Three: In which a portable anvil comes in handy

Three: In which a portable anvil comes in handy

The anonymous glass-and-steel buildings of the Home Counties Technology Park squatted amid their landscaped lawns, radiating heat back at the late-July sun. Traffic was light at this time of morning, and there was no-one about but the postman, trudging back and forth between his van and a series of doors bearing company names that uniformly terminated in “sys”, “com”, “tec” or “tron”. These were blank buildings. Buildings that emitted no sound. Buildings where pallid men with no dress sense got excited about microchips.

The postman slammed the back doors of the van, climbed into the driver's seat and drove away. A strain of anonymous pop music lingered with the exhaust fumes in his wake and faded into the hiss of a sprinkler.

Flip-flops slapped unevenly on the spongy tarmac, breaking the silence. A man in a frayed Hawaiian shirt and saggy jeans was limping along the pavement, his hands in his pockets. He paused from time to time to peer at the titles emblazoned on panels bursting from the lawn beside every entrance.

Despite the limp, he walked with palpable energy, his massive form shouldering the air aside, while the sunlight fell on his head and shoulders and crumpled from the impact.

He stopped outside the last building and read the sign: “Forge Technologies”, with a hammer for a logo above the name “Prof. W. Elland” and a few dozen impressive-looking groups of letters. This seemed to be amusing, for he snorted a laugh, and was still chortling as he pushed open the door and wandered into a shady lobby. A young woman sat behind an ultra-modern steel desk, absorbed in a book of feminist diatribe.

She placed an envelope in her book to mark the place before giving him her attention. Plainly, she was not impressed.

“Can I help you?” she enquired frostily. The Professor was most insistent that she should not allow any interruptions to his work unless absolutely necessary. Her job, he explained, was to be the Cerberus at his gate. She wasn't flattered by the description.

“Is Elland in? Tell him John Smith's here to see him, would you, sweetheart?”

One hand on her book for moral courage, and imagining her other two slavering heads in place – visualisation was a prime tool in the construction of healthy self-esteem, according to her therapist – she bared her teeth. Nobody called her 'sweetheart' and got away with it.

“I'm afraid that Professor Elland ...”

The newcomer smiled, and she blushed. That was a smile full of power and promise, backed up by the twinkle of brown eyes above a battered nose and a curly beard.

“Just pop up and tell him I'm here, love. Run along, now.”

She found herself obeying. How annoying. Where was Germaine Greer when a girl needed her? Still ... Hmmmm. Was it out of order to invite her boss's visitors for a drink?

She had long given up hope and gone home when Professor W. Elland and John H. Smith strolled out into the balmy air after several hours' stimulating discussion of the latest developments in semiconductors. Elland, also a burly man with an uneven gait, stretched hugely, straining the seams of his expensive suit jacket. He yanked the knot of his silk tie loose and twisted his top button open.

“Fancy a pint?” he asked, leading the way round the side of the building to where his car was parked.

“When have you ever known me to refuse?” replied the other. “Sweet!” he said admiringly, catching sight of the silver E-type.

“She's a beauty, isn't she?”

Smith ran his hand along the car's flank and gestured for Elland to raise the bonnet. They stood a while in pleasant contemplation of the perfect twelve-cylinder V-12 engine.

“Some things just can't be bettered, can they?” said Smith. “You're a lucky bugger to be in this country, Wayland.”

They closed the bonnet reverently and climbed in, silent for a moment to appreciate the purr of the motor.

“So, what's Apollo using these days?” Wayland asked as they turned onto the main road.

“He's still got the old quadriga for ceremonial occasions,” said the other, “but generally he drives a Porsche. He gets me to service it, but they're all flash and no soul – not like this baby.” He leaned his elbow across the top of the door and patted the E-type again. “So – where are you taking me, now I've solved all your knotty technological problems?”

“As if you could, Hephaestus,” chuckled Wayland. “To the White Horse Inn. Decent beer, and we can look in at the smithy, seeing as it's Friday.”

“People still leave you their horses to shoe?” Hephaestus was surprised.

“Only one or two of the old wizarding families in the area. Mostly it's just local lads with their motorbikes. Had a lovely vintage Triumph last weekend. Tuned up a treat.”

A couple of hours and a couple of pints later, the two gods strolled along the path under the summer stars, one with his hands in his pockets again, the other with his Armani jacket slung over one shoulder and shirt sleeves rolled up.

“So your wife didn't feel like making the trip, then?”

Hephaestus harrumphed.

“Wasn't there last time I went home. Left a note to say she'd got some sort of project in hand. I pity the poor mortal ...”

“You never know, mate, she might actually be trying to do someone a favour.”

“Rather than following her own whims? Why should she break the habit of eons? Never mind. You not got a girlfriend at the moment? That secretary of yours is quite tasty.”

Wayland shuddered theatrically.

“Much too skinny. I like a good pair of hips on a woman, a little flesh. You know – something that says she knows how to make a good meal and enjoys eating it too.”

“Traditionalist.”

“What's wrong with that? Ah – here we are. No customers tonight, though. Come in – I'll show you around.”

They slipped between the neolithic stones and through the dimensional portal into a neat forge, the fires banked down and all the tools perfectly arranged. Wayland slung his jacket across the anvil and went to fetch a bottle of whisky while his guest examined an unfinished filigree tunic that lay glinting on one of the benches.

“That's a commission for the royal family – it'll stop anything: bullets, knives, you name it. Oh, what's this?”

An owl ghosted through the open doorway and dropped a scroll into Wayland's hand.

“Message from one of Athena's girls?” The owl bobbed its head and flew off.

Hephaestus sipped his whisky.

Wayland tossed him the parchment. “Fancy a holiday? That wizarding school in Scotland's in need of some very fancy wrought iron gates. The sort that'll impress the kilt off anyone who sees them and be able to bear the weight of some very strong magic.” He looked wistful. “It's ages since I did any wrought iron work.”

“Me too,” said Hephaestus with a grin. “Back to basics. None of this sub-molecular stuff that makes my eyes cross. Just good old fire and muscle and metal and art.” He looked round at the racks of tools. “Shall I help you pack?”

“We'll need the Range Rover for this,” Wayland answered. “Good job I've got a portable anvil.”