It seemed to Howard that Fifi gave the faintest gasp at this, but she said promptly, “Oh, was that what it was? Yes, you did.”
“Well then?” Quentin said to the Goon.
The Goon folded his long arms and loomed a little. “Archer didn’t get it,” he repeated.
“Then go ask Mountjoy about it,” said Quentin.
“You ask him,” said the Goon. His round eyes slid sideways to the telephone on the desk.
“All right,” said Quentin. “I will.” He went to the telephone and dialed. Howard, watching and listening and by now quite mystified, knew that his father really did dial the Town Hall. He heard the switchboard girl answer, “City Council. Which office, please?” And Quentin said, “Mr. Mountjoy. Extension six-oh-nine.” After a pause he could hear a man’s voice, a rich, rumbling voice, answering. Quentin, looking unlovingly at the Goon, said, “Quentin Sykes here, Mountjoy. It’s about my two thousand words. Someone seems to have sent me a hired assassin—”
“Not killed anyone yet!” the Goon protested.
“You shut up,” said Quentin. “He says the words are overdue. Now I know I sent them to you, just as usual, nearly a week ago—”
The rich voice rumbled on the telephone. And rumbled more. Quentin’s face clouded and then began to look exasperated. He cut through the rumbling to say, “And who is Archer?” The voice rumbled some more. “Thank you,” said Quentin. He put the phone down and turned to the Goon, sighing.
The Goon’s grin grew wide again. “Didn’t get them, did he?”
“No,” Quentin admitted. “They do seem to have gone astray. But he’ll give me another week to—” He stopped because the Goon’s little head was shaking slowly from side to side. “Now look here!”
“Archer won’t wait,” said the Goon. “Want to go without electricity? Or gas? Archer farms power.”
“I know,” Quentin said angrily. “Mountjoy just told me.”
“Do the words again,” said the Goon.
“Oh, all right,” Quentin said. “Come on, all of you. Let’s get back home and get it over with.”
They marched silently back with the Goon looming over them. Howard was aching to ask his father what on earth was going on, but he did not get a chance. As soon as they reached the house, the Goon took up his former place, filling half the kitchen, and Quentin hurried to his study. The sound of typing came from there, in little rattling bursts, with long pauses in between. Awful went to the front room, where she turned on the television and sat brooding on bad things to do to the Goon. At least, Howard thought thankfully, Mum had not come in yet. He hoped very much that Dad could finish his typing and get rid of the Goon before she did.
In the kitchen Fifi was climbing back and forth across the Goon’s legs again. “Help me get supper started at least, Howard, there’s a love,” she said. “Your mum’s going to be so depressed when she comes in and finds all this going on!”
Catriona Sykes came in five minutes after that. She came in with her eyes shut, tottering, meaning it had been a bad day. Her job was organizing music in schools, and she got headaches from it. She put a stack of music, the evening paper, a tape deck, a bundle of recorders, and a set of cymbals down on the table and fell into a chair by feel, with her hands to her head. Howard watched the relief fading off her face as she listened to the sounds in the house and began to realize something was wrong. He saw her locate Awful by the sound of the television, and Quentin by the clattering of the typewriter, then Fifi by the hurried pouring of hot water into the coffee mug Fifi had ready. Howard saw Catriona follow the haste with which Fifi handed the mug to him and locate Howard by his footsteps hurriedly stepping over the Goon’s legs to give her the coffee. A frown grew on her face. As she took the mug, her head tilted to catch the scraping from the Goon’s knife as he sat cleaning his nails. She took a deep drink of the coffee, pushed her hair back, and opened her eyes to look at the Goon.
“Who are you?” she said.
He grinned his daft grin at her. “Goon,” he said.
“I mean,” said Catriona, “what is your name?”
Howard’s mother had a very strong personality. But so had the Goon in his way. The room seemed thick with them. Howard and Fifi both held their breaths. “Goon will do,” said the Goon, and went on grinning.
Catriona gave him a long, level look. Then, to Howard’s surprise, she smiled quite pleasantly. “You look strong,” she said. “There’s a set of drums in my car. Help Howard get them in before they get damp or stolen.”
