Changeling (18 page)

The Chorus Line rippled with surprise. “You do?”

“We're experts,” I exaggerated. “Take me to the Producer.”

“The Producer's the Genius of Broadway, you know,” the Chorus Line said doubtfully. “It's not easy to get in to see him. Do you really think you can get rid of those bugs?”

I didn't have a clue, but I did think that once we got into the Producer's office, anything could happen. If worst came to worst, I was sure we could work out some kind of a deal, maybe go on a quest for a computer wizard or something. I didn't know much about Tech Folk, but I hadn't known much about mermaids, either.

Or maybe we'd actually get rid of the Producer's bugs. It was worth a try, anyway.

“No problem,” I said. “Lead us to it.”

CHAPTER 16

 
 
 
The Chorus Line forged through the Broadway crowds like a troop of pixies through a meadow, prancing down the sidewalk and kicking out with her twelve high-heeled golden shoes. Changeling and I scuttled breathlessly behind her, so close that we bumped into her when she stopped.

“Oopsy-daisy,” she said. “Well, this is it: the Producer's Office. Ain't it the limit? Well, chickens—see you in the funny papers.” Before I could thank her, she wheeled neatly and high-stepped away.

I looked up. The Producer's Office looked like a palace a djinn might build for a giant with a taste for gold leaf and theatre. The Office's walls soared up high and spread out wide, and every inch of them was decorated with golden gargoyles and feather pens and masks of comedy and tragedy and huge mosaics showing scenes from famous plays like
A Midsummer Night's Dream
and
Peter Pan
.

As I stood gawking at Peter Pan fighting Captain Hook, someone bumped into me, growling something about tourists and hicks. I pulled myself together and headed for the door.

There were three sets of double doors, each big enough to admit a medium-sized dragon. The outer two were locked and chained. The central one was guarded by a bigger-than-life-sized statue of a golden griffin. A little golden bell dangled from its beak
.

I reached up to ring it, and the griffin flickered violently. Startled, I jumped back and waited until I was pretty sure nothing worse was going to happen, then tried again. This time, my hand went through the bell like it wasn't there.

Third time
, I told myself,
is a charm
.

On my next try, the bell buzzed loudly. I jumped, and the griffin blinked.

“You two dolls got an appointment?” Its beak didn't move when it spoke and it had a bad case of static, so its question sounded more like, “You
crackle
dolls
crackle
appointment?” But I got the drift.

“I'm sure the Producer will see me without one,” I said firmly.

“You are sure he will see you, huh?” The griffin's voice was a little stronger. “Me, I am not so sure. The Producer does not talk to little dolls as a general rule, unless they are represented by an agent. You dolls got an agent?”

“Do we look like we got an agent?” I asked.

The griffin coughed, or maybe it was laughing. “You have moxie, little doll. I will give you that. But it takes more than moxie to see”—the griffin winked out completely for a second—“without an appointment.”

“That griffin is a hologram,” Changeling said.

The griffin blinked and focused on her. So did I. “What does a little doll like you know about holograms?” it asked.

“A hologram,” Changeling said, “is a three-dimensional illustration, created with an optical process using lasers. I have never heard of a free-standing one, but I believe that they are theoretically possible. This one is almost certainly malfunctioning.”

I didn't understand what she was saying, but apparently the griffin did. “That little doll is not as dumb as she looks,” it crackled. “Come on in.”

The big doors jerked open, sticking unevenly halfway. Changeling froze, so I grabbed her jacket and hauled her in after me.

The Producer's lobby was as grand as the outside of the building, only more so. Acres of plush red carpet! Miles of gilded carving! Hundreds of chandeliers like crystal waterfalls! Mirrors! Paintings! Statues galore! No doors I could see, but there was a long golden staircase that curved gracefully up to a golden balcony. As we crossed the hall toward it, I caught sight of two wild-haired bogles sneaking across the luxurious carpet. One of them looked into my eyes with terrified astonishment. It was not a pleasant moment when I realized that the bogles were Changeling and me.

The Pooka always said that attitude counts more with Folk than appearance. I threw back my shoulders and marched up those golden stairs like I owned them. At the top, a second griffin flickered and fizzed as if it couldn't make up its mind whether it was really there or not.

“The elevator is to your
crackle
,” the griffin said. “Shake a leg, dolls. The Producer
crackle crackle
.”

Luckily, there was only one elevator in sight and only one button on the panel inside. I pushed the button and the door hissed closed, shutting Changeling and me into a mirrored cube. Faced once again with my boglelike reflection, I brushed at my skirt and picked some dried seaweed out of my hair. It didn't help much.

The elevator rose slowly, groaning and bouncing like a spider on a thread. I began to worry that the Producer's buggy computer was about to drop it or dematerialize it or make it go sideways. My reflection turned a delicate green. Changeling's reflection didn't change at all.

There was a soft
ding
and the elevator quivered to a stop. The doors whooshed open and I stumbled gratefully out into a long hall. At the far end, a third griffin hologram lay across the threshold of a gilded door. The griffin looked about like I felt: You could see the door's golden curlicues clear though it.

It got to its feet, flickering madly. “The Producer
crackle
,” it informed us. “If he finds out that you little
crackle
are
crackle
with some cockamamie
crackle
, he is going to be very
crackle crackle
.”

This did not sound promising, but I wasn't going to turn back now. I glanced at Changeling, who was scowling at the griffin as if she found it offensive. “Let's get this show on the road,” I said, holding on to my attitude as hard as I could.

