Number 9 dream Page 0,105
and Madame Ego.’ Queen Erichnid clasped her bosom. ‘O, the advances! The royalties! ScatRat! Bring the digitalizer on-line!’ The evil queen’s image receded to allow room for the awesome half-cannon/half-generator machine that ScatRat was lugging on-screen. ‘Prepare 4 downloading, Goatee!’
Goatwriter struggled to move, but the web of cables held him fast. ‘Where is the creative fulfilment in passing off another’s stories as your own?’
Queen Erichnid looked puzzled. ‘“Fulfilment”! Writing is not about “fulfilment!” Writing is about adoration! Glamour! Awards! When I was a mere human I was deluded by “fulfilment”. I learned the language of writers, o yes – I said “coda” and “conceit” instead of “ending” and “idea”; I said “tour de force” instead of “the good bit”; “cult classic!” instead of “this tosh’ll never sell!” Did it bring me fulfilment? No! It brought me obscurity and overdrafts! But by capturing your brain, Goatwriter, the literary cosmos will be my cocktail bar! O ScatRat! Get ready to fire!’
‘On ya word, Queen!’
Goatwriter lowered his horns. ‘You forget one thing, Your Majesty!’
‘Is that pose supposed to threaten me, o farmyard animal?’
‘The riddle clause of the Evil Queen Law!’ Goatwriter quoted. ‘“Any disagreements arising between evil queen and captive shall be settled by a riddle posed to the latter party by the former. Unless this riddle clause is properly executed it is illegal to store the captive in a retrieval system, transmit said captive in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, without prior permission of captive and captive’s publishers.” Clear as a whistling thistle.’
Queen Erichnid’s wintry eye filled the screen. ‘ScatRat. Say it is not so.’
ScatRat twanged a whisker. ‘Just an old formality, Majesty. Leave it 2 me. I’ll zip 2 [email protected] and get da number one brain /***er! Relax! Chinfluff’s in da bag! He won’t stand a
Number 9 dream
s chance in a Bangkok
Number 9 dream
.’ Queen Erichnid closed her eyes in cyberorgasmic delectation. ‘Make it so! And then his stories’ – gassy colours popped and fused – ‘soul’ – she tossed back her head – ‘film rights and book deals in twenty-seven languages’ – her laughing mouth consumed the screen and plunged the website into bronchial black – ‘will be mine! Mine! Miiiiiiiiine!’
Pithecanthropus, meanwhile, had slipped out of the wired jungle – he knew about jungles – and was exploring the edges of the cavernous website – he knew about caverns, too. He noticed that all the cables twisted into the same giant plug. Above this plug spun a ventilator fan to cool the circuits, and on the grille of this fan, hidden in a rack of Philips screwdrivers, was Goatwriter’s beloved fountain pen. Through the grille Pithecanthropus could make out, using his night eyes, a ladder in a shaft beyond. He grunted thoughtfully, but slipped back to the screen when he heard ScatRat come on-screen again. The rat appeared in a glittering quizmaster jacket, clutching an envelope marked ‘$1 million riddles$’. ‘Got it, Ya Majesty! Da riddle of da millennium!’
‘Let us be quite clear,’ said Queen Erichnid. ‘When you fail to answer, your copyright reverts to me.’
‘When Sir answers right’ – Mrs Comb shook her tail feather – ‘we go free – with Sir’s fountain pen.’
‘O, such a vivid imagination’ – Queen Erichnid sneered – ‘for a scratty-clawed home-help. ScatRat! Let the riddling commence!’
ScatRat slit the envelope open with his thorny fang. Drum-rolling cued from hidden speakers: ‘What is da most mathematical animal?’
‘By heck.’ Mrs Comb folded her wings. ‘What kind of daft quiz is this?’
ScatRat flobbed nobby gob. It dribbled down the screen. ‘Ya got 1 min, fetacheesepacker!’ A sixty-second stopwatch appeared on-screen. ‘From – now!’ Countdown music began. Goatwriter chewed his beard. ‘The most mathematical animal . . . Well, the case for humans is shattered by a minute of their television . . . Dolphins win the brain weight/body weight ratio discourse . . . However, no cleverer Euclidian geometrician exists than the bolas spider . . . yet the scallop’s knowledge of Cartesian oval lenses is unsurpassed in the kingdom of fauna . . .’ ScatRat chuckled. ‘Ya got thirty seconds!’ Queen Erichnid clapped with glee and danced a rampant rumba with her rodent rogue. ‘I can taste those publishing lunches! Hear the rapture of New Yorker reviewers!’ Worried, Mrs Comb searched her handbag for an inspirational snack, but all she found was an old chestnut. Pithecanthropus chose that moment to tap Mrs Comb’s wing and slip Goatwriter’s fountain pen into her handbag. In the glare of the screen Mrs Comb’s sharp eyes