“I do take you seriously,” Simon assured him. “I take you so seriously that I’m going to start racking my brains to conjure up so much trouble for Hermetico that the board of directors will wish they’d used that mine for nothing more important than curing cheese.”
Warlock had an astonishing facility for changing moods.
“I knew,” he said benevolently, “that you would soon see it my way.”
He was grinning broadly as he led Simon to the door.
“We’ll be keeping in touch, I suppose,” said the Saint.
“Of course. Whatever assistance you require — a computer, technical help, my knowledge as a scientist — you have only to ask. You can dial number one on your phone and get me, or you can speak to Galaxy. She’ll always be nearby.”
“That’ll brighten the coffee breaks.”
Warlock hesitated before opening the door. He was all expansive bonhomie again.
“Mr. Klein,” he said, “don’t tell your... secretary about the torture. There’s no reason to upset her.”
“Of course not,” Simon said solemnly. “You’re very considerate.”
“Personally,” Warlock said confidentially, “I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not personally. But did Napoleon ever personally shoot an enemy? I’ve often wondered. But the important thing is that he knew how to use people who didn’t mind shooting.”
3
When the Saint returned to his room, ushered by a silent Simeon Monk, he immediately heard a knock on the door beyond which Amity Little had purportedly been sleeping when he had been taken downstairs for his conference in the planning room.
“Thanks a lot, Sim,” he said to the well-tailored gorilla who stood in the corridor as if waiting for some new command to make its tortuous way through his brain. “Why don’t you go out in the garden and practise throwing yourself on electrified barbed wire? You could come in very handy when we storm Hermetico.”
The Saint then closed that door of his room, leaving the bulk staring with dim perception from beneath the great bony shelf of his forehead. The knocking on the second door continued.
“Coming!” he called cheerily. “I’m so popular I can’t keep up.”
He crossed the huge sunny room and turned the handle. From somewhere nearby came the harsh clanging of an alarm bell.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!” Galaxy Rose cried from the other side of the door. “You should have said ‘come in’ and let me do it with my thumb.”
“Well, go ahead and do it.”
The alarm ceased, there was a gentle ping, and the door opened. Beside Galaxy stood Amity Little. Her short hair was freshly done and her elegant figure was dazzlingly displayed in a blue-flowered summer dress. She was smiling as happily as if her life had never been disrupted and was purring along completely on schedule.
“Amos!” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine, now that I see how you are.”
The two girls came into his room. Amity did a slow-motion twirl to take in the decor and at the same time show off her dress.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “You really rate! What a gorgeous pad!”
Simon had to fight back a smile at Amity’s skilled transformation into just the sort of light-headed butterfly who might have been with Amos Klein on the night of his kidnapping.
“That’s the reward of brain and fame,” he said. “You should have been a writer.”
“And you should have been a diplomat,” she responded sweetly.
“You’re treating her all right, aren’t you?” he asked Galaxy.
Galaxy was like some ideal robot, indistinguishable from a real human female, but lacking the human disadvantage of jealousy.
“I’m doing my best,” she said, beaming at Amity like an old school chum.
“I’ve had the most super bath,” Amity chirped. “Soap jets all around! Coloured water with perfume and bubbles! And look at this dress.”
“I’ve already looked,” Simon said. “Come on in, Galaxy, and close the door. Let’s make it a party.”
“Thank you, master.”
“Amos Klein!” Amity exclaimed. “Do you make her call you that?”
“I don’t make her, I allow her, and unlike some women she appreciates a privilege when she has one.” Simon caught Amity’s eyes during his next words. “And what does she call you?”
“She calls me Amity Little, nuthead, because that’s my name. They saw it on my driver’s licence before I woke up. Where have you been and what have you been doing — or having done to you?”
“I’ve just returned from my investiture as commander-in-chief of S.W.O.R.D. It’s coronation day. Isn’t somebody going to break a bottle of champagne over me?”
“I’ll coronate you with a floor lamp,” Amity said. “What are you babbling about?”
“Didn’t Galaxy tell you anything?”
Galaxy shook her head.
“I’m not allowed to tell things,” she said dutifully. “Only that you were all right and wouldn’t be hurt. You mentioned champagne? Would you like some? It’s in the cooler right here.”
“Perfect,” Simon said. “Bollinger, please, for three, and then would you order up some pheasant for lunch? On second thought, caviar first, and then pheasant.”
Galaxy seemed happiest when taking orders.
“Right, master! Did you say for three?”
“Of course. You may be only a slave, but in these democratic days you’re allowed to eat with the master.”
Galaxy hurried to a cabinet which concealed a small refrigerator while Amity folded her arms and stared at Simon.
“Well, really, Amos, what’s got into you?”
“Fifty thousand pounds for starters, and the grand panjandrumship of S.W.O.R.D., not to mention the challenge of a bold adventure unequalled in modern times.”
“You’ve either gone off your rocker or been reading your own movie reviews,” said Amity. “While your concubines are preparing your feast, try to settle down and tell me what in the world is going on!”
Simon told her in terms which bordered on the enthusiastic, and as his narrative developed she managed to betray nothing except awed amazement.
“And this fellow who calls himself Warlock has actually created S.W.O.R.D., gadgets and all?” she asked unbelievingly.
“So he tells me, and so far I have no reason to doubt his word. Apparently he’s some sort of electronic genius, and I think we’ll be amazed when we find out just how far he has gone.” Simon paused to glance around the room. “I assume he can hear me, by the way, because if he has duplicated S.W.O.R.D. this room will have more bugs than a Bowery hop-house.”
“And pictures,” Amity added. “There’ll be a man somewhere monitoring every move you make by closed-circuit television.”
“More like monitoring every move Galaxy makes,” Simon said.
He sat down in an armchair and settled his legs comfortably on a marble-topped table as Galaxy performed one of her undulatory transits, bringing Bollinger, caviar, and newly polished glasses. Simon opened the champagne and poured.
“To success,” he said.
“Cheers,” Amity said drily, as Galaxy echoed the Saint’s words.
When they had drunk, Simon lifted his glass and scanned the upper walls and ceiling.
“And here’s to all our friends out there in television land. Prepare to have your tapes censored, boys. I always throw an intimate little orgy to celebrate the beginning of a new book.”
Galaxy giggled and tilted up her glass. She was on a leather ottoman near Simon’s feet. Amity, who was in a neighbouring chair, showed subtle but perceptible signs of a less cheerful and co-operative disposition. She wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes in the typical way of women who feel that their duty in life is to be ballast for the incorrigible silliness of men.