Ghosty: This Fenceless World

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

I died about some seventy-odd years ago, but I try not to let it get me down. There should always be a reason to hoist oneself up in the morning. I’m usually pretty talented about finding one.

Morning, Miss Thammavongsa, I said.

"Sa wat dee, sir," said Miss Thammavongsa.

She set her tray on my bed-table and made a wai.

A lovely girl, she. Efficient and loyal and smarter than a tree full of owls and all that. This morning, as every morning, Miss Thammavongsa was in my chambers with a cup of the java bean and the London Times. She is as professional as any valet or personal gentleman I had in my service in the past, and I have had scores, I assure you.

I sat up in bed and took a long snootful of the coffee. Meanwhile, Miss Thammavongsa opened the curtains—dashed bright out today!—and spread out the newspaper across my lap. Certain habits are too bally precious to give up under any circumstances.

What time is it, old egg?

Eleven o’clock, sir.

Rather early, I should say! I must be getting mature in my doddery.

Very droll, sir. How was your evening? I trust that you and Dr. Robaire enjoyed yourselves.

We did at that, I said. Did you know he has a new longcoat he wears now? He looks like one of those blighters from the spaghetti westerns and what not. Very impressive looking, I must say. I should like to have one for myself.

To the untrained, Miss Thammavongsa’s face would seem to have retained that porcelain impassivity, but to a keen observer such as myself it was evident that she did not share my enthusiasm. In fact, as I am well-schooled in Thammavongsian facial expressions, it would not be an exaggeration to say that she shuddered. Still, she said:

As you wish, sir.

I think you would have been as impressed as I was, Miss Thammavongsa. He cut a splendid figure. Tell me true, have you ever given any thought to spending more time with our Dr. Robaire? I’ve always felt that the two of you would make a corking couple.

Oh, I should think not, sir.

Well, why not? You’re an attractive young lady, full of frothy vigor, brighter than all get out—if I may say so, you need an equally exceptional male to spend the flower of your youth with when you’re not dispatching your duties with me.

Miss Thammavongsa smiled modestly, and tucked a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear.

But sir, my heart belongs to another.

Well, dash it all, isn’t it just the pip when you try to put two people of like minds and hearts together and nothing comes of it? Oh well, you can’t blame a chappie for trying.

No matter, I said. Miss Thammavongsa, what’s happening on God’s green today?

Locally or internationally?

Let’s start with the important stuff.

The veil of mystery once again dropped across her face, and she pulled her PDA from out of her dress jacket. The lovely Violet Pendershaw would be taking on the role of Psylocke in the new feature film, thanks to our pressure on the studio. In football, Sussex lost to Manchester United 1-0. I urged Miss Thammavongsa to have the team take on one of those Brazilian coves everyone’s always raving about.

How did my horses do? I asked. With the recent unpleasantness, I wasn’t able to hit the derby yesterday.

I think you shall be pleased, sir, she said, turning the page.

Phantom Rider won, didn’t she?

The barest trace of a smile graced Miss Thammavongsa’s lips. Or perhaps a facial tick. Difficult to tell which, sometimes.

I’ll let that be a surprise, sir.

I thought about it. No matter how many years passed, there was nothing like the feeling when one of your horses got across first. I did so wish I could have been there to witness it firsthand, but as you know, Duty calls. And when Duty calls, by Jove, Bingo Elkins answers it.

Unless, of course, Duty calls at an unreasonable hour, under which circumstance Duty should wait patiently in the sitting room or perhaps come back later in the afternoon. Gentlemen know these things.

I struck a chipper tone.

The news of the day, my gal Friday, if you would.

Very good, sir, said Miss Thammavongsa, her mien livening up. The situation we talked about in Chile is deteriorating—that will need to be taken care of before long, I might add—our interests in Australia are holding steady for the moment, and…

When Miss Thammavongsa became all hesitatish, that usually means trouble was on the way. Not this time, though, happy to relate. Just the opposite.

Tactical Industries—

Hold on, what. That sounds like one of ours.

It is, sir. Tactical Industries—

Fumbling in the dark a bit here, Miss Thammavongsa. What do they do again?

They are a multi-layered consortium that conducts much of the research and development that—

Oh, right. I think I follow now.

Miss Thammavongsa inhaled, then began again.

Tactical—

Based where?

Sir?

Where are they based?

They have offices all over the world, sir. For tax purposes, they are based in Andorra, as many of our interests are, but for all intents and purposes, their physical headquarters are in New Mexico.

