Waking in Dreamland (37 page)

“Yes, I saw them,” Brom said, the calm in his voice belying the terrifying change in his eyes. “They are stalking us. The game has become more interesting now that they have caught up. We will have to take measures of our own. Follow me.”

“Not a sign, sir,” Alette said, coasting to a stop beside Roan in the foreyard of the big bicycle shop. She took off her uniform beret and ran a hand through her short red hair. “They’re nowhere to be seen. We checked every turning between here and the edge of the city.”

“They’ve vanished into air,” Bergold said. “Not an unheard of phenomenon in this world.”

“But temporary,” Leonora said. “Otherwise they’d just have blinked themselves to the Hall of the Sleepers days ago, without bicycles.”

“Should we stake out this place?” Spar asked, peering at the workshop. “They need a repair shop, and this is the best in the city.” The yard was filled with steeds in every state and stage of disrepair or discombobulation. The mechanics, clad in dirty coveralls, regarded the party with uneasy glances, but kept on about their work, caring for skittish horses, hammering out bicycle frames, recaning balloon baskets. “There’s plenty of places we could hide.”

“No,” said Roan, thinking hard. “Now that Brom knows we’ve spotted them, he won’t come back this way. They’ll find another shop. We’ll have to blanket the city with observers, and hope we can catch them before they leave town.”

“We don’t have enough to make a pillowcase, let alone a blanket,” Felan said, flippantly, although he still looked sheep ish at having given them away with his sneeze. “Just where do you plan to get more observers?”

Roan pointed down the street at a familiar blue light. “The police,” he said. “We’ll ask for their help.”

The large parking lot beside the building was full of official vehicles including blue bicycles, mopeds, one tall, boxlike car with a rack of lights on top, and horse-drawn carriages whose engine sections were munching on bags of oats. The party’s bicycles crowded together at one end of the yard, as if the police vehicles made them nervous.

Roan led the way up the wide stone stairs. As he approached the glass doors, they opened out towards him, releasing waves of soft music and a sweet, flowery scent.

“Welcome,” said a beaming policeman. He had bright pink cheeks and a jolly, round face crested with light brown hair that curled on his forehead. His uniform was a soft blue, and the double line of brass buttons were brightly polished enough for Roan to see his reflection. “Welcome to you all.” He looked at the others over Roan’s shoulder. “Welcome!”

“Thank you,” Roan said. “We would like to see whoever is in charge.”

“Well, of course,” the policeman said, and called back over his shoulder, “Sergeant! These lovely people would like to see the super.”

He pointed them toward a high desk and an equally rosy-faced man with the diamond insignia on his sleeve.

“I’ll be happy to tell him you’re here,” the sergeant said pleasantly, lifting a black telephone receiver larger than his head. “What name shall I give?”

“Please tell him it’s the King’s Investigator and party.”

“Of course. Just make yourselves at home.”

The sergeant gestured them to chairs and spoke quietly into the mouthpiece.

The station was trim and spotless. The waiting room had been painted pale orange, and seemed light and airy. Soft music with a bouncy, gentle beat played over the public address system. It was all very relaxing. No one spoke above a murmur, not even the two masked men whose statements were being taken at small desks behind a glass partition. Roan and Leonora did not speak aloud to one another, but telegraphed messages to one another with their eyebrows.

“How odd this seems,” Leonora’s said.

“This isn’t like any police station I’ve seen,” Roan sent back.

“Do you think we’ll have long to wait?” Bergold’s eyebrows inquired.

“I hope not,” Roan’s replied.

“Sir?” The desk sergeant smiled at them. “I hate to interrupt a private conversation. I was delighted to tell the superintendent that you wanted to speak to him. He’ll just be a moment. It won’t bother you to wait, will it?”

Captain Spar gave him a sharp look, thinking the remark was sarcasm, but the officer’s face remained friendly and open.

“Not too long, I hope.”

“Not at all. There’s coffee,” the sergeant said, helpfully. “And doughnuts. Plenty of doughnuts in the squad room.” He pointed to an open door to his left.

And so there were. The party helped themselves hungrily to the piles of still-warm rings and cups of very good coffee in a pink-painted room filled with easy chairs and footstools. Roan poured himself a large cup, thinking longingly of the bookstore and its coffee bar.