“Your funeral,” the griffin said clearly, and flickered out as the door swung wide.

Given the Producer's taste for gold and scarlet, I was expecting his private office to be really special. It was special, all right: dingy gray paint, a speckledy linoleum floor, a beat-up wooden desk, a huge dented gray metal cabinet with double doors, a ratty office chair, a few torn posters tacked to the walls, a cracked leather sofa. The only really colorful things in the room were a toy theatre with red velvet curtains and the Producer himself.

Except for his clothes, the Producer looked a lot like the troll who lived under Glen Span Arch. He was about twice as tall as me and more than twice as wide, with a head like a fireplug and a mouth like a baby's and little blue marble eyes. The Glen Span troll, however, wouldn't have been caught dead in a mustard-colored suit with red checks and a brown fedora pushed to the back of his head.

The Producer leaned back in the ratty chair and put his two-toned shoes on the beat-up desk. “A little bird tells me you dolls want to talk,” he said. “So talk.”

I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers behind my back for luck, and said that I'd heard that the Broadway computer was full of bugs. Since my companion and I knew something about computers, we thought we'd drop by and see if we could help him out.

The Producer of Broadway laughed, showing flat yellow teeth. “Help me out, huh? What kind of a chump do you take me for? Everybody knows dolls are ignorant on the subject of computers. You are lucky I am a Genius with a sense of humor, or I would bop you in the beezer.”

“Then it's a good thing I'm not a doll, isn't it?” I said.

“You are not a doll?” He squinted his blue marbles at me. “Then what are you? Chopped liver?”

“A mortal changeling.”

The Producer laughed. It was not a happy sound. “Are you thinking that is some kind of a recommendation? I am somewhat sore on the subject of mortals at this time. The citizen that sells me this turkey is part mortal himself. He tells the tale that this computer is a mortal-fairy hybrid, only one of its kind, completely resistant to gremlins and theatre critics. He does not mention bugs.” The Producer ground his trollish teeth. “When I find this citizen, I will bite his head off, and then I will close him down so fast he will not know what hit him. That will teach him to sell the Producer of Broadway a turkey, at that.”

I didn't remember anything in
Macworld
about turkeys. I swallowed. “That's very interesting,” I said weakly.

The Producer snorted. “That is what they all say. For weeks, there is a parade of nerds and geeks and hackers through my office and every one of them says my problem is ‘interesting.' I am thinking that ‘interesting' is Tech Folk talk for ‘kaput.' I even find this guy who says he is a computer wizard straight from Cyberspace. He is a very strange citizen indeed, just a head and a box and a couple of long, wiggly arms. And what does he do?” The Producer took a bright yellow handkerchief out of his breast pocket and swiped his face with it. “He makes it worse.”

The only way to kill a troll was to trick him into staying outside until the sun came up, when he'd turn to stone—not really useful in a place where it was always night. And I wasn't sure sunlight would work on a Genius, however troll-like, even if I wanted to kill him. Which I didn't.

“Well, well,” the Producer said. “Your stand-in has found my computer.”

I spun around to see Changeling poking at the golden curlicues on the toy theatre. To my astonishment, the scarlet curtains parted to reveal a dark screen labeled “Fire Curtain.” I glanced at the Producer to see how he felt about Changeling touching something without asking first.

Surprisingly, the Producer was grinning happily. “That is one smart little doll. The other guys all look in the cabinet.” He swiveled his chair to the gray metal cabinet behind his desk and yanked open its doors. A bearded head sporting a pointy hat stared back at me with an expression of horrified astonishment: the computer wizard, I guessed. Ranged on the shelves around it were smaller heads, most of them wearing heavy black glasses repaired with duct tape and paper clips.

“Get it?” the Producer asked.

I swallowed. “Got it.”

“Good. I will leave you dolls alone. I cannot stand to watch computer magic. It makes me nervous.”

When the door had closed behind him, I turned to Changeling. “It's no use. This is just too dangerous. When the coast is clear, we'll go look for some stairs and get out of here. I'll think of some other way to get the ticket.”

“Why?” Changeling asked.

If I'd known what a beezer was, I would have bopped hers myself. “Why? Because I don't want our heads to end up in the Producer's collection, that's why.”

“You said you knew how to fix the computer.”

“I was wrong.”

I tiptoed to the office door and cracked it open. The griffin was still lying across it, looking so faded and flickery that I doubted it would be able to stop us. However, the Producer was slouched in a golden chair with his feet on a stool and his hat pulled down over his forehead. His marble-blue eyes met mine.

“I hope you dolls are not thinking of taking it on the lam,” he rumbled. “Because if you are, I will have to bite your heads off.”

“Of course not,” I said quickly.

“Good. Now get back in there.”

I shut the door softly.

Changeling had pulled the Mermaid's Mirror out of her shirt, and was humming in an absorbed kind of way. “Hey, Changeling,” I said, and nudged her gently with my toe, but she didn't even notice.

I wheeled the Producer's chair over to the toy theatre and sat down.

Macworld
was all about computers with screens and keyboards; the Producer's computer was a toy theatre. Still, a computer's a computer, right? I looked for a button labeled ON, but wasn't surprised not to find one.

Gingerly, I poked at a golden curlicue. Nothing happened. I poked at another. A panel below the theatre opened and a flat board studded with rows of buttons popped out.