"| think you know that," said Edward, calmly. "I'm a stock trader with 
Cooper Drake. | was introduced to the club by the late David Went 
and was recruited to handle fine art acquisitions for Mr Marshall on a 
part-time basis." 


"Have you been exposed to any of the objects they ask you to 
acquire?" 


"I'm not sure | follow you. I've touched them, sure." 


Professor Gelding furrowed his brow. "Have you been experiencing 
any..." his voice suddenly changed into a machine-gun staccato "... 
lost time, hallucinations, sudden mood shifts, encounters with 
anomalous entities, rashes or illness, loss of energy, trouble 
sleeping, strange or disturbing dreams, perceptions of reality or 
history out of sync with others around you, emotional or cognitive 
difficulties?" 


Edward shook his head. "No. Not really. | mean, | had a terrible case 
of the flu recently, if that helps." The Professor shook his head. 
"There was something at the clubhouse—like an illusion. You closed 
your eyes and you were somewhere else." 


"You know the location of their clubhouses?" The glasses glittered, 
sharply. 


"One or two of them. If you want to know where they are, there's a 
map on that membership card." 


The Professor took a lingering glance at the card, then chuckled and 
looked at Agent Howard. "You know, that gets me every time. | 
always look for it. Mr Gradley, I'm afraid there's nothing on this 'card' 
besides Marshall, Carter & Dark's logo in one corner." 


"No," said Edward, "look, it's engraved on the glass, | can see it from 
here..." 


"Only visible for the person it's assigned to, I'm afraid. And if you 
were to draw it out it wouldn't lead anywhere. Same with the 
‘switchboard number'—not sure if you noticed but it's different every 
time you call it. We've gone through this whole rigmarole before. 
You can't contact them in our presence or lead us to them." 


"That's impossible." 


"| think you would have a keen idea of just what is and what isn't 
possible for Mr Marshall and his partners, Mr Gradley. Now, in your 
recent phone conversation with the individual who goes by the 
epithet 'Death' you mention something you wanted to show them. 
What was that, exactly?" 


Edward thought for a moment before responding. "Marshall took me 
to the warehouse where they keep the acquisitions. Some of the 
things there—I don't know. Secret organisations, warehouses of 


monsters ... that's the sort of stuff conspiracy theorists go in for, isn't 
it?" 


"Interesting. Where is this warehouse?" 


"It's in London. Just off Pall Mall." The little man in the glasses 
began scribbling excitedly. "There's something strange about it, 
though—the closer you get to it, the less you can hear the city 
around it. | thought I'd been taken out into the country." 


Just like when you brought me here, thought Edward. The 
Professor's face fell. 


"| see ... What do you know about the comb?" 


"Nothing," said Edward, very nearly truthfully. "It was something 
Death wanted me to look into." 


"Do you know who currently owns the comb, or what it looks like?" 


"No," said Edward, without guile. It was a truthful answer to the first 
question, after all. If wnat he suspected about the comb was right, 
he couldn't even say for sure who had owned it last. 


"Okay," said the Professor, taking off those full-moon glasses and 
pinching the bridge of his nose. That was probably a bad sign, 
Edward thought. Any moment he's going to ask Mr Howard to apply 
some of those wonderful pressure techniques, just to make 
absolutely sure what it is | don't know. The guard in the corner stood 
up slightly straighter. 


The intercom buzzed and the Professor thumbed it irritably. "Ms 
Cairnes, | am in interview. This had better be scintillating." 


"Sir, we have a problem. Five-three-eight and one-seven-two- 
nine..." 


At that moment a klaxon blared into life above them, as a recorded 
voice began to intone, "Containment breach alert. We are 
experiencing multiple Euclid-level containment breaches. Please 
stand by for further instructions." 


Professor Gelding stood up. "Mr Gradley, | think that concludes our 
discussion. | am now going to administer you a Class-A amnestic. 
Once it has taken effect you will no longer remember me or the 
events of this afternoon. You may feel some disorientation; this is 
normal." 


Agent Howard took Edward's arm firmly and pulled down his sleeve, 
turning it to expose the underside of his arm to Dr Gelding, who 
selected a small jet injector from his cabinet and inserted a crisp 
white ampoule. 


"This shouldn't hurt." 


That was a lie—it felt like someone punched his forearm hard with a 
chisel. 


Edward didn't think he'd forgotten anything—though how could you 
tell? For all he knew Agent Howard had made him give the 


Dr. Jankovic: Please, continue. 


Subject 574-A: Sorry, sorry. So he takes the volunteers, 
and sticks 'em under this big rusty-ass pipe. Next thing 
y'know they got... swallowed up by the rust, and the 
grunk on the floor. We could hear them screaming and 
breaking... it was like a speaker outside a store... it was 
horrible. 


Dr. Jankovic: I'm sorry... did it go on for long? 


