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A slice of Time
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 09, 2003 01:10PM
<HTML>I'm not often bored, but on this occasion I really was. I had had a minor but rather unpleasant accident involving Heidi, who had been clawing one of the dining chairs; in an attempt to remove her I got clawed myself, right on the pad of my index finger, which rather put the kibosh on typing. Now, for me, being unable to type is practically equivalent to being unable to speak, and it didn't help that Minsky had disappeared into <i>The Pickwick Papers</i> immediately after the incident so that he wouldn't have to put up with his niece's foul mood. I read a couple of chapters of <i>Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers,</i> but turning the pages proved so awkward with the plaster on my finger that I eventually gave up in annoyance. There was only one thing for it. I'd have to take Legolas up on his standing invitation, go into <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> with his assistance, and pay a visit to Master Elrond.
My friend the Elf was delighted to see me again, and very sympathetic about my finger. "I must teach you a song I know," he insisted, as he led me through the corridors of Rivendell. "It has great power and virtue to calm all good beasts."
I suspected that Legolas' assessment of Heidi as a "good beast" might perhaps be somewhat on the generous side, but said nothing. After all, she's a little minx, but she's <i>my</i> little minx. Elrond, as it turned out, was in conference with his sons Elladan and Elrohir and was likely to remain so for quite a while, so Legolas and I made ourselves comfortable in a corner of the Great Hall and played a couple of games of chess while we were waiting. He beat me comprehensively, as you'd expect. One day I hope to be able to give him a decent game.
When Elrond finally arrived, Legolas explained my problem, and it took only a moment for the Lord of Rivendell to heal my finger. Knowing that Elves are fond of flowery speeches, I had already prepared suitable words in which to express my gratitude, but he raised a hand gently but firmly to cut me short.
"No need," he said. "As JurisFiction representative for this tale, I am eternally in your debt. But there is a certain matter on which I wish to consult you most urgently, if you are willing."
My eyebrows must have almost disappeared under my hairline. "You want to consult <i>me?"</i> I asked, in amazement. "But you're one of the most powerful characters in this book!"
Elrond sighed. "It concerns the creature Squirdle," he explained. "When you and your friends departed, he remained voluntarily in my keeping, and I was glad to accept responsibility for him. Yet an ill has now befallen him which not even I can heal."
I frowned. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Master Elrond," I said. "But if you can't cure him, what hope do I have?"
"Some, perhaps. You are not of this tale, and in your own world you have strange powers. But come! You must see him for yourself."
Mystified, and not a little worried, I followed Elrond. Squirdle had saved our necks in the last case by causing Saruman to slip on a carelessly-dropped forkful of spaghetti at a crucial moment, and I didn't like to think what ill, as Elrond put it, might have befallen him. The Lord of Rivendell led me to a small curtained-off chamber, where a miserable-looking Squirdle was sitting cross-legged on a rich purple velvet cushion on a little table.
"I've been curled!" he wailed, as soon as he caught sight of me.
"Curled?" I asked, totally baffled. The little ex-demon was still as bald as an egg as far as I could see.
"Curled, damp it," he repeated. "By a senior demo. Can't you sue I'm swamping all my litters around already?"
Legolas, who had followed us, stared at the unfortunate Squirdle. "Cursed," he translated, soberly.
"It seems that a senior demon from outside our tale discovered that Squirdle was attempting to reform," explained Elrond, "and, being displeased with this, subjected the poor wretch to this terrible curse."
"Oh, dear," I said, rather weakly. "Well, listen, Squirdle, if Elrond can't help you I don't know what I can do, but I owe it to you to try. Will you come with me out of the book?"
He narrowed his tiny eyes. "And have to love with your clocking cans?" he demanded.
I mentally translated this as "live with your plocking cats", and rolled my eyes. "Squirdle," I promised, "I shall make sure they don't come near you, all right? Tell you what. You can live in the bathroom. They're not allowed in there."
"I should have to loom at your toile all fay?" he asked.
"No, Squirdle, it's in a separate room. You'll only have to loom at the both... oh, drat, you've got me doing it now!"
"Oh, ill bight, I'll core, than," replied the ex-demon, and hopped onto my extended hand.
"If there is anything I can do," offered Legolas, "I shall be glad to come with you, with Elrond's permission of course."
I shook my head. "Very kind of you, Legolas, but I suspect this is one for SO-17. After all, Elrond himself has drawn a blank."
"I wish you well," said Elrond gravely.
"Thanks, Elrond," I replied, forgetting to be formal about it in my concern. "I think I'm going to need all the well I can get."</HTML>
My friend the Elf was delighted to see me again, and very sympathetic about my finger. "I must teach you a song I know," he insisted, as he led me through the corridors of Rivendell. "It has great power and virtue to calm all good beasts."
I suspected that Legolas' assessment of Heidi as a "good beast" might perhaps be somewhat on the generous side, but said nothing. After all, she's a little minx, but she's <i>my</i> little minx. Elrond, as it turned out, was in conference with his sons Elladan and Elrohir and was likely to remain so for quite a while, so Legolas and I made ourselves comfortable in a corner of the Great Hall and played a couple of games of chess while we were waiting. He beat me comprehensively, as you'd expect. One day I hope to be able to give him a decent game.
When Elrond finally arrived, Legolas explained my problem, and it took only a moment for the Lord of Rivendell to heal my finger. Knowing that Elves are fond of flowery speeches, I had already prepared suitable words in which to express my gratitude, but he raised a hand gently but firmly to cut me short.
"No need," he said. "As JurisFiction representative for this tale, I am eternally in your debt. But there is a certain matter on which I wish to consult you most urgently, if you are willing."
My eyebrows must have almost disappeared under my hairline. "You want to consult <i>me?"</i> I asked, in amazement. "But you're one of the most powerful characters in this book!"
Elrond sighed. "It concerns the creature Squirdle," he explained. "When you and your friends departed, he remained voluntarily in my keeping, and I was glad to accept responsibility for him. Yet an ill has now befallen him which not even I can heal."
I frowned. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Master Elrond," I said. "But if you can't cure him, what hope do I have?"
"Some, perhaps. You are not of this tale, and in your own world you have strange powers. But come! You must see him for yourself."
Mystified, and not a little worried, I followed Elrond. Squirdle had saved our necks in the last case by causing Saruman to slip on a carelessly-dropped forkful of spaghetti at a crucial moment, and I didn't like to think what ill, as Elrond put it, might have befallen him. The Lord of Rivendell led me to a small curtained-off chamber, where a miserable-looking Squirdle was sitting cross-legged on a rich purple velvet cushion on a little table.
"I've been curled!" he wailed, as soon as he caught sight of me.
"Curled?" I asked, totally baffled. The little ex-demon was still as bald as an egg as far as I could see.
"Curled, damp it," he repeated. "By a senior demo. Can't you sue I'm swamping all my litters around already?"
Legolas, who had followed us, stared at the unfortunate Squirdle. "Cursed," he translated, soberly.
"It seems that a senior demon from outside our tale discovered that Squirdle was attempting to reform," explained Elrond, "and, being displeased with this, subjected the poor wretch to this terrible curse."
"Oh, dear," I said, rather weakly. "Well, listen, Squirdle, if Elrond can't help you I don't know what I can do, but I owe it to you to try. Will you come with me out of the book?"
He narrowed his tiny eyes. "And have to love with your clocking cans?" he demanded.
I mentally translated this as "live with your plocking cats", and rolled my eyes. "Squirdle," I promised, "I shall make sure they don't come near you, all right? Tell you what. You can live in the bathroom. They're not allowed in there."
"I should have to loom at your toile all fay?" he asked.
"No, Squirdle, it's in a separate room. You'll only have to loom at the both... oh, drat, you've got me doing it now!"
"Oh, ill bight, I'll core, than," replied the ex-demon, and hopped onto my extended hand.
"If there is anything I can do," offered Legolas, "I shall be glad to come with you, with Elrond's permission of course."
I shook my head. "Very kind of you, Legolas, but I suspect this is one for SO-17. After all, Elrond himself has drawn a blank."
"I wish you well," said Elrond gravely.
"Thanks, Elrond," I replied, forgetting to be formal about it in my concern. "I think I'm going to need all the well I can get."</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 09, 2003 03:13PM
<HTML>I've always liked <i>The Pickwick Papers,</i> especially when I go and see the Wardles. They realise, of course, that I have my own human, because I look far too sleek and glossy to be a stray, but that doesn't stop them treating me to whatever scraps they happen to have available. Since there is never any shortage of these at Mr Wardle's table, it is the perfect place to go when my niece is in one of her Greta Garbo moods.
