“I think I have it,” Doc said. “We know Duncan went to the grim world instead of dying twenty years ago. My guess, and these objects bear it out, is that he used old, old devisements to take the place and identity of a child of your world, Harris.”
Harris snorted. “Whatever you say, Doc. I mean, I’ve seen weirder since I’ve been here. Just the prospect of that old guy crawling around in a crib and crying for milk is pretty strange.”
“But that’s precisely what he would have done. By his arts he would have made himself smaller and prevented the child’s parents from recognizing the physical change. They would have noticed an alteration to his manner, of course. He would have been a screaming, shrieking tyrant.”
“Like real babies, you mean.”
“Worse. He would have leeched all joy from their lives and driven them to early death. But as little as your folk know about mine, they probably would not have realized what the change in him meant. They wouldn’t have known the old ways to trick him, to get their baby back. So he would have used the identity he stole as a base for his activities on the grim world.”
Alastair nodded. “And the child he stole, and sent back here, is Darig MacDuncan. Who calls himself the Changeling . . . even though it was Duncan who was actually the changeling.”
“Raised by Angus,” Doc said. “No wonder he’s as twisted as he is. He’d no chance to be otherwise.”
The captured gangsters were long gone and Doc’s associates were gathering to leave when Eight-Finger Tom arrived. He was a short, slight man with quick mannerisms, a restless eye, and a gold tooth. He carried a small bag made of carpet. He had all ten fingers. He shook hands with Doc and said, “The usual?”
“Worse. It’s a deviser’s safe, an old one.”
The other man grimaced. “Show me.”
Doc took him into the office where they’d done the interrogation. Harris, waiting with the others in the hall, heard them pry up a panel from the wooden floor.
Tom’s tone was curious: “What a strange design. And the handle—ouch! Who’d make a safe out of unsheathed steel? Bugger. Give me the gloves out of my pack, would you? The thin ones.” There was a long wait. “Oh, yes. It’s warded, all right. It’s not enough to divine the combination; I’ll need to mimic the timing, too.” He raised his voice: “The rest of you stay out. We may be blowing up in here.”
Doc chuckled.
Long, long moments of silence. Then, suddenly, Eight-Finger Tom appeared in the doorway, his bag in hand, his manner cheerful. “Not too bad,” he told Jean-Pierre. “Blast would have sent the whole building front out into the street, but the thing was used enough that the combination and timing were imbedded all over the place. You know where to send my fee.” He tipped his cap to the others. “Grace on you.” And he jauntily marched out the door.
Gaby asked, “Why ‘Eight-Finger’?”
Jean-Pierre said, “When he was a strongbox cracker, he robbed a gang boss. The gang came after him. He took a finger from every one of them he killed. Keeps them in a jar. The guard could never make a case against him, as they couldn’t find the rest of the body. But Doc did, and gave him a choice: retire from his old life and do work for the Foundation, or . . . ”
“Right.”
Doc stepped out into the hall. Under his arm, he carried a sheaf of papers. “Time to go,” he said.
In his room at the Monarch Building, Harris found the carpetbag he’d seen at the bottom of his closet. He loaded it with the clothes and toilet articles he’d accumulated, the two big pistols from the truck, and the ammunition for them.
His entire collection of possessions from the fair world. It didn’t seem like much.
He picked up Gaby’s jeans and took them down the hall to her door. She opened it before he knocked; she looked on the verge of tears. “Harris, I’m sorry,” she said.
“You should try them on before you say that.” He handed her the jeans.
“Stop making jokes, you idiot. Tonight, you wouldn’t have even gone if I hadn’t backed you into it, would you?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t lie. Not to me.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath, a delaying tactic, and sorted his thoughts. “No, I wouldn’t. I would have stayed here.”
“And you wouldn’t have had to kill two men.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “It’s my fault.”
“No.”
“Harris, you ought to go home to the grim world.”
He leaned in close. “Gaby, the thing is, you were right. When you said that about not just standing by while everybody else risked his life for you. I admire you for that, and it kills me, because I should have felt the same way and I didn’t. I’m the one who screwed up. As usual.”
“No, Harris—”
“We’re going to England. Pack warm.” He left her.
Jean-Pierre pulled open the rear doors of the slabside lorry and everyone piled out onto the tarmac of Gwaeddan Air Field.
Doc had parked outside a huge hangar set well away from the diminutive tower and commercial hangars. The hangar doors were closed; Doc led them through a side door and the small office beyond into the hangar proper.
There were five aircraft inside. One was a small, single-wing, single-engine propeller job that looked good for carrying popular musicians to their deaths. Two were two-seat biplanes, one gold, one blood-red, and Harris could see machine guns mounted on them. One was a larger black twin-engine job that looked as though it were raked for speed. These four planes were crowded into a third of the hangar.
The last plane . . . Harris gaped at it.
It had the wingspan of a 727. The wings extended across the top of the fuselage, with four huge engines spaced along them. Two stubby, vestigial wings were situated underneath the main wings, extending from the bottom of the fuselage. The fuselage itself was thicker than a 727’s, and looked only two-thirds as long. Harris could see two banks of windows on the fuselage, one above, one below; Noriko was visible behind the top windshield. Below her, the windshield into the first lower compartment was an oversized bubble.
And the whole thing was made of wood.
It looked like a giant Dutch clog given wings and made glossy by a rubdown of wood polish. Harris thought it had to be about as maneuverable as the space shuttle.
“Tell me we’re not flying in that,” he said.
Jean-Pierre smiled. “The Frog Prince. Doc’s creation. One of a kind, unless he can manage to sell the design.”
“Why is it called that?”
“Kiss it and find out.”
“I figured it was named after you.”
Alastair said, “Because it lands on ground and water and is prettier on the inside than the outside.”
“It would have to be.” Harris hefted his bag and followed them to the rollaway steps positioned against the rear of the plane.
The steps led to a bare, wood-paneled compartment that had stairs to the upper level and a cabin door leading forward. As they came aboard, Doc gave the newcomers the penny tour. “The Frog Prince is forty paces long, fifty-two in span. The lower level is arranged in ten cabins. If there is ever a commercial version, it will accommodate forty passengers, or more if we install just seating, but the original is too full of equipment for that. Baggage goes up to the upper level with the stores, cockpit, and extra fuel tanks. Main fuel is in the wings.”
Harris saw workmen drag the stairs away from the hull; Doc pulled the door closed and dogged it shut. He led them through a door in the center of the cabin’s forward wall.