SACRED GONGA UPGRADED
Hearts rose at the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center yesterday when the World Council for Venerated Objects upgraded the much-revered Splotvian artifact to “most sacred” status, effective immediately. “It’s a tremendous honor,” said Professor Hardiman, whose grandfather smuggled the Sacred Gonga out of war-torn Splotvia in 1876, “and just in time for the Jellyman’s dedication on Saturday.” A spokesman from the WCVO pointed out that the “most” prefix was purely ceremonial, and the twelfth-century relic could still be referred to as “the Sacred Gonga” without disrespect.
—From the Reading Mercury, April 6, 2004
They pulled up at the curb, and Mary switched off the engine. It rattled on for a bit before it finally died.
“Must get that seen to.”
They climbed out of the car and looked at the glass-and-steel structure built on Forbury Gardens. If it had been anything other than the dreary day it was, the sun’s rays would doubtless have cascaded from the many-faceted glazed roof and given an effect as magical and wondrous as the treasure the building was built to house. As it was, the only thing cascading from anywhere was the rainwater running into the drains from the downpipes.
“Ugly as sin if you ask me,” said Jack.
“Beautiful piece of architecture,” said Mary, precisely at the same time. “We agree to differ,” she added. “A fine building should always court controversy. Isn’t that traffic warden staring at you?”
“Oh, shit,” said Jack. “Keep moving and pretend you haven’t seen her.”
But it was too late. The traffic warden, a woman about Jack’s age but whom the years had not blessed as kindly as, say, Lola Vavoom, trotted up to him. And she didn’t look very happy.
“Jack!” she said with an overblown sense of outrage. “You never call me!”
“Hello, Agatha,” said Jack with as much politeness as he could muster. “You’re looking well.”
“Don’t try and sweet-talk me, worm. Think you can just toss me aside like a…like a…like a used thing that needs tossing aside?”
“Steady on, Agatha.”
Mary stared curiously at the uniformed bundle of hot indignation—the overdone mascara and lipstick looked more like warpaint.
“Don’t you ‘steady on’ me, Jack. You don’t call, you don’t write—”
“Agatha, it’s over. It’s been over for a long, long time.”
“Maybe for you,” she said angrily. “What about if I came and told your wife, Sarah, about it? What would she say, huh?”
Jack sighed. “Sarah is…no longer in the picture. I remarried—”
“Remarried?” she asked in a shocked tone. “When?”
“Five years ago. And listen, you and I were finished long before I even met Sarah.”
“Do you have any idea how this makes me feel?”
“No,” said Jack, who had resisted the temptation of humiliating her with a restraining order, since she happened to be Briggs’s partner, “I have no idea at all. How’s Geoffrey?”
“Not half the man you are. The trombone’s driving me nuts—and he wants to change his name to Föngotskilérnie.”
“You have my sympathies. I’m busy, Agatha.”
She cheered up, blew her nose on a light mauve handkerchief, leaned closer, gave him a coy smile and walked her fingers up his tie.
“I’ll be waiting for your call, Jack. Anytime. I’ll be waiting. For your call. Whenever.”
“Good day, Agatha.” And he turned quickly and moved away.
“Yikes,” he said in an aside to Mary. “That was Agatha Diesel. Makes Dr. Quatt seem a picture of rationality.”
“There’s nothing mad about being miffed at rejection,” said Mary, who thought that even people like Agatha needed a champion in their corner.
“A week’s passion in 1979,” he replied wearily, “twenty-five years ago. And she called it off for a fling with Friedland. She doesn’t pester him because he has a hundred-yard restraining order out on her.”
“Ah,” said Mary, suitably contrite. “You’re right: mad as a March hare.”
They approached the main doors of the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center, which had been cast in a bronze relief that depicted in detail the turbulent history of Splotvia, from the earliest days of Splotvane I “The Unwashed” all the way through the medieval civil wars to the modern socialist republic, still coming to terms with itself after the overthrow of Splotvane XIV “The Deposed” in 1990.
The heavy doors were locked and bolted, so they walked around the side to the service entrance. This was also shut tight, but at least there was an entry phone and TV camera. Jack picked up the phone and announced themselves. Without a word the door slid open, and they were admitted to an inner cubicle to which there was no exit other than the way they had come or through a second door shut tight in front of them. To their right a uniformed guard sat behind a thick sheet of bulletproof glass. The door shut noiselessly behind them.
“Welcome to the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center,” said the guard in a marked Splotvian accent. “Can you place your IDs in the drawer, please?”
A steel drawer opened beneath the glass, and they did as he requested. He slid the drawer to his side, and after he’d studied the IDs for a moment and compared their likenesses with those on his database, the door to the building opened in front of them.
“Thank you,” said the guard as he handed their IDs back. “If you take a seat, Professor Hardiman will be with you shortly.”
Mary looked cautiously around. The interior of the building was modernist but subtly mixed with the geometric motifs that one usually associated with Splotvian architecture. It was pleasing, and she liked it.
“DI Spratt?” came a voice from the other side of the room. They turned and rose to meet the Professor, a small and dapper man who had the rosy red cheeks of outdoorsy good health. “My name is Bruce Hardiman. It was my grandfather’s expedition that discovered the Sacred Gonga. And you must be DS Mary. How do you do?”
He shook hands with both of them and thanked them profusely for giving up their lives, if necessary, to protect the historic artifact.