Unfortunately, in my haste to get away from Heidi's histrionics, I jumped into the wrong part of the book altogether, and found myself in one of the stories within the story. I was deeply alarmed by this, having been strictly warned of the danger of these sub-stories by my good friend the UA of W Cat, and cast about immediately for a way out. Fortunately I have a natural talent for book-jumping. (I suspect, in fact, that all cats have; it's just that not very many of us can read well enough to exercise it.) After a disconcerting few moments in some unidentifiable limbo, I found myself in the yard of some large coaching inn. It wasn't a part of the book I had ever been in before, but it certainly could have been a great deal worse. It was a little after dawn, a yawning maidservant was bustling around on some unidentifiable errand, and the air smelt of horse manure with an unmistakable top-note of rat. It might take me a little while to work out exactly where I was, but at least I was going to be neither bored nor hungry while I was doing it.
The first rat scampered straight across the yard in full view, and I sprang from the shadows. By the time the hapless rodent heard the bell on my collar (a highly irritating imposition on the part of my staff, who has an inexplicable but extremely vehement objection to finding small mutilated corpses around the house), it would be too late... and it was. I dragged it back behind the woolpack where I had been hiding, ate most of it with great relish, and arranged the rest artistically for some unsuspecting human to find. It's always fascinating to study their reactions in these circumstances.
My musings were interrupted by a hackney coach, which clattered into the yard with unnecessary speed, drew to an abrupt halt, and disgorged a tall, thin young man in a rather shabby green coat. He leaned solicitously into the coach to help his lady companion to disembark, and with a shock I recognised the face of Rachael Wardle. The man, then, must be none other than the villainous Alfred Jingle, and that, if I remembered my Dickens correctly, meant that we were in the yard of the White Hart Inn. I let out a purr of relief; now I had my bearings. All I had to do was wait for Mr Pickwick and friends to turn up, and I could hitch a ride with Mr Wardle back to Manor Farm.
Fortified by this information, I set my mind to the more immediate task of catching another rat. It's all very well catching the stupid ones to satisfy one's hunger, but when well fed and simply hunting them for sport, I have always preferred more of a challenge. I jumped up on top of the woolpack for a better view and cast about the yard for a more cunning representative of the species, and after a little while I found what I was looking for: an old, yellow-fanged, devious-looking brute almost the size of my niece. He saw me too, and gave me one of those looks that said, "Just you try it, cat." After an invitation like that, I considered he was definitely fair game.
I swivelled my ears round and let my tail droop as if I were nervous, and hastily looked away, appearing to fix my gaze on a small female who was scrabbling in the straw near the stables after some dropped oats. The big rat sauntered nonchalantly across the yard towards the gates, and I glanced quickly upwards at the lower tier of bedroom galleries to see how easily it could be reached. It turned out to be easy enough; a quick scrabble up the side of a chaise-cart and then a leap to the balustrade. Within moments I was up in the gallery, while the sound of footsteps overhead told me that Mr Jingle and Miss Wardle were now being shown to their rooms.
I walked ostentatiously along the balustrade, for all the world looking as though I was preparing to jump on the small female rat from on high. Then I jumped down on the gallery side, poked my head through the balustrade for a few seconds, and then withdrew it. That, with any luck, should have thoroughly deceived my intended quarry. I crept back along the gallery, staying as close to the bedroom doors as I could and hoping the bulky posts of the balustrade would be sufficient to conceal me from sight below, and then peered out very cautiously at the end nearer the gates.
The big rat was still there, gnawing determinedly at a hessian sack which probably contained some kind of grain. I smirked; he'd quite obviously fallen for my little ruse. With one liquid movement, I bounded on top of the balustrade and then straight down like a guided missile.
It was really unfortunate that Sam Weller, carrying several pairs of boots, chose that very moment to walk out of the nearest entrance and start to make his way across the yard. Many things have been said about us cats and our almost uncanny ability to right ourselves in mid-air, but one thing we do have difficulty doing is altering our actual landing point once we are on a previously calculated trajectory. For those humans who know about physics, it's all to do with Newton's laws of motion. Not that Mr Weller knows anything about physics, and, if I'm totally honest, I don't suppose he'd have felt any better if he had.
Mr Weller went down like a stone, clattering his head on the cobbles; the boots flew all over the yard, and the big rat, who had had the shock of his life, made himself scarce with most impressive rapidity. I hurried up to my unintended victim and licked his face to see if he was conscious, but it was clear that he was out cold. And that, as anyone familiar with <i>The Pickwick Papers</i> will be well aware, meant I had one very big problem on my paws. Sam Weller has to be on his feet and cleaning people's boots when he first appears in the story. Judging by the light, his debut was now no more than a couple of hours away, and in the state he currently was, he was definitely going to miss it unless I could think of something to do quickly.
And that's why, when Sarah emerged from <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> with Squirdle sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, she found a strangely-dressed young man lying unconscious on her sofa being frantically licked by Klinsmann and myself.</HTML>
Unfortunately, in my haste to get away from Heidi's histrionics, I jumped into the wrong part of the book altogether, and found myself in one of the stories within the story. I was deeply alarmed by this, having been strictly warned of the danger of these sub-stories by my good friend the UA of W Cat, and cast about immediately for a way out. Fortunately I have a natural talent for book-jumping. (I suspect, in fact, that all cats have; it's just that not very many of us can read well enough to exercise it.) After a disconcerting few moments in some unidentifiable limbo, I found myself in the yard of some large coaching inn. It wasn't a part of the book I had ever been in before, but it certainly could have been a great deal worse. It was a little after dawn, a yawning maidservant was bustling around on some unidentifiable errand, and the air smelt of horse manure with an unmistakable top-note of rat. It might take me a little while to work out exactly where I was, but at least I was going to be neither bored nor hungry while I was doing it.
The first rat scampered straight across the yard in full view, and I sprang from the shadows. By the time the hapless rodent heard the bell on my collar (a highly irritating imposition on the part of my staff, who has an inexplicable but extremely vehement objection to finding small mutilated corpses around the house), it would be too late... and it was. I dragged it back behind the woolpack where I had been hiding, ate most of it with great relish, and arranged the rest artistically for some unsuspecting human to find. It's always fascinating to study their reactions in these circumstances.
My musings were interrupted by a hackney coach, which clattered into the yard with unnecessary speed, drew to an abrupt halt, and disgorged a tall, thin young man in a rather shabby green coat. He leaned solicitously into the coach to help his lady companion to disembark, and with a shock I recognised the face of Rachael Wardle. The man, then, must be none other than the villainous Alfred Jingle, and that, if I remembered my Dickens correctly, meant that we were in the yard of the White Hart Inn. I let out a purr of relief; now I had my bearings. All I had to do was wait for Mr Pickwick and friends to turn up, and I could hitch a ride with Mr Wardle back to Manor Farm.
Fortified by this information, I set my mind to the more immediate task of catching another rat. It's all very well catching the stupid ones to satisfy one's hunger, but when well fed and simply hunting them for sport, I have always preferred more of a challenge. I jumped up on top of the woolpack for a better view and cast about the yard for a more cunning representative of the species, and after a little while I found what I was looking for: an old, yellow-fanged, devious-looking brute almost the size of my niece. He saw me too, and gave me one of those looks that said, "Just you try it, cat." After an invitation like that, I considered he was definitely fair game.
I swivelled my ears round and let my tail droop as if I were nervous, and hastily looked away, appearing to fix my gaze on a small female who was scrabbling in the straw near the stables after some dropped oats. The big rat sauntered nonchalantly across the yard towards the gates, and I glanced quickly upwards at the lower tier of bedroom galleries to see how easily it could be reached. It turned out to be easy enough; a quick scrabble up the side of a chaise-cart and then a leap to the balustrade. Within moments I was up in the gallery, while the sound of footsteps overhead told me that Mr Jingle and Miss Wardle were now being shown to their rooms.
I walked ostentatiously along the balustrade, for all the world looking as though I was preparing to jump on the small female rat from on high. Then I jumped down on the gallery side, poked my head through the balustrade for a few seconds, and then withdrew it. That, with any luck, should have thoroughly deceived my intended quarry. I crept back along the gallery, staying as close to the bedroom doors as I could and hoping the bulky posts of the balustrade would be sufficient to conceal me from sight below, and then peered out very cautiously at the end nearer the gates.
The big rat was still there, gnawing determinedly at a hessian sack which probably contained some kind of grain. I smirked; he'd quite obviously fallen for my little ruse. With one liquid movement, I bounded on top of the balustrade and then straight down like a guided missile.
It was really unfortunate that Sam Weller, carrying several pairs of boots, chose that very moment to walk out of the nearest entrance and start to make his way across the yard. Many things have been said about us cats and our almost uncanny ability to right ourselves in mid-air, but one thing we do have difficulty doing is altering our actual landing point once we are on a previously calculated trajectory. For those humans who know about physics, it's all to do with Newton's laws of motion. Not that Mr Weller knows anything about physics, and, if I'm totally honest, I don't suppose he'd have felt any better if he had.
