He was too old for this, far too old. The storm drain was cold and damp and smelled of mildew. A thin trickle of water that wended its way down the concrete tunnel splashed each time he planted one of his feet. At first, heâd tried flying, but found it too exhausting to do for very long. Instead, heâd settled for this ungainly shuffle-run. The floor was slippery and heâd already fallen once, his knee bleeding through a tear in one trouser leg. (Lord, how he hated wearing trousers.)
Still, he struggled on. In one arm, he held what looked like a human hand mounted on a black marble base; in the other, a tiny gilded birdcage in which a blue budgie twittered and sang. Various other items bulged in the pockets of his jacket. A white kitten popped her head from his breast pocket, saw where she was, squeaked, and pulled her head back in.
Where are we going? The Answer Hand said, using sign language.
The Professor grunted. âI hate it when you ask questions you know the answers to.â
The cats arenât happy.
Behind The Professor, more than a hundred cats hopped daintily around the trickle of water and wrinkled their noses at the mouldy smell.
âAre cats ever happy?â
Youâd be surprised, said The Answer Hand. Sun spots on carpets make them happy. A good long nap. Chewing on the houseplants. Sitting on the laps of people who canât stand them. The Answer Hand pointed accusingly with its index finger before beginning again: Cats donât like wet things. They donât like stinky things. The cats, The Hand said, are very annoyed.
The Professor glanced back and had to agree, though he would never say so. âI thought you werenât supposed to give any answers unless I asked you a specific question?â
You asked if cats were ever happy and I told you. As for the rest, maybe Iâm getting tired of waiting to be asked.
âPerfect,â The Professor replied. âThatâs just what I need.â
What you need is to move faster.
âYou are so helpful. Whereâs the man now?â
Heâs still a few kilometres back, The Answer Hand signed. But gaining. He dislikes you intensely.
âI figured that out myself.â
Amazing! Well, thatâs something to celebrate. Which we could do if we were back at home instead of running through the bowels of the city because we lost the most powerful object weâdever invented.
âWhoâs this âweâ that youâre talking about? I invented the pen.â
And then you lost it. And thatâs not the only thing you lost. I wouldnât be so proud of myself if I were you.
âIâm not proud of myself,â The Professor snapped.
Also something to celebrate, signed The Answer Hand. The Professor was astonished that something that didnât even have its own face could achieve such magnificent sarcasm.
âAt least we know the crows have the pen,â said The Professor.
I told you who had the pen. But thatâs not going to help much if we canât get to them before they do something stupid. You know how they are about shiny things. I think you need to reconsider my plan.
âItâs too complicated. It will never work. Besides, you also told me that the book is in the library. Itâs safe.â
Is it? said The Hand.
âOf course it is,â The Professor huffed. âNobody can awaken the book unless they use the pen, and then only if they write precisely the correct thing. Only if the pen wants it to happen. And the odds of that areââ
Fifteen trillion to one, The Hand said.
âSee? Impossible.â
For once, The Answer Hand didnât answer. Thoughtfully, it rubbed its thumb and middle finger together. Then: In this city, nothing is impossible. For example, take a look behind you. The Professor turned to see a large dark figure moving obscenely fast through the tunnel. The figure wasnât flying. He was walking briskly on the side of the tunnel, his body perfectly parallel to the wet floor. As The Professor watched, the figure strode around to the top of the tunnel, so that he was walking upside down.