The Martian Ambassador by Alan K Baker

the books on a far shelf had shifted a little, as if nudged forward from behind.
    Sophia saw the expression on Blackwood’s face. ‘Sir...?’
    He held up a peremptory hand, pressing one finger to his lips. Is something there? he thought. Could something from that God-forsaken world have remained when the glass was broken? Suppressing a shudder, he approached the bookshelf with slow, careful steps, his nerves drawn tight as strings, his breath held in his breast.
    The book – a slim leather-bound edition of Bulwer-Lytton – was at his eye level. Reaching out, he placed his index finger on top of the spine and pulled the book suddenly from the shelf.
    There was a miniature explosion of tiny wings and lilac haze, and a loud thrrrrrrr! as a diminutive, human-like figure flew from the shelf with a raucous screech.
    Shocked, Blackwood recoiled halfway across the room, nearly colliding with Sophia, who had stood up and was watching him intently. ‘ What the deuce? ’ he shouted.
    ‘A denizen of Faerie!’ exclaimed Sophia in delight.
    ‘It’s not my fault, sir!’ cried the little man as he whirred about the room in the utmost agitation. ‘Please don’t blame me! There was nothing we could do!’
    ‘The Helper!’ cried Blackwood. ‘What happened to my cogitator, you little oaf?’
    ‘Mr Blackwood!’ said Sophia. ‘Kindly lower your voice. The poor little thing is half out of his mind with fear.’
    ‘He’ll have a good deal to be fearful of if I get my hands on him. Come here, you little blighter!’
    ‘Mr Blackwood, notwithstanding the fact that this is your home, I assure you I will hear no more talk like that.’
    Blackwood stopped trying to catch the little man, who was still flitting here and there in panic, and turned to look at his guest. She was standing with hands on hips, regarding him with furious, unblinking eyes, her lips set in grim determination. The Special Investigator felt his own resolve draining out of him in the face of this striking example of womanly fortitude, and he realised, belatedly, that he must have cut a quite ridiculous figure, hopping and jumping around the room like a boy chasing a butterfly.
    ‘My apologies, Lady Sophia.’
    ‘That’s better,’ she said, and raised her eyes to the ceiling, where the Helper was still fluttering. ‘Come here, little fellow,’ she called gently. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
    ‘It’s not you I’m worried about!’ cried the little man.
    ‘He won’t hurt you either... will you, Mr Blackwood?’
    Blackwood sighed. ‘No... no, of course not. Come down from there, there’s a good chap.’
    After several moments’ hesitation, the Helper descended from the ceiling, alighting in Sophia’s outstretched hand. ‘There now,’ she said with a smile of great affection. ‘I take it you are from Mr Blackwood’s cogitator?’
    ‘That I am, ma’am,’ replied the little man with a low, theatrical bow.
    ‘He’s the Helper,’ said Blackwood. ‘Although I’m bound to say that appears to be something of a misnomer.’
    ‘If you please, sir!’ said Sophia in an exasperated tone. ‘Now, my little friend, won’t you tell us what happened?’
    ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’m awful parched. Do you think I might prevail upon you for a thimbleful of milk?’
    ‘Of course. Mr Blackwood, would you be so kind?’
    Blackwood sighed and stalked from the room, wondering whether the Helper might also like a slice or two of roast beef and half a dozen oysters to go with it. Sophia and the Helper listened to him exchange a few curt words with Mrs Butters, who was in the kitchen preparing the vegetables for dinner.
    ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ said the Helper in a frightened whisper.
    ‘Hush now,’ Sophia replied in a gentle voice.
    Blackwood returned to the study, holding one of his housekeeper’s thimbles between thumb and forefinger. He handed it to the Helper, who held it before him and breathed in deeply. He thanked Blackwood and handed the