And to Howard’s further surprise, the Goon got to his feet and loomed through the room. “Where to?” he asked Howard.
The Goon was so strong that all Howard needed to do was show him the car and unlock the back. The Goon carried the drum set, bumping and booming, and set it down with a further boom in the hall. Then he went back to his chair in the kitchen. There Howard could see his mother had been asking Fifi what was going on. Fifi was looking upset. Catriona was taking it all much more calmly than Howard would have expected. She was just looking gloomily mystified.
“I don’t mind as long as he’s quiet,” she said to Howard. “I’ve been listening to school orchestras all day—have you done your violin practice?—and my head’s splitting.” And before Howard needed to lie about the violin, she looked at the Goon and said, “Who is Archer?”
The Goon looked back. He had a short think. “Farms power,” he said. “Gas and electricity. Money, too. Won’t worry you. You come under Torquil.”
“You mean he’s a town councillor?” Catriona asked.
That amused the Goon highly. He threw back his little head and laughed and clapped his long thigh with his vast hand. “That’s good!” he said. “Look like the Council, do I?”
“No, I can’t say that you do,” said Catriona. She seemed utterly unable to find the Goon alarming. “He seems harmless enough,” she said to Howard as she got up to help Fifi cook. “Move your feet,” she said to the Goon. And the Goon did. He bent his legs up until his knees were near his ears and sat looking like a huge, ungainly grasshopper while Catriona got supper ready. Howard began to see that his mother had found the right way to manage the Goon. He tried it himself when he was setting the table. He told the Goon to get out of the way of the spoon drawer, and the Goon did and grinned at him. “Set for six, Howard,” Catriona said. “I expect the Goon would like some liver and bacon, too.”
“Would!” the Goon said. He inhaled fried onions and grinned deeply.
Howard began to feel that Mum was not taking a serious enough view of the Goon. When supper was ready, and Quentin’s typewriter was still doing bursts of clattering, Catriona said, “Howard, call your father and Awful.”
“Not Sykes. Let him keep at it,” the Goon said.
Catriona accepted this without even asking why and sent Howard into the study with a tray. Quentin looked up absently from his typewriter and said, “Put it down on those papers.” He did not seem alarmed or anxious either.
“Dad,” said Howard, “I think Mum’s got the wrong idea. She’s giving the Goon supper. You don’t give hired assassins supper, do you?”
Quentin smiled. “No, but when a wolf follows your sleigh, you give it meat,” he said. Howard could tell he was only half-serious. “Leave me in peace, or we’ll never get rid of him.”
Howard went back to the kitchen, rather exasperated. He found the Goon sheepishly trying to wedge his knees under the table and Awful protesting. “I’m not going to have supper with him!” she was saying. “He threw his knife at me.”
“Shouldn’t have screamed,” said the Goon. The table lifted on top of his knees, and things began to slide off one end. Fifi caught them. She looked as exasperated as Howard felt. The Goon slid Catriona an embarrassed look and doubled his legs around the back of his chair. He was really almost kneeling like that, and he looked very uncomfortable.
“He did, Mum!” Awful shrilled. “And he smells.” When Catriona took no notice, Awful announced, “
I hate everyone except Fifi.”
“What have I done to get hated?” Howard demanded.
“You were scared of the Goon,” Awful said.
Howard found himself exchanging a shamed look with the Goon. “Scare myself sometimes,” the Goon remarked, cautiously picking up a knife and fork. He was trying to behave properly. He kept glancing nervously at Catriona and Fifi to see how he was doing, and he made strong efforts to keep his mouth shut while he chewed. Howard thought he nearly choked once or twice. Even so, the Goon managed to eat huge amounts. Howard had never seen such a stack of potatoes on anyone’s plate before. When he had finished, the Goon retreated quickly to the chair he had sat in before and sat in everyone’s way again, picking his teeth with his knife and looking relieved.
“Wouldn’t you like to go watch the telly in the other room?” Fifi asked him after she had fallen over his legs six times.
