The Stranger - Max Frei [38]
I decided it was time to stand my ground with my boss.
“I don’t approve of keeping servants. I can’t have strangers walking around in my house—closing books that I leave open, going through my private belongings, stealing my cookies, and looking into my eyes with devotion while waiting for me to give orders. I should pay money for that? No, thank you.”
“I see, Sir Max. You’re suffering from a bad case of asceticism, complicated by pathological stinginess. How do you plan to spend the money you’ve saved?”
“I’ll collect amobilers. With my driving habits, I’ll go through them in no time.”
Sir Juffin sighed. For him, forty miles an hour was insufferable recklessness, and perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth. Before my arrival, people in Echo were under the impression that thirty miles per hour was the absolute limit for this cutting-edge miracle of local technology. That was how I first became something of an attraction in those parts.
“You really are an oddball, Sir Max, moving into a house with only three bathing pools!”
Here I had to admit I had slipped up. In Echo, the bathroom is a special place. Having five to six small swimming pools with water of varying temperatures and aromas is considered not a luxury, but the norm. But even that wasn’t enough to turn me into a sybarite. In Sir Juffin’s house, where there were eleven such baths, I felt that bathing was hard work, and not something to be enjoyed. So I was quite sure that three baths would be more than enough for me.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sir Juffin said. “What difference does it make where you make your bed at night? Oh, well, it’s your life and you can indulge in self-deprivation if you wish. Let’s go over to the Glutton, Sir Max. It would be great if we made it over there an hour before everyone else.”
The amobiler sent by the Ministry of Perfect Public Order was already waiting for us. The owner of the house had us sign the rental papers, and, still unable to believe his luck, disappeared before we could reconsider.
We were given a warm welcome at the Glutton Bunba, the best pub in Echo. We sat down at our favorite table between the bar (they say it’s the longest in the whole city) and the courtyard window. I sat facing the unprepossessing landscape. Sir Juffin sat across from me, with a view of the bar and Madame Zizinda’s unbelievable bust thrown into the bargain.
As we had hoped, we were the first to arrive. Today was to be my official introduction to my colleagues, and Sir Juffin traditionally held such meetings at the Glutton. The protocol would be somewhat simplified, as I had already become acquainted with two combat units of the Minor Secret Investigative Force. I had met Sir Melifaro, the Diurnal Representative of Sir Juffin Hully, and Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli, the Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives (a delightful little job that fellow has, I must say), when we had to restrain Sir Makluk’s berserk mirror. My new acquaintances were more than willing to share the story with listeners over a cup of kamra. Juffin’s remarks would only fan the flames of interest.
As a result, I got the reputation of being some sort of superman. That was enjoyable, of course, but it also gave me certain responsibilities to live up to. I was nervous and grateful to Juffin for suggesting we arrive at the Glutton before the others. At least I would have a warm seat beneath me before my colleagues arrived, and I might even be in high spirits if someone offered me a glass of Jubatic Juice.
It turned out, however, that Jubatic Juice was not considered the acme of liquid perfection. They brought us some excellent kamra and a jug of aromatic liqueur, the name of which—Tears of Darkness—gave me an uneasy feeling. As I soon found out, though, that this was just a poetic name given to the drink by its ancient inventor, and had nothing to do with its taste.
“Take it easy, Max,” said Juffin. “Melifaro and I talked about you at such length, and Sir Lonli-Lokli was so eloquently silent, that the poor fellows are going