Page 32 of Storm of Bells
On second thought, no cursing. I didn’t havethe time to curse right now! I had to move!
My fingers flew over the keys like the feetof a mad tap-dancing goblin. Row after row of letters appeared onthe blank sheet of paper, accompanied by a racket that was badenough to split my head in two. Were they the right letters? I hadno idea! I didn’t even have the time to check. But if I had thoughtthis was the worst Mr Ambrose had in store for me, I was sorelymistaken. He kept the insane pace up for about ten minutes, until Iwas nicely exhausted and my fingers were aching all over—thencranked it up a notch! I had no idea how any human being could talkthis fast without swallowing his own tongue.
But then, no one has ever assumed that MrRikkard Ambrose is human, have they?
He kept this up for half an hour. When he wasfinally finished, he had a stack of perfectly typed letters atleast an inch thick, and I had a collection of malfunctioning twigsattached to my hands where, formerly, I had possessed fingers.
Flicking through the stack of letters, hegave a nod.
‘Adequate.’
‘I’msoglad you think so,’ I groaned,pressing my hands against the cold stone of the wall in the hopethey’d stop throbbing.
‘I will give those to Mr Stone to have themdispatched immediately.’
The door of the office closed with a clickbehind him. When, after a minute or two, he hadn’t returned, Ibreathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t coming back! Groaning, Iclosed my eyes, stretched my arms and leaned back. Finally! He wasgranting me a break.
Just then, the sound of doom reached myear.
Plink!
…
Crap!
The Best Baby NameEver
Slowly opening my eyes,I spotted the metal container lying on the desk in front of me.Picking it up with two throbbing fingers, I fumbled for themessage.
Mr Linton,
Look in your top drawer. There, you shallfind a number of handwritten notes that I require to be typed andready for dispatch within half an hour.
Rikkard Ambrose
With a heavy heart and even heavier fingers, Iopened the drawer which, just yesterday, had only held a fewpencils and other office equipment. Now, however…
Reaching inside, I groaned, and, with my lastbit of strength, managed to lift the giant pile of paper out of thedrawer. It landed on the desktop with a thump. Panting, I snatchedup a piece of paper and started to scribble.
Dear, deranged Mr Ambrose,
Nobody can write that fast! Especially notwith that devil’s machine! You’re insane! Go jump into the Thamesand die!
Yours sincerely,
Lillian Linton
Oh, and P.S. Remember what I said aboutloving you? Forget it! I hate you! Hate! Hate!!!
A few moments later, aplinkannounced thearrival of a reply from Ambrose the Mighty.
Mr Linton,
Research has shown that machine-aidedwriting far surpasses the world record of thirty words per minutethat was achieved by a renowned stenographer. Now that you haveaccess to such machinery, make use of it. I shall expect you towork twice as fast as before, and I shall speed up my own workaccordingly.
Mr Ambrose
P.S. I love you, too.