America, I said.

Yes, sir. That is where New Mexico is located.

If I didn’t know better, I’d have said that the old girl was cheeking me.

Anyway, I said, what’s new with T.I.? Making rannygazoo new inventions, no doubt? Something to help the world toddle along a touch better?

Not exactly, sir. We received a ring this morning informing us of breakthrough developments in something called Project Isis. Do you recall anything about this project?

Can’t say I do, little bird. Unless it’s that barmy thing Dr. R was gabbing about last night at the Drongo Club.

Oh dear, Miss Thammavongsa said. And yet I’m not surprised.

Well, I can tell you that at this moment, the proverbial bulb went on above the old lemon and, frankly, I was delighted. I nearly leapt through my comforter.

You really ought to be more observant, Miss Thammavongsa. You could take a lesson from old Bingo, what? This can mean only one thing. Dr. Robaire’s team of boffins must have hit upon the solution while he was over here taking a much-needed hiatus. A pity old Robey missed it.

Miss Thammavongsa looked almost quizzical. Almost.

Missed what, sir?

Well, I’m sure I don’t know, I said. "Whatever it is he’s working on. Science, and all that rot. All that rot, Rot. Get it?"

A word of exposition here for the new—-Miss Thammavongsa, of course, is not her full name. Her full name is Rot Thammavongsa, a mouthful for a chap like myself, but not that bad for your average Thai appellation, and you get used to it. Rot is Thai for Rose. Loses something substantial in the translation, if you ask me.

Long ago I toyed with the notion of calling her Ro for short, but such a liberty seems rather ingratiating and déclassé, so I try to soldier on and keep it professional.

Well played, sir. So you don’t remember what he said, then?

Not remotely, Miss Thammavongsa. It was hard biscuit and cricket night at the Drongo. What with that and the absinthe, a fellow can get jolly forgetful.

"But you don’t drink, sir. You can’t drink."

Miss Thammavongsa is usually exceedingly decorous, judicious even, with her observations about yours truly, but this one struck me as rather rummy. Just because a fellow goes for a burton and doesn’t have a decent nip for seventy years or so doesn’t mean he has to give up nights on the town with his chums, and sit at home in a mournful mood, or worse, find some windswept manor house to go bumping-in-the-night in.

I say, Miss Thammavongsa, shame on you, I said in my most beakish tone. You’re only as dead as you think you are. Or, in your case, as alive as you think you are. Hmm. That made a lot more sense in my head.

Nevertheless, the point was made, and made well, and I may even have detected a little remorse on the poor dolly. Again, blasted hard to tell with this one.

"Khaaw thoht, sir. I meant no offense. You are correct, of course."

Think no more of it, I said. But now that you mention it, I am dashed curious now about all this hubbub. Robey will be disappointed he missed the news.

What makes you think he has, sir?

I’m afraid the Green Fairy had commandeered the rudder on his ship last night, so to speak, and she was piloting it into the shoals when I put him in the limo. He was in no posish to receive any kind of breaking news last night, and I’m right certain he’s in less of one to receive it today.

How unfortunate, sir. Then again, one supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

Right-o! I exclaimed, and this time I did leap through my comforter. This action was not as immodest as you might think, as I was already in my favorite tuxedo jacket and bow tie. See, one of the perks of being among the dearly departed is that you never have to worry about your wardrobe again. All your suits are eternally pressed, cleaned, and mended, and when you throw in the security of never again getting grape jelly on your favorite cummerbund, it’s an all-around lark of sorts. Let’s toodle on down to Sandbanks. I’m sure if we leave now we can give Old Robey a proper wakey-wakey. Be a sport and pull the car around, would you?

The Aston Martin or the Jaguar? she asked.

The Aston. And let’s put the hood up. It’s uncommon sunny today, yes?

As you wish, Miss Thammavongsa said. She then gathered the newspaper up from the bed, and then paused. There is one other thing, sir.

Yes, Miss Thammavongsa?

If we are going to Sandbanks, she said. might I be so bold as to suggest a follow-up outing?

Go right ahead, I said. What did you have in mind?

A maritime adventure, sir, said Miss Thammavongsa, a lightness immediately suffusing her voice. This time of year, the sailing in the Hebrides, with its unspoilt waters and beautiful sea cliffs, is said to be particularly fine.

I’m sure it is, Miss Thammavongsa, I said. It didn’t take a big brain to pick up on where this conversation was headed.

