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

The Maddening of Time

Lord Isidore G. Dott dashed toward his car with a scowling face, holding his faithful 24-hour briefcase, his bowler hat, and his umbrella. All the while, he tried to chase away, as one chases an annoying fly, his smart-alecky assistant who kept step with him while reminding him of the day's appointments.

This time, he had to admit, the employment agency had "almost" done a decent job.

His hired nuisance, in fact, seemed a tad more alert than his thirty-two unfortunate predecessors. Through a successful counterstrike, he had managed to place himself in front of Dott, using his clipboard to block the blows of his boss's umbrella.

"Lord Isidore, please slow down!" he pleaded, wheezing along.

"I'll run as much as I like!" Dott replied, suddenly shifting direction. 

"I need to talk to you about your grandfather..." continued the assistant, trying to catch up. "The custodians found him in the reading room again, browsing around!"

"So what?" Isidore asked, walking even faster. "Isn't that a public library?"

"He was wearing pajamas and was shoplifting... in the middle of the night!" the assistant informed him.

"Well, call animal control. Case closed. Good-bye!" the lord answered, emotionless.

"For heaven's sake, wait just a second!" the poor man pleaded, on the verge of tears. "What about today's meeting with the city council? You can't cancel that too. It would be the third time we've postponed it. They'll think you don't want to meet with them!"

"It's exactly right, Smith!" admitted Lord Dott. "I can't stand them! I can't tolerate that riff-raff of lazy bumpkins and profiteers! That's the truth! And as far as I'm concerned, you can just let them know!" he said, ending his passionate statement by turning around and stepping on the assistant's foot.

Awarded with degrees in archaeology, ethnology, anthropology, and theoretical philosophy by the prestigious Oxford University, Lord Isidore Dott, general manager of the London branch of the National Library, was not well known for his good manners. On the contrary, his opinions on how to behave with and around people were inadequate and extremely confused.

From childhood, he had had a pathological urge to persecute other people and had been affected by a serious form of misanthropy. He felt deeply adverse to a good portion of humankind, considering them insignificant and incapable of dealing with the precious and delicate instrument that was his brain.

"My only enriching conversations are those with the brilliant person I see reflected in my mirror."

That's what he thought, and he never missed a chance to brutally mention it to any person who crossed his path.

It's not surprising then that none of his coworkers and acquaintances found the dozens of death threats he received every day either strange or alarming. In fact, no one doubted that, sooner or later, one of those threats would come to fruition.

In the meantime, the customary September rain the weather jinxers had announced the previous day started to pour down profusely.

Lord Dott watched in horror as the drops of water flippantly bounced from the brick pavement onto his shiny black leather shoes. U-N-A-C-C-E-P-T-A-B-L-E! Under his military black moustache, his thin lips started to grimace nervously.

"It's all Smith's fault!" he thought. If he had not wasted some precious seconds listening to the fibs of that raving idiot, he would have been already inside his comfortable Rolls-Royce Ghost, leafing through the latest issue of Times magazine, he angrily reasoned to himself. He had to get rid of that pest, and he had to do it quickly.