Subject 574-A: Yeah... Frank tried telling us to chill out, 
because we didn't have to die and we could live for free, 
but he got shouted down, and then a few people got 
rough... then the floor started to rumble. People were 
fallin’ left and right. God, I... they was killing each other, 
even down there. | saw it. They choked each other 
before being just... drowned in that cement. Frank was 
hollerin' his lungs off, till the cement set. Fuck... | just 
wanted beans, y'know? Didn't need that shit. 


Dr. Jankovic: So that was when you left, and contacted 
the authorities. 


Subject 574-A: Went to the corner store, yeah. Are we 
done, please? 


<End Log> 


Closing Statement: Subject was issued Class-B 
amnestics following this interview. 


Footnotes 
1. Analysis of these 'urine' deposits has revealed no biological 
content. 


« SCP-573 | SCP-574 | SCP-575 » 


Professor a striptease—but after a few minutes he did begin to feel 
very, drowsy and out of it. Agent Howard had escorted him at a brisk 
pace back through the facility, and at some point Edward's legs had 
given out under him. He just barely caught the edge of the man's 
words to the researchers suddenly running through the corridors as 
he drifted in and out of consciousness: "...sual side-effects. He 
shouldn't...". But then Edward was gone. 


He woke up back in London, neatly propped up in the alleyway 
across from O'Reilly's Bar and Grill. Everything ached, radiating 
from the pain in his arm. Someone had thoughtfully placed a bowl in 
front of him and he had already accumulated several pounds. 
"Please help," he muttered, trying to order his muscles to move but 
receiving only a declaration of independence. "Please. Call an 
ambulance." The people stepping over him didn't even pause. Just 
another City hopeful down on his luck—or out of his mind on booze 
or cocaine. 


After a few minutes the bulky, ponytailed shape of War hover into 
view, apparently strolling nonchalantly down the road opposite 
O'Reilly's. He glanced right, glanced left. 


"There you are," he grumbled. "It's not like | booked the whole day 
off, you know?" He picked up Edward with appalling ease and 
carried him into the Bar and Grill, where the bartender tucked him up 
on one of the corner seats with a blanket and a mug of something 
vile-tasting but ultimately reviving, as though it were something he 
did every day. After half an hour or so Edward began to regain some 
semblance of alertness, together with the feeling in his extremities. 
The Four Horsemen were sitting around him tucking into half-rump 
steaks at various grades of overdone. Death was perched up on the 
chair back, watching him. 


"Feeling better?" 
"Uh-huh." 


"| can sympathise. We've had run-ins with those guys before. Never 
seen them rough up someone this bad, though." 


"Fortunately," said War between mouthfuls, "they always bring the 
guy back to where they picked him up. Let me guess, the Ess-See- 
Pee lot?" 


"| don't think they ever mentioned," said Edward, faintly. 


"It'll be them,” said Death vehemently. "Unmarked van, the works. 
Wish I'd got it on my phone. Broad daylight abduction." 


"Who are they?" asked Edward. "MI5 or something like that?" 


"You wish. Seriously, didn't you read our blog? They're one of the 
biggest crypto-governmental agencies out there. The SCP 
Foundation. It sounds like a not-for-profit. Like the Make-A-Wish 
Foundation. It's actually a private army and shadow government that 
national armed forces actually defer to. Even the Russians roll over 
and play dead when they want something these days." 


"What does the name mean?" 


"Pseudo-fascist bullshit. ‘Secure, Contain, Protect’. The totalitarian 
mantra throughout history. You need to be 'secured', and 
‘contained’. We-know-best stuff. The whole freemasonry, Bilderberg 
Group, Bohemian Grove theorists are totally off-track—these are the 
guys they should have been watching out for, and they failed, big 
time. Now they're everywhere." 


"Moriah Conquering Wind's for real," interjected the serious man 
Edward thought of as Famine, taking a pause from wolfing down his 
second steak. "But the Foundation, they're the real pros. They're the 
ones covering up the alien tech." 


Edward saw Death clap a black-manicured hand over his eyes. 
"Seriously? You're still on that kick? | thought | proved pretty 
conclusively that the Veil Protocol is only about protecting public 
knowledge of the Foundation's existence." 


Famine scowled, mouth full. "It's the technology, too. Seriously, any 
time you intercept any communications from these guys it's all about 
‘the objects’. Alien technology. The Sagittarians keep trying to send 

it down. It would make everything better—free energy, anti-pollution, 


nanotech. A second Industrial Revolution. The Foundation don't 
want it to get out because it would mean them losing control of us. 
You remember Star Signals?" 


Edward realised he was being addressed. "Erm, it rings a bell. Was 
it some kind of self-help book?" 


"Yes, like The Secret or the The Prayer of Jabez, except it really 
worked. It was all over the chat shows, but no-one mentions it 
anymore. It was the Foundation. They wiped a fortnight of pop 
culture from history. You remember that episode of American Idol? 
The one where Cowell started breathing smoke?" 


