The Fourth Bear

by Jasper Fforde

  “I get it,” said Jack. “Just add two uncritical masses together and bang, right?”

  “In essence. However, you can ignite even smaller lumps of fissile material by bringing them together very rapidly. In theory you could make an A-bomb to fit in a suitcase. A mini-nuke with limited destructive power.”

  “And that was what hit Cripps?”

  “No. A-bombs give off large quantities of radioactive fallout. There is nothing at the site, nothing downwind and only a small amount on this sample. This could not have been a fission device.”

  “What then?”

  “A fusion reaction with the heavy isotope of hydrogen as the fuel would give a waste product of only helium and a small amount of localized radioactivity caused by an excess of neutrons. However, there are problems here, too.”

  “Such as?”

  “To start a fusion reaction, you need a huge amount of heat—two million degrees or more. To get that you need either a plasma chamber the size of a house consuming vast quantities of power, a ball of gas the size of the sun or—”

  “An A-bomb?” suggested Mary.

  “Precisely. A fission trigger to set off the fusion device—but that would also leave large quantities of detectable radioactive fallout.”

  He waved the Geiger counter over the fused earth again, and it clicked in a desultory manner.

  “This is just mildly radioactive, so it suggests that it might have been a fusion blast of a very small size. Since nuclear fusion exists only in the heart of stars, an A-bomb or a plasma chamber, I think this was something else entirely—a ground burst of a type we have yet to fully understand.”

  There was a brief silence as Jack and Mary tried to figure out just what Parks was talking about. As far as Jack could make out, Cripps and his garden were destroyed by a destructive force that Parks couldn’t explain and that the government was keen on hiding—they had removed nearly eighty tons of topsoil before allowing anyone in.

  “Do you know the significance of this shape?” asked Parks, indicating the rectangular block of fired earth. Jack and Mary said nothing, so he continued. “If this did come from here, it was cut when the glass was still hot. There was only a time window of twenty-six minutes before the area was cordoned off. The first officers on the scene saw no one but confused villagers. If that’s correct, then we have a witness to the event. Find him and you’ll answer a lot of questions.”

  Jack thought for a moment. Up until ten minutes ago, he hadn’t entertained the possibility of McGuffin’s being still alive or heavily involved at Obscurity, but now he was reasonably convinced of both.

  “If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call,” said Jack, giving Parks his card, “but keep all this under your hat. It seems Goldilocks found a link between the explosions and McGuffin, and she’s dead.”

  “Better and better,” replied Parks cheerfully. “No conspiracy is worth a button unless someone is murdered over it—preferably with clandestine overtones and just enough ambiguous facts to be tantalizing, yet not so many that it’s possible to resolve the thing one way or the other.”

  They all stood and stared in silence at the bare earth that had once been Stanley’s property.

  “A mess, isn’t it?” murmured Parks. “If this is linked to McGuffin, it would explain QuangTech’s interest.”

  “QuangTech?” asked Jack sharply.

  Parks looked at them both slightly oddly. “Yes. They undertook the initial investigation here. I thought that was common knowledge.”

  “Not to me. Does QuangTech usually do investigative work for the government?”

  “I have no idea. All I know is that their trucks and personnel were swarming over here for the first week after the blast. They were the ones that took all the topsoil.”

  Jack thanked Parks and walked back along the road past the scorched hedgerows to the car. The presence of QuangTech might have been nothing except a coincidence, but it had to be looked into. Within ten minutes they were on the road again, the Vicar’s increasingly aggressive offers of scones and tea notwithstanding.

  They were both silent until Mary had driven them onto the main road back to Reading, when she said, “That’s odd.”

  “You’re not kidding,” replied Jack, who had been making notes since the moment they left. “I wonder if Parks was talking any sense at all when he thought Obscurity was an explosion of a type unknown to science.”

  “No, I mean it’s odd that your odometer is going backward.”

