Unseen Academicals

Two balls in harmony, thought Trev, but clapped as Nutt and Glang shook hands, then, while they were still admiring their handiwork, he reached behind him and slipped a dagger off the bench and into his pocket.

He wasn’t a thief. Oh, fruit off stalls, but everyone knew that didn’t count, and picking a toff’s pocket was just a case of social redistribution, everyone knew that, too, and maybe you found something that looked lost, well, someone would pick it up, so why not you?

Weapons got you killed, often because you were holding one. But things were going too far. He had heard Andy’s bones creak and Nutt had brought the man to his knees without sweating. And there were two reasons for taking precautions right there. One was that if you put Andy down you’d better put him out, right out, because he would come back, blood around the corner of his mouth. And two, the worst, was that right now Nutt was more worrying than Andy. At least he knew what Andy was…

Carrying a ball each, they hurried back to the university, with Trev keeping a watchful eye on high buildings. ‘It’s amazin’ what’s turnin’ up in this city,’ he said. ‘There were a couple of vampire types back there, did you know?’

‘Oh, those? They work for Ladyship. They are there for protection.’

‘Whose?’ said Trev.

‘Do not worry about them.’

‘Hah! And do you know something even stranger has happened this evening?’ said Trev, as the university hove into sight. ‘You offered that dwarf fifteen dollars and he didn’t even haggle. Like, that’s unheard of. Must be the power of gloing!’

‘Yes, but I actually gave him twenty dollars,’ said Nutt.

‘Why? He didn’t ask for anythin’ more.’

‘No, but he did work very hard and the extra five dollars will more than repay him for the dagger you stole while our backs were turned.’

‘I never did!’ said Trev hotly.

‘Your automatic, unthinking and spring-loaded reply is noted, Mister Trev. As was the sight of the dagger on the bench, shortly followed by the sight of the empty space where the dagger had been. I am not angry, because I saw you most sensibly toss Mister Shank’s wretched cutlass over a wall and I understand your nervousness, but nevertheless I must point out that this is stealing. And so I ask you, as my friend, to take the dagger back in the morning.’

‘But that will leave ’im up by five dollars and his dagger back.’ Trev sighed. ‘But at least we’ve got a few dollars each,’ he said, as they entered the back door of the university.

‘Yes, and then again no, Mister Trev. You will take the remaining five dollars and this rather grubby although genuine receipt for twenty dollars to Mister Stibbons, who thinks you are no good, thus making him doubt his original assumption that you are a thief and a scallywag and assisting your progress in this university.’

‘I’m not a—’ Trev began and stopped, honest enough to acknowledge the knife in his coat. ‘Honestly, Nutt, you’re one of a kind, you are.’

‘Yes,’ said Nutt. ‘I am coming to that conclusion.’

WOTCHER!

The word, in huge type, shouted out from the front page of the Times, next to a big picture of Juliet glittering in micromail and smiling right at the reader. Glenda, frozen for the last fifteen seconds in the act of raising a piece of toast to her mouth, finally bit.

Now she blinked and dropped the toast to read: Mystery model ‘Jewels’ was the toast of an astounding fashion show at Shatta yesterday when she was the very incarnation of micromail, the remarkable metal ‘cloth’ about which there has been so much speculation in recent months and which, she confirms, Does Not Chafe. She chatted happily and with fetching straightforward earthiness to dignitaries to whom, this writer is certain, no one has ever said ‘Wotcher’ before. They appeared to find the experience refreshing and entirely without chafe…

Glenda stopped reading at this point because the question ‘How much trouble are we going to get into about this?’ was attempting to fill her whole head. And there was no trouble, was there? And there would not be. There couldn’t be. First, who would think that the beauty in the silver beard, like some goddess of the forge, was a cook’s assistant? And, second, there was no trouble to be had, unless someone tried to make it, in which case they would have to go through Glenda and Glenda would go through them, in very short order. Because Jools was wonderful. She had to admit it. The girl brought radiant sunshine to the page, and suddenly it was plain: it would be a crime to hide all that grace and beauty in a cellar. So what if she had a vocabulary of fewer than seven hundred words? There were more than enough people who were stuffed tight as an egg with words, and who would want to see any of them on the front page?