he factory of the Central Intelligence was as hot or hotter than the Brazilian rainforest, though much improved since their last visit. Now freed, minutians walked and worked busily, and gone were the thundering pistons of its great and terrible machine. It still controlled a great part of the city’s more complex workings, but the day-to-day running of its production lines had been happily handed back to its citizens. Gearnish no longer made weapons, or Guardians; no longer made anything capable of causing harm. That lesson had been learnt and at a high enough price. Today and for evermore, the city of Gearnish made the very thing that had brought it its fame and fortune in the first place.
“Toys, master and miss – toys, toys, toys! We’ve orders all over the world now, thanks to Mr Fox and his whistle-blowing. The jossers’ll pay a fortune for our wind-up marvels, and if it weren’t for my great-uncle Faisal here, we’d be well behind schedule.”
Ned turned to the newly cast face of the Central Intelligence. It had a rather fatherly sort of look and, aside from the numerous cables protruding from its head, reminded him of the mild-mannered Cogsworth he had met in Amsterdam.
“Master Ned,” steamed the great machine, “I’m afraid Whiskers’ body was melted down to ashes before I could do anything, but, like me, his soul was transferred to the machine-mind instantly. In any case, he’s been rebuilt from top to bottom and we’ve added a few enhancements I think you’re going to like.”
Ned didn’t want any enhancements – he just wanted his old dog-mouse again, and by his side.
The newly formed Debussy Mark Twelve came running out to meet him, tail wagging, and ran through Ned’s legs and right up into Lucy’s arms.
“Err, thanks, I think,” grinned Ned. “It’s good to see you, boy.”