  “I noticed that, too. This is how I see it: McGuffin is still alive and conducting secret tests of some sort. In Pasadena, Tunbridge Wells, the Nullarbor—and now here. He’s going to reveal everything to Goldilocks, but then…something happens—and she has to be silenced.”

  “Where do the cucumbers come into it?” asked Mary.

  “I’d forgotten about them,” replied Jack with a frown. “Perhaps they don’t. In any event I think we need to start getting some answers out of QuangTech. Perhaps we should even try to speak to…the Quangle-Wangle himself.”

  22. QuangTech

  Biggest fictional multinational corporation: Largest of all imaginary megacompanies is The Goliath Corporation, with an illusory net worth of 6.2 quipzillion pounds. Despite falling under the brief control of the Toast Marketing Board in 1987, Goliath resumed control of its own affairs and by the beginning of the fifth Thursday Next novel was once again ready to bully and cajole anyone who dared stand in its way. Claims that a larger and more oppressive fictional corporation had been dreamed up on a word processor in Oregon were dismissed by several illusory Goliath executives as “fanciful nonsense.”

  —The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

  The headquarters of QuangTech Industries was a series of large and generally low-lying buildings built within the boundaries of an old airfield. They had been based there since the early fifties, and QuangTech’s rapid expansion had seen the company’s buildings, offices and manufacturing facilities spread in every direction on the seven-hundred-acre site, and then to satellite factories dotted around the Home Counties. When you factored in all the smaller companies that operated under the umbrella of Quang-Tech, it was easily Berkshire’s biggest employer.

  Mary parked the Allegro, and they walked across to the reception. They announced themselves to an attractive receptionist, were given visitors’ passes and then escorted into the main office building, where they were met by Mr. Bisky-Batt himself. He called the receptionist by her first name, and the receptionist did likewise. They noticed that he was carrying a coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Clearly, QuangTech’s reputation for egalitarian business practices was not without foundation: Bisky-Batt was second only to the Quangle-Wangle himself, and he fetched his own coffee.

  The vice president was a tall, heavyset man with massive hands that enveloped Jack’s and Mary’s as they shook. “Welcome to QuangTech,” said the giant, whose voice seemed to rumble on after he had spoken. He smiled at them both, his heavy brow and large jaw reminding Mary of a model Neanderthal she had seen in a museum once. “How have you been these past few years, Jack?”

  “I’ve been good.”

  “Impressive work on the Humpty Dumpty inquiry,” said Bisky-Batt with another smile. “I was particularly glad the Jellyman came to no harm.”

  “Us, too.”

  “I always think our lack of association with the NCD is something we can be justly proud of,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “You haven’t questioned us since that unfortunate business concerning the Dong’s luminous nose.”

  “Eight years,” said Jack. “How’s the Quangle-Wangle these days?”

  “Still going,” replied Bisky-Batt, “although now extremely frail.”

  He opened a door and led them into his office. They had visited vice presidents of other corporations in the past, but Bisky-Batt’s office was the most modest they had seen. Completely unostentatious, it was almost austere. A collection of old-fashi
oned dial phones sat on his desk next to the very latest Quang-6000 desktop computer, the only piece of modern or high-tech equipment that could be seen. He indicated chairs, and they all sat down.

  “You’re very kind,” said Jack, “and I hope not to take up too much of your time, but QuangTech’s name has been flagged several times in a recent inquiry, and I was hoping you could offer me some information.”

  Bisky-Batt held up his enormous hands. “Ask whatever you wish, Inspector. QuangTech has no secrets from the police, but you must understand that we are a vast company with subsidiaries in thirty-one countries and every major city of the world. The Quangle-Wangle has interests in food, wine, engineering, electronics, software and construction all over the globe. More than one million people worldwide are somehow employed by the corporation either directly or indirectly, and we can’t be held responsible for every one of them.”

  “I understand that,” answered Jack, “but I have to ask. It’s about a woman named Henrietta Hatchett.”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Bisky-Batt, “the unfortunate woman who was caught in the barrage up at SommeWorld. Most upsetting. Are you satisfied with the extra precautions we have taken to ensure that this sort of tragedy does not happen again?”

