"Then I foresee no difficulty. Your wrist has healed sufficiently that it will not open if the sutures are lost. We shall begin with the words."
51
The gibberish ran round and round in Smedley's head. Fortunately there were only three verses to that key, each ending in the same shout of Hosagil! He thought he had the words, but the beat was nastily complex and contrapuntal, and of course the steps and gestures would have to wait until they arrived at St. Gall's. Even a Rolls was not spacious enough for dancing.
Ombay fala ... Screw Hosagil, whoever he was.
Exeter ought to be in worse shape, because he was having to memorize two keys. Smedley could not imagine how he would manage that without mixing them up, but he had not changed a bit from their schooldays—cool, calm, and accomplished. He caught on to the rhythms right away, claiming a knack acquired during his Africa childhood, and he had always been a whiz at languages, which must help with the words. He would probably come first in the exam. Just like old times! In fact, Edward Exeter would be a downright pill if he wasn't always so straight and square, such a brick. No one could ever dislike him.
The sky was trying on pastel colors as evening approached. Stringer clung grimly to the wheel, rarely speaking. If Miss Pimm was not supporting her driver with spikes of magic, he must be well beyond the end of his tether. There had been no break for tea.
Now Exeter was prying information out of her, a process much like opening oysters with bare hands.
"And what is St. Gall's?"
"A church."
"Very old, of course?"
"Of course. There are,” she continued in an obvious diversion, “two standing stones remaining in the churchyard. It may well be that some of the keys we know date from megalithic—"
"Do you use this portal often?"
"Quite often,” she admitted with the reluctance of a biology mistress being asked to explain the function of reproductive organs.
"It leads directly to Olympus?"
"Yes."
"And back?"
She sighed. “Yes. We know keys for translation in both directions. That is rare."
"Then why are the Blighters not aware of it?"
"They are."
"They have sentries?"
"No resident stranger, no. No traps I cannot handle. Normally they don't care a fig about Nextdoor, remember! It was only the Chamber's appeal for help in destroying you that roused the Blighters’ interest. They care more who comes in than who goes out, in any case. Anyone departing who has not entered will be marked in some fashion."
"Will that Schneider man have guessed it is where we are going?"
"Oh, yes. He may have alerted others to intercept us there."
Cheerful thought!
The car wound down a steep hill. Now Stringer was being allowed to proceed at his own pace, for there were cyclists, horse traffic, and a few cars. With all the Ombay fala guff, Smedley had lost track of what county he was in, but the building stone was the right buff color for the Cotswolds, and the landscape was picturesque enough. A large plate of hash and a tankard of bitter would go down very well about now. Would there be such a thing as beer on Nextdoor?
Waves of unreality...
At times he believed. Then it felt like the night before a big push, with the barrage to begin before dawn. Then a man looked at his watch every half minute and wondered if he'd ever see another sunset. Not quite that bad, but his gut was tight and his palm damp. Aiba aiba nopa du ... Tonight he might meet the suspect Jumbo Watson face-to-face. Tomorrow go for a nice ride around on a dragon.
Other times he just couldn't. Then it all felt like an enormous leg-pull. Aiba, aiba, up your nose. Shamans and fakirs. Witch doctor dances moving people to other dimensions? What utter gullage that was! If such things were possible, then hundreds of people would have disappeared over the centuries.
But if they had, what evidence could there be? You couldn't prove it wasn't true!
Not in that direction, whispered his doubts, but when was the last time you read about a naked, shocked, bewildered foreigner stumbling out of the woods somewhere, unable to speak a word of the language? That ought to be easier to disprove, because at least you could demand to have a body produced. Habeas the bloody corpus!
"Sharp left at the end of this wall, Mr. Stringer,” Miss Pimm said. “There is room to park."
Smedley snapped out of his reverie, realizing that the spire he had seen over the trees a moment ago must be St. Gall's.
"The vicar is expecting us.” She did not deign to relate how she knew that. “But I ask both of you to be discreet in what you say to him. ‘Them as asks no questions isn't told no lies,’ or, ‘No names, no pack drill,’ as Captain Smedley is fond of remarking. This is a small parish, not well endowed. The Service supports his church with generous donations. He knows we use the building for unorthodox purposes, but it is easier for him if he can pretend to turn a blind eye. The current bishop is notoriously conservative in his views."
Exeter had twisted around to stare at her again. “You mean we are actually going to go through with this inside the church itself? Dancing around with no clothes on?"
Miss Pimm sniffed. “Would you prefer an audience? On a fine evening like this, the grounds are a favored locale for courting couples."
"Too many bodies in the graveyard,” Stringer remarked loudly. It was comforting to know that he was still conscious.
She ignored the comment completely. “The node overlaps the building itself, especially to the east, so we could perform our ceremonies outside. However the center of the virtuality is just in front of the altar. That is where in-comers materialize, and you will translate more easily from there."
There was a stunned pause, and it was Alice who sniggered first. “Do they ever drop in on Sunday mornings?"
The old bag did not crack even a hint of a smile. “Olympus keeps careful track of the clock, naturally, and times its deliveries for the small hours of the morning. The vicar is accustomed to receiving unexpected visitors."
Stringer was braking. Smedley caught a brief glimpse of some houses about a half mile away, then the car turned into a narrow lane, lurching to a stop beside an iron gate set in a high stone wall. With a long sigh like a deflating tire, Stringer sprawled limply over the steering wheel. Miss Pimm uttered a snort of disbelief. About to say something cheerful to Exeter, Smedley took a second look at his expression, then at Alice's, and didn't. Instead he opened the door and clambered down. There would have to be an awkward farewell here. He had no taste for public sentiment.... She kept a man's dressing gown in her flat, dammit! He hurried around to open the door for Miss Pimm.
Someone had beaten him to it. As that someone was wearing a cassock, it would not be unreasonable to assume he was the vicar. He was short and plump, elderly and fatherly, white-haired and rubicund, obviously not a stranger but a native. Smedley's heart did a little jump at that thought. It meant that he really did believe.
Ombay fala, inkuthin...
He fumbled shakily for cigarettes and matches.
All five of the occupants had emerged from the car. Edward hovered very close to Alice, Stringer was stretching and rubbing his eyes. Miss Pimm and the vicar had obviously met before. They exchanged congratulations on the weather. She did not introduce her companions and he ignored them—extremely odd behavior for a cleric—then they all converged on the gate, with Miss Pimm and the vicar in the lead. Smedley found himself being squired by the surgeon, crunching along a gravel path. He could not hear Alice and Exeter following.