"I would be more than happy to pilot the Sisyphus for such an outing, sir, said Miss Thammavongsa. Aside from several sailing challenges we could enter there, there are also the colonies of puffins, eagles, and the elusive kittawake. We may even still be able to see the aurora borealis."

It never fails. Every time we break for the coast, Miss Thammavongsa gets an odd glimmer in the eye. She’s simply potty for the sea. The hints get stronger the closer we get to the salty brine.

A fine yachtswoman, she, I’ll grant, so no prob. have I rewarding her with a jaunt for a job well done and all that rot, but we had a mission to attend to, so the riparian follies would simply have to wait.

Nevermind the aurora borealis, Miss Thammavongsa, I said. Our schedule is far too busy.

Are you certain, sir? Nature is said to—

I have spoken, Miss Thammavongsa. Let’s go see Dr. Robaire.

As you wish, sir, Miss Thammavongsa said, with just a whiff of a sigh.

CHAPTER TWO

I'll say this about my executive assistant: the girl knows how to biff about in a motor-car. I never cared for driving much myself, and full disclosure dictates that I mention that in my pre-mortem days I chugged around in motor-cars that made the Aston look like a rocketship.

No, even if driving a motor-car weren’t a practical impossibility what with these racket holders passing through the driving wheel and all, old Bingo would gladly take shotgun and leave the driving to the professionals. If you can name another assistant in all of Old Blighty who can make the drive from Kensington to Dorset in under two hours, I’ll eat my porkpie hat.

I tried to engage old Miss Thammavongsa several times in conversation, but it wasn’t until we got off the M3 that the ice began to crack, as they say. Sulking still about my veto of her Hebrides expedition, but I would have wagered a week’s worth of her pad thai that driving through the pines and oaks of the New Forest was having a calming effect on my chippy chauffeure.

Miss Thammavongsa, I essayed, would it interest you to know that Dr. Reed Robaire finds you decidedly the goods? I think he’ll be rather pleased to see you.

It is good for an assistant to have all manner of information, sir, she said, avoiding an oncoming lorry with the practiced ease of a veteran waiter during noon rush at the Wagamama. Even information that may not at first appear particularly relevant. But if it is as you say, perhaps it would be best for me to stand guard while you—

Here there was the slightest hesitation.

—wake Dr. Robaire. Also, unlike you, he may be in some manner of undress when we call. It would be inappropriate for me to be present. Finally, as you know, Dr. Robaire is exceedingly untidy, a vice you have on several occasions excoriated in my presence, especially with regard to your beloved beach house. This slovenly aspect of his personality rattles me considerably.

This argument made a clean job of it. All rebuttals receded before her.

Yes, it does at that, I admitted. I’ll rouse the old clinker then, and you man the barricades. Cor, I hope he hasn’t buggered up the place too bad.

We made it to Sandbanks in record time. I bought the property back when it was all shanties and bog, long before it was gussied up, long before it acquired the reputation of being the Riviera of the sceptered isle’s southern coast. No matter what those cagey Swiss may think about their mountains, sandy beaches and a good Channel view, those are the restoratives for yours truly, thank you very much.

If you would, Miss Thammavongsa, have a go at the perimeter and what not, I said. I’ll let myself in in the usual way.

She extracted a razor-sharp katana from the boot of the Aston and fitted herself with it. She then strapped her pistol belt on over her dress suit and set to her patrol with the doggedness of a well-trained Doberman pinscher. A downright barmy sight. Fuel for the fetishist, I’d gander.

I literally walked through the front door, and all was as I feared. Now I’m a reasonable chappie, and I’ve never been one to deny a bit of the hospish to my friends, but this was simply too, as they say, much. This had been the first time I had paid a visit to my young American friend’s temporary abode since he had deplaned last week, and I was moderately appalled to find it in the condition it was in.

It was as if some giant johnnie had gripped the house with two hands, held it upside-down, shook it like one of those Magick-Eight-Balls, and the fortune was Bingo Elkins, your beach house is all bunged up. Every spare inch of wall space had papers taped to it, and every spare inch of paper had indecipherable scientific mumbo-jumbo written on it. My new couch with the Corinthian leather and mahogany legs was now a platform for some manner of still-like apparatus thingie in which some glowy green liquid was twisting and so forth. Cords and cables snaked hither and yon, up and down the stairs, and if my corporeal wasn’t non, I surely would have ensnared myself for good.