  “I have heard that the Health and Safety people are more than happy with your efforts. I was just wondering if Ms. Hatchett had ever approached QuangTech Industries for information?”

  Bisky-Batt frowned. “Indeed she did. She was most insistent about speaking to the Quangle-Wangle, but as you know, he sees no one. She was so forceful I agreed to see her myself.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She wanted to know about an ex-confederate of ours named Angus McGuffin.”

  Jack said nothing, and Bisky-Batt continued.

  “During the eighties the Quangle-Wangle waged a policy of funding projects on the very fringes of science on the basis that if they did work, then the profits might be very substantial indeed. He called it Project Supremely Optimistic Belief. We had a few mild successes. Pumpkin transmogrification was one of them, but in general the project was a failure. McGuffin’s time here at QuangTech was a particularly expensive failure. He arrived in 1984 with claims of being able to synthesize oil from grass cuttings; it was an idea the Quangle-Wangle found irresistible.”

  “There are many people who say the grass-cutting story is a myth to cover his true intent.”

  “If only it were.”

  “So you’re saying McGuffin was a charlatan?”

  Bisky-Batt shrugged. “‘Charlatan’ would be a polite term. Personally I would have had him drummed out ASAP, but the Quang calls the shots. We gave McGuffin a laboratory. He blew it up. We gave him another. He blew that one up as well. We rebuilt the lab for the third time a little farther away from the other buildings, and he blew that up, too.”

  “He was making progress?”

  “No, I think he just liked blowing things up. He destroyed at least two labs a year, until even the Quangle-Wangle began to see that he was pouring money down the drain, and McGuffin’s contract was terminated in 1988.”

  “And his death?”

  “The day before he was due to leave. A parting shot, we think, and although the coroner recorded an open verdict, we considered it suicide. It was his biggest explosion to date. Despite our having isolated his laboratory on the far side of the plant, he still managed to blow out all the windows in the village.”

  “But you never found the body.”

  “We never found the laboratory, Inspector.”

  “Might he have escaped somehow?”

  “No. We had closed-circuit TV of him right up until the moment of the blast; it was all played at the inquest. It wasn’t just him, you know. He took three lab assistants with him. He cost us over thirty million pounds, and all for nothing. Project Supremely Optimistic Belief was abandoned soon after.”

  “What else was Miss Hatchett asking about?”

  “I think that was pretty much it.”

  “Did she mention other explosions she was looking at?”

  Bisky-Batt thought for a moment. “No. It was McGuffin she was after. We get a lot of requests for information about Angus, so I have most of it at my fingertips. I understand he’s become the patron saint of the conspiracy movement.”

  “And what about Obscurity?”

  “Somewhere the Quangle-Wangle shall never be, Inspector.”

  “I meant the village.”

  “You’re not the first to ask. Yes, I can confirm that we were requested by the Home Office to do a detailed examination of the site. The results were sent on to NS-4 and published the same day—a wartime bomb, detonated accidentally.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Tell me,” said Jack, “does QuangTech have an interest in genetically modified foodstuffs?”

  “Owing to the almost blanket ban here in Europe,” replied Bisky-Batt after considering the question briefly, “GM foodstuffs are not a market worth the very great expenditure and stringent regulations. However, we do have a cross-pollination seed division that does generate a good deal of income. High-yield crops are big business. Unlike many of our competitors, we have a rigorously applied ethical policy, so that we are not exploiting those least able to defend themselves. It’s a contentious subject, and despite our very best intentions we are still lambasted for our efforts. Sadly, globalization and multinational business are seen as a great evil in many people’s eyes, despite the good that we do.”

  “What about cucumbers?”

  Bisky-Batt raised an eyebrow. “In what respect?”

  “Genetically modified or cross-pollinated oversize vegetables to—I don’t know—feed the hungry masses or something?”

