The Merlin Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF

might be interesting.
    None of the people had any time for a teenager like me. They kept giving my jeans disapproving looks and then glancing at my face as if they thought I must have got in there by mistake. But the thing that really got to me was how eager Dad was about it all. He had a big pile of various books he was trying to get signed, just as if he was a humble fan and not a world-famous writer himself. It really hurt my feelings when one of the God-or-Shakespeare ones flourished a pen over the book Dad eagerly spread out for her and said, “Who?”
    Dad said in a modest voice, “Ted Mallory. I write a bit myself.”
    Mrs. God-Shakespeare scrawled in the book, saying, “Do you write under another name? What have you written?”
    â€œHorror stories mostly,” Dad admitted.
    And she said, “Oh,” and pushed the book back to him as if it was contaminated.
    Dad didn’t seem to notice. He was enjoying himself. Maxwell Hyde was giving the big talk on the Saturday evening, and Dad kept saying he couldn’t wait. Then he got really excited because one of the nicer writers—who wore jeans like me—said he knew Maxwell Hyde slightly and he’d introduce Dad to him if we hung around with him.
    Dad was blissed out. By that time I was yawning every time Dad’s back was turned and forcing my mouth shut when he looked at me. We went hurrying up and down corridors looking for Maxwell Hyde, pushing against crowds of people pushing the other way, and I kept thinking, If only I could just wheel round sideways and walk off into a different world! I was in a hotel when I did that the first time, which gave me the idea that hotels were probably a good place to step off from.
    So I was daydreaming about that when we did at last catch up with Maxwell Hyde. By then it was just before his lecture, so he was in a hurry and people were streaming past us to get into the big hall, but he stopped quite politely when the nice writer said, “Oh, Maxwell, can you spare a moment for someone who’s dying to meet you?”
    I didn’t really notice him much, except that he was one of those upright, silvery gentlemen, quite old-fashioned, with leather patches on his old tweed jacket. As he swung round to Dad, I could smell whiskey. I remember thinking, Hey! He gets as nervous as Dad does before he has to give a talk! And I could tell he had had a drink to give himself some courage.
    I was being bumped about by all the other people in the corridor, and I had to keep shifting while Dad and Mr. Hyde were shaking hands. I was right off at one side of them when Mr. Hyde said, “Ted Mallory? Demons, isn’t it?”
    Just then one of the people bumping me—I didn’t see who, except that it was a man—said quietly, “Off you go, then.” I stepped sideways again out of his way.
    This was when I thought it was a dream.
    I was outside, on an airfield of some kind. It must have been early morning, because it was chilly and dark, but getting lighter all the time, and there was pink mist across the stretch of grass I could see. But I couldn’t see much, because there were things I thought were helicopters blocking my view one way—tall, dark brown things—and the other way was a crowd of men who all seemed pretty impatient about something. I was sort of squashed between the men and the helicopters. The man nearest me, who was wearing a dirty pale suede jacket and trousers and smoking a cigarette in long, impatient drags, turned round to throw his cigarette down on the grass and saw me.
    â€œOh, there you are!” he said. “Why didn’t you say you’d got here?” He turned back to the rest of them and called out, “It’s all right, messieurs! The novice finally got here. We can go.”
    They all sort of groaned with relief and one of them began talking into a cell phone. “This is Perimeter Security, monsieur,” I heard him