“Gosh, sir,” Lum whispered, clutching half a dozen doughnuts and a steaming mug in his big hands. “Much better than our mess, huh?”

“Don’t be too quick to praise ’em,” Spar said, surveying the trays suspiciously. “Probably turn out tasting like book-paste and talcum powder, like that stuff in Hark.”

But the pastries tasted as good as they smelled, and appeared to be in endless supply. When a platter was emptied, rosy-faced officers swept it away and brought another back full. After a snack of hot crullers and cappuccino, Leonora and Roan browsed through the break room, looking at the wanted posters pinned along the walls. According to the name in the bottom right corner of each, this seemed to be a series of aliases all of one man whose name was “Peter Max.” The very stylized images had been drawn with heavy black outlines and deep, solid, unshaded colors. Behind each portrait, the background was filled with stars and rainbows and daisies.

“I think I’d recognize him,” the princess said, examining one picture critically, “but I’m not sure. Strange style, isn’t it? Not photographic at all. More impressionistic.”

“Impressions are important in our business,” the sergeant said, cheerfully, coming up behind them. “The super will see you now.”

“Ah,” Roan said, turning and offering an elbow to Leonora. “That would be super.”

The friendly officer escorted them down a corridor painted with bright-colored daisies the size of Roan’s outstretched hand. The effect was bewilderingly hypnotic. The faster he walked, the more the design put Roan in a state of near stupor.

“Easy, easy,” the officer cautioned him, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Feeling the rush, are you? There’s no hurry.” He stopped before a door and tapped on it. Roan shook his head to clear it just in time for the introductions.

“It’s so nice to meet all of you,” the chief of the Reverie police said, as the sergeant showed them to chairs. “Please make yourselves at home. Now, how may I be of service?”

He waited courteously while the princess sank gracefully onto a cushion, and waited for her nod before seating himself in an overstuffed chair. Its tie-dyed upholstery against the flowered wallpaper was almost dazzling. Roan opened his mouth to speak.

“First,” the superintendent said, interrupting Roan, “do let me say how thrilled I am that you are gracing our city, Your Highness. You are everyone’s wanted poster of choice, if you will forgive a little professional joke.”

“Gladly,” Leonora said, patiently. But she tidied up her flowing white dress a little, giving the cloth a satinlike luster. “May we tell you our concerns?”

“That’s what we are here for, to serve and protect and to be good listeners,” the super said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “Go ahead, ma’am.”

“Here is our difficulty,” Roan began again.

“I hope you have had a chance to see our beautiful city,” the super said, sitting upright suddenly, as if a thought had struck him from behind.

“Not very much,” Roan said. “Please!” He held up a hand to forestall another outburst by the police chief, who settled back in his chair with a disappointed expression. “Have you been notified by the Crown about a renegade band of scientists carrying a dangerous device across the Dreamland?”

“Why, we may have been,” the super said. “Officer Toodle? Do go and see if we’ve had anything of that sort.”

“Certainly, sir,” the blond officer said, with a languid salute, and departed, in no hurry.

“Whose vision of the police is this?” Spar asked in a furious undertone to the others. “It’s a joke!”

“There are pockets like this all through the Dreamland,” Bergold explained in a quiet voice. “You can tell by the decor. Particularly the daisies on the wall, and the posters. It’s a particular vision of a particular group of Sleepers. We’ve noticed that it appears to be characterized by a relaxed disposition among the inhabitants, and very often affects law enforcement or other officials.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Spar said firmly, looking with disapproval upon the flowered wallpaper and the rest of the oversized decor. “It’s prissy.”

“Super, here it is,” the officer said, returning with a piece of neon-pink paper. “We had it on the ‘To Be Read’ pile. Awfully close to the top.”

“Ah, good, right where it belonged.” The superintendent put on a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses and read through the notice.

“Uh hum. Uh hum. Uh hum. I see. I have all the details now.” He put down the sheet of paper, and leaned toward them over his tented fingers. “What is it that you want me to do?”

