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imagination. Your powers were
greater than Sir John’s, so I had to have you use them all up. Then I could
simply shoot you. Which I did.’
    ‘Oh,’
said the count. ‘Well, fair enough. I suppose in the long run, it really
doesn’t matter which one of us wins. When you close the book we’ll all cease to
exist anyway.’
    ‘True.
But as the last reader, I felt it fitting that the book should end the way I
wanted it to end.’
    ‘Then I
suppose I’m dead.’
    ‘I
suppose you are.’
    And he
was.
    ‘Bravo,’
said Sir John, adjusting his beard. ‘You have certainly proved yourself an
imagineer of the first order, Maxwell. What do you plan to do now?’
    Maxwell
scratched his head without shame. ‘Close the book, then venture out into this
strange new world, I suppose.’
    ‘A
sound idea. Our thoughts go with you.’
    ‘So I
trust will whatever books of magic spells you possess. Along with any powerful
talismans and protective amulets. If magic works in this new age, then I shall
be the one to work it.’
    Sir
John pursed his lips and shivered his beard. ‘I regret to disappoint you
there,’ he said. ‘Such items are beyond price and could’ never be considered as
largess to propitiate a total stranger who just happened by through fortuitous
circumstance.’
    ‘What
gratitude is this?’ cried Maxwell. ‘I am appalled by what I hear.’
    ‘I
promised you knowledge,’ said Sir John. ‘And knowledge I impart. It is the
knowledge that you now possess a creative imagination sufficient to perform
remarkable deeds. The knowledge that, should you choose to apply yourself to
just causes, you will ultimately triumph over all who would prevail against
you.
    ‘Such
knowledge is no doubt profound,’ said Maxwell uncheerily. ‘But your propositions
I believe to be somewhat quixotic. Perhaps you might spare me some minor spell
from one of your great tomes to aid me on my way. One to instantly disable a
potential enemy, multiply gold or indefinitely postpone the ravages of old age
would not go unappreciated.’
    ‘Cast
such frivolous notions from your mind,’ said Sir John. ‘You are now Max
Carrion, Imagineer. Think only of noble deeds and high moral standards. Dr
Harney will show you to the door.’
    ‘I
won’t stand for this,’ declared Maxwell. ‘I will rewrite it all. Where is my
Tippex? Where’s my Biro?’
    ‘Many
leagues away from here.’
    ‘I have
been shabbily used,’ protested Maxwell. ‘Don’t think you can simply cast me out
in such a churlish fashion. Am I not Max Carrion, Imagineer?’
    ‘You
certainly are,’ said Sir John. ‘Now Dr Harney, please, the door.’

 
     
     
     
     
    3
     
    Although Maxwell put up a
respectable resistance, he was no match for Sir John and Dr Harney, who, at
length, with the aid of sword stick and cricket bat, drove him from the
premises.
    Outside,
with the great tower door now firmly slammed upon him, Maxwell fumed and cursed
his erstwhile hosts, reserving especial tirades of condemnation for the infamy
of his imaginized double. He of the simply splendid coat who had, throughout
the uneven struggle, stood passively by, smoking a Wild Woodbine and showing
not the least concern for the welfare of his creator.
    When
finally he had run himself dry of invective and bruised many toes through
futile door-kicking, Maxwell marshalled his thoughts. It was time to go home.
    Now the
first of Maxwell’s marshalled thoughts was that, as he was now no longer in the
book he had apparently been reading, he should therefore be back in his own
front room, sitting in his armchair, the very book upon his knees and Bic and Tippex
close to hand. A glance about at his alien surroundings, however, assured him
that this was not, in fact, the case.
    Maxwell
stood upon a promontory of tended grass that rose from picturesque foundations.
Story-book meadows and cultivated pasture lands spread from near to far away.
    Above,
Sir John’s Hidden Tower reared in Gothic splendour, a