another manâs research papers and you call yourselves scholars! Whereâs your ethics?â
âHang on, I know that. Itâth the one between Kent and Thutholk, ithnât it?â
The bald man blinked twice. âWhat?â
âEthekth.â
Just for once, the leader was glad he had Vernon along. Someone capable of saying something so completely disconcerting at a time like this was worth his weight in gold. He decided to press home the advantage.
âRight,â he said. It was his favourite word. Positive without meaning anything. âThatâs enough out of you, Grandad. You tell us where it is, or itâll be the worse for you.â
âI beg your pardon?â
âHe thaid . . .â
Time to get moderately heavy, the leader decided. From behind his back he produced a heavy black metal object that glinted unpleasantly in the fluorescent light of the library. It was, in fact, the remote control for opening the trapdoor, and likely to break or come loose if you so much as breathed on it, but not enough people knew that for it to be a problem. âShow me where it is or youâll get it, understand?â
There was a pause, just long enough to set the leader wondering what he was going to do when the old man said What are you pointing that remote control key at me for? Then he started to back away. About bloody time too.
âYou wonât get away with this.â
âThatâs our business. Come on, move.â
Slowly, and with deadly hatred written all over him, the bald man opened a cupboard and produced a folder.
âIâll make you pay for this,â he said.
âHey, thkip, thatâth not right. I thought thith wath a library. You can take thingth out for free from a library, thatâth the wholeââ
âOkay,â the leader snapped, âthatâll do. Come on, move it out. Now.â
It was a close-run thing, at that. Eluding the porter and his wifeâs Yorkshire terrier wasnât a problem, and neither was the Yale lock on the main gate. What they hadnât bargained for was the Rugby Club, celebrating defeat at the hands of a superior Magdalene Fifteen.
âHey skip,â Number Two panted as they fled along the High Street, hotly pursued. âYou know back there, when you said, Show me where it is or youâll get it.â
âI know.â
âBut,â Number Two persisted, âif he knew where it was, surely heâd got it already.â
The leader pulled up short, too breathless to run any further. The pack was about forty yards behind, and closing.
âStone me, Keith, I never thought of that. Right, lads, going down.â
The trapdoor opened, just in the nick of time. For the reasons stated above, the manuscript, when it eventually reached the Hot Seat, was soggy, curled at the edges and just a little smelly. But nobody noticed.
It was Professor Ambermereâs long-awaited disclosure of his researches into new material on the life and works of Christopher Marlowe, based on recently discovered manuscripts.
The so-called Amsterdam Archive.
CHAPTER FIVE
T hanks to research carried out in the last twenty-odd years, it is now tolerably well known that once they reach the stage of being able to make articulate sounds, all babies, regardless of nationality, ethnic grouping or environment, make virtually the same noises.
Far from being meaningless gurgles, these noises are the only words human beings ever get to speak in their own basic, unpolluted, indigenous language, of which the myriad tongues of Mankind are mere vulgar and corrupt dialects. Within weeks of finding their voices, human infants begin the long process of soaking up the stimuli of their immediate surroundings, and by the time they reach five months old, the Old Language has been supplanted in their centres of speech by the variant they will usually speak and think in for the rest of their lives.
What they are saying, in
âHang on, I know that. Itâth the one between Kent and Thutholk, ithnât it?â
The bald man blinked twice. âWhat?â
âEthekth.â
Just for once, the leader was glad he had Vernon along. Someone capable of saying something so completely disconcerting at a time like this was worth his weight in gold. He decided to press home the advantage.
âRight,â he said. It was his favourite word. Positive without meaning anything. âThatâs enough out of you, Grandad. You tell us where it is, or itâll be the worse for you.â
âI beg your pardon?â
âHe thaid . . .â
Time to get moderately heavy, the leader decided. From behind his back he produced a heavy black metal object that glinted unpleasantly in the fluorescent light of the library. It was, in fact, the remote control for opening the trapdoor, and likely to break or come loose if you so much as breathed on it, but not enough people knew that for it to be a problem. âShow me where it is or youâll get it, understand?â
There was a pause, just long enough to set the leader wondering what he was going to do when the old man said What are you pointing that remote control key at me for? Then he started to back away. About bloody time too.
âYou wonât get away with this.â
âThatâs our business. Come on, move.â
Slowly, and with deadly hatred written all over him, the bald man opened a cupboard and produced a folder.
âIâll make you pay for this,â he said.
âHey, thkip, thatâth not right. I thought thith wath a library. You can take thingth out for free from a library, thatâth the wholeââ
âOkay,â the leader snapped, âthatâll do. Come on, move it out. Now.â
It was a close-run thing, at that. Eluding the porter and his wifeâs Yorkshire terrier wasnât a problem, and neither was the Yale lock on the main gate. What they hadnât bargained for was the Rugby Club, celebrating defeat at the hands of a superior Magdalene Fifteen.
âHey skip,â Number Two panted as they fled along the High Street, hotly pursued. âYou know back there, when you said, Show me where it is or youâll get it.â
âI know.â
âBut,â Number Two persisted, âif he knew where it was, surely heâd got it already.â
The leader pulled up short, too breathless to run any further. The pack was about forty yards behind, and closing.
âStone me, Keith, I never thought of that. Right, lads, going down.â
The trapdoor opened, just in the nick of time. For the reasons stated above, the manuscript, when it eventually reached the Hot Seat, was soggy, curled at the edges and just a little smelly. But nobody noticed.
It was Professor Ambermereâs long-awaited disclosure of his researches into new material on the life and works of Christopher Marlowe, based on recently discovered manuscripts.
The so-called Amsterdam Archive.
CHAPTER FIVE
T hanks to research carried out in the last twenty-odd years, it is now tolerably well known that once they reach the stage of being able to make articulate sounds, all babies, regardless of nationality, ethnic grouping or environment, make virtually the same noises.
Far from being meaningless gurgles, these noises are the only words human beings ever get to speak in their own basic, unpolluted, indigenous language, of which the myriad tongues of Mankind are mere vulgar and corrupt dialects. Within weeks of finding their voices, human infants begin the long process of soaking up the stimuli of their immediate surroundings, and by the time they reach five months old, the Old Language has been supplanted in their centres of speech by the variant they will usually speak and think in for the rest of their lives.
What they are saying, in
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