The Better Mousetrap by Tom Holt Page A

THREE.
    She knew she’d come to the right address when she saw the young man. He was tethered to the reception desk by one of those plastic-covered bicycle chains, and the red glow of shame from his cheeks was bright enough to toast cheese.
    ‘Excuse me,’ she asked him, ‘but is this Amalgamated Extrusions?’
    The young man looked wretchedly at her and shuddered. “Sright,’ he mumbled.
    She nodded. ‘You’re the sacrifice, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She thought: traditionally it should be a young woman, but this is the twenty-first century. Did it make him feel any better to know that he was an equal-opportunities sacrifice? Probably not. Of course, it didn’t say anywhere in the book of rules that the sacrifice had to be a girl. The only requirement was that it should be a vir—
    ‘Soon have you out of there,’ she said briskly. ‘You just hang on, keep very still, and everything’s going to be fine. Now, where can I find Mr O’Leary?’
    He frowned. ‘You’re the whatsit? The, um—’
    Oh dear. ‘I’m from Carringtons,’ she said. ‘Emily Spitzer, pest control. Do you think you could ring through to Mr O’Leary and let him know I’m here?’
    The young man whimpered softly. Emily looked at the security chain, and compared its length with the distance to the phone on the desk. ‘No, obviously you can’t,’ she said. ‘Do you happen to know his extension number?’
    ‘Six,’ the young man mumbled.
    ‘Thanks.’ Surely the whole point of a sacrifice was that it should be something you’ll miss when it’s gone; otherwise it’s simply not entering into the spirit of the thing. She poked in the number. ‘Mr O’Leary? Emily Spitzer, Carringtons. I’m in your front office.’
    ‘About time.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I said, about time. I called your people two hours ago. That may be your idea of a prompt, efficient service, but it bloody well isn’t mine.’
    Mr O’Leary wasn’t to know, because he was sitting in his office six floors up. If he’d been down in reception, the look on Emily’s face would’ve told him that he’d just done a very silly thing; on a par with walking up to a group of off-duty paratroopers in a pub just before closing time and asking them why they were wearing those poncy little red hats. ‘So sorry, Mr O’Leary,’ she said sweetly, ‘I got here as soon as I could. If you could just switch on the system, I can get started.’
    The phone went dead. She put the receiver back, stepped away from the desk and turned to face the ventilation grille in the wall. Somewhere far away, a fan began to spin. Emily unzipped her bag and counted under her breath.
    She’d got as far as six when the plasterboard surrounding the grille exploded into dust and rubble, and something really rather horrible burst out of the ventilation shaft, hung in the air for a moment, and slithered down from the hole onto the desk.
    It’s just as well that hydras are mythical creatures and don’t really exist. If there really were such things, mankind would have to find a way of coping with a species of giant snake, nearly five times longer and thicker than an anaconda or a boring old boa constrictor, and equipped with somewhere between forty and a hundred heads, each attached to the main trunk by a separate neck, the way grapes connect to the bunch. The number of heads would vary because if you were misguided enough to try and kill the wretched thing by cutting off a head, two more would instantly sprout in its place. Luckily for the human race, the hydra is just a dark-age myth, symbolising winter or redwater fever in livestock, or possibly the kind of problem that just gets worse when you try and solve it.
    The sacrifice squealed and started tugging frantically at the lock-up chain, which was only looped round the leg of the desk. ‘Keep still!’ Emily snapped. It was fortunate that the sacrifice was the kind of young man who’s far more scared of girls than he is of ferocious mythical