Overtime. Part 27

Mordaunt shook his head innocently. Clarenceaux dragged a sigh up from his socks and let it go. Blondel's horrible prophecy had come horribly true, starting with the moment of their return to the Chastel, when Mountjoy King of Arms had seen him squelching up the drive covered all over in custard, jam and cream and had observed, somewhat inevitably, that Clarenceaux was clearly not a man to be trifled with. Since then, if anything, it had got worse.

'Other people get overtime,' White Herald continued, 'so why not us? Time and a half, even.'

'Do you mind?' Clarenceaux said irritably. 'We got enough trouble travelling through it without claiming it as well. Where are we going this time, anyway? Anybody know?'

Silence. Three blank faces. At least n.o.body said anything about eggs, or custard, or bananas. If ever he saw that sodding Blondel again, he'd give him bananas all right ...

The bus slowed down, jolted violently, and stopped. After a moment the automatic doors opened, and the crew climbed out. White Herald, whose turn it was to be Sergeant, took Out the sealed envelope and opened it.

'Orders of the day,' he said. 'Er...'

'Give it here,' said Clarenceaux testily. 'You got it upside down,' he pointed out.

'Reading isn't everything,' White Herald replied.

'Cretin.' Clarenceaux ran his finger along the lines. 'You have arrived at the South-Western Main Archive,' he read. 'Here, what's an Archive?' he asked. n.o.body knew. 'Proceed to the oil well which you will find approximately half a mile due east of your arrival point and arrest Jean de Nesle, also known as Blondel. You are authorised to use maximum force if necessary. Then there's a big blob of red wax with a picture on it. Ouch!' The paper had burst into flames, and soon Clarenceaux was holding only the corner. 'PS,' he read, 'this message will self-destruct in thirty (30) seconds.'

'Nice of him to tell you,' Mordaunt commented. 'Anybody got a compa.s.s?'

It isn't all fun and games commanding an illicit oil rig in the middle of an insubstantial sea, and unauthorised visitors don't help. To make matters worse, Commander Moorhen was only too aware that he was running about a fortnight behind schedule, as a result of the Mistral Chronologique arriving a month earlier than forecast and the diamond-molybdenum drill-bit breaking, and that there were reports of Warden patrols not a million years away. He was not a happy man.

'Music while you work,' he said, 'I can handle. But aliens breaking in and cos.h.i.+ng the staff just so's they can sing to them is another matter. Take him away and chuck him off the derrick.'

Sergeant Peewit looked at him and didn't move. The prisoner, for his part, smiled.

'Come on,' Moorhen shouted. 'Jump to it.'

'No sir,' said Peewit, back straight as the proverbial ramrod.

'You what?'

'With respect, sir.'

Moorhen stared. 'And why the h.e.l.l not, sergeant?'

'Because, sir,' Peewit replied, 'with respect, sir, this here is Blondel de Nesle, and the lads won't stand for it.'

The biro in Moorhen's hands snapped, apparently of its own accord. 'What did you say?'

'No, sir.'

Moorhen hesitated for a split second. They'd done mutinies at training school, naturally, but it had clashed with his violin lessons and so he'd pretended to have a cold. To the best of his recollection, you had people shot, but he couldn't swear to it. Besides, there weren't any guns on the rig.

'Do you know,' he said quietly, 'what happens to NCOs who disobey a direct order?'

'Yes, sir,' Peewit replied. 'Regulation 46, subsection (b), sir.'

'Oh. Yes, thank you. Here, stand back, I'll do it myself.'

Peewit placed a piano-sized fist on Moorhen's chest. 'With respect, sir,' he said, 'Blondel de Nesle is the greatest all-round entertainer the world has ever known, and the lads said to tell you that if you hurt one hair of his head, like, they'll chuck you down the main shaft, sir.'

Moorhen was about to say something extremely pertinent and germane when the alarms went off. A second bombardier, very much out of breath, came clattering up the stairs to report that four armed intruders had broken in via the main gateway. Then a grenade exploded somewhere below them, and life began to get extremely complicated.

'Are you trying to say,' said the Chief Warden, 'that you're attempting to bribe me to let you into the Archives?'

'Yes,' Giovanni said.

The Chief Warden stroked his beard. 'How much?' he asked.

'How much do you want?'

'No.' The Chief Warden smiled. 'I admit I was tempted, but no. And now I think we'd better have a word with Security.'

Giovanni was about to simper appealingly when he noticed the CD player and the stack of discs in the corner of the office. 'Of course,' he said, 'the bribe wouldn't necessarily have to be money, would it?'

The Chief Warden paused, his hand over the buzzer. 'I beg your pardon?' he said.

Giovanni walked over to the CD player. 'You're a Blondel fan, I see,' he said.

'What's that got to -'

'Very impressive collection you've got here.'

'Complete, the Chief Warden said involuntarily. 'Look -'

'I could get you tickets,' Giovanni said.

The Chief Warden's hand moved away from the buzzer. 'Tickets?' he asked.

'Tickets,' Giovanni repeated. 'St Peter's Square, 1173.'

'Out of the question. I -'

'Constantinople, 1201.'

'You don't seem to realise that -'

Giovanni shrugged his shoulders. 'Whatever you say,' he replied. 'Of course, if two tickets for the Piazza San Marco gig of '98 made any difference...'

There was a very long pause.

'Near the band?'

'You could reach out,' Giovanni said, 'and pinch the second flautist.'

'If anybody found out ...