Mr Weller went down like a stone, clattering his head on the cobbles; the boots flew all over the yard, and the big rat, who had had the shock of his life, made himself scarce with most impressive rapidity. I hurried up to my unintended victim and licked his face to see if he was conscious, but it was clear that he was out cold. And that, as anyone familiar with <i>The Pickwick Papers</i> will be well aware, meant I had one very big problem on my paws. Sam Weller has to be on his feet and cleaning people's boots when he first appears in the story. Judging by the light, his debut was now no more than a couple of hours away, and in the state he currently was, he was definitely going to miss it unless I could think of something to do quickly.
And that's why, when Sarah emerged from <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> with Squirdle sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, she found a strangely-dressed young man lying unconscious on her sofa being frantically licked by Klinsmann and myself.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 10, 2003 12:51PM
<HTML>"What the mischief is going on here?" I demanded.
Klinsmann gave me a very expressive look. He doesn't speak English in my presence, although I strongly suspect he's quite capable of it; however, he hardly needs to do so when he can manage a <i>look</i> which says quite clearly, "Uncle Minsky goofed, tee hee hee!". Minsky clipped him soundly round the ear, to his further amusement, since Klinsmann is so flexible even by cat standards that it's very difficult to hurt him with a blow. He jumped off the sofa and sat down in the middle of the floor cushion, clearly enjoying his uncle's discomfiture immensely.
"It was an accident," explained Minsky, with infinite dignity.
"Yeah, right," I said. "Now move your furry backside and let me have a look at him. You may be the cleverest feline in the known universe, but there are a few things you know doodly squat about, and one of 'em's first aid."
Minsky stalked off into the kitchen with his tail precisely vertical, and a few moments later I heard the distinctive rattling noise which informed me that he was salving his wounded pride with a few mouthfuls of Iams. Meanwhile, I went straight into checking airway-breathing-circulation, like they tell you to do in the St John. After all, if he wasn't responding to two sandpapery little pink tongues licking his face as if it were covered in tuna, then he wasn't going to notice anyone saying "Hallo, can you hear me?" according to the approved procedure.
Having satisfied myself that the patient was not in imminent danger of death, and feeling particularly relieved that I wasn't going to have to give him artificial respiration considering the way his breath smelt, I rolled him into the recovery position. I then checked for head injuries, and quickly found the culprit. Fortunately it wasn't bleeding much, but the surrounding area was already starting to bruise; he'd clearly been knocked out by something fairly small and hard. I went into the kitchen, fetched some paper towels and hot water, and started cleaning him up. With any luck, I'd still got a Melolin dressing around somewhere.
I was engaged in this procedure when he groaned and stirred. "It's all right," I said soothingly. "Just lie still."
He blinked, then opened his eyes properly and stared at me. They were very bright, knowing blue eyes, and they also seemed to be in proper focus, which was an excellent sign, though I'd still have to check for concussion. "Vell," he said slowly, "I'd be werry surprised if this was the Vite Hart."
"Ah," I said. "You must be Mr Weller. My name's Sarah Goode-Evans, and you're quite correct, this is not the White Hart. But we'll be getting you back there as soon as possible, don't worry. You had... some kind of accident, I think."
I'll swear Klinsmann giggled. Fortunately, my unexpected guest didn't appear to notice. "Something fell on me from the balc'ny," he recalled, frowning a little.
Minsky stalked back in. "I can explain," he insisted.
I gave him a look. Probably I shouldn't bother doing that, since after all he has so many of his own, but I was feeling justifiably a little annoyed by this stage. "I sincerely hope you can," I replied tartly. "And while you're at it, perhaps you could explain why on earth you didn't take Mr Weller straight to Elrond via the Library? It would have saved a great deal of trouble all round."
"Are you stupid?" demanded Minsky witheringly. "You think I want the UA of W Cat finding out? Elrond's the JurisFiction rep, don't forget!"
Sam Weller cleared his throat discreetly. "It seems to me," he observed, "that I ain't in full possession of all the partic'lars of recent ewents here."
"Don't worry, my buy," interpolated Squirdle, with one of his trademark massive shrugs. "If you pork on the assumption that everyone abound you is as mud as a halter, you'll be just wine already."
"Hic," agreed Wilfred from the radiator.
All I can say is, it's a very good job Dickens decided to make Sam so thoroughly imperturbable. Heaven only knows what would have happened if it had been Mr Pickwick. However, since things were as they were, all Sam did was to sit up rather groggily and enquire as to the names of the master and mistress of this house.
"It's my house, Mr Weller," I replied. "There's just me."
"Ah," he said sagely, "and there was I thinkin' you was a lady's maid from your vay of talkin'. I s'pose it must be terrible hard for you keepin' staff ven you have a cat vith such a wonderful conceit o' himself."
I had to smile. "Yes, I suppose it would be," I agreed, "but we're quite a long way in the future from your point of view. Most people these days don't keep servants. We have machines to do the work for us."
"And what sort o' vork does <i>that</i> engine do?" he enquired curiously, indicating the computer. Whatever else was the matter with him, he probably wasn't concussed.
I grinned. "I'll show you, Mr Weller. Take a seat over here, and I'll boot it up."
"No need for a lady to do such a thing," he insisted gallantly. "If ever you need a boot settin' to any engine, Sam Veller's your man."
"Er... not like that," I explained hastily. "It's just a technical phrase meaning to get it started."
<i>"Gestalt!"</i> complained Squirdle. "When are you going to pat me in the bathrook?"
"Oh, sorry, yes, good point," I said. "Minsky, just show Mr Weller how the computer works while I make Squirdle comfortable, would you?"
"I'm sure he'd be <i>very</i> comfortable in my stomach," purred Minsky.
"Stop it," I ordered. "Squirdle's not feeling very well right now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Minsky."
"Hic," said Wilfred cheerfully. I left them all to it, and hurried up the stairs.</HTML>
Klinsmann gave me a very expressive look. He doesn't speak English in my presence, although I strongly suspect he's quite capable of it; however, he hardly needs to do so when he can manage a <i>look</i> which says quite clearly, "Uncle Minsky goofed, tee hee hee!". Minsky clipped him soundly round the ear, to his further amusement, since Klinsmann is so flexible even by cat standards that it's very difficult to hurt him with a blow. He jumped off the sofa and sat down in the middle of the floor cushion, clearly enjoying his uncle's discomfiture immensely.
"It was an accident," explained Minsky, with infinite dignity.
"Yeah, right," I said. "Now move your furry backside and let me have a look at him. You may be the cleverest feline in the known universe, but there are a few things you know doodly squat about, and one of 'em's first aid."
Minsky stalked off into the kitchen with his tail precisely vertical, and a few moments later I heard the distinctive rattling noise which informed me that he was salving his wounded pride with a few mouthfuls of Iams. Meanwhile, I went straight into checking airway-breathing-circulation, like they tell you to do in the St John. After all, if he wasn't responding to two sandpapery little pink tongues licking his face as if it were covered in tuna, then he wasn't going to notice anyone saying "Hallo, can you hear me?" according to the approved procedure.
Having satisfied myself that the patient was not in imminent danger of death, and feeling particularly relieved that I wasn't going to have to give him artificial respiration considering the way his breath smelt, I rolled him into the recovery position. I then checked for head injuries, and quickly found the culprit. Fortunately it wasn't bleeding much, but the surrounding area was already starting to bruise; he'd clearly been knocked out by something fairly small and hard. I went into the kitchen, fetched some paper towels and hot water, and started cleaning him up. With any luck, I'd still got a Melolin dressing around somewhere.
I was engaged in this procedure when he groaned and stirred. "It's all right," I said soothingly. "Just lie still."
He blinked, then opened his eyes properly and stared at me. They were very bright, knowing blue eyes, and they also seemed to be in proper focus, which was an excellent sign, though I'd still have to check for concussion. "Vell," he said slowly, "I'd be werry surprised if this was the Vite Hart."
"Ah," I said. "You must be Mr Weller. My name's Sarah Goode-Evans, and you're quite correct, this is not the White Hart. But we'll be getting you back there as soon as possible, don't worry. You had... some kind of accident, I think."
I'll swear Klinsmann giggled. Fortunately, my unexpected guest didn't appear to notice. "Something fell on me from the balc'ny," he recalled, frowning a little.
Minsky stalked back in. "I can explain," he insisted.
I gave him a look. Probably I shouldn't bother doing that, since after all he has so many of his own, but I was feeling justifiably a little annoyed by this stage. "I sincerely hope you can," I replied tartly. "And while you're at it, perhaps you could explain why on earth you didn't take Mr Weller straight to Elrond via the Library? It would have saved a great deal of trouble all round."
"Are you stupid?" demanded Minsky witheringly. "You think I want the UA of W Cat finding out? Elrond's the JurisFiction rep, don't forget!"
