“This businessman didn’t appreciate being messed with, so he messed back. And this kid is dragged kicking and screaming into the real world. So, now this kid has to make a choice; does he tell the businessman what he needs to know, or does he put himself and his family in mortal danger? Well, Arty, which one is it?”
Spiro was making a serious mistake by toying with Artemis Fowl. It was difficult for adults to believe that this pale-faced thirteen-year-old could actually be a threat. Artemis had tried to take advantage of this by wearing casual clothes in place of his usual Armani suit. He had also been practicing an innocent, wide-eyed look on the jet, but wide-eyed was not how you wanted to look when one iris did not match the other.
Blunt prodded Artemis between the shoulder blades.
“Mr. Spiro asked you a question.” His new teeth clicked as he talked.
“I’m here, am I not?” replied Artemis. “I’ll do whatever you wish.”
Spiro placed the Cube on a long steel table that ran down the center of the vault.
“What I wish is for you to disable your eternity code, and get this Cube working right now.”
Artemis wished that he could make himself perspire, so his anxiety would seem more authentic.
“Right now? It’s not that simple.”
Spiro grabbed Artemis by the shoulders, staring him in the eye.
“And why wouldn’t it be that simple? Just punch in the code word, and away we go.”
Artemis averted his mismatched eyes, staring at the floor.
“There is no straightforward code word. An eternity code is built to be irreversible. I have to reconstruct an entire language. It could take days.”
“Don’t you have any notes?”
“Yes. On disk. In Ireland. Your monkey wouldn’t let me bring anything in case it was booby-trapped.”
“Can we access your hard drive online?”
“Yes. But I only keep my notes on disk. We could fly back to Ireland. Eighteen hours, round-trip.”
Spiro wouldn’t even consider that option.“Forget it. As long as I have you here, I’m in control. Who knows what kind of reception is waiting for me in Ireland? We do it here. As long as it takes.”
Artemis sighed. “Very well.”
Spiro replaced the Cube in its Plexiglas case. “Get a good night’s sleep kid, because tomorrow you’re going to peel this gizmo apart like an onion. And if you don’t, what’s about to happen to Mo Digence will happen to you.”
Artemis wasn’t unduly worried by that threat. He didn’t believe Mulch to be in any danger. In fact if anyone was in trouble, it was those two musclemen, Pex and Chips.
CHAPTER 9
GHOSTS IN THE TIME MACHINE
Vacant lot, Malthouse Industrial Estate, South Chicago
Jon Spiro had not hired Pex and Chips for their debating skills. In the job interview, they had only been set one task. A hundred applicants were handed a walnut and asked to smash it however they could. Only two succeeded. Pex had shouted at the walnut for a few minutes, then flattened it between his giant palms. Chips had opted for a more controversial method. He placed the walnut on the table, grabbed his interviewer by the ponytail, and used the man’s forehead to smash the nut. Both men were hired on the spot. They quickly established themselves as Arno Blunt’s most reliable lieutenants for in-house work. They were not allowed outside Chicago, as this could involve map reading, something Pex and Chips were not very good at.
At the moment Pex and Chips were bonding under a full moon, while Mulch dug a dwarf-size pit in the dry clay behind an abandoned cement factory.
“You wanna guess why they call me Pex?” asked Pex, flexing his chest muscles as a hint.
Chips opened a packet of the potato chips he was forever crunching.
“I dunno. Is it, like, short for something?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno,” said Chips. He used that phrase a lot. “Francis?”
This sounded dumb, even to Pex. “Francis? How could Pex be short for Francis?”
Chips shrugged. “Hey. I had an Uncle Robert and everyone called him Bobby. That don’t make no sense neither.”
Pex rolled his eyes. “It’s pec-tor-als, moron. Pex is short for pectorals, on account of me having big chest muscles.”
In the pit, Mulch groaned. Listening to this mindless banter was almost as bad as having to dig a hole with a shovel. Mulch was tempted to deviate from the plan and launch himself into the flaky soil. But Artemis did not want any display of fairy powers at this stage of the proceedings. If he took off, and these goons escaped without being mesmerized, then Spiro’s paranoia would be driven up another notch.
Up on the surface, Chips was eager to continue the game.
“Guess why they call me Chips,” he said, hiding the bag of chips behind his back.
Pex kneaded his forehead. He knew this one.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “I can work it out.”
Mulch poked his head from the hole. “It’s because he eats chips, you idiot. Chips eats chips. You two are the thickest Mud Men I have ever met. Why don’t you just kill me? At least I won’t have to listen to your drivel.”