Dralon and The Adventure in the Contrary World (English version)

The Sign

Mr. Bagus Puddleclock, partner in the Puddleclock Lift Corporation, a small company selling and repairing elevators, rushed out of his Kensington residence in terror and started to run around the streets of London, babbling like a poor madman.

The exertion had turned his face to an unhealthy purple, and the pain in his feet, which he had felt incessantly since Piccadilly Circus, had become practically unbearable. He cursed himself for never following a diet worthy of its name. If he had been ten pounds lighter, his mission of arriving on time – and especially alive – at the doors of his company would have been easier.
He struggled to take his handkerchief out of his pants' pocket to wipe the sweat that dripped abundantly on his pig-pink shirt collar. Then he looked around, desperately hoping to find a free taxi. He would have even given away his neurotic Jack Russell Terrier, Goliath, to find a small seat on a car. Sadly, it didn't seem to be his lucky day.

Resigned, he suffered a 15-minute ride on a subway train packed with commuters and spent another 20 interminable minutes painfully climbing uphill, before he could see the modest, squeaky sign of Puddleclock Corporation. The wooden sign never looked better.

He wanted to catch his breath for a second, but he knew he had no time. He turned once more to make sure no one had followed him after his rushed escape, then made a mad dash through the revolving door, ignoring the janitor who was apathetically mopping the checkered floor and the receptionist who was busy painting her nails.

"Good morning, Mr. Bagus," she said, wearily. "Good-bye Mr. Bagus," she said again as he ran off.

Without paying her the least attention, Mr. Bagus continued to run like a charging bull toward the elevator, still blabbering nonsensical words.

"Nobilius... quadrant... demons... sign... Nobilius..." He pressed the button to call the elevator to the ground floor, and then moved around nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and checking his watch at regular intervals. This was the perfect chance, he thought, to measure the limits of his patience. He pressed the button again, once, twice, three times. The blasted elevator was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Bagus?" the receptionist said in a nasal, singsong voice. "Do you need to use the elevator?"

Bagus wondered if the poor girl had suffered a serious trauma in her childhood – a violent strike on the head or a bad fall from the cradle – or if she was slow from tragic natural causes.

"Yes, dear! I'm waiting for the elevator," he replied, with faked courtesy.

"It's not working! As usual, as a matter of fact," answered the janitor in an argumentative tone, blowing out the smoke of his large cigar. "Hilarious, don't you think?"

"Isn't smoking forbidden in here?" Bagus reproved him.

The man arrogantly shrugged his shoulders and moved his mop back and forth without much conviction.

"We can talk about that later!" continued Bagus. He had no time to waste in trivial discussions. "Listen well, you two!" he warned them, agitated. "If anyone comes and starts asking strange questions, tell them the firm is closed for remodeling and send them away. Understood?"

"I'm a receptionist, not a bouncer!" the girl objected sharply. "If you have problems with the tax authorities you should talk to an accountant or a good lawyer."

"Well said!" agreed the janitor. "These are the usual abuses of the rich. They think they can pull our strings like puppets, just because they have money. Have you ever heard of unions?"