Sam Weller cleared his throat discreetly. "It seems to me," he observed, "that I ain't in full possession of all the partic'lars of recent ewents here."
"Don't worry, my buy," interpolated Squirdle, with one of his trademark massive shrugs. "If you pork on the assumption that everyone abound you is as mud as a halter, you'll be just wine already."
"Hic," agreed Wilfred from the radiator.
All I can say is, it's a very good job Dickens decided to make Sam so thoroughly imperturbable. Heaven only knows what would have happened if it had been Mr Pickwick. However, since things were as they were, all Sam did was to sit up rather groggily and enquire as to the names of the master and mistress of this house.
"It's my house, Mr Weller," I replied. "There's just me."
"Ah," he said sagely, "and there was I thinkin' you was a lady's maid from your vay of talkin'. I s'pose it must be terrible hard for you keepin' staff ven you have a cat vith such a wonderful conceit o' himself."
I had to smile. "Yes, I suppose it would be," I agreed, "but we're quite a long way in the future from your point of view. Most people these days don't keep servants. We have machines to do the work for us."
"And what sort o' vork does <i>that</i> engine do?" he enquired curiously, indicating the computer. Whatever else was the matter with him, he probably wasn't concussed.
I grinned. "I'll show you, Mr Weller. Take a seat over here, and I'll boot it up."
"No need for a lady to do such a thing," he insisted gallantly. "If ever you need a boot settin' to any engine, Sam Veller's your man."
"Er... not like that," I explained hastily. "It's just a technical phrase meaning to get it started."
<i>"Gestalt!"</i> complained Squirdle. "When are you going to pat me in the bathrook?"
"Oh, sorry, yes, good point," I said. "Minsky, just show Mr Weller how the computer works while I make Squirdle comfortable, would you?"
"I'm sure he'd be <i>very</i> comfortable in my stomach," purred Minsky.
"Stop it," I ordered. "Squirdle's not feeling very well right now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Minsky."
"Hic," said Wilfred cheerfully. I left them all to it, and hurried up the stairs.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 10, 2003 10:08PM
<HTML>I was finding the whole Sam Weller business decidedly embarrassing, and my small ginger nephew's determination to make as much capital out of the situation as possible was doing nothing to improve my temper. Mercifully, he didn't look much the worse for his injury, except that he'd need some kind of dressing on it which could always be covered by a hat. With a little bit of luck, I could have him back in his book within half an hour and then wash my paws of the whole affair.
By the time Sarah returned after having settled Squirdle in the bathroom (and renewed my determination to work out exactly how to open the door), I had powered the computer up and was explaining to Sam how to type a letter using Word. He seemed to take it quite as much in his stride as everything else unusual he had seen so far, and indeed there seemed to be only one thing that really bothered him about it.
"This here com-puter," he said, gesturing at the monitor, "is all werry well, and I don't doubt it writes a powerful tidy letter, but vy vould anyvun bother?"
"How do you mean, Mr Weller?" asked Sarah, sorting through a box in the kitchen for a dressing.
"Vell, by the time I'd written one o' these fancy letters on this engine, any clerk vorth his wages could ha' turned out three an' still had time to change his weskit," explained Sam.
Sarah laughed. "I know it seems like that at first. But once you learn to type properly, you can go a lot faster than you could by hand. I average about fifty to sixty words per minute copying speed."
"I'd like to see that!" declared Sam. "You must be a reg'lar prestidigitator."
"No, there are plenty of typists around who are faster than I am," she replied, "but I'll show you if you're interested. Let's see... I'll type up a passage from your story, if you like. Any particular preferences?"
Sam considered. "Vell, if you could see your vay to showin' me the Christmas party at Mr Wardle's, I'd be greatly obleeged to you, miss," he said.
"No problem, but I'm going to dress that wound of yours first. If you put your hat over it, it won't show when you first appear in the story."
Sarah's really quite bright for a human sometimes.
Normally I think Sarah would have used a bandage, but this time, in the interests of concealment, she fetched a disposable razor from upstairs and shaved a small patch on Sam's head so that she could stick the Melolin discreetly in place. "You've got a hat that will cover it, I suppose?" she asked.
"Two hats as would do the job werry nicely," replied Sam, "but since I can only vear the vun at a time, it'll be the vite one. It's looser'n the other, an' it'll just go over vun side nice'n'easy, as the bo's'n said about the cargo ven the cap'n told him the ship was too low in the vater."
"He wears a white hat when he appears <i>anyway,"</i> I reminded Sarah. "In other words, he's having you on."
I think Sarah deliberately chose not to hear me. At any rate, she didn't respond, but gathered up the copy of <i>Pickwick,</i> sat down in the swivel chair by the computer, opened the book in the middle of chapter 28, and started to type.
"Who's JurisFiction rep in your book, by the way, Mr Weller?" asked Sarah, as her fingers flew over the keys. "Just out of curiosity, you understand."
"Vy, Mr Tupman," replied Sam promptly. "And it's curious as you should ask that question, 'cos there's rumours in our story about him goin' off every now an' again to confer with a talkin' cat. Now this fine creetur here wouldn't be the vun, vould he?"
I twitched my whiskers. "No, Sam. That, in fact, would be my friend the Unitary Authority of Warrington Cat. Since we naturally have a copy of <i>Alice's Adventures in Wonderland</i> in the house, I can show you his portrait, if you wish."
"Vell now, that's a powerful fancy name for a cat," observed Sam sagely.
Sarah laughed. "I know! It's not the sort of thing you'd want to call out of the back door in the evening, is it?"
Sam looked at me. "And vot do you call yourself, young brushtail?"
I have a particularly fine tail, and deeply resent having it compared to a brush. "Minsky," I replied coldly. "After a particularly interesting scientist, I'd have you know."
"He was born a long way after your time, Mr Weller," interpolated Sarah quickly, before Sam could come out with one of his innocent-sounding double-edged remarks.
Sam shrugged, and turned his attention back to the screen. "Vell, bless me," he said with a grin, "if you ain't gettin' your computer engine to write the bit vith the mistletoe!"
Sarah grinned back mischievously. "I just knew you'd enjoy it, Mr Weller," she replied sweetly.
"And so I do," he agreed. "I vunder..."
Suddenly, and quite without warning, he leaned forward and vanished into the screen. "Mr Weller!" cried Sarah, horrified. "Mr Weller! Come back! You can't do that! It isn't the book!"
"It's authentic <i>Pickwick,"</i> I pointed out. "A genuine fragment of the text. I don't think there's anything technically stopping him from doing that."
"Yes, but what about my book? I know it's only one copy, but if we don't get him back he's going to foul up everything."
I considered. "Why don't you print out the bit with him in it, and paste it into your copy?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Can't see that working. We're going to have to get some advice, Minsky, and you know what that means."
I did indeed know what that meant.
"Oh, skrrrrrrk," I said.</HTML>
By the time Sarah returned after having settled Squirdle in the bathroom (and renewed my determination to work out exactly how to open the door), I had powered the computer up and was explaining to Sam how to type a letter using Word. He seemed to take it quite as much in his stride as everything else unusual he had seen so far, and indeed there seemed to be only one thing that really bothered him about it.
"This here com-puter," he said, gesturing at the monitor, "is all werry well, and I don't doubt it writes a powerful tidy letter, but vy vould anyvun bother?"
"How do you mean, Mr Weller?" asked Sarah, sorting through a box in the kitchen for a dressing.
"Vell, by the time I'd written one o' these fancy letters on this engine, any clerk vorth his wages could ha' turned out three an' still had time to change his weskit," explained Sam.
Sarah laughed. "I know it seems like that at first. But once you learn to type properly, you can go a lot faster than you could by hand. I average about fifty to sixty words per minute copying speed."
"I'd like to see that!" declared Sam. "You must be a reg'lar prestidigitator."
"No, there are plenty of typists around who are faster than I am," she replied, "but I'll show you if you're interested. Let's see... I'll type up a passage from your story, if you like. Any particular preferences?"
Sam considered. "Vell, if you could see your vay to showin' me the Christmas party at Mr Wardle's, I'd be greatly obleeged to you, miss," he said.
"No problem, but I'm going to dress that wound of yours first. If you put your hat over it, it won't show when you first appear in the story."
Sarah's really quite bright for a human sometimes.
Normally I think Sarah would have used a bandage, but this time, in the interests of concealment, she fetched a disposable razor from upstairs and shaved a small patch on Sam's head so that she could stick the Melolin discreetly in place. "You've got a hat that will cover it, I suppose?" she asked.
"Two hats as would do the job werry nicely," replied Sam, "but since I can only vear the vun at a time, it'll be the vite one. It's looser'n the other, an' it'll just go over vun side nice'n'easy, as the bo's'n said about the cargo ven the cap'n told him the ship was too low in the vater."
"He wears a white hat when he appears <i>anyway,"</i> I reminded Sarah. "In other words, he's having you on."
