“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.”

The outdated St. Cerebellum’s mental hospital had been constructed in 1831 and was considered modern for its day. With separate wards for unmarried mothers, sufferers of milk allergies, unwanted relatives and the genuinely disturbed, St. Cerebellum’s once boasted a proud record of ill-conceived experimental treatment. With the high level of fee-paying curiosity seekers the litmus test of its success, St. Cerebellum’s even outstripped Bedlam as those requiring lunatic-based entertainment flocked to Reading in droves. But the days when you could pay sixpence to view someone who thought he was Napoleon were long gone, and despite continued and relentless modernization, it was still an anachronistic stain on Reading’s otherwise fine record of psychiatric treatment.

Jack and Mary entered the hospital at the main reception area and, after being issued with passes to avoid any more embarrassing accidental incarcerations, were escorted along the plain whitewashed corridors by a burly nurse with a two-way radio and a bunch of keys on his belt.

“You’ve heard about the plan to rebuild St. Cerebellum’s?” asked the male nurse.