He thinks it’s over, thought Artemis. Poor man. And then: This beard really itches.
He waited calmly until the furor had trailed away, then came out from behind the podium. “I was hoping to spare you this, Doctor,” he said. “Because I respect you so much.”
Kronski flapped his lips. “Spare me what, Master Pasteur?”
“You know what. I think you have pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes long enough.”
Kronski was not in the least worried. The boy was beaten and everything else was was just irritating chatter. Still, why not let Pasteur dig a hole for himself?
“And what wool would that be?”
“Are you certain you want me to continue?”
Kronski’s teeth glittered when he smiled. “Oh, absolutely certain.”
“As you wish,” said Artemis, approaching the dock. “This creature was not our original defendant. Up until yesterday we had a lemur. Not quite a monkey, Mr. Coontz-Meyers, but close enough. I say we had a lemur, but in truth we almost had a lemur. It went missing at the pickup. Then, and this is important, then we were sold this creature by the same boy who sold us the lemur, undoubtedly paid for from Extinctionists’ funds. Does anyone else think this is a little off? I do. This boy keeps his lemur and sells us a supposed fairy.”
Kronski was not so cocky now. This Pasteur fellow had a lot of information.
“Supposed fairy?”
“That’s right. Supposed. We have only your word for it, and of course that of Mr. Kirkenhazard, who apparently is your worst enemy. Nobody is falling for that ruse, I assure you.”
“Examine the thing yourself,” blurted Kronski, glossing over the Kirkenhazard accusation. “This is an easy argument to win.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Artemis. “I believe I shall.”
Artemis approached the cage. This was the tricky part, as it required sleight of hand and coordination, which were the elements in every plan that he usually left to Butler.
His pocket bulged slightly with a couple of adhesive nu-skin bandages taken from Mulch’s medi-kit. He had told the security guard that they were nicotine patches and so had been allowed to bring them through to the banquet. The bandage adhesive was activated by skin contact, and it molded itself to the contours it was applied to, assuming the color and texture of the surrounding skin.
Artemis’s fingers hovered over his pocket, but it was not yet time to touch a bandage. It would simply stick to his own hand. Instead he reached into his other pocket for the phone he had stolen from the Bentley, back at Rathdown Park.
“This phone is invaluable to me,” he told the Extinctionists. “It’s a little bulkier than other phones, but that is because I have been installing add-ons for years. This phone is an amazing thing, really. I can stream television, watch movies, check my stocks, all the standard stuff. But I also have an X-ray camera and display. Just give me a second.” Artemis pressed a few buttons, linking the phone by Bluetooth to the laptops, and from there to the large view screen.
“Ah, here we are,” Artemis said, passing the phone in front of his hand. On screen an arrangement of phalanges, metacarpals, and carpals stood out darkly inside a pale foam of flesh. “You see the bones of my hand quite clearly. This is a very good projection system you have, Dr. Kronski. I congratulate you.”
Kronski’s smile was as fake as the congratulations had been.
“Do you have a point, Pasteur, or are you just showing us how clever you are?”
“Oh, I have a point, Doctor. And that point is, that were it not for the width of the brow and the pointed ears, this creature seems remarkably like a little girl.”
Kronski snorted. “A pity about the ears and brow. But for them you would have an argument.”
“Precisely,” said Artemis, and passed the phone before Holly’s face. On screen, he played a short movie file he had constructed back in the shuttle. It showed Holly’s skull with dark, dense shapes on her temples and ears.
“Implants,” crowed Artemis. “Clearly the result of surgery. This fairy is a clever fake. You have tried to dupe us, Kronski.”
Kronski’s denials were lost in the roar of the crowd. The Extinctionists surged to their feet, decrying this despicable con job.
“You lied to me, Damon!”shouted Tommy Kirkenhazard, with something like anguish. “To me.”
“Put him in the pit,” called Contessa Irina Kostovich, her face as feral as that of the Honshu wolf on her shoulder. “Make Kronski extinct. He deserves it for dragging us here.”