I think Sarah deliberately chose not to hear me. At any rate, she didn't respond, but gathered up the copy of <i>Pickwick,</i> sat down in the swivel chair by the computer, opened the book in the middle of chapter 28, and started to type.
"Who's JurisFiction rep in your book, by the way, Mr Weller?" asked Sarah, as her fingers flew over the keys. "Just out of curiosity, you understand."
"Vy, Mr Tupman," replied Sam promptly. "And it's curious as you should ask that question, 'cos there's rumours in our story about him goin' off every now an' again to confer with a talkin' cat. Now this fine creetur here wouldn't be the vun, vould he?"
I twitched my whiskers. "No, Sam. That, in fact, would be my friend the Unitary Authority of Warrington Cat. Since we naturally have a copy of <i>Alice's Adventures in Wonderland</i> in the house, I can show you his portrait, if you wish."
"Vell now, that's a powerful fancy name for a cat," observed Sam sagely.
Sarah laughed. "I know! It's not the sort of thing you'd want to call out of the back door in the evening, is it?"
Sam looked at me. "And vot do you call yourself, young brushtail?"
I have a particularly fine tail, and deeply resent having it compared to a brush. "Minsky," I replied coldly. "After a particularly interesting scientist, I'd have you know."
"He was born a long way after your time, Mr Weller," interpolated Sarah quickly, before Sam could come out with one of his innocent-sounding double-edged remarks.
Sam shrugged, and turned his attention back to the screen. "Vell, bless me," he said with a grin, "if you ain't gettin' your computer engine to write the bit vith the mistletoe!"
Sarah grinned back mischievously. "I just knew you'd enjoy it, Mr Weller," she replied sweetly.
"And so I do," he agreed. "I vunder..."
Suddenly, and quite without warning, he leaned forward and vanished into the screen. "Mr Weller!" cried Sarah, horrified. "Mr Weller! Come back! You can't do that! It isn't the book!"
"It's authentic <i>Pickwick,"</i> I pointed out. "A genuine fragment of the text. I don't think there's anything technically stopping him from doing that."
"Yes, but what about my book? I know it's only one copy, but if we don't get him back he's going to foul up everything."
I considered. "Why don't you print out the bit with him in it, and paste it into your copy?" I asked.
She shook her head. "Can't see that working. We're going to have to get some advice, Minsky, and you know what that means."
I did indeed know what that meant.
"Oh, skrrrrrrk," I said.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: January 10, 2003 10:42PM
<HTML>I goes along of Sam ...you're a reg'lar prestigi prest prestidggisi oh, sod it, you're good at this.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Sarah B (---.cableinet.co.uk)
Date: January 11, 2003 04:12PM
<HTML>lol
I agree's wiv' Sam an' Jon. Much congrat'lat'ns!</HTML>
I agree's wiv' Sam an' Jon. Much congrat'lat'ns!</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 11, 2003 06:05PM
<HTML>Minsky wasn't at all happy about being sent off on his own to explain things to the UA of W Cat, and he wasn't in any way mollified when I suggested that if he really needed some moral support, he could always go and ask Legolas. But, as I told him at the time, I did have other considerations. Mr Weller's problem was certainly urgent, but then so was Squirdle's, and on top of that I hadn't forgotten we were supposed to be tracking down the elusive Thursday Next Week. So it made a great deal more sense if Minsky went to see the cat and I made a phone call to Maxwell Faraday.
"SO-17 Research Division," came a crisp female voice at the other end.
"Is Max Faraday there?" I asked.
There was a pause. "Who's calling?" asked the voice, suspiciously.
"It's Sarah Goode-Evans. I need his help on a technical matter."
"Well, you sound very much like Jane Hardly-Decent to me," replied the voice nastily. "And if I see you round here again, I'll..."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "I don't even know who Jane Hardly-Decent is. What the devil are you talking about?"
"You know very well..."
"No, I do not!" I said firmly, starting to get annoyed. "What's your name, young woman?"
"Beverley Hills. Max's girlfriend, as if you didn't know."
"I didn't. Congratulations," I replied. "How long have you two been going out?"
"Two years," snapped Beverley.
I sighed. Clearly there had been some kind of time slip the ChronoGuard hadn't spotted. I wondered whether to mention it to Andrew Gregorian next time I spoke to him. "Wedding bells in the offing?" I asked.
"It's none of your plocking business, Hardly-Decent," she retorted.
"I am <i>not</i> Hardly-Decent, and if you don't put Max on the line right now, I'm going to pop up in your time stream personally and give you a thick ear," I growled. "Deeply as I should regret having to do such a thing to the girlfriend of one of my oldest friends."
There was a shocked pause. "You're not in our time stream?"
"No, Beverley. I am not in your time stream. Check the incoming phone number if you don't believe me."
"Oh," said Beverley, in a very small voice.
I sighed. "That's better. Now put him on, will you? This is important."
There were muffled thuds and crashes at the other end of the phone, and I knew Max was not far away. Max is one of the sweetest chaps I know, but he's not exactly the most graceful. A few moments later, Max's voice from the other end said, "Er, hallo?"
"Max," I said. "At last! This is Sarah."
"Hi there! What was all that about that plocking Jane?"
I rolled my eyes. "Your girlfriend thought I sounded like her. Never heard such a stupid idea. I don't even know who she is."
There was the silent, but expressive, sound of Max's mind boggling. "Time I introduced you to Bev," he said, at last. "I think once she's met you, she'll realise you have absolutely nothing in common."
This was apparently all I was going to be told about the mysterious Jane Hardly-Decent, and possibly it was all I really wanted to hear. I got down to business. "You know that demon of yours?" I asked. "Squirdle?"
"Oh, no, he's not being a pest, is he?" asked Max, instantly alarmed.
"On the contrary! He saved our lives in the last case I was on, and he's trying to reform. No, he's being remarkably good by demonic standards. The problem is, some senior demon he apparently can't identify has put a curse on him so that he mixes up letters in words when he talks. Would you have any idea how to get rid of it?"
"Oh, dear," said Max, sounding really worried. "A curse. Difficult one. I'd have to have a look at him. Could you get me into your time stream and then put me back where I was before, so no-one knew I'd gone?"
"I could do that quite easily," I assured him, "but wouldn't you prefer me to bring him across into yours?"
"Can't risk it," replied Max guiltily. "There's been a bit of a stink since he went missing. Unfortunately the boss did a check a couple of days after I passed him on to you. He hasn't found out, but if he did I'd get an official reprimand."
"Ah," I said. "Can't have that. I'd better see what I can do to patch things so that Squirdle was never in your lab in the first place. In the meantime, I'll come and fetch you now. Would Bev like to join us?"
There was the sound of brief conferring, and then, "No, she says she'll hold the fort in case anything goes wrong. She used to go out with a ChronoGuard and she says she knows what they're like."
It was an implied slur on my ability, but it was possibly worth it not to be lumbered with Max's jealous girlfriend while we were sorting out Squirdle's problem. She really needn't have worried, anyway. If anything had ever been going to happen between Max and me, it would have happened a long time ago. "Fine," I said, non-committally. "Heading right over."
A few moments later (personal time frame), I was back in the living room with Max,
who gave Wilfred a very strange look and then glanced around at the cats. "Where's the boss?" he asked. "Out protecting his territory?"
I shook my head. "It's kind of complicated to explain. He's had a bit of an accident involving a fictional character."
Max shrugged. He's used to completely crazy-sounding statements from me. "So where's Squirdle?"
"Upstairs in the bathroom. I'll just..."
I was interrupted by the sudden materialisation of Minsky, accompanied by the UA of W Cat and a tall, skinny, gum-chewing stranger in a Humphrey Bogart raincoat and a dark brown hat which had definitely seen better days.
"Huh?!" said Max, stepping back a couple of paces and colliding with my swivel chair in amazement.
"This is Dirk Gumshoe," announced the UA of W Cat. "JurisFiction's Head of Electronic Literature. He's the hero of a whole string of twenty-third century crime novels by Nostalgia Harde-Waring."
Gumshoe grinned, showing a set of nicotine-stained teeth. "This is just my line of work," he observed, extracting a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
"Excuse me," I said. "I'm going to have to ask you not to light up in here."
"Sarah," asked Max weakly, "what the plock is going on?"
I did consider asking Minsky to give him an explanation. But after all, I wanted to live.</HTML>
"SO-17 Research Division," came a crisp female voice at the other end.
"Is Max Faraday there?" I asked.
There was a pause. "Who's calling?" asked the voice, suspiciously.
"It's Sarah Goode-Evans. I need his help on a technical matter."
"Well, you sound very much like Jane Hardly-Decent to me," replied the voice nastily. "And if I see you round here again, I'll..."
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "I don't even know who Jane Hardly-Decent is. What the devil are you talking about?"
"You know very well..."
