looked thoughtfully around the large, open, and fairly airy lobby that served as Radio Free Albion’s reception area. He was quickly relieved to discover it all looked reassuringly normal. No obvious dangers and not a sign anywhere of his future self. JC realised Jonathan was looking at him and flashed the man his best meaningless smile before turning to Happy. Who was staring around in a vague, unfocused way.
“Still not picking up anything?” JC said quietly.
“Not a thing,” said Happy, as quietly. “Why? What am I supposed to be . . . All right, I know, you don’t want to talk about it . . .” He frowned. “You know, come to think of it, this whole place is unusually quiet. I mean, I should be getting something. A house this old, you’d expect it to be packed with history. Layer upon layer of laid-down psychic impressions. And given that there’s supposed to be a group of people working here every day; why am I not getting anything from them? It’s like something is suppressing all the local mental chatter and preserved images. Something big enough and powerful enough to hide itself completely from me. And there isn’t much, in or out of this world, that can do that.”
“Do you feel any danger?” said JC.
“Always,” said Happy. He looked again at the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket. “You’re going to have to come clean about that, eventually. If it’s a part of what’s happening here . . .”
“I know,” said JC. “Really, I know. But I’m not ready yet.”
“We’re here, for when you are. Was it really that bad?”
“Worse,” said JC.
“Shit . . .” said Happy. “You want a few of my little helpers?”
“My head’s in a bad enough place as it is,” said JC.
“Sit!” Melody said loudly. And everyone turned to see her trolley come to a sudden halt, almost spilling its entire load. Melody glared at it, then at everyone else.
“It’s learning!” she said.
“Maybe we should hire you a pack-mule,” said JC. “Less hard on the nerves . . .”
He beckoned her to him with a quick jerk of the head, and the three Ghost Finders stood together, looking the reception area over carefully, taking their time. Refusing to be hurried . . . even though it was obvious Jonathan wanted very much to move them along. Never let civilians set the pace. They never know what’s really important. Because first impressions always matter when you’re looking for things that don’t belong.
The entrance lobby had probably been quite impressive, once upon a time, but now it was seedy and ratty and run-down. The walls hadn’t been repainted or replastered in a long time, the carpet had been worn thin in more places than it hadn’t, and while there was a large reception desk at the rear of the room, complete with a great many telephones, there was no-one there to run it. There were no photos on the walls, no publicity shots of the various radio personalities, nothing to impress the casual visitor with how important Radio Free Albion was. Only a single large poster on the wall behind the reception desk, saying WELCOME TO RADIO FREE ALBION—YOUR LOCAL RADIO STATION! They all turned to look at Jonathan, who had the grace to shrug and look embarrassed.
“Cost cutting,” he said bluntly. “New owners. Since taking over, they have made their attitude very plain. They paid for a radio station, not a country house. If we want to make necessary repairs and improvements, it’s up to us to find the money. They don’t want to know. We’re doing what we can, but . . . Well, when I say we, I mostly mean me. I bought Murdock House and turned it into a radio station, all those years ago. I had such hopes, then . . . But, bit by bit, I lost control, giving up point after percentage point, to keep the place going; and now . . . I just run the station.
“The new owners are determined Radio Free Albion should turn a profit as soon as humanly possible. So they can get their investment back,
“Still not picking up anything?” JC said quietly.
“Not a thing,” said Happy, as quietly. “Why? What am I supposed to be . . . All right, I know, you don’t want to talk about it . . .” He frowned. “You know, come to think of it, this whole place is unusually quiet. I mean, I should be getting something. A house this old, you’d expect it to be packed with history. Layer upon layer of laid-down psychic impressions. And given that there’s supposed to be a group of people working here every day; why am I not getting anything from them? It’s like something is suppressing all the local mental chatter and preserved images. Something big enough and powerful enough to hide itself completely from me. And there isn’t much, in or out of this world, that can do that.”
“Do you feel any danger?” said JC.
“Always,” said Happy. He looked again at the bloody handprint on the front of JC’s jacket. “You’re going to have to come clean about that, eventually. If it’s a part of what’s happening here . . .”
“I know,” said JC. “Really, I know. But I’m not ready yet.”
“We’re here, for when you are. Was it really that bad?”
“Worse,” said JC.
“Shit . . .” said Happy. “You want a few of my little helpers?”
“My head’s in a bad enough place as it is,” said JC.
“Sit!” Melody said loudly. And everyone turned to see her trolley come to a sudden halt, almost spilling its entire load. Melody glared at it, then at everyone else.
“It’s learning!” she said.
“Maybe we should hire you a pack-mule,” said JC. “Less hard on the nerves . . .”
He beckoned her to him with a quick jerk of the head, and the three Ghost Finders stood together, looking the reception area over carefully, taking their time. Refusing to be hurried . . . even though it was obvious Jonathan wanted very much to move them along. Never let civilians set the pace. They never know what’s really important. Because first impressions always matter when you’re looking for things that don’t belong.
The entrance lobby had probably been quite impressive, once upon a time, but now it was seedy and ratty and run-down. The walls hadn’t been repainted or replastered in a long time, the carpet had been worn thin in more places than it hadn’t, and while there was a large reception desk at the rear of the room, complete with a great many telephones, there was no-one there to run it. There were no photos on the walls, no publicity shots of the various radio personalities, nothing to impress the casual visitor with how important Radio Free Albion was. Only a single large poster on the wall behind the reception desk, saying WELCOME TO RADIO FREE ALBION—YOUR LOCAL RADIO STATION! They all turned to look at Jonathan, who had the grace to shrug and look embarrassed.
“Cost cutting,” he said bluntly. “New owners. Since taking over, they have made their attitude very plain. They paid for a radio station, not a country house. If we want to make necessary repairs and improvements, it’s up to us to find the money. They don’t want to know. We’re doing what we can, but . . . Well, when I say we, I mostly mean me. I bought Murdock House and turned it into a radio station, all those years ago. I had such hopes, then . . . But, bit by bit, I lost control, giving up point after percentage point, to keep the place going; and now . . . I just run the station.
“The new owners are determined Radio Free Albion should turn a profit as soon as humanly possible. So they can get their investment back,
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