It now dawned on me why Eustace, longtime major-domo for my seaside retreat, had declared suddenly that she needed to visit her grandchildren in Wales, right away, without delay, the length of which visit would, miraculously, coincide with however long Dr. Robaire would be staying.

I’ve never pretended to understand these scientific types, but I’d like to say I can I.D. a bloke with the little grey cells when I meet one, and Dr. Reed Robaire has a binder of them, let me tell you. He’s been to a number of top-shelf schools, MIT and VMI and LMNOP and so on, held government-sponsored symposiums on all manner of big-brained topics, like robometric engineering and fractal transfer something or other, and published some thickish books, the kind with thin pages and lots of fold-out diagrams that look like the blueprints for a spaceship.

All in all, he’s one of those types who, after being served a steaming tray-full of brains by the Maker, somehow managed to sneak back in the queue for another helping.

I met Boscoe, North Carolina’s answer to Isaac Newton a few years back when I was in the Colonies on holiday. Miss Thammavongsa has a preference that I meet all new hires of import in person, and after I had wrapped things up at the Preakness, I agreed to meet this singular chap. I took two things away from this interview: a realization that ‘science,’ as we know it, is held together by spit and willpower, and an enduring, if sometimes taxing, friendship with Dr. Reed Robaire.

I floated in as if I owned the place, which in fact I did. Old Robey zombied out into the living room in his bathrobe, hunkered down over his coffee, Huey Lewis hair disheveled as all get out. He didn’t see me, so I announced my presence robustly:

Hallo-allo-allo!

CHAPTER THREE

With a rather girlish shriek, Dr. Robaire dropped his mug. So much for the fine velvet Wilton with the 100% wool pile.

In a flashing instant, the window exploded inward and there was the schliiiing! of a Swedish powder folded steel katana. Miss Thammavongsa was instantly among us, having rolled into a crouch, one leg kicked out, the business end of her dice-o-matic targeting Old Robey’s throat.

I say, good show, Miss Thammavongsa! I exclaimed. Robey, it’s like a John Woo film when she does that!

As I explained who John Woo was to Dr. Robaire, Miss Thammavongsa stood up, eyeing Old Robey, and perhaps with a touch of the disappointment that she didn’t get to use her blade. She slid her hand along its blunt side and resheathed the death-dealer.

Miss T, a pleasure, Dr. Robaire cooed in his sonorous Piedmont accent. If y’all don’t mind, I think I need to go change my drawers.

Silence.

That’s a joke. I do need to get dressed, though. Miss T, in all your Oriental wisdom, you wouldn’t a-happen to have a cure for a hangover, would you? No? Oh, well. I’ll be back in a minute.

Dr. Robaire shuffled off into the guest room.

"Uy, said Miss Thammavongsa, carefully picking some glass off her shoulder. I apologize for the window. I will of course pay for it."

Rubbish! I exclaimed. It was worth it to see the expression on Old Robey’s face. I think the topper will be giving you a wide berth from now on.

Miss Thammavongsa nodded, and then said, It is unfortunate that he does not take better care of your guest house when he visits.

I surveyed the carnage, feeling rather like Montgomery at the aftermath of El Alamein, but there’s more to life, or death for that matter, than having a tidy domicile. It was hard for me to think this sitch the scaliest in the world when I have people who take care of that for me.

Don’t be so hard on him, Miss Thammavongsa. He’s a well-meaning fellow, even if he is a little off his onion at times. I think we can suffer a little eccentricity for all the entertainment value he brings us. Not to mention the boffo inventions.

I think that’s an admirable attitude, sir. Very affirming. Especially in the face of what happened to your conservatory. I noticed it when I was outside patrolling.

Er, I said. And even What?

Dr. Robaire reentered the room.

Sorry about that, he said. "I wasn’t expecting to see you until this evening. We’re still on for The Lion King at the Lyceum, right? I can’t believe we’re going to see Leandra Kramer in person—I’ve had a thing for her since she was in that movie where she played the—"

I had an ill foreboding. I get those from time to time when unpleasantness seems to be circling overhead. Sometimes the dead just get a feeling.

—nubile young…Bingo, what is it? Why are you—

My conservatory. You haven’t been beavering away out there with your experiments, have you? With my prize orchids and all, I mean.

Old Robey gave me a wide look fraught with suspicious eye-darting.

Well…

I’ll just take a look for myself.

