The Woman Who Died a Lot

“It seems so.”

“But none of the ex–potential employees were stated as actually dying with the strike,” I said, “only before it—accident, murder, but none by the strike itself.”

“Good job, too. If a single one had been killed by the asteroid, then the likelihood would have jumped even higher— perhaps to as much as ninety-eight percent.”

“Has there been much panic over the figures?” I asked.

“I’ve been listening on the radio, but not much. Anyone over forty isn’t worried because they’ll probably be dead anyway by 2041, and to anyone under twenty, thirty-seven years is a time too long to comprehend. The middle group is jittery but sanguine— after all, seventy-two percent is still a twenty-eight percent chance it won’t happen, and as we’ve seen before, wishful thinking and being easily distracted are powerful evolutionary survival tools. Ooooh, look,” he added, as his eyes had also been scanning the menu. “They’ve got a special on crispy duck.”

“Have you talked to Friday about the new figures?” I asked. “After all, it’s those blasted Letters of Destiny that have caused our chances to drop.”

“He says it all looks very dodgy, and not just from a mathematical point of view. I think he wants you to go with him to the old Kemble Timepark this afternoon.”

“Any idea why?”

“He said something about ‘inferring a narrative’ from the Destiny Aware letters, and no, I have no idea what it means either—but he seems very intent about it. He resigned his job this morning on the basis that he’ll be in custody from Friday morning anyway.”

“Because he’s going to murder Gavin Watkins?”

“Right. He thinks HR-6984 might have something to do with it, and how the potential future him was going to tackle the asteroid strike.”

“Ah.”

This was something that had been bothering Friday for a while. He knew vaguely from the various meetings he’d had with his future self over the years that he would have saved the world numerous times, but it was only when his summarization papers arrived that he knew HR-6984’s aversion would have been the first. His big test, so to speak—the apocalypse avoidance that made his name.

“Were you right to bring along Mrs. Hilly?” asked Landen, indicating where Phoebe and Mrs. Hilly were having an animated conversation on whether Noddy could be viewed as a classic in the same way as Huckleberry Finn could be seen as a classic and, if so, whether it meant a Grade II Protected Book Status could be enforced.

“I had no choice,” I said. “I needed a lift.”

“Ah. Do you want to share a crispy duck with me?”

“Yes, so long as you don’t hog all the hoisin.”

I told him about Jack’s appearance that morning and what had happened, about Jack’s having a Day Player of his own, about the palimpsests in St. Zvlkx, that I’d be seeing Bunty Fairweather after lunch to see what Smite Solutions was all about and, most important of all, about Krantz and how he was actually helping us, not trying to do us harm.

“Explain that again,” said Landen.

“Jack told me Krantz was a traitor to Goliath, but since no one can blab due to an explosive brain implant, he instead brought five Day Players to Swindon in order to help me halt Goliath’s plan—whatever that happens to be.”

“I get it,” said Landen. “So where are we on the whole Day Player tally?”

“Krantz brought those five, and there have been two of me and one of him. Two left. Him, me—not sure.”

We sat in silence for a moment, digesting what had happened. I took a sip of tea and asked Landen if there was any news of Tuesday.

“She was sent home this morning for pulling Penny Smedley’s hair and using ‘inappropriate’ language to describe Mr. Biggs, the games master. I asked her specifically whether she had been flashing for cash again, and she said no in the sort of way that meant yes, then vanished into her laboratory.”

“So no breakthrough in understanding the Unentanglement Constant U_c?”

“None.”

“Blast.”

The meal arrived. Mrs. Hilly had gone for the Swindon/ Szechuan fusion menu and had steak and chips dim sum followed by hot Fanta in a teapot. She took a small bite and, in the silence occasioned upon the table by our eating, launched into a carefully prepared diatribe.

“Enid Blyton was writing very much of her time,” began Mrs. Hilly, “a time of sandwiches, fizzy drinks, English supremacy, endless summers, cranberry jelly and a firmly entrenched and highly workable class system that was the envy of the world.”

I stole a look at Phoebe, who shrugged.

“Everything was a lot simpler in those days,” continued Mrs. Hilly, “and the twisted and corrupting morals we see in modern life are but an aberration that we Blytonians aim to put right. By returning the books to their original and unsullied state before the heinous hand of political correctness trampled their true and guiding spirit, we will build a new England. One that smells of freshly baked bread and echoes with the sprightly call of rosy-cheeked farmers’ wives dispensing fresh milk from churns to children dressed in corduroy and summer dresses.”