The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [560]
“What I don’t understand,” said Landen, chopping some carrots, “is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.”
“I must say I’m surprised by the lack of opposition to Kaine’s plans,” I agreed, staring absently out the kitchen window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my mind. “Land?”
“Yuh?”
“When was the last time Formby went anywhere near Kaine?”
“Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants to meet him face-to-face, but the President won’t have anything to do with him.”
“That’s it!” I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash of inspiration.
“What’s it?”
“Well ...”
I stopped because something at the bottom of the garden had caught my eye.
“Do you have nosy neighbors, Land?”
“Not really.”
“It’s probably my stalker, then.”
“You have a stalker?”
I pointed. “Sure. Just there, in the laurels, beckoning to me.”
“Do you want me to do the strong male thing and chase him off with a stick?”
“No. I’ve got a better idea.”
“Hello, Millon. How’s the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.”
“Pretty well,” he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. “How are things with you?”
“They’re mostly good. What were you waving at me for?”
“Ah!” he said. “We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in Conspiracy Theorist magazine, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think it’s odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Ages saints have chosen this year for their second coming?”
“I’d not really given it that much thought.”
“O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers, only two of them—St. Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud—have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?”
“What are you saying?”
“That St. Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-traveling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then, at the appropriate time, he is catapulted forward to see his last revealment come true.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the ChronoGuard gets wind of what he’s up to, he’s never been born—literally. Why risk nonexistence for at most a few years’ fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?”
Millon shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought you might be able to help me.” He lapsed into silence.
“Tell me, Millon—is there any connection between Kaine and the Ovinator?”
“Of course! You should read Conspiracy Theorist magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath has an Ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one, too. Do you know what it does, then?”
I laughed. This was exactly the news I wanted to hear.
“You’ll see. Tell me,” I added, my hopes rising by the second, “what do you know about the old Goliath BioEngineering labs?”
“Hoooh!” he said, making a noise like any enthusiast invited to comment on his particular field of interest. “Now you’re talking! The old Goliath BioE is still standing in what we call Area 21—the empty quarter in Mid-Wales, the Elan.”
“Empty metaphorically or empty literally?”
“Empty as in no one goes there except water officials—and we have wholly uncorroborated evidence that we peddle as fact that an unspecified number of officials have vanished without a trace. In any event, it’s all off-limits to everyone, surrounded by an electrified fence.”
“To keep people out?”
“No,” said Millon slowly, “to keep whatever genetic experiments Goliath was working on in. The whole of Area 21 is infested with chimeras. I’ve got files and files of dubious stories about people breaking in, allegedly never to be seen again. What’s your interest in the Elan