But the Goon shook his little head and sat on. He sat while Fifi cleared away and then went up to her room in the attic. He sat while Catriona washed up. When Catriona went away, too, and the Goon was still sitting, Howard thought he had better stay in the kitchen as well. He felt someone ought to watch him. So Howard fetched out his bag of books, with the rip in it that the Goon had made, and tried to do homework on the kitchen table. He found it hard to concentrate. With the Goon sitting there, he did not feel he could spend half the time designing spaceships, as he usually did. He could feel the Goon’s round eyes staring at him and see the knife that had ripped his bag flashing at the corner of his eye. When, at last, Quentin came into the kitchen carrying four typewritten pages, Howard was heartily relieved.
The Goon sprang up, looking as relieved as Howard. He took the pages and examined them. Howard was quite surprised that the Goon seemed able to read.
“That will have to do,” Quentin said as the Goon looked questioningly at him. “It’s not quite the same as I sent Mountjoy, but it’s as near as I could manage from memory.”
“Not a copy?” asked the Goon.
“Definitely no copy,” Quentin assured him.
The Goon nodded, folded the papers, and stuffed them into the front of his leather jacket. “Get along to Archer then,” he said. “See you.” And he loomed his way to the back door, tore it open, ducked his little head under the lintel, and went away.
As soon as the door slammed, Catriona and Awful shot into the kitchen. “Has he gone?” said Awful, and Catriona said, “Now tell us what all that was about.”
“Nothing—nothing at all really,” Quentin said, in a way which everyone knew was much too airy. “Mountjoy’s idea of a joke, that’s all.”
Catriona fixed him with her most powerful look. “Quentin,” she said, “that won’t do. He talked about Archer, not Mountjoy. Explain.”
Chapter Two
“But I can’t explain about Archer,” said Quentin. He sat in the Goon’s chair and stretched. “I only know Mountjoy. Make me a cup of tea, Awful.” As Awful set off readily toward the kettle, he added swiftly, “With boiling water and two tea bags and only milk in the cup. Curry, mustard, pepper, and vinegar are strictly forbidden.”
“Bother you!” said Awful. One of the things she enjoyed most was making people curried tea.
“What a life!” said Quentin. “I have to bargain even to get a cup of tea. What does it matter to Awful that I am a famous writer and my name is a household word?”
“So is ‘drains’ a household word,” said Awful as she filled the kettle. “Mum, he’s putting us off.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just arranging my thoughts,” Quentin said.
“Then stop blathering,” said Catriona. “Tell us why on earth he wanted you to write two thousand words.”
“He didn’t. It must be Mountjoy,” said Quentin. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared thoughtfully down at the soft curve of paunch that stuck his sweater out. “Though come to think of it,” he murmured, “Mountjoy did mention a superior once, about eight years ago. I’d forgotten that. Anyway, as far as I knew, it was Mountjoy’s idea—a sort of joke—to cure my writer’s block. Mountjoy’s quite respectable, you know. There’s nothing underhanded about him. I met him playing golf a few months before we had Howard, when I was suffering terribly from writer’s block and telling everyone—”
“I remember,” said Catriona. “You told the milkman about it until he refused to come to the house.”
“Well, it’s a terrible condition,” Quentin said plaintively. “You three are lucky not to know what it’s like. You haven’t a thought in your head, or if you have, you can’t somehow get it down on paper, or if you do manage to put something down, it goes small and boring and doesn’t lead anywhere. And you panic because you can’t earn any money, and that makes it worse. It can go on for years, too—”
Howard was just thinking that he was glad he did not intend to be a writer—designing spaceships seemed much easier—when Awful interrupted. “I know,” she said. “It’s like when they tell me in school, ‘Make a drawing of ancient Britons,’ and I can’t because I’m not in a drawing mood.”
