Tomorrow's ghost

The young man grinned at her. 'It's Hugo's theory that Tolkien didn't really know his fairy stories. Miss Fitzgibbon. According to Hugo he was a philologist who made up languages before lunch by way of relaxation, the way Hugo does The Times crossword.

What do you think of that?'

But the computer would have allowed for O'Leary's allowance for a security schedule, decided Frances. It was really a question of how much information the computer had on O'Leary's mind and methods.

There are a great many fairy stories - thousands of them,' she said cautiously. 'And you find the same theme turning up independently in different countries.'

Robbie had said that, anyway.

'But what is the essence of a fairy story? What makes it different from the folk-tale?'

The young man pursued her mercilessly.

'The happy ending,' said Crowe. 'What Ronald called - typically - 'the eucatastrophic ending'. There's no such word, of course ... In real life the rainbow has no end. In a fairy story the rainbow is not an optical phenomenon, scientifically explainable: it has a real end, complete with a pot of gold.'

'Fairy gold.'

'Which is not the same as human gold? I agree.' Crowe nodded. 'Fairy gold turns to dust in mortal hands. But so does happiness turn to dust in mortal hands - it's only fairy stories which end with the protagonists living happily ever after. Ever after, with no winged chariot at their backs.'

It all depended on the extent and accuracy of the information in the computer, thought Frances. No wonder Colonel Butler was worried sick.

'Ah .. . now I see what you're driving at! If a happy ending is essential to a fairy story then Tolkien's Lord of the Rings isn't a fairy story, because it has an unhappy ending. Or at least a bitter-sweet ending.'

'Exactly.' Crowe beamed at the young man.

'Exactly nothing! What about Oscar Wilde's fairy stories - The Happy Prince, for instance? Or The Birthday of the Infanta - that's pure unrelieved tragedy.'

'And not a fairy story at all. Fantasy is not faerie. Allegory is not faerie. Unreason is not faerie. Other reason is faerie, and comparisons are meaningless, dear boy.'

The young man glanced at Frances. 'He always wins by sleight of hand, you know.

What do you think. Miss Fitzgibbon? Are the contents of women's magazines fairy stories?'

Frances shook herself free of Colonel Butler's worries. If the computer had figured all the possibilities then she might be here longer than today. So far she had done very little to build up her credibility, or even to establish it. That must now be her priority.

But what the hell did she know about fairy stories? Other than Tolkien - and there seemed to be some doubt about him - she hadn't read a fairy story since childhood. Or listened to one -

Or listened to one.

'My grandmother once told me a story which frightened me - ' The memory came back to her unbidden, from a dark corner of her mind suddenly illuminated so that she could even recall the place and the occasion, with the wind through the trees stirring the curtains to reveal a cold, high moon sailing through the sky outside. 'In fact it haunted me for months afterwards...'

She was aware of the hubbub of conversation around them, and also of the last time she had remembered the story.

'She said she'd had it from her grandmother. I've never been able to trace it in any book.'

That was, Robbie had not been able to find it in any of his books, when she had told it to him that last evening.

She shivered. 'There was this princess of a far country - very young, very beautiful of course...' she smiled carefully, deprecating the story in advance'... most of it is really quite traditional - the spell and the three princes.'

They were both looking at her intently; somehow, she didn't know how, she had caught them.

'She was magicked into the body of an ugly and misshapen old woman - '

That had been the beginning of the childhood nightmare: to be imprisoned in another body, seamed and scrawny. Slender feet deformed, talons for fingers, hooked nose and jutting chin, dribbling mouth.

'- and she could only be released from the spell by a kiss from a handsome prince who truly loved her.'

A life sentence. It had been bad enough kissing Granny, who smelt of old age as well as Chanel No. 5, even though she was by no means ugly and misshapen. But no prince in his right mind was going to kiss those lips willingly.

Except in a fairy story, of course -

'Well, the first prince who kissed her was consumed by fire and burnt to a crisp the moment he touched her lips, because he was only after her father's kingdom.

'And the second prince was frozen into a solid block of ice, because he didn't love her, he was just sorry for her.'

The fair-haired young man grunted derisively. 'That's a bit rough. But I suppose he should have known that the first two princes never win the coconut. It's amazing how stupid princes are.'

'Do be quiet, dear boy - otherwise I shall magic you into the sociology department of a certain London polytechnic for a hundred years.' Crowe raised a warning hand. 'Do go on. Miss Fitzgibbon. The hot kiss of greed and cold kiss of pity. And now the third kiss?'