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Humph! said Joffy. It s what I would expect from someone who thinks Jon
Pertwee was the best Doctor.
Landen and I stared at him, unsure of whether we should agree, postulate a
different theory or what.
It was Tom Baker, said Joffy, ending the embarrassed silence. Miles made a
noise that sounded like conventionalist, and Landen went off to fetch the
tape.
Doofus? whispered Joffy when Landen had gone.
Yes?
Have you told him?
No, I whispered back.
You can tnot tell him, Thursday if you don t tell him the truth about the
BookWorld and Acme Carpets, it s like you re I don t know lying to him.
It s for his own good, I hissed. It s not like I m having an affair or
something.
Are you?
No, of course not!
It s still a lie, sister dearest. How would you like it if he lied to you
about what he did all day?
I daresay I d not like it. Leave it to me, Joff I ll be fine.
I hope so. Happy birthday and in case you hadn t noticed, there s some
Camembert on fire in the hood of your Acme Carpets van.
Some what?
Camembert. On fire.
Here it is, said Landen, returning with a video. Remembrance of the
Daleks. Where did Thursday go?
Oh, she just nipped out for something. Well, must be off! People to educate,
persuade and unify hopefully in that order. Ha-ha-ha.
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Sorry about that, I said, coming back from outside. I thought I saw
Pickwick make faces at the cat next door you know how they hate each other.
But she s over there, said Landen, pointing to where Pickwick was still
struggling to look at herself and her blue-and-white stripy sweater in the
mirror.
I shrugged. Must have been another dodo.
Isthere another bald dodo in the neighborhood with a blue stripy cardigan?
And can you smell burning cheese?
No, I said innocently. What about you, Joff?
I ve got to go, he repeated, staring at his watch. Remember what I said,
sister dearest!
And he and Miles walked off toward the crowd that had started to gather
around the wrecked car.
I swear I can smell burning cheese, said Landen as I shut the front door.
Probably Mrs. Berko-Boyler cooking next door.
Outwardly I was worry-free, but inside I was more nervous. A chunk of burning
Camembert on your doorstep meant only one thing: a warning from the Swindon
Old Town Cheese Mafia or, as they liked to be known, the Stiltonistas.
16.
Cheese
The controversial Milk Levy from which the unpopular Cheese Duty is derived
was imposed in 1970 by the then Whig government, which needed to raise funds
for a potential escalation of war in the Crimea. With the duty now running at
1,530 percent on hard and 1,290 percent on smelly, illegal cheese making and
smuggling had become a very lucrative business indeed. The Cheese Enforcement
Agency was formed not only to supervise the licensing of cheese but also to
collect the tax levied on it by an overzealous government. Small wonder that
there was a thriving underground cheese market.
Thanks for tipping us the wink about the dodo fanciers, I said as we drove
through the darkened streets of Swindon two hours later. A tow truck had
removed the wreckage of the fanciers car, and the police had been around to
collect statements. Despite its being a busy neighborhood, no one had seen
anything. They had, of course, but the Parke-Laine-Nexts were quite popular in
the area.
Are you sure we weren t followed? asked Millon as we pulled up outside an
empty industrial unit not a stone s throw from the city s airship field.
Positive, I replied. Have you got buyers for it?
The usual cheeseheads are all champing at the bit, recipes at the ready. The
evening air will be rich with the scent of Welsh rarebit to night.
A large seventy-seat airship rose slowly into the sky behind the factory
units. We watched while its silver flanks caught the colors of the
late-evening sun as it turned and, with its four propellers beating the still
air with a rhythmic hum, set course for Southampton.
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Ready? I asked.
Ready, said Millon.
I beeped the horn twice, and the steel shutters were slowly raised on the
nearest industrial unit.
Tell me, said Millon, why do you think the Old Town Stiltonistas gave you
the flaming Camembert?
A warning, perhaps. But we ve never bothered them, and they ve never
bothered us.
Our two territories don t even overlap, he observed. Do you think the
Cheese Enforcement Agency is getting bolder?
Perhaps.
You don t seem very worried.
The CEA is underfunded and knows nothing. Besides, we have customers to
attend to and Acme needs the cash. Think you can liberate five grand by
tomorrow morning?
Depends what they ve got, he said after a moment s reflection. If they re
trying to peddle common-or-garden Cheddaresque or that processed crap, then we
could be in trouble. But if they ve got something exotic, then no problem at
all.
The roller shutter was high enough to let us in by now, and we drove inside,
the shutter reversing direction to close behind us.
We climbed out of the van. The industrial unit was empty except for a large
Welsh-registered Griffin-V8 truck, a long table with leather sample cases
lying on it and four men wearing black suits with black ties and sunglasses
and looking vaguely menacing. It was all bravado, of course Scorsese movies
were big in the Welsh Republic. I tried to see by the swing of their jackets
if any of them were packing heat and guessed that they weren t. I d only
carried a gun once in the real world since SpecOps was disbanded and hoped I
never had to again. Cheese smuggling was still a polite undertaking. As soon
as it turned ugly, I was out.
Owen Pryce the Cheese, I said in a genial manner, greeting the leader of
the group with a smile and a firm handshake, good to see you again. I trust
the trip across the border was uneventful?
It s getting a lot harder these days, he replied in a singsong Welsh accent
that betrayed his roots in the south of the republic, probably Abertawe.
There are dutymen everywhere, and the bribes I have to pay are reflected in
the price of the goods.
As long as it s fair price, Pryce, I replied pleasantly. My clients love
cheese, but there s a limit to what they ll pay.
We were both lying, but it was the game we played. My clients would pay good
money for high-quality cheese, and as likely as not he didn t bribe anyone.
The border with Wales was 170 miles long and had more holes than a hastily
matured Emmentaler. There weren t enough dutymen to cover it all, and to be
honest, although it was illegal, no one took cheese smuggling that seriously.
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Pryce nodded to one of his compatriots, and they opened the sample cases with
a flourish. It was all there every single make of cheese you could imagine,
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