"No, I do not!" I said firmly, starting to get annoyed. "What's your name, young woman?"
"Beverley Hills. Max's girlfriend, as if you didn't know."
"I didn't. Congratulations," I replied. "How long have you two been going out?"
"Two years," snapped Beverley.
I sighed. Clearly there had been some kind of time slip the ChronoGuard hadn't spotted. I wondered whether to mention it to Andrew Gregorian next time I spoke to him. "Wedding bells in the offing?" I asked.
"It's none of your plocking business, Hardly-Decent," she retorted.
"I am <i>not</i> Hardly-Decent, and if you don't put Max on the line right now, I'm going to pop up in your time stream personally and give you a thick ear," I growled. "Deeply as I should regret having to do such a thing to the girlfriend of one of my oldest friends."
There was a shocked pause. "You're not in our time stream?"
"No, Beverley. I am not in your time stream. Check the incoming phone number if you don't believe me."
"Oh," said Beverley, in a very small voice.
I sighed. "That's better. Now put him on, will you? This is important."
There were muffled thuds and crashes at the other end of the phone, and I knew Max was not far away. Max is one of the sweetest chaps I know, but he's not exactly the most graceful. A few moments later, Max's voice from the other end said, "Er, hallo?"
"Max," I said. "At last! This is Sarah."
"Hi there! What was all that about that plocking Jane?"
I rolled my eyes. "Your girlfriend thought I sounded like her. Never heard such a stupid idea. I don't even know who she is."
There was the silent, but expressive, sound of Max's mind boggling. "Time I introduced you to Bev," he said, at last. "I think once she's met you, she'll realise you have absolutely nothing in common."
This was apparently all I was going to be told about the mysterious Jane Hardly-Decent, and possibly it was all I really wanted to hear. I got down to business. "You know that demon of yours?" I asked. "Squirdle?"
"Oh, no, he's not being a pest, is he?" asked Max, instantly alarmed.
"On the contrary! He saved our lives in the last case I was on, and he's trying to reform. No, he's being remarkably good by demonic standards. The problem is, some senior demon he apparently can't identify has put a curse on him so that he mixes up letters in words when he talks. Would you have any idea how to get rid of it?"
"Oh, dear," said Max, sounding really worried. "A curse. Difficult one. I'd have to have a look at him. Could you get me into your time stream and then put me back where I was before, so no-one knew I'd gone?"
"I could do that quite easily," I assured him, "but wouldn't you prefer me to bring him across into yours?"
"Can't risk it," replied Max guiltily. "There's been a bit of a stink since he went missing. Unfortunately the boss did a check a couple of days after I passed him on to you. He hasn't found out, but if he did I'd get an official reprimand."
"Ah," I said. "Can't have that. I'd better see what I can do to patch things so that Squirdle was never in your lab in the first place. In the meantime, I'll come and fetch you now. Would Bev like to join us?"
There was the sound of brief conferring, and then, "No, she says she'll hold the fort in case anything goes wrong. She used to go out with a ChronoGuard and she says she knows what they're like."
It was an implied slur on my ability, but it was possibly worth it not to be lumbered with Max's jealous girlfriend while we were sorting out Squirdle's problem. She really needn't have worried, anyway. If anything had ever been going to happen between Max and me, it would have happened a long time ago. "Fine," I said, non-committally. "Heading right over."
A few moments later (personal time frame), I was back in the living room with Max,
who gave Wilfred a very strange look and then glanced around at the cats. "Where's the boss?" he asked. "Out protecting his territory?"
I shook my head. "It's kind of complicated to explain. He's had a bit of an accident involving a fictional character."
Max shrugged. He's used to completely crazy-sounding statements from me. "So where's Squirdle?"
"Upstairs in the bathroom. I'll just..."
I was interrupted by the sudden materialisation of Minsky, accompanied by the UA of W Cat and a tall, skinny, gum-chewing stranger in a Humphrey Bogart raincoat and a dark brown hat which had definitely seen better days.
"Huh?!" said Max, stepping back a couple of paces and colliding with my swivel chair in amazement.
"This is Dirk Gumshoe," announced the UA of W Cat. "JurisFiction's Head of Electronic Literature. He's the hero of a whole string of twenty-third century crime novels by Nostalgia Harde-Waring."
Gumshoe grinned, showing a set of nicotine-stained teeth. "This is just my line of work," he observed, extracting a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
"Excuse me," I said. "I'm going to have to ask you not to light up in here."
"Sarah," asked Max weakly, "what the plock is going on?"
I did consider asking Minsky to give him an explanation. But after all, I wanted to live.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 12, 2003 03:54PM
<HTML>The UA of W Cat had been remarkably understanding about the whole affair, but then, after all, he does fully realise the importance of rats. I wish he hadn't felt it necessary to involve Gumshoe, though. He was the sort of human to whom I took an immediate dislike. It wasn't just the cigarettes and the chewing gum, which he sometimes - in defiance of all logic and common sense - consumed simultaneously. It was the fake 1930s posturing and the cheesy dialogue that I really couldn't stand. Nostalgia Harde-Waring's works might well be eagerly snapped up as historical novels in the twenty-third century, but their hero certainly didn't look good in the twenty-first.
"Ah, good afternoon, Max," I said, greeting the disconcerted SO-17 scientist with a friendly rub against his shins. "Nice to see you again."
"Hallo, Minsky," he replied, patting me rather absently. "Umm... I don't like to mention this, Sarah, but I think your penguin's had a bit too much to drink."
She grinned. "Oh, yes, that's Wilfred. He invariably has."
"My kind of bird," observed Gumshoe, reaching for his cigarettes again, remembering just in time that he had been asked to refrain, and cramming two pieces of chewing gum into his mouth at once instead.
"What <i>is</i> going on?" asked Max, rather plaintively.
Sarah sighed. "We've lost Sam Weller, basically. But I expect Mr Gumshoe here will be able to get him back, so don't worry about it."
This explanation didn't appear to satisfy Max a great deal, but nonetheless he followed Sarah up to the bathroom, possibly just so he wouldn't have to think too hard about the fact that there were currently two talking cats, an inebriated seabird and a fictional detective in the living room. As they left, my brother Chomsky walked in and eyed the UA of W Cat rather nervously.
"Er... 'ullo, mate," he said. I ought to mention that he never actually talks in front of Sarah. His excuse is that she thinks he has such a lovely purr. I think he's worried about his rather limited vocabulary, myself.
"And you would be...?" asked the UA of W Cat, curiously.
I realised my tail was starting to droop. "Er, Chomsky," I said, making the best of it. "Actually, he's my brother."
"Hi, furball," said Gumshoe affably. Chomsky, I regret to say, is so lacking in dignity that he responded to this insult by rubbing his head against Gumshoe's questionable trousers.
"This is the computer into which Mr Weller disappeared," I said, anxious to get down to business. "If you move the mouse, you'll find the file is still up on the screen."
Gumshoe shifted the mouse a little, and the screen slowly lit up again as the automatic power saver cut out. "I see," he said, thoughtfully. "And has any more of the file been typed since he jumped into it?"
I studied the screen. "Not that I can see," I replied.
"Good. That gives me somewhere to start. OK, Mr Minsky, if you'd care to come along with me, I could use your help."
I wasn't sure what to think. Book-jumping is all very well, but I had never been inside a computer before and wasn't entirely happy about the idea. What if I got lost on the Internet? It was a scary thought.
"What do you reckon?" I asked the UA of W Cat.
He grinned, which I found moderately unsettling in the circumstances. "Perfectly safe," he assured me. "Enjoy the experience. I'll let Sarah know where you've gone, don't worry."
I considered. I didn't <i>have</i> to follow Gumshoe, of course. I could always back out. But if I did, I would look like a coward in front of the UA of W Cat, and, even worse, in front of my soppy brother. And that, needless to say, would be unthinkable.
"All right," I said, straightening my tail. "I'm coming."
As I leapt after him into the screen, I briefly wondered whether I could get hold of extra lives online, as one sometimes can in computer games. But I had little time to think about that; within an instant, we were in the recognisable surroundings of Manor Farm. Things were going perfectly according to plan... so far.</HTML>
"Ah, good afternoon, Max," I said, greeting the disconcerted SO-17 scientist with a friendly rub against his shins. "Nice to see you again."
"Hallo, Minsky," he replied, patting me rather absently. "Umm... I don't like to mention this, Sarah, but I think your penguin's had a bit too much to drink."
She grinned. "Oh, yes, that's Wilfred. He invariably has."
"My kind of bird," observed Gumshoe, reaching for his cigarettes again, remembering just in time that he had been asked to refrain, and cramming two pieces of chewing gum into his mouth at once instead.
"What <i>is</i> going on?" asked Max, rather plaintively.
Sarah sighed. "We've lost Sam Weller, basically. But I expect Mr Gumshoe here will be able to get him back, so don't worry about it."
