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"Carter!" snapped Walker. "Why are you naked again?"
The figure at the desk crouched down even further behind his stacks of paper. "It helps me relax! I've got a lot on my mind!"
I turned away and interested myself very firmly in the contents of one of the spi
Visit the colourful Street of the Gods! (Travel insurance advised, especially against Acts of Gods.) Visit the amazing Mammon Emporium; all the merchandise from all the worlds! Try a bucket of Moose McNuggets, or a Cocaine Cola! Have you seen the Really Old Ones in the World Beneath? (Parental discretion advised. Some parts of the tour may not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.)
That was about as much as I could stand. I looked back, to see Carter emerge sullenly from behind his desk, now wearing a grubby undershirt and jeans. He looked as run-down and untrustworthy as the place he worked in, which took some doing. Carter was neurotically thin, defiantly unhealthy, and basically disgusting on a genetic level. You got the feeling he'd still be sleazy even if you soaked him in bleach for a week. He did his best to look put-upon and hard done by, but I still felt an instinctive need to slap him, on general principles. He cringed away from Walker and glared at me.
"Don't bother; I already know who you are. I'm Basil Carter, and you're not at all pleased to see me. No-one ever is. See if I care. And yes, this place is a dump. Why not? No-one ever comes here. The last person to stick his head through that door really wanted the karma repair shop next door. What do you want, Taylor? We're closed. Or out for lunch. Or renovating; that's always a good one. There's been a fire, or an outbreak of plague, or the rabid weasels are loose again. Come back later. Or not at all; see if I care. Those are my official responses to any and all inquiries. I'm only talking to you now because Walker will hit me if I don't."
"And quite right, too," said Walker. "I never knew anyone who deserved being beaten repeatedly about the head and shoulders more than you do, Carter. And don't you dare complain. If the people around here knew who you really were, they'd drag you out of this shop and feed you into a wood-chipper, toes first."
Carter sniffed loudly, in a defiantly moist and unpleasant way. "When you offered me this job as an alternative to lifetime incarceration in Shadow Deep, I should have known there'd be a catch. Working in this hell-hole should count as cruel and unusual punishment. At least I don't have to deal with people much. I've never been a people person."
"Then you shouldn't have buried so many of them under your floor-boards," Walker said briskly. "I needed someone for this position whose very existence would discourage people from coming in, and you fit the job perfectly."
"Walker," I said. "Why are we here? You didn't march me all the way across the Nightside just to meet this… person, did you?"
"Perish the thought," said Walker. "Walk this way."
"If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the acupuncture," sniggered Carter.
Walker hit him.
A concealed door at the back of the office opened up onto a much larger room. I followed Walker in, while Carter resumed his post behind his desk again; and just like that, I was in a whole other world. The new room was huge, stretching away in all directions, its walls covered from floor to high ceiling in hundreds and hundreds of viewscreens. Images came and went faster than I could follow them, constantly changing and updating. There were computers everywhere, backed up by unfamiliar machinery working furiously at unknowable tasks. And miles and miles of hanging cables, twisting and turning in great loops, criss-crossing like the web of a spider strung out on acid. Sitting in the middle of all this was a silent figure in a simple white robe, held upright in his chair by a series of tight leather straps. He was utterly still, his face blank, staring at nothing, with dull, unblinking eyes. A dozen thick cables sprouted from his shaven head, where holes had been drilled to allow them to burrow on through into the brain. He didn't react to me, or to Walker. He didn't even know we were there. Walker shut the door firmly and locked it, then strolled over to the silent figure and checked a few of the skull contacts to make sure the cables were secure. He clapped the unmoving figure on the shoulder and smiled happily, like a proud father.
"Welcome to my Secret Headquarters, John. My special place, from where I see and hear everything, hidden behind the perfect off-putting disguise. This is Argus. He makes what I do possible; don't you, dear boy? Argus isn't his real name, of course; it's more of a job description. No-one remembers who he is; in fact, I doubt if even he remembers any more. It doesn't matter. There have been hundreds like him, and no doubt there will be hundreds more. Computers and scrying balls can't do everything; you need human input to pick out the things that matter from all the oceans of information that come pouring in at any moment.
"So, Argus. The god with a thousand eyes. Sees all, knows all, and no personality to get in the way. Though they do tend to burn out fairly quickly… Still, not to worry; there's never any shortage of replacements. Don't worry, John; he can't hear us. All his senses are focused exclusively on the Nightside. His higher functions have been surgically removed, so they can't interfere with his observations. His mind has been surgically adjusted, so it can interface perfectly with the computers and watch thousands of situations at once, throughout the Nightside, and never once grow bored or distracted. Nothing happens that Argus doesn't know about, and report on, and draw attention to, if it is red-flagged in his programming. Names and faces like yours, John. He always has an eye out for you.
"What do you think of my Secret Headquarters, John? Admit it; you always thought I had some great underground lair, watching over an army of secret informers and secret police, reporting back on everything they see. Well, in a way you're right, but we'll get to that later. Why are you scowling, John?"
I gestured at Argus. "He's not a volunteer, is he?"
"Well, hardly. That would be cruel. Only the really nasty bastards get to undergo the Argus procedure. People who deserve it. Like Basil Carter out there; why waste time and money locking them up? There's Shadow Deep, of course, but that's for the out-and-out monsters like Shock-Headed Peter, who deserve to suffer. Everyone else gets to do useful things for the Nightside, in recompense for their crimes. This particular Argus ran an utterly foul con scheme, ripping babies from living wombs to sell on. Now he performs a useful function and is well provided for. He gets fed and watered and changed on a regular basis, and he'll spend what's left of his time helping to protect the Nightside from people like him. What could be more fitting?"
"You said something about secret police," I said.
"So I did. Well spotted, John. Glad to see you're paying attention. There are hundreds of other criminals, their heads as empty as Argus, walking up and down the Nightside, their minds linked to him through the computers. They've been programmed to look and talk like everyone else, even though there's no-one at home in their heads. They go everywhere and see everything, and no-one ever notices them."
"And these are more pressed men? More criminals being punished?"
"Of course!" said Walker. "Take your poachers and turn them into gamekeepers. A grand old tradition…"
He looked at me for some response, some reaction to what he was saying, but I wasn't ready yet. I gestured at the hundreds of screens covering the walls.