“I don’t see what you’re complaining about, then,” Jeanine sniffed.
“But why?”
“Because when the shareholders ask how we lost a hundred thousand in cash takings and demand to know what we did about it, we can point to it and say that we did something. Don’t sweat it, I’m sure they’ll get new jobs eventually.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Wendy lied, mentally smacking herself in penance. “I’ll need their home addresses and any relevant contact details you have on file. All right, the disguises, what happened to them?”
“The robbers dumped them back in the changing rooms when they reclaimed their streetwear. The police got a couple of poor-quality prints off the cubicle door latches, and took the costumes as evidence. I’ve got a crime report number for you, if you want to ask for the details?”
“That’ll do nicely. And you’ve got close-ups of the robbers’ faces, I hope? Any stills I can take? Both face and full-body, preferably next to a display cabinet of known height so I can work up some vital stats?”
“Yuh, c’n do that,” Sydney sniffed, then emitted a dreadful snorkeling sound, as if his nasal cavities were filling up with quick-drying cement. Jeanine gave Wendy a glance of shared misery: evidently having a sinus infection was the one thing that wasn’t a sacking offense in this place.
Wendy stood up. “I need those stills now,” she said. “I’ve got to visit the police next, then I’ll make the rounds of the witnesses.” Who you helpfully sacked. “After that, we’ll see.”
“Do you think you’ll find them?” Jeanine asked eagerly. “Will there be tickets to the hanging?”
Wendy smiled wearily, then resumed her professional demeanor: “I can’t promise anything, ma’am, but I’ll ask,” she lied. “Now, about those stills…”
One set of prints, several bewildered brain-controlled witnesses to interview, and some blurry photos. It didn’t sound like much to go on, but Wendy’d been handed worse cases. Her biggest concern was that the golden forty-eight hours had long since ticked over into penalty time, and if the cops had cracked the case Gibson wouldn’t have handed it to her. After that, her second-biggest worry was the weather. Actually confronting and arresting a gang of transhuman robbers with mind control mojo was way down the list.
Still. A cold case, at fifty quid an hour? She could put up with a lot of rain for that.
Imp was deep in thought as he trudged home from his meeting with Big Sis. When he got there everybody else was out, so he ditched his suit in favor of something less likely to attract attention and headed out in search of lunch. There were a couple of all-you-can-eat buffets not far away. It was easy to fool the waiter into thinking he’d already paid, so long as he ate during the lunchtime rush and never hit them twice in the same week. So his stomach was groaning with roast beef, chicken, and mashed potato as he ambled home in midafternoon. Where he discovered a freaked-out Doc, a glum Game Boy in need of comfort hugs, and—of course—no sign of their Deliverator.
“Where’s Becca?” he asked. “I had a very interesting meeting this morning!” He steepled his fingers, then proceeded to tug them, one by one, until his knuckles clicked.
“Fuck knows,” Game Boy muttered despondently. “Are you going to nail it shut or am I, Doc?”
“Nail what shut?” Imp asked, momentarily distracted.
“The door into 1940.” Doc shuddered dramatically. “At least I hope it was 1940.”
“It coulda been 1983,” Game Boy moaned. “Threads for real.”
Imp stared: “What the baculum-gobbling shite are you talking about?”
Doc stopped trying to give Game Boy a back rub—Game Boy was still hunched in on himself, but there were no tears—and glared at Imp. “The doorway to the end of the world upstairs. We went exploring…”
Ten minutes and a little bit of clarification later, Imp paused the spiel, raced to the kitchen, and returned with an unlabelled brown bottle and three paper cups. “This calls for a little something to settle your nerves.” He poured and then passed the cups around. “Do carry on, dear fellow.”
Doc took a sip from his cup, went straight into a volcanic blast of coughing, wiped his lips, and took another sip. “What is this?” he asked hoarsely.
“Fell off the back of a lorry bound for the Scotch Malt Whisky Society. Cask strength, of course. You were saying?”
(Game Boy lowered his face to his cup and huffed.)
“There is stuff up there,” Doc said portentously. “And it is up-gefucked.”
(Game Boy risked a tentative sip, like a cat testing an unfamiliar water bowl for potability.)
“So it’s kind of wild.” Imp shrugged. “No biggie, we’ve been living here for months—” a couple of years, in his case—“without anything breaking loose. So?”
“We opened the door!” Game Boy’s voice, if he had raised it further, could reasonably have been described as a shriek: “Anything could happen!”
“Nonsense,” Imp said firmly. He pushed gently. “Nothing can possibly come through. And if it did, it would almost certainly wander off at random, get lost, and starve to death in the maze. Or drown in the swimming pool. We’re perfectly safe down here, it’s safe as houses.”
“I’m afraid of refrigerators,” Game Boy admitted under his breath. He took a full sip of his whisky and gasped as it hit his throat.
“Where’s Del?” Imp asked again.
“Hi, homies, how’ve you been?” Rebecca bounced in, the front door slamming in her wake. “I had a great morning!”
“Oh good, gang’s all here.” Doc peered into his paper cup, clearly wishing it would magically refill itself.
“Excellent!” Imp stood. “You can sit down then and have a drink. We have a job to get started on.”
“A—” Rebecca peeled her cycling gloves off as she sat—“what kind of job?”
“The best kind, a treasure hunt!”
“What?” Rebecca peered at him, then sniffed her cup. “Hey, there’s booze in this, I can’t drink it, what if I’m pulled over?”
Doc shook his
