think you should remember how you came by that scar, my friend. You overstepped your ability then. You are doing the same now.”

They were face-to-face at the threshold of the mirror.

Venn said, “Get out of the way. Let me fire.”

“No
.
”
Maskelyne's voice was husky. He stayed, blocking the portal with his body.

Then he began to speak.

It was no language Gideon recognized, but at once he felt the sorcery and secrecy of it; it made his skin prickle, he shivered with its silvery power.

“What are you doing?” Venn demanded.

Maskelyne did not answer. Instead the words he chanted became harsh, sharp-edged. He spat them out as if they were shards of glass, as if speaking them cut his lips and throat.

Peculiar purple light flickered down the edges of the mirror. The lanterns behind Janus died. The alarms stopped dead.

Janus stared, then hurled himself at the mirror, but the words were faster; it seemed to Gideon that they leaped from the silver frame, crowded and crackled in the air, became slivers of lightning that sent jagged sparks about Maskelyne's thin fingers.

“No!” Janus's cry was a yell of rage; he slammed against the sudden black surface, crashed his fists on it in fury.

But it did not let him through.

Maskelyne collapsed. He staggered and crumpled at the knees; instantly Venn threw the weapon to Gideon and caught him, easing him down.

Gideon could not take his eyes from Janus. The small man's rage was a cold threat; he screamed and the mirror bulged, its convex surface swelling outward, ballooning impossibly into the room.

“Get back!” Venn dragged Maskelyne away, hastily, but Gideon stood his ground, lifting the weapon. If the creature broke through, he would finish it. Here and now.

But with a snap that made his whole body jump, the mirror was flat and hard and solid.

On the far side, Janus took a deep breath, controlling his wrath. Finally, with an effort, he shrugged.

“So be it. There are other ways, Venn. Maybe the door in the moon will let me in.”

Kneeling by Maskelyne, Venn looked up, his eyes fierce. “Once I have Leah back, I'll come through and destroy you myself, tyrant.”

Janus nodded. “What if getting Leah back is what creates me, Venn? What if your weakness and your need is what starts the whole end of the world?” He laughed, a soft creak of scorn.

Then the glass was black and empty.

For a second Venn didn't move. He stayed there, gazing at the mirror as if the words had been a poison he knew he should never have drunk.

Then he swung around and felt Maskelyne's pulse.

“Is he dead?” Gideon lowered the weapon and stared, intensely curious. He had never seen a dead mortal.

“Unconscious. Move those boxes.”

Gently, Venn picked up Maskelyne's limp body, carried him to the cleared workbench, and laid him down. “He's barely breathing. Get up there and find Piers . . . he won't have gone far.”

“I'm not going outside.”

“Just hurry!”

Gideon ran to the door. As he looked back, he caught Venn's reflection in the dark glass.

He was staring at the mirror as if it were his enemy.

Or as if his own reflection were.