Robey moved to cut me off, but I passed through him as if he weren’t there. It was he who was, of course, there, and I who wasn’t, but that’s a can of metaphysical nuts best left for philosophers and psychics and whatnot. Coo! I soon wished I hadn’t looked. Sometimes it’s just better to execute a 180 and let Pandora open her boxes herself while you occupy yourself in the waiting room with your tea and serial novel.

My poor conservatory was, as the Irish say, blown to smithereens. Exploded. Detonated. Place of address? The four winds. Population? One conservatory, one set of Woodard Ramsgate patio furniture, one 18th century rococo chaise-longues, and five prize-winning orchids. I had used my rather crude powers of telekiwhatnot to prune them myself. It had taken days.

Shall I kill him, sir? asked Miss Thammavongsa. Her katana was peeking a whole inch out of its sheath.

Yes. No. Let me think.

Now, I admit this looks bad, said Robey, but remember that this accident occurred in the pursuit of SCIENCE!—he thundered this word, as he always did, an inflexible habit of his—It was to be my greatest invention to date.

I may have been waxed, but Dr. Reed Robaire always presented his ideas as if they were the very fizzer of scientific inspiration. I listened intently as he lowered his voice into a hush. Very effective, that.

I call it the Truthinator. Think of it as the ultimate in polygraphs. With this invention, it is impossible for a criminal to lie, prevaricate, dissemble, or otherwise weasel out of telling the truth. Truthful testimony in our courts of law will be a manifest reality. Perjury will be obsolete!

That sounds smashing!

Yes! Thanks to SCIENCE!

Miss Thammavongsa wasn’t carried along on this wave, however. She was rather a grim anchor.

How does it work? she asked.

No offense, Miss T, but this is serious SCIENCE stuff—you wouldn’t understand it.

No, I’m sure I wouldn’t, she said. Perhaps if I had seen it before it blew up.

No need to be snarky, Miss T, Robey said. The Truthinator would have revolutionized the legal system. And it still might. It is 100 percent accurate right up until the moment it explodes.

What kind of berk builds a polygraph machine to explode? I asked.

It’s not built to explode, said Robey, looking at the ceiling and clenching his fists. Some of the compounds I used were unstable. I’ve been limited to what items I can find around the house, being as ya’ll don’t seem to have a hardware store that delivers around here.

Miss Thammavongsa and I exchanged a glance positively burdened with meaning. She was the first to aptly frame the question:

Do you mean to say, Dr. Robaire, that this machine that explodes you were able to design with simple materials found in this house?

Robey rolled his baby blues.

Miss T, he said, again I say—and I’m getting tired of saying it—the Truthinator was not designed to be an exploding Truthinator. You make do with the materials at hand. The simple fact is that I’m not working in a lab right now, so accidents happen. And Bingo, I truly am sorry that I cluttered up your house and destroyed your conservatory. But know that it happened in the name of SCIENCE!

A quick scannola over the detritus chucked all around us revealed an elemental truth. It was true; all his creations were kidnapped from devices around the house. My living room was the Island of Misfit Toys. The telly had been disassembled, the sandwich toaster was a shambles, and I had no idea I had so much glassware lying about.

I’d say the mess was deuced inconvenient and that Eustace would be having a minor infarction upon her return. I told myself to remember to have Miss Thammavongsa to leave a note on the door when we left. Ghosts aren’t supposed to be frightened of anything, but I’ll own that woman scares the ectoplasm out of me.

So what brings you all the way down here? asked Robey. It’s kind of a trip for a simple pop-in.

Your lab in New Mexico has been trying to get hold of you, Miss Thammavongsa said. She had that icy tone of voice she gets when part of the jigsaw puzzle is missing. They said they had lost contact with you.

Ah yes, said Robey. I needed the parts from your telephone for the portable water desalinator. The wiring from my cell phone went to the satellite rerouter. You’ll like that one a lot, Bingo. Great potential there, and probably some practical applications, too. So what did my people want? Did the Deratiocinator slip into the eleventh dimension again?

It’s Project Iris, old bean! I said, with enthusiasm.

Project Isis, Miss Thammavongsa corrected.

Project Isis, old bean! I said, with vim.

Old Robey got positively pie-eyed with joy, like a reveler who’s been told that despite coming late to the party, a slice of the chocolate torte with fondant icing has been set aside for him, hidden in the back of the fridge between the exotic cheeses and the Eggplant Surprise.

Project Isis? What did they say? Tell me exactly!

They were unspecific, said Miss Thammavongsa, but I believe the exact phrase they used was ‘breakthrough developments.’

If he had had another coffee mug in hand, my poor