“We want you to arrest Brom,” Roan said. “He’s here in the city now with the device. We saw him only a few minutes ago. He can’t leave immediately. We have information that he is looking for a repair facility. That should give us enough time to raise the hue and cry. Arrest him and impound the Alarm Clock.”

“That would be uncool,” said the super. A frown creased his forehead, and then it relaxed again into a paternal smile. “Hue and cry? How very old-fashioned. Our job is to help troubled people so that they don’t feel they must disrupt society. We can’t just throw a cordon around the whole city and rope him in like a felon. What will that do to his self-esteem? You see, Mr. Roan, the way I see it our job is to help restore the self-esteem of the alleged felons with whom we come in contact. We are less concerned about the events that bring them into our little sphere and more about their mental state. We want to help those who commit crimes to understand that they are
loved
, and that they are
okay
. If we interfere in their behavior, it might forever scar them. We can’t have that.”

“But Brom seems very well-adjusted,” Roan said. “We are not concerned with his self-esteem. It is his intentions that are malign.”

“Well, then, you see, you don’t need us at all,” the super said, turning up his hands and smiling. “The problem is solved.”

“Enough of this,” Roan said, impatiently, slapping his hands on his thighs, to the evident disapproval of the superintendent. “We are losing valuable time. Captain Spar, I believe this is your department.”

“Right,” Spar said, standing up beside him. He squared up his shoulders and straightened his belt as he leaned over the desk toward the super, who flinched back into his puffy chair.

“Listen here, super. I am Captain Spar of the palace guard. Are you a loyal subject?”

“Of course I am,” the super said patiently, drumming his fingertips together. “I am proud to be an imaginary denizen of the Dreamland.”

“Well, then, listen here, friend,” Spar said, with his finger within inches of the superintendent’s nose. “When you treat an emergency like a chance to redeem wrongdoers you are not doing your job properly. You’re the enforcement arm of the law.” The finger stabbed down on the neon-colored paper again and again to punctuate his words. The super sat with his mouth hanging open. “You aren’t here to make judgments about a perpetrator. And that’s what you’re doing. Your job is to catch him and let the courts decide what to do. Right?”

“Well, I suppose . . .”

“Right, or not right?” Spar demanded. “Make your decision! Tell me!” He pounded his fist on the pink paper, which faded with every bang until it was plain white.

Spar’s words, too, seemed to have an effect on the room itself. He may not have had much control of influence, but he knew how to command. The cheery orange paint faded to a dingy industrial yellow. The daisies vanished off the wallpaper, leaving it a plain, narrow stripe. Overhead, the speaker pouring out honeyed music started emitting short declarative sentences muffled by static. The room looked ready for business.

“By the Seven, you are right,” the super said. He had changed, becoming less jovial-looking, and Roan was relieved to note, more competent. Although the buttons remained shiny, the police uniforms darkened to blue-black and acquired a businesslike cut. The superintendent picked up the document, read through it again, and gestured sharply for his assistant. The sergeant noted his superior’s alterations, and though he remained apple-cheeked, his eyes hardened.

Still, he took a moment to wink at the princess.

“All right,” the superintendent said, “then we’ll arrest them. I’ll need full descriptions.” He picked up a pencil and a black notebook. The sergeant took an identical notepad out of his pocket, and waited, poised.

“There are between ten and fifteen of them,” Roan said, watching them write down the numbers
10
and
15
. “Brom is of above average height. When I saw him closely, he was very thin, almost gaunt, with deep-set, hooded blue eyes with an expression I would almost describe is insane.”

“Ah, insane,” the super said, gesturing to his officer, who made an emphatic note. “Presumed dangerous. And how long ago was that? And where?”

“Four days ago, some fifteen miles north of the Nightmare Forest. We spotted them again here in Reverie and gave chase, but we never got close enough to get a good look before they disappeared.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“Pocket protectors. They all wear them,” Roan said. “Except for their two hired musclemen.”

“Hmmph! Definite sign of psychosis,” the superintendent said.

Roan gave quick descriptions of the others that he could remember, plus details of the litter containing the Alarm Clock. He mentioned the tread patterns of the bicycles they had been following, and Corporal Lum came forward to identify the specific patterns in a mug book. The genial officer jotted down the details.