course it is,” The Professor huffed. “Nobody can awaken the book unless they use the pen, and then only if they write precisely the correct thing. Only if the pen wants it to happen. And the odds of that are—”
Fifteen trillion to one, The Hand said.
“See? Impossible.”
For once, The Answer Hand didn’t answer. Thoughtfully, it rubbed its thumb and middle finger together. Then: In this city, nothing is impossible. For example, take a look behind you. The Professor turned to see a large dark figure moving obscenely fast through the tunnel. The figure wasn’t flying. He was walking briskly on the side of the tunnel, his body perfectly parallel to the wet floor. As The Professor watched, the figure strode around to the top of the tunnel, so that he was walking upside down.
How does he keep his trench coat from flopping around his ears? The Answer Hand asked.
“I thought you knew the answer to everything,” The Professor said.
I don’t know the answer to that.
“You’re scaring me,” said The Professor.
It’s about time.
The budgie stopped twittering. Some of the cats began to growl.
“Is he afraid of cats?” The Professor asked hopefully.
No, signed The Answer Hand. Not even a little.
“Darn,” whispered The Professor.
Things were getting out of control, thought Mr Fuss. And Mr Fuss didn’t like when things were out of control. What made Mr Fuss fussy: messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation or chaos.
In short, Mr Fuss didn’t like fuss.
Odd, then, that he had chosen to live and work in this vast and sparkling city, this city at the centre of the universe, the city that was the very definition of messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation, and chaos. Odder still that it was his job to tidy things up.
What we do for money, thought Mr Fuss.
He could see the little man with his ridiculous green hair and his pathetic army of felines up ahead. Good. One thing he could cross off his list for the day. As Mr Fuss walked, he pulled his day planner and a tiny pencil from his pocket. He read through his list:
1 Bull in china shop.
2 Runaway carousel horses.
3 “Magic” pretzels for sale on the corner of Sixth and Thirty-third (if you ate one, you could understand any language spoken to you, though effects were temporary).
4 Fortune-teller on Upper East Side telling actual fortunes.
5 The Professor.
Mr Fuss put a check mark next to this last line and tucked the day planner and pencil back in his pocket.
The Professor started to run, if you could call the awkward hobbling of an ancient man running. Really. Such a waste of time and effort. Where was the man going to go? This storm drain went on for kilometres. Plus, high tide was coming. Any minute now The Professor and his nasty little menagerie would be washed out to sea. If it had been up to Mr Fuss, that’s exactly what he’d want to happen, too, a tidy ending to an untidy person. But his employer had other ideas.
Mr Fuss’s phone rang. Sighing, Mr Fuss flipped it open. “Fuss here,” he said. “Yes, I have him. Well, nearly. He’s about fifty metres ahead of me. I won’t lose him.” There was a pause and Mr Fuss rolled his queer, amber-coloured eyes. “Of course I won’t hurt the man. Why would I hurt the man?” Another pause. “But that was an accident.” More eye rolling. “And that was an accident too. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely an accident, but… Yes, yes. I promise, no more accidents. Yes, sir, we are clear. Clear as glass. Clear as water. Clear as air. Clear as….” He looked at the phone, frowning. His employer had hung up.
That was another thing about this city that Mr Fuss couldn’t stand: everyone was so unspeakably rude.
The Professor had sped up a bit, the awkward hobbling now a sort of crazed shambling.
Funny that he still gets reception even seventy floors below ground, signed The Answer Hand.
“Yes,” said The Professor. “Funny.”
Almost high tide, said The Answer Hand. What are you going to do?
“You know the answer to that.” The Professor looked to his right, where a rusted grate sealed off another tunnel. “Can you open it?”
No, The Hand replied. But the budgie can get through the openings in the grate. And so can the cats. The tunnel goes all the way to the surface. They’ll be fine.
The Professor nodded. He heard the distant roar of water rushing. He unlatched the door on the gilded birdcage. The budgie flew in circles around The Professor’s head. “Go,” he told the bird. “Find Gurl. Find Bug. Do what you can.”
The budgie, who spoke English, French, Italian, German, Polish, pig Latin, and could request a cab in Croatian, said, “Ood-gay uck-lay!” before darting through the grate. The army of cats followed suit, shrinking their seemingly boneless bodies through the slats, mewling their farewells as they did. Last to leave was the tiny white kitten, who licked The Professor’s face before disappearing.
The Professor watched them go. “Well,” he said to The Answer Hand. “It looks like it’s just you and me.”
Yep, signed The Answer Hand.
“That guy’s going to be really mad,” said The Professor mildly. Mr Fuss was still upside down in the tunnel, but now he was the one running. Underneath the man, a frothing wall of water surged towards The Professor.
He’s mad all right, signed The Answer Hand, just before the water hit them.
Mr Fuss punched open the manhole cover and climbed up on to the street, ignoring the cars that swerved to avoid him. As The Professor had predicted, Mr Fuss was mad. More than mad. He was irked, vexed, and most definitely put out. He had never thought that the crazy old man would just allow the tide to sweep him out to sea, and with him The Answer Hand, the location of the pen, and certain other items of interest. His employer would not be happy, that was certain. Even if it was an accident. (And it absolutely was an accident.)
Pushing through the crowds of would-be flyers – fools! – he strode across the street and found a bench. He sat, pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. “It’s me,” he said. “He’s gone.” Pause. “No! High tide rolled in and took The Professor with it.” Another long pause. “What do you mean, forget about it?” Mr Fuss’s eyes widened. “What about the pen?” His fingers scratched at the wood of the bench, dragging up paint and slivers of wood. “Yes, sir, but what if the pen isn’t at The Professor’s apartment? What if he gave it to someone else to hold for him? What if he’s invented other things? There’s no telling how much chaos—” The splinters of wood bit into the tips of Mr
