Seven Days of Halloween - Day 2
Oct. 27th, 2018 11:33 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuNapoleon smiled at a passing undergraduate as he knocked on the professor’s door, then twisted around to watch her miniskirt sway down the corridor. He turned back and flinched. A wild-haired old man with a crazed grin stared up at him.
“Dr. Wagman?” Napoleon asked.
“Ye-ess?” he said slowly, putting the agent in mind of a cinema vampire.
“I’m Napoleon Solo from the U.N.C.L.E. You agreed to listen to something for us.”
Dr. Wagman drew back his head and opened his eyes wide. “Ah, yes, the recording,” he said, rolling the Rs. “Come in to my office.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” Napoleon murmured, taking a last look around the corridor before following the professor into the gloom.
Decades rolled back with each step. A hanging brass oil lamp under a painted shade provided the room’s only illumination. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows.
“Forgive the darkness. Sunlight is bad for my library.”
“Mr. Edison’s done some amazing work in that area,” Napoleon said as he side-stepped a pile of books. “You should read up on it.”
More stacks of books jutted from the carpet like headstones. Countess volumes lined the shadowed walls, their flaking gold titles winking in the lamplight. The office reeked of kerosene and must, of moldy leather and aging parchment. Napoleon began to feel lightheaded.
The world’s foremost authority on dead languages sat down behind his vast desk. Eyeing the decaying chair the professor offered, Napoleon chose to stand. He placed a small silver briefcase on the desktop. George Dennell had looked at him strangely when he requisitioned the model designed for transporting volatile compounds. Napoleon only knew the tape player was not going to travel in his coat pocket.
He opened the case and spun it around, reluctant to touch the device. Dr. Wagman picked up the player and turned it over in his hands as if it were a relic of the ancient world. “So small,” he said.
“But with stereophonic sound.”
The professor put the player on the desk and, to Napoleon’s relief, required no assistance to activate it. He glared impatiently during Linda’s part, licking his parched lips with a tiny, pointed tongue. As the snarling mockery of speech began, he grinned, wide-eyed and maniacal, and rubbed his hands together. “Beautiful. Like music.”
Napoleon screwed up his face in distaste. Needing to put as much space as possible between himself and the recording, he strolled over to the bookshelves. Artifacts both obscure and grotesque stood interspersed among the volumes. The shrill gibberish of the tape rewinding was almost as disturbing as the original. The professor dipped a pen into an inkwell and scribbled furiously as the transmission repeated. The scratching of the nib across the paper sent a frisson down Napoleon’s spine.
Seeking a distraction, Napoleon opened an ornate box, then quickly shut it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and again lifted the lid. He had not been seeing things. A withered human hand lay within, the brown leathery fingers curled like talons.
“I’ve heard of leaving your heart someplace, but, ah...”
“It is a hand of glory.”
Napoleon jumped. The professor stood at his elbow, leering at the ghoulish object.
“A what?” Napoleon asked as he stuffed his own hands into his pockets.
“A hand of glory,” Dr. Wagman intoned, the latter rhymed with flowery. He jutted his face closer to the agent. “Are you a devotee of the mystic and arcane?”
“No,” Napoleon said, leaning back, “I’m a devotee of the soft and feminine.”
The professor picked up the box. “It is the mummified hand of an executed man. With it one can open the strongest lock and render the strongest man insensible.”
Napoleon rolled the shoulder above his Special and smile drolly. “I can do those things too.”
“For the quick, the means of the quick,” Dr. Wagman said, closing the box.
“Ok.” Napoleon glanced back at the desk. “Listen, Doctor, have you, ah, learned anything from that recording?”
The professor returned to his desk and set the box beside his notes. “It is a language of the dead.”
“Yes, a dead language. That much we knew.”
“No, a language of the dead.”
Napoleon grew cold, then hot. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he said harshly, “Are you saying that Illya is—”
“Only the dead can hear the dead.”
Napoleon ran a hand over his face. “So something, some dead thing was using Illya as a…” He searched for a reference the archaic little man would understand. “A telephone?”
The professor nodded.
Napoleon paced between the stacks of books. “Well, did they say what they wanted or what happened to the ship?”
“Only the dead can under—”
“Understand the dead. Naturally.” Napoleon‘s voice raised in frustration. “Unfortunately, all the people I know happen to be alive. How about you, professor? You have any pen pals among the dearly departed?”
