The Eye of Zoltar

I told her I was in firm agreement, having experienced something similar from Curtis myself.

‘Shall I kill him?’ said the Princess after a pause. ‘My father insisted I was trained in the art of silent assassination, “just in case”.’

‘Just in case of what?’

‘Lots of things,’ said the Princess. ‘Doing away with a dopey royal husband to take over a kingdom, for one. It happens more than you think, believe me.’

‘Wouldn’t going to marriage counselling be safer?’

‘What, and have to discuss our marriage problems with a stranger? Don’t be ridiculous. So, shall I kill him?’

‘Absolutely not. You can’t kill someone for staring at whatnots, royal or otherwise – not even if you are a princess.’

I looked at my watch.

‘Hold the fort – I’m going to call home.’

Speaking on the conch

Communication conches work best on a relatively clear line of sight, so I climbed a low hill to the west to where the bleached bones of a long-dead Tralfamosaur were lying in the grass. I sat on the skull, waited until the time was precisely seven o’clock and then spoke quietly into the conch.

‘Kazam Base from Jennifer Mobile, come in, please.’

There was a whistling from the large shell, several clicks and a buzzing sound, but nothing intelligible.

‘Kazam Base from Jennifer Mobile, come in, please.’

There was only static, so I said:

‘Tiger, can you hear me?’

There was more buzzing and a gentle warbling sound, then the conch sprang abruptly into life.

‘… testing, testing, one two three – is this thing working?’

It was Moobin. I responded, gave him a position report and asked how things were.

‘Hello?’ said Moobin again. ‘Jennifer, can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you.’

‘Jennifer, are you there?’

‘I’m here.’

It was soon clear that Moobin couldn’t hear me, probably because the communication spell was being disrupted by the thermowizidrical fallout. Moobin realised this too.

‘Hello, Jennifer, it’s possible that you can hear me and I can’t hear you. I’ll be brief because there have been a few developments and we’re kind of busy. Nothing too serious so no need to come home – keep looking for the Eye of Zoltar and take especial care of the Princess. If you’re getting this message, send us your first homing snail to confirm. But remember: defend the Princess and find out what you can about the Eye of Zoltar.’

He repeated the message, but didn’t elaborate on what ‘developments’ had occurred, and after a while stopped transmitting and the conch went silent. It seemed odd that he was urging me to find the Eye when he had been the one against it, but wizards were unpredictable at the best of times. I took out my pocketbook and wrote:

Received your message but due to interference can’t transmit. Claerwin tonight, Llangurig tomorrow, Perkins kidnapped, Colin changed to rubber, Bugatti confiscated, have employed excellent guide. Request more information on ‘developments’. Handmaiden well. Weather good, Jennifer.

I checked the spelling, folded the note up small and then stuck it to the side of the homing snail. I removed the snail’s head-cosy, tapped the shell twice and it was gone in a puff of dust. We were about fifty miles from home, so at homing snail cruise speed it would be there in about an hour, always supposing it could negotiate the heavily fortified border. I’d never heard of a snail being put off by a tank trap, a river and a minefield, but you never know.

‘All well?’ I said as I walked back into camp.

‘We thought we heard a Snork Badger sniffing outside the perimeter,’ said the Princess, ‘and Ignatius spotted a Hotax encampment two miles away.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there.’

She pointed to the lake, where I could see a floating island of logs and hog-brush and a small wisp of pink smoke rising from a fireberry. Hotax often used floating homesteads as it kept them clear from danger, although quite what they might regard as dangerous, given they were very dangerous themselves, was never clear.

‘What exactly is a Hotax?’ asked the Princess as Wilson doled out Omni-rice, which is a sort of camping rice dish with everything in it.

‘They’re a primitive and barbaric tribe of humans,’ I said, ‘who have only a rudimentary language, little understanding of the modern world and are cannibalistic, with a curious habit of preserving their victims after death.’

‘To assist them on their long journey through the afterlife?’ asked the Princess.

‘That would be vaguely honourable,’ I replied, ‘but no, it’s thought they do it for fun. They’d have all been exterminated long ago, but Emperor Tharv thinks they’re good for jeopardy tourism and reputedly has a pet Hotax called Nigel.’

‘I wish I’d not asked,’ said the Princess, looking about nervously.