This explanation didn't appear to satisfy Max a great deal, but nonetheless he followed Sarah up to the bathroom, possibly just so he wouldn't have to think too hard about the fact that there were currently two talking cats, an inebriated seabird and a fictional detective in the living room. As they left, my brother Chomsky walked in and eyed the UA of W Cat rather nervously.
"Er... 'ullo, mate," he said. I ought to mention that he never actually talks in front of Sarah. His excuse is that she thinks he has such a lovely purr. I think he's worried about his rather limited vocabulary, myself.
"And you would be...?" asked the UA of W Cat, curiously.
I realised my tail was starting to droop. "Er, Chomsky," I said, making the best of it. "Actually, he's my brother."
"Hi, furball," said Gumshoe affably. Chomsky, I regret to say, is so lacking in dignity that he responded to this insult by rubbing his head against Gumshoe's questionable trousers.
"This is the computer into which Mr Weller disappeared," I said, anxious to get down to business. "If you move the mouse, you'll find the file is still up on the screen."
Gumshoe shifted the mouse a little, and the screen slowly lit up again as the automatic power saver cut out. "I see," he said, thoughtfully. "And has any more of the file been typed since he jumped into it?"
I studied the screen. "Not that I can see," I replied.
"Good. That gives me somewhere to start. OK, Mr Minsky, if you'd care to come along with me, I could use your help."
I wasn't sure what to think. Book-jumping is all very well, but I had never been inside a computer before and wasn't entirely happy about the idea. What if I got lost on the Internet? It was a scary thought.
"What do you reckon?" I asked the UA of W Cat.
He grinned, which I found moderately unsettling in the circumstances. "Perfectly safe," he assured me. "Enjoy the experience. I'll let Sarah know where you've gone, don't worry."
I considered. I didn't <i>have</i> to follow Gumshoe, of course. I could always back out. But if I did, I would look like a coward in front of the UA of W Cat, and, even worse, in front of my soppy brother. And that, needless to say, would be unthinkable.
"All right," I said, straightening my tail. "I'm coming."
As I leapt after him into the screen, I briefly wondered whether I could get hold of extra lives online, as one sometimes can in computer games. But I had little time to think about that; within an instant, we were in the recognisable surroundings of Manor Farm. Things were going perfectly according to plan... so far.</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.in-addr.btopenworld.com)
Date: January 12, 2003 10:57PM
<HTML>Ab-so-lute-ly PLOCKING BRILLIANT!!</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Sarah (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 13, 2003 09:26PM
<HTML>By the time Max and I reached the bathroom, Squirdle had found a new way to amuse himself. He was industriously scaling the chain of the bath plug as if it were a rope ladder. I don't think I've ever met anyone who enjoyed climbing as much as Squirdle, and I found myself briefly wondering if I could cut down a cocktail stick to make him a pair of crampons.
"Max is here, Squirdle," I announced. "He's come to see what he can do about your curse."
Squirdle swung on the chain, looking up rather balefully. "Ai-yi-<i>yi,"</i> he said, in a tone of voice which made it abundantly clear that he personally thought Max was the last person on earth capable of dealing with such a matter.
"Say a few words, Squirdle," wheedled Max, sitting down on the edge of the bath. "Just so I can get an idea of the extent of the problem."
"Extant?" Squirdle attempted to echo scornfully. "It's expensive alp light."
"H'mmm," said Max, extracting a ballpoint absently from behind one ear and starting to chew the end. "And what can you tell me about the demon who put this curse on you?"
"Huh," retorted Squirdle. "You thing it's sample already, don't you? He was one cleaver demo. The course presents me squeaking or writhing his lame in any fort."
"Must be difficult for a demon to be unable to squeak or writhe," observed Max brightly, unwisely attempting to inject some humour into the proceedings. Squirdle gave him a look which would have curdled ink.
"I should pub up with this king of stiff from a start-apse like you?" he demanded.
"Just a joke, Squirdle," Max assured him.
"Joke, shmoke," growled the little ex-demon truculently, and aimed an ill-tempered kick at the plug to underline his point.
"Why don't we play a kind of Twenty Questions?" I suggested. "I don't suppose there's anything in the curse that stops Squirdle answering yes or no."
Max frowned. "That's assuming the name of this demon is one we already know, of course."
"Start with that question, then," I said, practically. "Are we likely to know this demon's name, Squirdle?"
"What do you thank I am, a mint-reaper already?" he replied. "I don't knot who you humans have heart of."
I sighed. "We're doing our best to help you, you know. You could try being a little more helpful in return."
"Yeah, wall, your fiend's got a warmed sense of humous," grumbled Squirdle.
The twinkle in Max's eyes told me he was going to treasure that one, but fortunately he had the sense not to comment. "I suppose it wasn't the devil himself?" I asked.
Squirdle shook his head sulkily, having evidently decided that he was going to say as little as possible in front of Max from now on.
"Um. Mephistopheles?"
Another head-shake. "We could be here all day," said Max, a little impatiently.
I had to admit that he was right; without a fairly detailed knowledge of the infernal hierarchy, or possibly lowerarchy, I was going to be reduced to trying every name I could think of individually. I thought quickly, and suddenly the answer hit me.
"The Cat!" I exclaimed. "Of course!"
Squirdle glared at me. "What car?"
"The UA of W Car, I mean Cat," I explained, excitedly. "He'll know exactly where to find information about demons. There'll probably be a book in the Library on the subject."
"The Library's faction," Squirdle objected.
"You think you're not fictional yourself?" I pointed out. "Anyway, stop fretting. You won't have to see the Cat. He's downstairs. I'll go and get his advice."
"Rake him," replied Squirdle, indicating Max. I did a momentary horrified double take until I realised that Squirdle had meant "take" and not "rape", and then beckoned Max out onto the landing.
"What <i>is</i> all this about a cat?" asked Max, now thoroughly bewildered.
"Just follow me, and all will be revealed," I promised.
Max rolled his eyes. "I hope not. I've had quite enough of Jane Hardly-Decent."
I decided not to ask, but hurried downstairs to find the UA of W Cat investigating the litter tray. He backed off rapidly and sheepishly, and if he had been human I'll swear he would have shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and started whistling tunelessly.
"I need something on demons," I said.
"Oh, right. See what I can do for you. By the way, Minsky's gone into the computer with Dirk Gumshoe."
I stopped in my tracks as if I had been hit with a croquet mallet. "He's <i>what?"</i> I asked, faintly.
"He's gone into the computer," repeated the Cat, mildly irritated. "If I were you I should have your hearing tested."
"It wasn't that I didn't hear you. I just couldn't believe it," I said. "He will be all right, won't he? I mean, he's terribly bossy, but I'd hate to lose him."
"Oh, he'll be fine," replied the Cat airily. "Anyway, he's got Gumshoe with him. What could possibly go wrong?"</HTML>
"Max is here, Squirdle," I announced. "He's come to see what he can do about your curse."
Squirdle swung on the chain, looking up rather balefully. "Ai-yi-<i>yi,"</i> he said, in a tone of voice which made it abundantly clear that he personally thought Max was the last person on earth capable of dealing with such a matter.
"Say a few words, Squirdle," wheedled Max, sitting down on the edge of the bath. "Just so I can get an idea of the extent of the problem."
"Extant?" Squirdle attempted to echo scornfully. "It's expensive alp light."
"H'mmm," said Max, extracting a ballpoint absently from behind one ear and starting to chew the end. "And what can you tell me about the demon who put this curse on you?"
"Huh," retorted Squirdle. "You thing it's sample already, don't you? He was one cleaver demo. The course presents me squeaking or writhing his lame in any fort."
"Must be difficult for a demon to be unable to squeak or writhe," observed Max brightly, unwisely attempting to inject some humour into the proceedings. Squirdle gave him a look which would have curdled ink.
"I should pub up with this king of stiff from a start-apse like you?" he demanded.
"Just a joke, Squirdle," Max assured him.
"Joke, shmoke," growled the little ex-demon truculently, and aimed an ill-tempered kick at the plug to underline his point.
"Why don't we play a kind of Twenty Questions?" I suggested. "I don't suppose there's anything in the curse that stops Squirdle answering yes or no."
Max frowned. "That's assuming the name of this demon is one we already know, of course."
"Start with that question, then," I said, practically. "Are we likely to know this demon's name, Squirdle?"
"What do you thank I am, a mint-reaper already?" he replied. "I don't knot who you humans have heart of."
I sighed. "We're doing our best to help you, you know. You could try being a little more helpful in return."
"Yeah, wall, your fiend's got a warmed sense of humous," grumbled Squirdle.
The twinkle in Max's eyes told me he was going to treasure that one, but fortunately he had the sense not to comment. "I suppose it wasn't the devil himself?" I asked.
Squirdle shook his head sulkily, having evidently decided that he was going to say as little as possible in front of Max from now on.
