Free Faust Among Equals by Tom Holt Page B

light, could have been mistaken for a serious look.
    â€˜And what have you been doing, George?’ she demanded.
    â€˜Time.’
    Â 
    Funny old stuff, Time.
    There is, notoriously, a lot of it about. But it is, of course, a finite resource.
    This could have been a problem. Back in the dark ages, pre-ecology, the powers that be had the curious notion that they could go on pumping the stuff out indefinitely. ‘Plenty more where this came from,’ they reassured themselves, as they gaily sank new bore-holes and erected giant new rigs.
    But they were wrong. Time, like everything else, is running out.
    Not that you’d know it if you went by the commodities markets. Just now, for example, over-production has led to a serious glut. The price has, accordingly, tumbled. They’re practically giving the stuff away, with free wineglasses.
    This state of affairs can’t last, of course, and the wiser heads are already planning for the day when the wells run dry. They’re also at last grasping the nettle of what to do with all the enormous dumps of used Time which litter up the underprivileged back lots of the Sixth Dimension, slowly rotting their half-lives away and doing awful things to the environment.
    This stuff, they say, can be recycled. All we need is a little more research, one tiny breakthrough.
    Which is rather like saying that Death can be cured just as soon as we can find a way of making people live for ever.
    Â 
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ the receptionist said. ‘Nobody can see Mr Van Appin without an appointment.’
    The mirror sunglasses stared back at her, and she wriggled slightly.
    â€˜That’s okay,’ said the man in the shades. ‘Seeing him is not essential. Just so long as I can kick his liver out through his ears, I’ll pass up on the visual contact.’
    Before she could press the panic button, Lundqvist leant over, ripped the wires out with a tiny flick of the wrist, wrapped them round a couple of pencils, and presented them to her, corsage-fashion. Then he kicked in the door.
    â€˜Kurt,’ said Mr Van Appin, not looking up, ‘great to see you, take a seat, I’ll be with you in just a . . .’
    Shit, Lundqvist thought, I’m getting slow. He’d managed to get the drawer open two millimetres before I grabbed him.
    â€˜Help yourself to a revolver,’ Mr Van Appin said. ‘I usually have one myself about this time.’
    Lundqvist smiled without humour, removed the revolver from the drawer and pocketed it. Then he leant forward, thrusting his chin under Van Appin’s nose.
    â€˜So,’ Mr Van Appin said, ‘what can I do for you? Thinking of making a will, perhaps?’
    Lundqvist shook his head.
    â€˜You should,’ Van Appin said. ‘Dodgy business like yours, I’d have said it was a very sensible precaution. Thinking of buying a house, then?’
    This time, Lundqvist didn’t shake his head. For variety, he shook Mr Van Appin’s.
    â€˜Shall I take that,’ remarked Mr Van Appin, spitting out the syllables like a boxer spitting teeth, ‘as a negative?’
    â€˜Where is he?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Faust.’
    Mr Van Appin smiled, his professional smile which does not mean, ‘Hello, I like you, shall we be friends?’ Quite the opposite, in fact.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Mr Faust is my client, and I cannot disclose confidential information. And,’ he continued quickly, ‘just in case you were contemplating being so ill-mannered as to threaten me with bodily injury, may I just remind you that I practise the law in all the major centuries simultaneously, and I include your present employers among my most valued clients. One false move out of you, and I’ll have an injunction out to stop you ever having been born before you can say “chronological dysfunction”.’ He paused, and gave Lundqvist a patronising grin. ‘In your