Nerd Do Well Read Online Free PDF Page A

chair.
    ‘What’s stopping you?’ sneered Needles, a twitchy little informant who often featured in Pegg’s adventures. ‘Writer’s block?’
    ‘Gah!’ inarticulated Pegg, betraying a frustration he had dearly hoped to conceal.
    ‘Excuse me, sir.’
    Pegg spun round, fire in his eyes. The black glove clutched in his manicured hand hung in the air like a floppy bat, ready to swoop down and give Needles another slap in the cake chute.
    ‘What is it?’ Pegg insisted through gritted teeth. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something here!’
    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ trilled Canterbury, failing to subtract an air of haughtiness from his computerised vocal nodes. ‘I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’re interrogating a potential informant. Hello, Needles.’
    Needles leaned out so he could see Canterbury beyond Pegg’s hulking mass, which was muscular but nimble, like Oliver Hardy if he worked out.
    ‘Hi, Canterbury,’ said Needles with an apologetic smile.
    ‘I was wondering if I might provide some refreshments?’ Canterbury enquired with the kind of immaculate poise that could only issue from an ACH (automated cybernetic humanoid, designed by Pegg).
    ‘Do you still have the SodaStream?’ enquired Needles.
    ‘I think so,’ replied Canterbury. ‘Although I fear it has been secreted in some high cupboard, along with various other novelty food-preparation devices.’
    ‘That’s a shame,’ lamented Needles.
    ‘We don’t have time for this!’ Pegg blustered, silencing them both. ‘He can have a can of Fanta Orange and that will be the end of it.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ conceded Canterbury, with a slight inclination of his thoracic servos. ‘Coke Zero for you, sir?’
    ‘What do you think?’ Pegg growled with a throaty rumble that surprised even him (although he didn’t show it for fear of losing credibility in front of Needles). Almost imperceptibly, Canterbury’s neo-carbon-fibre shoulders sagged as he registered the disappointment in Pegg’s velvety Patrick Stewart-style voice.
    ‘Very well, sir,’ he offered, with a hint of self-admonishment. He was almost back in the transit tube before Pegg stopped him.
    ‘Canterbury?’ Pegg blurted.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
    ‘That lasagne you made last night . . .’ Pegg’s voice faltered slightly. His internal monologue cursed his weakness, then for some reason reminded him to get more bottled water for the cave and to tape
Mythbusters
.
    ‘The lasagne, sir?’ offered Canterbury with just a hint of concern, bringing Pegg out of his personal reverie.
    ‘It was . . . It was delicious,’ Pegg admitted, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘I thought it was Marks & Spencer’s, until later when I went to the kitchen for a Tunnock’s Tea Cake and noticed you were steeping a dirty baking dish.’
    ‘That was washed and stowed immediately after you retired, sir. I had to soak it,’ assured the worried service-bot.
    ‘It’s OK,’ Pegg reassured him with a smile. ‘That doesn’t matter. The point is, you made an amazing dinner last night, that, if I hadn’t discovered to the contrary, I would have assumed was shop-bought. Impressive, most impressive.’
    ‘You’ll find I’m full of surprises,’ said Canterbury, his mechanical body swelling with pride. They often quoted movies to each other as a means of expressing affection and
The Empire Strikes Back
was one of their favourites, closely followed by
The Shawshank Redemption
. Canterbury left, with a spring in his step, literally: his feet were cushioned by a system of helical metal coils.
    ‘Good old Canterbury,’ chuckled Needles, with a smile.
    ‘SILENCE!’ Pegg trumpeted, whacking the squealer in the mush with the black leather glove. ‘Tell me the whereabouts of the Scarlet Panther.’
    ‘Sorry,’ apologised Needles. ‘I was miles away.’
    ‘Where is the Scarlet Panther?’ Pegg reiterated.
    ‘What about my Fanta Orange?’ challenged Needles, defiance in his eyes.
    ‘