"Um. Mephistopheles?"
Another head-shake. "We could be here all day," said Max, a little impatiently.
I had to admit that he was right; without a fairly detailed knowledge of the infernal hierarchy, or possibly lowerarchy, I was going to be reduced to trying every name I could think of individually. I thought quickly, and suddenly the answer hit me.
"The Cat!" I exclaimed. "Of course!"
Squirdle glared at me. "What car?"
"The UA of W Car, I mean Cat," I explained, excitedly. "He'll know exactly where to find information about demons. There'll probably be a book in the Library on the subject."
"The Library's faction," Squirdle objected.
"You think you're not fictional yourself?" I pointed out. "Anyway, stop fretting. You won't have to see the Cat. He's downstairs. I'll go and get his advice."
"Rake him," replied Squirdle, indicating Max. I did a momentary horrified double take until I realised that Squirdle had meant "take" and not "rape", and then beckoned Max out onto the landing.
"What <i>is</i> all this about a cat?" asked Max, now thoroughly bewildered.
"Just follow me, and all will be revealed," I promised.
Max rolled his eyes. "I hope not. I've had quite enough of Jane Hardly-Decent."
I decided not to ask, but hurried downstairs to find the UA of W Cat investigating the litter tray. He backed off rapidly and sheepishly, and if he had been human I'll swear he would have shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and started whistling tunelessly.
"I need something on demons," I said.
"Oh, right. See what I can do for you. By the way, Minsky's gone into the computer with Dirk Gumshoe."
I stopped in my tracks as if I had been hit with a croquet mallet. "He's <i>what?"</i> I asked, faintly.
"He's gone into the computer," repeated the Cat, mildly irritated. "If I were you I should have your hearing tested."
"It wasn't that I didn't hear you. I just couldn't believe it," I said. "He will be all right, won't he? I mean, he's terribly bossy, but I'd hate to lose him."
"Oh, he'll be fine," replied the Cat airily. "Anyway, he's got Gumshoe with him. What could possibly go wrong?"</HTML>
Re: A slice of Time
Posted by: Minsky Cat (---.vip.uk.com)
Date: January 14, 2003 04:18PM
<HTML>Much later, I discovered what the UA of W Cat had said, and if he hadn't been such a good friend I should have had serious words with him about it. Not spoken ones, you understand. The sort that involve teeth and claws. After all, in his position, he really ought to have known that the phrase "What could possibly go wrong?" is a standard invitation, in any kind of fiction whatsoever, for all hell to break loose. And break loose it certainly did.
"This the place?" asked Gumshoe, reaching for a cigarette.
"Yes, it is," I replied irritably, "and put those skrrrrrking things away. People take snuff in this story."
Gumshoe replaced them sullenly in his raincoat pocket. "Just my goddamn luck," he muttered. "I suppose you're going to say they don't chew gum neither, eh?"
"That is correct," I replied, with slightly exaggerated pedantry. "They don't chew gum either."
He rolled his eyes. "I suppose they still drink liquor?"
"Oh, yes, they do that all right," I assured him, feeling very glad we hadn't brought Wilfred. "In fact, if I introduce you to Mr Wardle, I'm sure he'll be very happy to offer you a glass. He's very hospitable to visitors."
"Good to hear it..." began Gumshoe, and then broke off, staring out of the window. His face, rather sallow at the best of times, now seemed drained of all remaining colour. It was not a pretty sight.
"Problem?" I enquired.
"You want I should lift you up and show you?" he asked.
I bridled. "The only person who's allowed to do that is Sarah. I'll jump on the window sill, thank you very much."
As soon as I did so, I saw what had so horrified Gumshoe. There was nothing outside. Literally nothing. There wasn't even a velvety black void out there. It was simply a vague flickering greyish light, a sort of optical analogue of white noise, which made it disquietingly clear that nothing outside the house was currently defined.
"H'mm," I said. "Well, we are in a <i>very</i> small fragment of text, I suppose."
"I've never been in anything this small," he croaked.
"Maybe not, but it's still recognisably Dickens. As long as we don't try to do anything stupid like leave the house by the front door..." I paused. "Gumshoe? Are you all right?"
He was shaking like a leaf. "I need a plocking cigarette!"
"Good grief," I said. "You're terrified."
"No, I ain't," he retorted defensively. "Seen a lot worse than this. I'm just a terminal nicotine addict, that's all."
I wasn't fooled. "Gumshoe," I said, "pull yourself together and try and answer a question. Is this situation genuinely fraught with some terrible danger I don't know about, or have you just got a phobia?"
"Nnnnnnnn..." he began, only to be interrupted by Emily Wardle gracefully descending the adjacent staircase in a flurry of silk.
"Why, Minsky!" she exclaimed. "I must go and see if the cook has a scrap of liver for you. But I have not yet been introduced to this gentleman."
"Gugugugugugug," he stammered helplessly, and pointed out of the window.
"Indeed it is raining," replied Emily, quite astonished by his behaviour. "I fear the weather has been dreadful all week."
"Bubububububububub?" said Gumshoe, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
I should really have liked to be able to explain things to Emily, but unfortunately there's no way I can speak in Dickens without having it remarked on by the characters and affecting the story, so I just miaowed very loudly to relieve my feelings. By this time Emily had clearly concluded that Gumshoe was drunk, or worse, and had summoned a couple of the farm workers to take care of him. I tried to follow, but Emily was too quick for me; she scooped me up in her arms, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it or I'd rip her silk dress and risk her arriving late for the festivities. I ended up in the kitchen, being fed turkey liver by the cook, which would have been paradise in any other circumstances, but right now there were other things on my mind.
I really <i>hate</i> humans who panic.</HTML>
"This the place?" asked Gumshoe, reaching for a cigarette.
"Yes, it is," I replied irritably, "and put those skrrrrrking things away. People take snuff in this story."
Gumshoe replaced them sullenly in his raincoat pocket. "Just my goddamn luck," he muttered. "I suppose you're going to say they don't chew gum neither, eh?"
"That is correct," I replied, with slightly exaggerated pedantry. "They don't chew gum either."
He rolled his eyes. "I suppose they still drink liquor?"
"Oh, yes, they do that all right," I assured him, feeling very glad we hadn't brought Wilfred. "In fact, if I introduce you to Mr Wardle, I'm sure he'll be very happy to offer you a glass. He's very hospitable to visitors."
"Good to hear it..." began Gumshoe, and then broke off, staring out of the window. His face, rather sallow at the best of times, now seemed drained of all remaining colour. It was not a pretty sight.
"Problem?" I enquired.
"You want I should lift you up and show you?" he asked.
I bridled. "The only person who's allowed to do that is Sarah. I'll jump on the window sill, thank you very much."
As soon as I did so, I saw what had so horrified Gumshoe. There was nothing outside. Literally nothing. There wasn't even a velvety black void out there. It was simply a vague flickering greyish light, a sort of optical analogue of white noise, which made it disquietingly clear that nothing outside the house was currently defined.
"H'mm," I said. "Well, we are in a <i>very</i> small fragment of text, I suppose."
"I've never been in anything this small," he croaked.
"Maybe not, but it's still recognisably Dickens. As long as we don't try to do anything stupid like leave the house by the front door..." I paused. "Gumshoe? Are you all right?"
He was shaking like a leaf. "I need a plocking cigarette!"
"Good grief," I said. "You're terrified."
"No, I ain't," he retorted defensively. "Seen a lot worse than this. I'm just a terminal nicotine addict, that's all."
I wasn't fooled. "Gumshoe," I said, "pull yourself together and try and answer a question. Is this situation genuinely fraught with some terrible danger I don't know about, or have you just got a phobia?"
"Nnnnnnnn..." he began, only to be interrupted by Emily Wardle gracefully descending the adjacent staircase in a flurry of silk.
"Why, Minsky!" she exclaimed. "I must go and see if the cook has a scrap of liver for you. But I have not yet been introduced to this gentleman."
"Gugugugugugug," he stammered helplessly, and pointed out of the window.
"Indeed it is raining," replied Emily, quite astonished by his behaviour. "I fear the weather has been dreadful all week."
"Bubububububububub?" said Gumshoe, his eyes almost popping out of his head.
I should really have liked to be able to explain things to Emily, but unfortunately there's no way I can speak in Dickens without having it remarked on by the characters and affecting the story, so I just miaowed very loudly to relieve my feelings. By this time Emily had clearly concluded that Gumshoe was drunk, or worse, and had summoned a couple of the farm workers to take care of him. I tried to follow, but Emily was too quick for me; she scooped me up in her arms, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it or I'd rip her silk dress and risk her arriving late for the festivities. I ended up in the kitchen, being fed turkey liver by the cook, which would have been paradise in any other circumstances, but right now there were other things on my mind.
I really <i>hate</i> humans who panic.</HTML>
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