"Looks like it," I said. "Sorry to have troubled you. Show us the way out, and we'll be going."
"No," said the Collector. "I don't think so." He leaned casually against an old-fashioned grandfather clock, with a cobwebbed human skeleton propped up inside it. His gaze was clear and cold, and he didn't seem nearly as out of it as he had before. "I've been thinking, Taylor, and it seems to me… that you owe me far more than I owe you. I lost my leg to those giant insects at the end of Time, all because of you."
Larry looked at me. "You do get around, don't you?"
"I've replaced the leg a dozen times," said the Collector, still glaring at me. "I've used machines, cloned tissues, even regrown it using a lizard serum; but it never feels right. I still have nightmares about the insects eating my skin and burrowing into my flesh, while you stood by and did nothing."
"Is that right?" said Larry.
"Sort of," I said. "There was more to it than that. He was planning to do something far worse…"
"Shut up!" said the Collector. "This is my moment, not yours! If you'd just left me alone, I might have let bygones be bygones… but no, here you are again, intruding and interfering and insulting me in my own home. Relying on my guilt over a few minor past indiscretions to keep me in line… Well, I have had enough of you, John Taylor. I don't care if you are Charles's son. I don't care about Charles or Henry or your mother, or any other… people. I don't care about people! They always let you down. I like my things, my wonderful things. You can depend on them to be what they are and nothing else, forever and ever. So I'm going to flush you out of my life, Taylor, because I don't care any more."
"You see," I said to Larry. "Told you that you and he had a lot in common."
"Yes, but I'm dead," said Larry. "What's his excuse?"
The Collector actually stamped his sandalled foot in rage, his face flushed an unhealthy shade of purple. "You never take me seriously, Taylor! You always have to make fun of me, and my marvellous collection! You never appreciated me!"
"You looked after me, sometimes, when I was a kid and my dad couldn't," I said. "I remember that, Uncle Mark. I appreciated that man. Whatever happened to him?"
"No. Don't you dare," said the Collector. "That was a long time ago. We were all different people then."
"And look what's become of us," I said. "All your travels in time, and you couldn't see what was coming? That man with his whole future before him… He couldn't avoid ending up a lonely, sad, old man, surrounded by things?"
"Kill them," the Collector said to his robots. "Kill John Taylor, and rip his dead friend to pieces."
The cat robots started forward, inhumanly graceful, taking their time, closing in from all sides to leave us no chance of escape. Their slow, studied approach had something in it of the cruelty of cats. Larry pulled out his magic wand, started to say something, then stopped abruptly.
"That won't work here," I said, looking quickly about for possible escape routes and maybe even a weapon. "The Collector has wards in place for unexpected items like yours."
"Pretty little thing," said the Collector, from behind the safety of his robots. "Elven, isn't it? Thought so. Wasted on a dead thug like you, Oblivion. But it'll make a fine addition to my new elf annex. And you needn't try raising your gift, either, Taylor; I've got shaped charges hanging on the air, bristling with anticipation, ready to do really quite appalling things if you even peek through your inner eye. Should have set them up years ago."
"Come on, Collector," I said, doing my best to sound brave and heroic and not in any way panicking. "You can't kill me. You know lots of people will track you down to avenge me."
"I'll bet a hell of a lot more will celebrate," said the Collector. "Hell. Half of the Nightside will probably throw a party. With streamers and balloons. Besides, no-one will ever know it was me. You and your unpleasant associate will join my collection, as very small portions in a series of very small boxes. Then maybe I'll be able to get some proper sleep at last."
I'd looked everywhere and run out of options. The cat robots had covered every possible escape route, and there were no obvious weapons out on display. None of the usual cursed needles, singing swords, or interstellar blasters. Not even anything heavy enough to pass for a blunt instrument. The robots were all around us now and pressing closer. The Collector didn't allow them weapons, in case they might damage any of his beloved exhibits, but they still had their inhuman strength and wickedly sharp claws.
"Don't suppose you've a gun on you, by any chance?" said Larry.
"I don't like guns," I said. "Besides, most of the time I'm smart enough to avoid getting caught in situations where I might need them. I really thought I had the Collector intimidated… or at the very least, sufficiently guilt-tripped…"
"On the whole, I'd have to say he doesn't look intimidated," said Larry. "And no; I don't have a gun on me either. I've grown far too dependent on my wand since I died."
"Yes," I said. "Tricky."
"Well, don't just stand there; do something! Those robots are getting bloody close! I do not want to spend the rest of my life as kitty litter! I'm dead, not invulnerable."
"I told you that," I said. "And will you please stop hyperventilating? It's really very unattractive in a dead person. Dead Boy never makes a fuss like this when we work together."
"Dead Boy is crazy!"
"There is that, yes… I think we should grab some of the more fragile-looking exhibits, and build a barricade between us and the robots. The Collector won't let them damage anything."
"Are you sure about that?" said Larry.
"I'm betting my life on it."
It didn't take long to drag some of the shelves and display cases into place around us, pushing the more delicate objects to the front. A glass phallus from the Court of Cleo patra, engraved with snake scales; dainty china butterflies from the Court of Versailles, with tiny erotica hand-painted on the wings; and half a dozen paper ghosts from Hiroshima. And sure enough, once the Collector realised what we were doing, he stopped his robots in their tracks rather than have them break anything. Things would always matter more to him than any human emotions, even revenge. He glared at us, and we glared right back at him, and there was no telling where the stalemate might have taken us, if we hadn't been distracted by the sound of deliberate, approaching footsteps. We all looked round sharply, and there was Walker; strolling through the packed shelves and cases, as calm and composed and elegantly dangerous as ever.
The cat robots immediately forgot all about Larry and me and turned as one to focus on Walker. The Collector gestured urgently for them to stand still, and they did. Walker ignored them completely, smiling and nodding to the three of us as though we'd just happened to meet in the street. He walked through the still ranks of robots and finally came to a halt before the Collector. Walker smiled at him warmly.
"Hello, Mark. Been a while, hasn't it?"
The Collector scowled at him. "Don't come the old-chums act with me, Walker. That was a long time ago. We're both different people now. And don't try your Voice, either; it won't work here."
"Never occurred to me that it would," murmured Walker.
"How did you find me?" said the Collector, plaintively. "I put a lot of hard work into choosing this site and hiding it from unfriendly eyes."
"It wasn't difficult," said Walker. "I just followed John."
"I didn't see you!" I said.
"People don't, unless I want them to," said Walker.
"You lied to me," I said. "You used me to find the Collector for you!"
"Needs must, when the Devil's knock knock knocking on your door," said Walker.
The cat robots were still watching Walker with their glowing green eyes, almost visibly straining against the orders that held them motionless. They knew a real threat to their master when they saw one. Walker ignored them all with magnificent disdain. The Collector and Walker stood face-to-face, and when the Collector finally spoke, his voice was quieter, and more human, than I expected.