“To protect and serve,” replied Jack dryly.
“How very Gonga of you,” observed Hardiman respectfully. “To die in the service of the Sacred Gonga is to die a worthy death indeed.”
“Professor,” said Jack, “we’re not actually planning on dying at all; we’re just here to protect it. I’m sure nothing will go wrong.”
“You must excuse me. I get carried away sometimes. As you can see the Sacred Gonga is housed in a state-of-the-art museum-cum-strongroom that is gasproof, bombproof, thiefproof, shock-proof and antimagnetic. It is completely self-contained in every way. Inertial batteries housed beneath our feet can give power for up to three weeks in the event of a power failure, and all air-conditioning, humidity control, halon antifire systems and CCTV security monitoring are masterminded from within the confines of its walls. Let me show you around.”
He walked across to a panel on the wall and pressed his thumb onto a small illuminated square, then entered a code on a touch pad. The door slid open, and they found themselves in a large chamber with the bronze front doors behind them and a full history of the Sacred Gonga on the walls with other examples of early Splotvian art.
“This is the part open to the public,” explained the Professor.
“The doors to the street open behind us, and the queues form in this outer chamber here. As the eager visitors get closer to the Sacred Gonga Containment Chamber, they are searched by guards at these tables and scanned by metal detectors hidden in the walls. They then move through these secure double doors, which gives us an opportunity to close down the facility quickly and easily in the event of an emergency.”
He pressed another thumbprint panel, entered a second code, and the three-foot-thick vault door slowly opened.
“One way in, one way out. Floor, walls, ceiling—all of steel two feet thick encased by a concrete outer shell. Bare feet, please.”
They sat on the bench and removed their shoes and socks. Sacred Gonga protocol demanded it. Hardiman was wearing loafers without socks and, after slipping them off, he walked barefoot into the chamber before the vault door was fully open. Once they had joined him, they could see that the room was octagonal and paneled in red marble picked out in obsidian trim. In the middle and encased within a large glass dome was the Sacred Gonga itself. It was illuminated from below, and the rest of the room was quite dark, which added to the mystical effect.
“Behold,” said Hardiman grandly, stretching his arms out wide, “the Most Sacred Gonga.”
Neither Mary nor Jack had ever seen the Sacred Gonga up close. They’d seen numerous pictures, of course, but nothing ever quite prepares you for the firsthand experience.
“It’s…it’s…amazing,” said Mary. “What’s that bit there that looks like a map of Wales upside down?”
“Ah!” said Professor Hardiman. “That’s the Pwaarl, which connects the Qussex to the Limbrell. As you can see, three of the eight Limbrells are missing. It is said that when the eight Limbrells are rejoined within the influencing sphere of the Sacred Gonga, the true Gonga will be revealed to the world. I see you are admiring the Prizzucks, Inspector?”
“So that’s what a Prizzuck looks like,” murmured Jack. As the light caught them, they sparkled and danced. “Why are they undulating in that strange manner?”
“The strange undulation of the Prizzucks is only one of the many mysteries of the Sacred Gonga.” The professor smiled. “Let me show you something.”
He positioned Jack on one side of the room and Mary on the other so the Sacred Gonga was directly between them and told them to close their eyes.
“Now think of a number,” whispered the Professor in Jack’s ear.
“Eight,” said Mary as soon as he thought of it. “Four. Six. Twelve.”
“Was she right?”
“Quite right. How does it do it?”
“We have no idea. The Sacred Gonga has many secrets, good and bad. Thousands of lives have been lost over the years in the effort to find out. Despite the demands of the Splotvian minister of antiquities, the Sacred Gonga is going to stay here in Reading.”
Jack pointed at the clear dome covering the Sacred Gonga. “What’s that made of?”
“Toughened glass. It will withstand a grenade, eighty kilos of Semtex, an .88 artillery round. A thief would have to somehow get through the glass, take the Sacred Gonga and be out again in under thirty seconds—always assuming he was not apprehended by the four armed guards or rendered unconscious by the quick-acting nerve gas we can introduce at will.”
“Looks like you’re not leaving anything to chance.”
“Absolutely not. The dedication ceremony will take place in here at midday. At 1400 hours we open to the public. We expect ten thousand visitors that afternoon and over one million in the first six months. It’s not surprising; since the attempted theft three years ago, the Sacred Gonga’s not been on public display.”
They put their shoes and socks back on and were escorted to the exit.
“The Jellyman Security Service will take command from 0900 hours to midday; the rest of the time, security will be down to you and me and the four armed guards on the museum floor.”
“Looks like we won’t have much to do,” observed Jack.
“Exactly what I said to Superintendent Briggs,” said Hardiman with unwelcome directness. “I told him I could make do with lobotomized monkeys if he had any.” He clapped his hands together, indicating that he had used up enough of his valuable time. “Well, thanks for coming around, and I’ll see you on Saturday at 1330, but if you’re late, don’t worry—I’m sure we can manage.”
They exited by way of the secure double doors and were soon back out on the street, which felt cold and damp after the precise humidity-controlled environment of the visitors’ center.
“Ever felt redundant?” asked Jack as they walked back towards the car. “I think it’s Briggs’s way of easing me into the pain of losing the NCD.”
Mary didn’t answer. It was probably exactly what Briggs had in mind.
“Let’s go and see what Dr. Quatt has to say for herself. Blast. Agatha’s given me a ticket.”