‘Come back!’ Snow White screeched, as the ex-mouse bolted through the door and pattered down the stairs. It was, in context, a foolishly optimistic thing to say. The front door of Avenging Dragon Cottage slammed shut behind her, and the darkness covered her tracks.

‘Come back!’ Snow White repeated, livid with frustrated rage. ‘Are you a girl or a mouse?’

Apparently the concept of dual nationality wasn’t one she was familiar with.

‘This time,’ said the Baron, ‘try to get it right.’

Igor nodded, and turned the crank that jump-started the big transverse flywheel. It hiccupped a couple of times, then started to spin.

‘Quite apart from everything else,’ the Baron went on, ‘we haven’t got enough components in stock to go around wasting them. You got any idea how hard it is to get quality ankles these days?’

There was a crackle and a hiss, and the first fat blue spark flolloped across the points of the auxiliary generator. In the relay fuse bank, something blew. Igor hurried across, found the soot-blackened slide, hauled it out and slammed home a new one.

‘Not to mention skin,’ the Baron went on gloomily. ‘Fifty kroner a square metre I had to pay for that last batch, and I’ve seen better stuff on a sausage. Some of these body-snatchers, they’re no better than common thieves. All right, take it up to quarter power and for God’s sake keep an eye on the amps.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’

‘And put a cloth or something over that, will you?’ the Baron added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the cute little wooden puppet propped up on the workbench. ‘Heaven alone knows what possessed you to bring it in here.’

‘I like the little fellow, boss,’ Igor replied. ‘He’s like a sort of mascot.’

Before the Baron could tell Igor what he thought of that, another bank of fuses blew, and he jumped down from the quarterdeck to replace them. Igor frowned; he could have sworn he’d seen the puppet move, out of the corner of his eye. But that was impossible; after all, the little fellow had given his word he’d stay perfectly still and quiet.

‘All right,’ the Baron said, wiping sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve, ‘now we’re getting somewhere. Up the feed by fifteen per cent; and gently, for crying out loud. This is a scientific experiment, not a barbecue.’

Igor didn’t say anything; not his place. Instead, he eased back the lever, carefully watching the needle climb. Smooth as silk, if he said so himself.

‘Now then,’ said the Baron, ‘I think this may be where we went wrong the last time. Instead of routing the main feed through the collimator matrix, I’m going to backfeed via the auxiliaries and then bring it up to three-quarter capacity almost immediately. You got that?’

‘Sure thing, boss,’ Igor replied dutifully. Half the time, he felt sure, the Baron was making it up as he went along. Chances were, if you really pressed him, he’d have to admit he wouldn’t know a collimator matrix from half a kilo of bratwurst. Ah well, Igor smiled to himself, just as well one of us knows about these things.

The low hum of the generator became a growl, and there was a faint shrill edge to it, the first querulous complaint of stressed metal. Igor’s steady hand feathered the damper toggles, compensating for the surge effects while maintaining a constant supply to the main feed. There was a very slight smell of singed flesh, but that was only to be expected.

‘On my mark,’ the Baron said, his voice raised above the growing roar of the generator. ‘Up to eighty per cent and hold it steady. And… mark!’

Igor shook his head. Melodrama, he thought. Ah well. After all, it’s his train set. He slid the lever forward, wondering as he did so how Katchen’s sister’s husband had got on at the chiropodist’s. There was a loud hiss as a whiff of evaporated coolant escaped from the manifold; he shut down the conduit and transferred smoothly to the backup. No worries.

‘More power! Igor, more power! Ninety per cent!’

‘Sure thing, boss.’ Once, just once, it’d be nice if he said please. He nudged the throttle up another two per cent; okay, so he was the boss, but there’s unquestioning obedience and there’s blowing the gaskets. On the table, a finger quivered.

‘More power!’

Igor allowed him another one per cent, noted that two fingers were at it now, and let his mind drift back to what he was going to get little Helga for her birthday. Silly kid had set her heart on a porcelain doll, but there was no way he could afford that on a lab technician’s wages. A thought struck him, and he glanced over his shoulder at his little wooden pal, sitting propped up against the Bunsen burners. A lick of paint, some crepe hair, the missus could make a little dress out of off cuts from the curtains she was making for the dowager duchess… True, he’d half decided on giving it to his nephew Piotr, but Piotr was nearly nine and he’d far rather have something useful, like a carpentry set or a Kalashnikov rifle, something that’d be handy for when he came to decide which of the two trades traditionally practised by young men in this part of the mountains he was eventually going to follow.

‘More POWER!’

‘You got it, boss.’ He slid the lever forward to ninety-seven per cent, and then jumped sideways as the static feedback bit him. Nasty, dangerous contraption it was; still, it was this or go back to working in the slate quarries, and what kind of a life was that?

‘It’s working!’ The Baron was pointing at the Thing on the table, while sheets and snakes of blue fire shimmered and ebbed and surged; just, Igor thought, like when you light the brandy on the Christmas pud. ‘I’ve done it, Igor! I’ve created a life!’ He raised his head in triumph, caught sight of the little wooden puppet, frowned, and added, ‘A proper one.’

Create a life? You’d be better off getting one. ‘Well done, boss!’ Igor replied. ‘Will you be wanting the rest of the power now?’

‘What? Oh Christ, yes. Everything you’ve got, quickly.’

Gingerly, Igor prodded the lever home and jumped back quickly; and at once the shape on the table sat up with a click, pulling the electrodes out of its skin. Well, well, Igor thought, so he’s actually done it after all, he’s created a life. Big deal. Me and Mrs Igor have created seven, and our way was more fun and didn’t cost us a fortune in electricity bills. That reminded him: better shut down the power. Even at off-peak rates (you’ve never wondered why the Baron always insisted on conducting his experiments at dead of night? Now you know) all this was costing the boss a fortune; enough to reduce the chances of a staff Christmas bonus to virtually nil.

The Thing on the table groaned, as well it might. Its eyes closed, then opened again. It yawned, and took a deep breath. Hope the glue holds, Igor muttered to himself, absently swatting at a passing fly. I told him epoxy resin‘d be better, but he wouldn’t listen. But there was no tearing sound or hiss of escaping air, so that was all right.

‘My creation!’ the Baron crooned, holding out his arms towards the Thing. ‘My Adam! My life’s work.’

The fly, having circled the Thing’s head, landed on its nose. ‘Ha-a-a-,’ it said, and then ‘SHOOO!’ There was a noise like a sheet being torn in half, and the Thing flopped back down on to the table with a bump and lay perfectly still. The Baron stared at it.

‘Bugger,’ he said.

Once again, Igor got a curiously itchy feeling in the back of his neck that prompted him to turn round and look at the little wooden puppet. It winked at him.

Igor smothered a grin. Wonder how he does it, he muttered to himself, as the Baron fussed round with glue, brown paper and string. Bloody glad he’s on my side, he added. At least I hope he’s on my side.

‘All right,’ the Baron said wearily. ‘Let’s try again.’