  “With cucumbers?” asked Bisky-Batt, a lean smile crossing his impassive features. “The most remarkable thing about cucumbers is that they have the least caloric value of any vegetable. Good for the crunch in a salad, but otherwise pretty useless. We concentrate on those foodstuffs that are themselves a staple—such as rice, maize, oats, wheat and so forth.”

  “I see,” said Jack thoughtfully, “so the financial sense in breeding a giant cucumber is…?”

  “Not very high, although there may be value to the competitive veg-growing industry. Cucumbers are technically a fruit and in the same family as pumpkins, melons and squash, so it may benefit those markets, although, to be honest, giant melons don’t strike me as potentially that commercial. But it’s not something we go in for, so my knowledge is a little sparse on the subject. May I ask why?”

  “Just something that has come up in the course of our inquiries.”

  There was another pause. Annoyingly, Bisky-Batt was being disarmingly candid.

  “Can we interview the Quangle-Wangle?”

  “I can certainly ask him, but I shouldn’t hold your breath. He grants me an audience every morning. I am, to all intents and purposes, his arms and eyes and voice. The Quangle-Wangle is old and frail. He has fought in two world wars and built an empire that straddles the globe. His body is wasted, but his mind is still keen. He told me once, although I think he was paraphrasing Carnegie, that a man who dies rich dies without honor. He has spent the last ten years of his life giving away more than fifty million pounds to needy institutions through his various charitable trusts. All requests are considered on their own merits by a table of eight consultants, but the Quang makes the final decision. A request for a new scout hut in Wantage is taken with the same seriousness as a diphtheria-inoculation program in Splotvia. As I recall, both were approved.”

  “And SommeWorld?”

  Bisky-Batt smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, SommeWorld. The Quangle fought as a foot soldier in the Great War and was in the third wave at the Battle of the Somme. He knows more than most the horrors of war. The theme park was an idea he had been toying with for a while. He wanted to demonstrate to the world the hideous conditions and pointless loss of life in warfare but didn’t want to be seen as a h
ypocrite, so he sold QuangTech’s weapons division and poured the proceeds into SommeWorld. What did you think of it?”

  “Very impressive—but none too cheap, I should think.”

  “Too true. The land alone cost over a hundred million. Can you imagine trying to buy a single two-thousand-acre tract in the Home Counties? He had to purchase an entire village to make it. The park itself cost another hundred million to build. Even with five hundred thousand visitors a year, it will take seventy years to break even.”

  “Hardly good business.”

  Bisky-Batt shrugged. “The Quang’s like that. But even with the vast cost of SommeWorld, he’s still one of the wealthiest men on the planet.”

  There was more small talk, but nothing of any relevance, and after another twenty minutes Jack and Mary rose to leave. They had heard enough for the moment and could easily return. Bisky-Batt showed them back to the entrance lobby and shook them once again by the hand. He was the vice president of a major corporation and had given them an hour of his time without being the least bit obstructive. He had supplied straight answers and volunteered information. QuangTech’s ethical policy was well known, and perhaps, thought Jack, his own prejudices against big corporations were clouding his judgment. Then again, if someone’s behavior is too good to be true, it generally is.

  “What do you think?” asked Mary as they walked back to the car.

  “He seemed straight enough,” replied Jack, “but I’d still like to have interviewed the Quangle-Wangle personally.”

  “By the way he spoke, you’d think it would be easier to have an audience with the Easter Bunny.”

  “Almost certainly. Why, do you think it would help?”

  “No, Jack—I mean, aren’t you taking all this missing-scientist and mysterious-explosions stuff a little bit too seriously?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Okay, devil’s advocate here. We have a dead journalist, with no sign whatsoever that it was anything but an accident. She was trying to link—as the conspiracy theorists have been doing for years—a doubtlessly insane and almost certainly dead scientist with unexplained explosions around the globe, which on the face of it appear to have no link at all. QuangTech is a big corporation, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad. The Quangle-Wangle has built SommeWorld as a graphic lesson in the horrors of war, and they haven’t indulged in any sort of weapons development in over a decade. I just think it all sounds a little far-fetched—even by NCD standards.”