Paul got there, he found that the bank people had already put out orange plastic cones and a yellow-and-white tape; a better invisibility magic than anything heâd come across in the office-procedures manual. He put down his suitcase, took out the dummy cashpoint card heâd been issued with, and very gingerly fed it into the slot. As anticipated, it went in and didnât come out again. The little wisp of blue smoke that drifted up from the slot afterwards was so slight that he wouldnât have noticed it if he hadnât been looking for it.
Unfortunately, although heâd brought the plant mister and a bottle of Evian, heâd forgotten the SlayMore. The thought of going back to the office and explaining didnât appeal to him. Nor (rather to his surprise) did the idea of taking a life. True, killing a fellow life form wasnât something heâd ever choose to do, but in his list of priorities getting the job done without making a total bog of it would normally have towered over mercy like an overgrown Alp. Possibly it was all those trips to the bank, seeing at first hand what it was like on the other side of the final curtain; anyhow, he didnât want to do it, and maybe there was another way. Heâd read enough broadsheet newspapers to know that violence is always the problem, never the solution, and that a sword is a piece of steel with a victim at either end; the way of peace, however, will always prevail, if only enemies can be made to talk to each other. Which would be fine, if he could speak Wyvern.
Communication; that was the key. All Paul had to do was figure out how to get through to the little scaly horror, and everything would be peachy.
Communication: communication begins with information, and information is about the only thing the twenty-first centuryâs good at. In his wallet, Paul had a whole deck of little plastic rectangles which held, in digital form, every single bit of information about him in the whole world. He pulled them out: Visa card, social-security card, video-library card, mobile-top-up card, Boots bonus-point card â a Tarot pack containing his entire past, present and future â and began stuffing them into the slot, one after another. Puffs of smoke came out like on a really bad day at the Vatican. As the last one vanished into the black hole, he stood back and waited. Inevitably, the wyvern would by now have a complete picture of Paul Carpenter, his station in life, his obligations, resources, passions, habits. From these, the canny creature would realise that Paul wasnât its enemy, just a friend it hadnât met yet. It would come out, theyâd exchange expressions of mutual respect in sign language, and nobody would have to die or get their fingers bitten.
He waited. Nothing happened. Then, just as Paul was starting to wonder what had gone wrong, the slot burped at him.
Shit , he thought.
He spent the next ten minutes trying to fish around inside the slot with a plastic ruler, until that got eaten too. He tried kneeling beside the machine and singing into it: music is a purer form of communication than words â whales sing to each other, and you never read about mugged whales. Then he tried pleading, and threats.
Come along, Paul urged himself, this is pathetic. What would Jean-Luc Picard do? But it occurred to him that every time Jean-Luc found himself at the mercy of an unseen super-intelligent adversary, it turned out to be a lost, frightened little orphan who really only wanted to go home. Suddenly, the idea of a stiff jolt of SlayMore made a lot of sense. Unfortunately, he had no cash for a ride back to the office, and the bloody machine had swallowed his card.
What would Benny do? Well Paul knew the answer to that, it was on the little bit of paper heâd so recklessly ignored. What would Mr Wurmtoter do? Or Mr Tanner, or Professor van Spee? He considered these questions for a while, and then realised that he was
Unfortunately, although heâd brought the plant mister and a bottle of Evian, heâd forgotten the SlayMore. The thought of going back to the office and explaining didnât appeal to him. Nor (rather to his surprise) did the idea of taking a life. True, killing a fellow life form wasnât something heâd ever choose to do, but in his list of priorities getting the job done without making a total bog of it would normally have towered over mercy like an overgrown Alp. Possibly it was all those trips to the bank, seeing at first hand what it was like on the other side of the final curtain; anyhow, he didnât want to do it, and maybe there was another way. Heâd read enough broadsheet newspapers to know that violence is always the problem, never the solution, and that a sword is a piece of steel with a victim at either end; the way of peace, however, will always prevail, if only enemies can be made to talk to each other. Which would be fine, if he could speak Wyvern.
Communication; that was the key. All Paul had to do was figure out how to get through to the little scaly horror, and everything would be peachy.
Communication: communication begins with information, and information is about the only thing the twenty-first centuryâs good at. In his wallet, Paul had a whole deck of little plastic rectangles which held, in digital form, every single bit of information about him in the whole world. He pulled them out: Visa card, social-security card, video-library card, mobile-top-up card, Boots bonus-point card â a Tarot pack containing his entire past, present and future â and began stuffing them into the slot, one after another. Puffs of smoke came out like on a really bad day at the Vatican. As the last one vanished into the black hole, he stood back and waited. Inevitably, the wyvern would by now have a complete picture of Paul Carpenter, his station in life, his obligations, resources, passions, habits. From these, the canny creature would realise that Paul wasnât its enemy, just a friend it hadnât met yet. It would come out, theyâd exchange expressions of mutual respect in sign language, and nobody would have to die or get their fingers bitten.
He waited. Nothing happened. Then, just as Paul was starting to wonder what had gone wrong, the slot burped at him.
Shit , he thought.
He spent the next ten minutes trying to fish around inside the slot with a plastic ruler, until that got eaten too. He tried kneeling beside the machine and singing into it: music is a purer form of communication than words â whales sing to each other, and you never read about mugged whales. Then he tried pleading, and threats.
Come along, Paul urged himself, this is pathetic. What would Jean-Luc Picard do? But it occurred to him that every time Jean-Luc found himself at the mercy of an unseen super-intelligent adversary, it turned out to be a lost, frightened little orphan who really only wanted to go home. Suddenly, the idea of a stiff jolt of SlayMore made a lot of sense. Unfortunately, he had no cash for a ride back to the office, and the bloody machine had swallowed his card.
What would Benny do? Well Paul knew the answer to that, it was on the little bit of paper heâd so recklessly ignored. What would Mr Wurmtoter do? Or Mr Tanner, or Professor van Spee? He considered these questions for a while, and then realised that he was
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