"Ahhh..." Edward felt a tinge of a headache coming on. 


"See that?" Famine turned to Death. "That's the face they all make. 
They didn't even need to put drugs in the water supply. They just put 
lots of similar scenes into programmes like Doctor Who and Lost, so 
people couldn't tell if what they'd seen was real, or not. The 
Sagittarians wrote the book to help us heal the world, but the 
Foundation confiscated almost every copy." 


Pestilence turned to Edward and whispered softly, "For what it's 
worth, we think he's a bit crazy. But he knows his way around a 
firearm and he's got a bunker out in the New Forest if things get 
really bad." 


"Death said you mentioned you got something from Marshall, Carter 
& Dark. Something big," said Famine, eyes pleading. "| don't 
suppose you..." 


Edward shook his head. "Your crypto-fascists took it," he lied. 
"Sorry." 


The Horsemen looked glum. "Don't worry," said Death. "We're used 
to this crap." 


"Look," said Edward, "I'd better go. People are probably wondering 
where | am." He got up unsteadily and hobbled to the door. 


"You should get that limp checked out," advised War. "Looks nasty." 


Edward got a few hundred paces from the bar before the pain 
became too much. Stooping as though to tie up his shoelaces, he 
slid his fingers into the side of the now-shredded Testoni leather and 
eased out the shard of glass. The bulldog seemed none the worse 
for its experience, grinning as traces of Edward's blood dried on the 
glass's surface. It was enjoying a bowlful of juicy-looking chunks as 
a pair of hands in medical gloves checked its fur and ears for mites. 
| should have stayed for the steak, thought Edward, his stomach 
rumbling. Seems everyone but me's eaten today. 


Chapter Eight: "Castle" 


"Edward? Is that you?" Liz's voice sounded curious but not 
concerned. "Where the hell have you been? Your phone's been off. 
Maclintyre’s been ready to send out the search party." 


"Tell him that my flu didn't clear up. Tell him I'm in bed with some 
chicken soup." 


"You don't sound sick." 


"No, | don't. | know you don't like me. You don't have to. But right 
you're just about the only person at CD | can trust." 


"| didn't stand up for you in the review." 


"| Know. You did the right thing. | think | can rely on you to do that. 
That's why | called you." 


"Edward, have you had some kind of breakdown? You sound —" 
"Crazy? I'm beginning to wonder." 

"Okay, I'll bite. What are you trying to pull this time?" 

"|'m just trying to set things right." 


"Like getting the office idiot fired, you mean? Peter was a loser, but 
he was our loser." 


"I wish | could say | felt bad for that, Liz. | don't. | do feel sorry that | 


misled you. But yes, if | pull off the track I'm on, there'll be some 
more changes at Cooper Drake." 


"Jesus Christ, Edward. Why do you think I'm going to help you?" 


"Because ... because you're not evil. If you figured me out I'm pretty 
sure you've figured out Macintyre too. How long have you been 
keeping his secrets?" 


".,. Damn you." 


"MaclIntyre's got a couple of days left, then I'm coming for him. You 
should start thinking about yourself. He really isn't worth your 
loyalty." 


There was a long pause. In the background he heard the real world; 
the world which had become real for him—the clamour as a hundred 
and fifty men scrabbled for shares in AAPL or short-sold Romanian 
seven-year bonds. 


"Get well soon, Edward,” said Liz, loudly, and rang off. Edward 
smiled and wondered how on earth he was going to follow through 
on his promises. 


Edward paid for the Travelodge room with his credit card. To think 
some people thought it was expensive—it cost significantly less than 
his last business lunch. He wondered vaguely if Marshall, Carter & 
Dark had enough pull in the police force to trace such transactions, 
but the other options were equally dangerous right now. The room 
was small and functional with the incessant hum of a radiator 
through the floor. He spent an hour scribbling on the back of a Little 
Chef menu someone had left on the coffee table. His twelve-year- 
old self could probably think of a way out of this, a flawless game 
that kept all his pieces safe, but right now he couldn't find a path 
through that didn't require him to sacrifice someone. Then he 
thought—you've been assuming you're the king, haven't you? What 
if you're the rook, or the bishop, or the white knight? And he saw it, 
just for an instant, traced out beautifully between the Hunters 
Chicken and the pancakes with maple syrup. It wasn't perfect. But it 
only required him to sacrifice one piece. He'd been carrying it 


around with him for all his life, and only now it occurred to him that 
he didn't have to keep it alive to win. 


He tried to sleep, but the ideas churning in his head, the snoring of 
the man next door and the thin, hard mattress meant all he was able 
to manage were brief, hyonopompic episodes of walking along that 
unearthly beach he had seen before with his eyes closed, or else 
sitting at his desk at Cooper Drake looking down at the world.