they take the book away from him and close it with a snap.
âSee?â they say. âThatâs you, that is.â
âYes,â heâs forced to admit. âThatâs me. But what about me? What am I supposed toâ?â
Theyâre scowling at him. âYou shouldnât make fun,â theyâre saying. âThatâs rude.â
So Paul turns to Monika, whoâs still quietly idling away behind them, and he asks her what theyâre talking about. And she says, itâs obvious, it means that youâre the gepriesener Freiheitsbote , even a dummkopf like you ought to know that â But he doesnât catch the rest of what sheâs saying, because the kids are grabbing hold of him and lifting him up off the ground, carrying him on their shoulders round and round the courtyard, shouting, waving their arms, setting off the fire alarm, cheering like crazy. This is ridiculous; they couldnât be more pleased with him if he was Lawrence of Arabia and heâd just scored the winning goal in the World Cup final, but at the same time they seem to know exactly who he is, so surely they ought to know heâs just an immature waste of space whoâs just been dumped by the only girlâ
Paul opened his eyes. Not the fire bell after all; just the persistent tweeping of his alarm clock. Heâd always had the impression that it didnât think very much of him. This morning it sounded more than usually outspoken in its disapproval. You, some kind of Messiah or something? it seemed to be saying. Yeah, right. In your dreams.
On Paulâs desk was a memo:
To: PAC
From: BS
Re: Supplies
Your first job for the department. Weâre running low on basic supplies. Check the enclosed stockbook against the inventory and make out purchase requisitions for anything we need.
BS
He read the note twice, just to be sure. Could be worse , he thought; if I can spin this out for long enough, maybe I wonât have to die today. He opened the file that came with the memo. It was all pretty straightforward.
Four hours later Paul had discovered that they were almost out of sulphur candles, yellow 12-volt detonators, .50-calibre Browning machine-gun ammunition and cyanide gas, and they could probably do with topping up on spare bear-trap springs, chainsaw oil, two-way radio-battery charger packs and SlayMore dragon pellets. He checked the unit prices in the suppliersâ list, remembering to deduct the 5 per cent trade discount, and filled out two copies of the blue requisition forms and the yellow cashierâs slip. It occurred to him that maybe heroism wasnât quite so bad after all. Lunchtime already, and not a drop of blood spilt or shed.
Lunchtimeâ
There hadnât been anybody on the reception desk when heâd arrived that morning, but heâd been on the doorstep at one minute to nine, so it was reasonable to assume that sheâd got in a little bit later than him, and . . . He caught himself at it. Somehow, in the last thirty-six hours, she had stopped meaning Sophie, and now meant Melze. Here we go again. One small step for a lemming, yet another giant leap for lemmingkind.
Nevertheless. Paul jumped up, grabbed his coat, and raced for the front office like a Pamplona bull who hasnât realised it was that time already. He very nearly made it; but Benny Shumway suddenly stepped out in front of him and called, âHey, you.â
Paul knew it was Mr Shumway by his voice and by the thickness of his spectacle lenses; otherwise, heâd have had trouble recognising him. His face was bright red, his beard had shrivelled down to charred wisps, and his suit was covered in white dust. His hands were red, too; not quite red, more of a sort of terracotta brown. He didnât look at all well.
âFirst-aid kit,â he said. âIn my office, left side of the desk, second drawer down. Iâll be in here,â he added, and stepped back
âSee?â they say. âThatâs you, that is.â
âYes,â heâs forced to admit. âThatâs me. But what about me? What am I supposed toâ?â
Theyâre scowling at him. âYou shouldnât make fun,â theyâre saying. âThatâs rude.â
So Paul turns to Monika, whoâs still quietly idling away behind them, and he asks her what theyâre talking about. And she says, itâs obvious, it means that youâre the gepriesener Freiheitsbote , even a dummkopf like you ought to know that â But he doesnât catch the rest of what sheâs saying, because the kids are grabbing hold of him and lifting him up off the ground, carrying him on their shoulders round and round the courtyard, shouting, waving their arms, setting off the fire alarm, cheering like crazy. This is ridiculous; they couldnât be more pleased with him if he was Lawrence of Arabia and heâd just scored the winning goal in the World Cup final, but at the same time they seem to know exactly who he is, so surely they ought to know heâs just an immature waste of space whoâs just been dumped by the only girlâ
Paul opened his eyes. Not the fire bell after all; just the persistent tweeping of his alarm clock. Heâd always had the impression that it didnât think very much of him. This morning it sounded more than usually outspoken in its disapproval. You, some kind of Messiah or something? it seemed to be saying. Yeah, right. In your dreams.
On Paulâs desk was a memo:
To: PAC
From: BS
Re: Supplies
Your first job for the department. Weâre running low on basic supplies. Check the enclosed stockbook against the inventory and make out purchase requisitions for anything we need.
BS
He read the note twice, just to be sure. Could be worse , he thought; if I can spin this out for long enough, maybe I wonât have to die today. He opened the file that came with the memo. It was all pretty straightforward.
Four hours later Paul had discovered that they were almost out of sulphur candles, yellow 12-volt detonators, .50-calibre Browning machine-gun ammunition and cyanide gas, and they could probably do with topping up on spare bear-trap springs, chainsaw oil, two-way radio-battery charger packs and SlayMore dragon pellets. He checked the unit prices in the suppliersâ list, remembering to deduct the 5 per cent trade discount, and filled out two copies of the blue requisition forms and the yellow cashierâs slip. It occurred to him that maybe heroism wasnât quite so bad after all. Lunchtime already, and not a drop of blood spilt or shed.
Lunchtimeâ
There hadnât been anybody on the reception desk when heâd arrived that morning, but heâd been on the doorstep at one minute to nine, so it was reasonable to assume that sheâd got in a little bit later than him, and . . . He caught himself at it. Somehow, in the last thirty-six hours, she had stopped meaning Sophie, and now meant Melze. Here we go again. One small step for a lemming, yet another giant leap for lemmingkind.
Nevertheless. Paul jumped up, grabbed his coat, and raced for the front office like a Pamplona bull who hasnât realised it was that time already. He very nearly made it; but Benny Shumway suddenly stepped out in front of him and called, âHey, you.â
Paul knew it was Mr Shumway by his voice and by the thickness of his spectacle lenses; otherwise, heâd have had trouble recognising him. His face was bright red, his beard had shrivelled down to charred wisps, and his suit was covered in white dust. His hands were red, too; not quite red, more of a sort of terracotta brown. He didnât look at all well.
âFirst-aid kit,â he said. âIn my office, left side of the desk, second drawer down. Iâll be in here,â he added, and stepped back
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