towards an appointment with a medium-rare filet mignon avec tous les trimmings at Swedish chef Martin A. Fairdig’s celebrated restaurant, had chanced to bump into this Havmurthy, and the next minute he was trussed up like a—like a—well, like a captured and denuded space-elevator attendant: a not particularly adventurous simile, perhaps, but an accurate one. Still, it was a relief to have for once got the inevitable flirtation with danger out of the way, rather than dangling over his head like some Swiss Army Knife of Damocles, waiting to descend upon him in all its multifunctional unpredictability.
He’d made a statement; he and Belle had provided their fingerprints; the police were now investigating, and Gordon could just get on with his everyday job secure in the knowledge that the case was in the capable hands of trained professionals, rather than a rank amateur such as himself. Against that kind of reassurance, the loss of his handheld and of a certain quantum of his hard-earned gravitas was, when you came down to it, rather small beer. Or perhaps, in the circumstances, small-beer-and-cheese.
His spirits lifted further when they reached the lift-module lobby and were met by Sue Sheff, 270’s chief cook, caterer, and comms officer, who (having more-or-less recovered from the initial surprise of his appearance) informed Gordon that a woman from Lost Property had been down a few minutes earlier to drop off his handheld.
“Excellent,” said Gordon, his eyes lighting up hungrily as Sue passed it to him. “Where’d they find it?”
“She didn’t say.” Sue’s eyes were still tracking between Gordon’s asymmetric chest and the flowing brunette locks of his wig.
“Ah. Well, it’s back, that’s the main thing.” He thumbed it on, and began checking its status.
Sue was struggling to maintain a straight face.
Gordon glanced up from his handheld long enough to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Oh—just—” She threw a conspiratorial wink to Belle. “I was just wondering if you two wanted to—you know—get a room or something.”
Belle grinned in response.
“Sue!” Gordon replied, scandalised, attempting as much dignity as he could muster. Which, as it turned out—what with the wig, the dress, and some very suggestive if unconvincing padding—wasn’t much. If any. “I assure you, Sue, that, while admittedly she has recently seen me in a state of some undress, Belle and I—”
“Who said anything about Belle?” Sue asked. “I was talking about you and the handheld.”
* * *
Back in his office / cubicle / broom closet—surrounded by framed reproductions of the news reports of the detection exploits of, variously, the intrepid Grodon Mammal, the indefatigable Godron Mitten, and the celebrated Gondor Memo—Gordon checked the handheld’s time function. Still fifteen minutes until embarkation. Time enough to check my messages.
In the several hours that he had been parted from his trusty handheld, Gordon had apparently been contacted by no less than four senior officials from various international (and, in one case, interplanetary) lottery funds, advising of his unparalleled multiple windfalls in the latest draws, and requiring only his credit details to process his winnings; two young Martian women who wished to press their credentials upon him (one with a view to matrimony, one ostensibly very much not of such persuasion); three funding requests for two different startups hoping to produce, at a guaranteed ten-thousand-percent return to all investors, a knockoff of the hyper-secret in-system hyperdrive that had reportedly been recently developed by Saturn Propulsions AB; and a message from Skytop Plaza Lost Property to report that they hadn’t yet found his handheld, but would notify him immediately they had discovered it. All very ho-hum, but it did feel good to be once again connected to the pulse.
Still six minutes. Maybe time enough to check the rest of that
He’d made a statement; he and Belle had provided their fingerprints; the police were now investigating, and Gordon could just get on with his everyday job secure in the knowledge that the case was in the capable hands of trained professionals, rather than a rank amateur such as himself. Against that kind of reassurance, the loss of his handheld and of a certain quantum of his hard-earned gravitas was, when you came down to it, rather small beer. Or perhaps, in the circumstances, small-beer-and-cheese.
His spirits lifted further when they reached the lift-module lobby and were met by Sue Sheff, 270’s chief cook, caterer, and comms officer, who (having more-or-less recovered from the initial surprise of his appearance) informed Gordon that a woman from Lost Property had been down a few minutes earlier to drop off his handheld.
“Excellent,” said Gordon, his eyes lighting up hungrily as Sue passed it to him. “Where’d they find it?”
“She didn’t say.” Sue’s eyes were still tracking between Gordon’s asymmetric chest and the flowing brunette locks of his wig.
“Ah. Well, it’s back, that’s the main thing.” He thumbed it on, and began checking its status.
Sue was struggling to maintain a straight face.
Gordon glanced up from his handheld long enough to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Oh—just—” She threw a conspiratorial wink to Belle. “I was just wondering if you two wanted to—you know—get a room or something.”
Belle grinned in response.
“Sue!” Gordon replied, scandalised, attempting as much dignity as he could muster. Which, as it turned out—what with the wig, the dress, and some very suggestive if unconvincing padding—wasn’t much. If any. “I assure you, Sue, that, while admittedly she has recently seen me in a state of some undress, Belle and I—”
“Who said anything about Belle?” Sue asked. “I was talking about you and the handheld.”
* * *
Back in his office / cubicle / broom closet—surrounded by framed reproductions of the news reports of the detection exploits of, variously, the intrepid Grodon Mammal, the indefatigable Godron Mitten, and the celebrated Gondor Memo—Gordon checked the handheld’s time function. Still fifteen minutes until embarkation. Time enough to check my messages.
In the several hours that he had been parted from his trusty handheld, Gordon had apparently been contacted by no less than four senior officials from various international (and, in one case, interplanetary) lottery funds, advising of his unparalleled multiple windfalls in the latest draws, and requiring only his credit details to process his winnings; two young Martian women who wished to press their credentials upon him (one with a view to matrimony, one ostensibly very much not of such persuasion); three funding requests for two different startups hoping to produce, at a guaranteed ten-thousand-percent return to all investors, a knockoff of the hyper-secret in-system hyperdrive that had reportedly been recently developed by Saturn Propulsions AB; and a message from Skytop Plaza Lost Property to report that they hadn’t yet found his handheld, but would notify him immediately they had discovered it. All very ho-hum, but it did feel good to be once again connected to the pulse.
Still six minutes. Maybe time enough to check the rest of that
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