Dr. Wagman’s crazed grin returned. Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“Dr. Wagman?” Napoleon asked.
“Ye-ess?” he said slowly, putting the agent in mind of a cinema vampire.
“I’m Napoleon Solo from the U.N.C.L.E. You agreed to listen to something for us.”
Dr. Wagman drew back his head and opened his eyes wide. “Ah, yes, the recording,” he said, rolling the Rs. “Come in to my office.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” Napoleon murmured, taking a last look around the corridor before following the professor into the gloom.
Decades rolled back with each step. A hanging brass oil lamp under a painted shade provided the room’s only illumination. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows.
“Forgive the darkness. Sunlight is bad for my library.”
“Mr. Edison’s done some amazing work in that area,” Napoleon said as he side-stepped a pile of books. “You should read up on it.”
More stacks of books jutted from the carpet like headstones. Countess volumes lined the shadowed walls, their flaking gold titles winking in the lamplight. The office reeked of kerosene and must, of moldy leather and aging parchment. Napoleon began to feel lightheaded.
The world’s foremost authority on dead languages sat down behind his vast desk. Eyeing the decaying chair the professor offered, Napoleon chose to stand. He placed a small silver briefcase on the desktop. George Dennell had looked at him strangely when he requisitioned the model designed for transporting volatile compounds. Napoleon only knew the tape player was not going to travel in his coat pocket.
He opened the case and spun it around, reluctant to touch the device. Dr. Wagman picked up the player and turned it over in his hands as if it were a relic of the ancient world. “So small,” he said.
“But with stereophonic sound.”
The professor put the player on the desk and, to Napoleon’s relief, required no assistance to activate it. He glared impatiently during Linda’s part, licking his parched lips with a tiny, pointed tongue. As the snarling mockery of speech began, he grinned, wide-eyed and maniacal, and rubbed his hands together. “Beautiful. Like music.”
Napoleon screwed up his face in distaste. Needing to put as much space as possible between himself and the recording, he strolled over to the bookshelves. Artifacts both obscure and grotesque stood interspersed among the volumes. The shrill gibberish of the tape rewinding was almost as disturbing as the original. The professor dipped a pen into an inkwell and scribbled furiously as the transmission repeated. The scratching of the nib across the paper sent a frisson down Napoleon’s spine.
Seeking a distraction, Napoleon opened an ornate box, then quickly shut it. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and again lifted the lid. He had not been seeing things. A withered human hand lay within, the brown leathery fingers curled like talons.
“I’ve heard of leaving your heart someplace, but, ah...”
“It is a hand of glory.”
Napoleon jumped. The professor stood at his elbow, leering at the ghoulish object.
“A what?” Napoleon asked as he stuffed his own hands into his pockets.
“A hand of glory,” Dr. Wagman intoned, the latter rhymed with flowery. He jutted his face closer to the agent. “Are you a devotee of the mystic and arcane?”
“No,” Napoleon said, leaning back, “I’m a devotee of the soft and feminine.”
The professor picked up the box. “It is the mummified hand of an executed man. With it one can open the strongest lock and render the strongest man insensible.”
Napoleon rolled the shoulder above his Special and smile drolly. “I can do those things too.”
“For the quick, the means of the quick,” Dr. Wagman said, closing the box.
“Ok.” Napoleon glanced back at the desk. “Listen, Doctor, have you, ah, learned anything from that recording?”
The professor returned to his desk and set the box beside his notes. “It is a language of the dead.”
“Yes, a dead language. That much we knew.”
“No, a language of the dead.”
Napoleon grew cold, then hot. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he said harshly, “Are you saying that Illya is—”
“Only the dead can hear the dead.”
Napoleon ran a hand over his face. “So something, some dead thing was using Illya as a…” He searched for a reference the archaic little man would understand. “A telephone?”
The professor nodded.
Napoleon paced between the stacks of books. “Well, did they say what they wanted or what happened to the ship?”
“Only the dead can under—”
“Understand the dead. Naturally.” Napoleon‘s voice raised in frustration. “Unfortunately, all the people I know happen to be alive. How about you, professor? You have any pen pals among the dearly departed?”
Dr. Wagman’s crazed grin returned. Napoleon swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I asked.”
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Date: 2018-10-27 05:11 pm (UTC)