Grailblazers (1987) by Tom Holt

Author:Tom Holt
Format: epub
Published: 1987-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

Six of the seven PAs knew this. The seventh had no objection to tea, but didn’t quite understand where it was going to come from, seeing as how they were standing in a bare, deserted corridor that extended as far as the eye could see. In the grip of what, with hindsight, he identified as a subconscious urge to self-annihilation, he pointed this out.

The Queen smiled.

“Gosh,” she said, “aren’t you the clever one. You’re quite right, we’ll have to improvise.” She closed her eyes, clenched her elegant white hands and said:

“Let there be tea.”

And tea there was, in Snoopy mugs, with a matching milk jug, sugar bowl and biscuit jar.

“There,” said the Queen, “it’s surprisingly easy so long as you aren’t too ambitious to start with.”

Closer inspection revealed that there were seven mugs for eight people. That, as even the PA could recognise, was a Hint.

When they had finished their tea, the Queen beamed at them, vanished the mugs (“Saves washing up,” she explained) and rapped hard on the biscuit jar with her sceptre. There was the necessary quantity of blue light and burning sulphur, and the jar turned into a door in the wall.

“Explanations wanted, anyone?” she said sweetly. Silence. “Fine,” she said, nodding in approval, and loosed off a small but powerful burst of personality at the doubting PA. “After you,” she said.

Some are born brave, others achieve bravery and some are forced into acts of great courage by the unimaginable terror of what might happen to them if they refuse. The PA closed his eyes, reached for the door handle, turned it and pushed.

Nothing. Wouldn’t budge.

“I think you’ll find it opens better if you pull,” said the Queen.

The number of native-born Atlanteans who have been inside the registered office is small, but not nearly as minute as the number who’ve ever wanted to be inside it. As to the number of those who have ever got out again, there are no reliable statistics. The PA smiled sheepishly at the Queen, mumbled something about a far, far better thing and preferring to be in Philadelphia, and stumbled in.

“Name.”

“John Wilkinson.”

“Occupation.”

“Tax inspector.”

“Thank you, please take a seat over there, we’ll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please, Name.”

“Stanislaw Sobieski.”

“Occupation.”

“Revenue official.”

“Thank you, please take a seat over there, we’ll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.”

“Li Chang-Tseng.”

“Occupation.”

“Customs officer.”

“Thank you, please take a seat over there, we’ll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please, Name.”

“François Dubois.”

“Occupation.”

“Revenue official.”

“Thank you, please take a seat over there, we’ll get back to you in just a moment. Right then, next, please. Name.”

The fourth man smirked.

“Guess,” he said.

The desk clerk didn’t look up. She had another twelve thousand, five hundred and seventeen more management trainees to deal with, and already she could feel a headache coming on. “I don’t guess,” she said. “People tell me. Name.”

“Weinacht,” said the fourth man. “My name is Klaus von Weinacht.”

“Occupation.”

Von Weinacht laughed. He laughed so

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