"Never," Walker said calmly. "It's one of my more endearing qualities."
"You have endearing qualities?" I said. "Since when?"
He took out his gold pocket-watch and opened it, and the portable Timeslip within leapt out and carried us away.
SEVEN
Not Just Another Walk on the Nightside Come, John. Walk with me.
And so we went walking together, up and down the Nightside and back and forth, up the Grand Parade and down the Old Main Drag, in and out of endless rain-slick streets and shadowed alleyways. Taking in the wildest clubs and the lowest dives, walking under hot neon and flashing signs, past the open doors of very inviting private clubs and terribly discreet dens, where the barkers promised every pleasure you'd ever heard of or dreamed about. Where the patrons called for madder music and wilder women and danced till they dropped. One great kaleidoscope of sin, with temptation on display in every window, at marked-down prices. Love for sale on every street-corner, only slightly shop-soiled. The twilight daughters out in force, with their painted-on smiles and switch-blades tucked into their stocking tops. You can find anything you want in the Nightside if you're prepared to pay the price.
We walked and walked, and all the time Walker never said a word to me. He just stepped it out at a brisk pace, swinging his furled umbrella like a walking-stick, letting the streets speak for themselves. The pavements were packed with people, wide-eyed and eager, in hot pursuit of whatever drove them. But they all made way for Walker and me, so that we seemed to walk in our own little pool of calm, like the eye of the hurricane.
Up and down we went, in and out of every private domain and sphere of influence, and no-one challenged us. Hard men stepped back into doorways, and foot-soldiers for a dozen different crime lords quickly changed direction or disappeared down handy alleyways. Walker led the way and I followed, and no-one wanted anything to do with us. After a while, my legs grew weary, and my feet hurt, but Walker never slowed his pace. I grew so tired I lost all track of time, which might have been the point.
I'd reached the point where I was prepared to swallow my pride and call a halt when Walker beat me to it. He came to an abrupt stop before a shabby storefront in a decidedly grubby area and gestured grandly at the run-down establishment before us. I looked it over and wasn't impressed. The starkly lettered sign on the blank window said Welcome to the Nightside Tourist Information Centre! I couldn't help thinking that the exclamation mark at the end was entirely unjustified. A sort of resigned shrug would have been more appropriate.
"All right," I said to Walker. "This is new, I'll grant you. I didn't even know we had such a thing. Does it get much business? I would have thought most people who come here already know what they're looking for."
"That's the point," said Walker. "Shall we go in?"
He pushed open the door, and crumbling bits of paint fell off it. A small bell tinkled sadly as we entered a stuffy little office. A dark figure sat hunched behind a rough desk, half-concealed behind piles of folders, pamphlets, and assorted paper-work. Curling posters had been roughly tacked to the walls, offering picture-postcard views of places I happened to know looked nothing like that, and tall spinners held cheap pamphlets that looked as though no-one had disturbed them in years, There was dust, and cobwebs, and a general smell of futility and despair.
"Carter!" snapped Walker. "Why are you naked again?"
The figure at the desk crouched down even further behind his stacks of paper. "It helps me relax! I've got a lot on my mind!"
I turned away and interested myself very firmly in the contents of one of the spinners. Mostly pamphlets and flyers concerning places of interest for the discerning tourist in the Nightside. All written in that false, cheerful tone so beloved of Chamber of Commerce types, which fools no-one.
Visit the colourful Street of the Gods! (Travel insurance advised, especially against Acts of Gods.) Visit the amazing Mammon Emporium; all the merchandise from all the worlds! Try a bucket of Moose McNuggets, or a Cocaine Cola! Have you seen the Really Old Ones in the World Beneath? (Parental discretion advised. Some parts of the tour may not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.)
That was about as much as I could stand. I looked back, to see Carter emerge sullenly from behind his desk, now wearing a grubby undershirt and jeans. He looked as run-down and untrustworthy as the place he worked in, which took some doing. Carter was neurotically thin, defiantly unhealthy, and basically disgusting on a genetic level. You got the feeling he'd still be sleazy even if you soaked him in bleach for a week. He did his best to look put-upon and hard done by, but I still felt an instinctive need to slap him, on general principles. He cringed away from Walker and glared at me.
"Don't bother; I already know who you are. I'm Basil Carter, and you're not at all pleased to see me. No-one ever is. See if I care. And yes, this place is a dump. Why not? No-one ever comes here. The last person to stick his head through that door really wanted the karma repair shop next door. What do you want, Taylor? We're closed. Or out for lunch. Or renovating; that's always a good one. There's been a fire, or an outbreak of plague, or the rabid weasels are loose again. Come back later. Or not at all; see if I care. Those are my official responses to any and all inquiries. I'm only talking to you now because Walker will hit me if I don't."
"And quite right, too," said Walker. "I never knew anyone who deserved being beaten repeatedly about the head and shoulders more than you do, Carter. And don't you dare complain. If the people around here knew who you really were, they'd drag you out of this shop and feed you into a wood-chipper, toes first."
Carter sniffed loudly, in a defiantly moist and unpleasant way. "When you offered me this job as an alternative to lifetime incarceration in Shadow Deep, I should have known there'd be a catch. Working in this hell-hole should count as cruel and unusual punishment. At least I don't have to deal with people much. I've never been a people person."
"Then you shouldn't have buried so many of them under your floor-boards," Walker said briskly. "I needed someone for this position whose very existence would discourage people from coming in, and you fit the job perfectly."
"Walker," I said. "Why are we here? You didn't march me all the way across the Nightside just to meet this… person, did you?"
"Perish the thought," said Walker. "Walk this way."
"If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the acupuncture," sniggered Carter.
Walker hit him.
A concealed door at the back of the office opened up onto a much larger room. I followed Walker in, while Carter resumed his post behind his desk again; and just like that, I was in a whole other world. The new room was huge, stretching away in all directions, its walls covered from floor to high ceiling in hundreds and hundreds of viewscreens. Images came and went faster than I could follow them, constantly changing and updating. There were computers everywhere, backed up by unfamiliar machinery working furiously at unknowable tasks. And miles and miles of hanging cables, twisting and turning in great loops, criss-crossing like the web of a spider strung out on acid. Sitting in the middle of all this was a silent figure in a simple white robe, held upright in his chair by a series of tight leather straps. He was utterly still, his face blank, staring at nothing, with dull, unblinking eyes. A dozen thick cables sprouted from his shaven head, where holes had been drilled to allow them to burrow on through into the brain. He didn't react to me, or to Walker. He didn't even know we were there. Walker shut the door firmly and locked it, then strolled over to the silent figure and checked a few of the skull contacts to make sure the cables were secure. He clapped the unmoving figure on the shoulder and smiled happily, like a proud father.
"Welcome to my Secret Headquarters, John. My special place, from where I see and hear everything, hidden behind the perfect off-putting disguise. This is Argus. He makes what I do possible; don't you, dear boy? Argus isn't his real name, of course; it's more of a job description. No-one remembers who he is; in fact, I doubt if even he remembers any more. It doesn't matter. There have been hundreds like him, and no doubt there will be hundreds more. Computers and scrying balls can't do everything; you need human input to pick out the things that matter from all the oceans of information that come pouring in at any moment.