“Yes,” said Quentin. “Very like that. So you see how relieved I was when Mountjoy rang me up and said come to his office and discuss an idea he had had to break my block. He swore he could do it. And he was right. What I was to do, he said, was to promise to send him every three months two thousand words of any old thing that came into my head. It had to be new, and by me, and not a copy of anything else I’d done, and I was to deliver it to him at the Town Hall. I said, but suppose I couldn’t even do that? And Mountjoy laughed and said here was the clever bit. I was to imagine he had the ability to stop the Council from supplying me with water and gas and light and to order them not to empty my trash cans and so on. He said if I made myself scared enough of that, I’d have no difficulty in writing his two thousand words. And he was right. I’m still grateful to Mountjoy. I went home and did him the first two thousand words, and as soon as I had, I began to write books again like a demon. I wrote Prying Manticora that same month. And the first draft of Stark in—”
“But wait a minute,” Catriona said, frowning. “If you’ve been sending Mountjoy stuff for thirteen years, and he’s been passing it on to this Archer, then Archer must have masses of it by now. What does he do with it?”
“Do you think Archer publishes it?” Howard asked. “He could be making a lot of money out of you.”
His father shook his head, rather uncomfortably. “He couldn’t, Howard. I always write really idiotic things that nobody would want to publish. Most of them aren’t even finished. You can’t get much into four pages. I’ll tell you—last year I sent Mountjoy a solemn discussion about what to do if rabbits suddenly started eating meat. This time it was about old ladies rioting in Corn Street.”
“What do you do about that?” Awful asked, bringing Quentin a slopping mug of weak gray tea.
“Dodge their handbags,” said Quentin. “Thanks.”
“No, stupid, I mean the rabbits,” said Awful.
“Set them catching mice, of course,” said Quentin. “No, Howard, I’d have noticed if anyone printed any of those things. I assure you, nobody ever has.”
“And is this the first time Mountjoy didn’t get the words?” Howard asked.
Quentin shook his head again. “It’s the first time they’ve gone astray, but there have been several times when I didn’t get around to doing them. Mountjoy never minds—except there was that one time …” Quentin stared at his tea, looking puzzled. “It was just after Awful was born,” he said. “You must remember, Catriona. She kept us awake every night for a month, and I was too busy trying to catch up on sleep to write anything. And quite suddenly, everything in the house was cut off. We’d no light, and no heat, no electricity, no water, and the car wouldn’t go either—”
“Yes, I do remember,” said Catriona. “Howard screaming as well as Awful, because he was cold, and all the washing. Didn’t they say it was some sort of freak? I remember we kept h
aving people to mend things, and they said there was nothing wrong. What happened?”
“I went around to see Mountjoy,” said Quentin. “It was superstition really. And I remember he looked rather taken aback and muttered something about his superior’s not being as patient as he was. Then he laughed and told me to write the words and probably everything would come right. So I did. And all the power came back on while I was doing them. I really can’t explain that.” He raised the tea to his mouth at last. Awful watched expectantly. “But I really can’t explain Archer’s Goon eith—” He took the mug away from his mouth again, with a sigh. “Don’t tell me, Awful. I forgot to say don’t put salt in it. What have you done to this mug?”
Quentin held the mug up to the light. There seemed to be big wobbly shapes carved into both sides of it.
“The Goon did that,” said Awful. “With his knife and there’s no salt in it, only sugar. He threw the knife at me, but it stayed in his hand.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Awful,” said Catriona. Very sane and severe, she took the mug and looked at it and felt the dents with her finger. “This can’t have been done with a knife. These marks are glazed over. It must have come like that from the shop.”
“The Goon did do it,” said Howard. “I saw him, too.”
Quentin took the mug back and held it up to the light again. “Then perhaps he tried to carve G for Goon,” he suggested jokingly. “It’s either a V or a Y on the other side. Do you think it’s A for Archer upside down?”
Howard knew from this that his father was not going to treat the matter of the Goon seriously. And he knew his mother was not either when she laughed and said, “Well, Quentin, make sure you do Mountjoy’s words in future. We don’t want Archer sending any more Goons around.”
In a way, it was a weight off Howard’s mind. The Goon had scared him. But if neither of his parents was worried, then that made it all right. He went upstairs to his room and sat comfortably among his posters of astronauts and airplanes, designing another spaceship until it was bedtime, and tried not to think of the Goon. But his mind would keep straying to all those words his father kept sending to Archer. What could Archer possibly do with them? Why did he want them badly enough to send the Goon for them?