Something rotten n-4

by Jasper Fforde

'Maybe you're right,' he said simply. 'You will not have to wait your turn, Miss Next, I will deal with your case personally. Is this your son?' He bent down to look closer. 'Cute fellow, isn't he?'

  'Eiusmod tempor incididunt adipisiting elit,' said Friday, glaring at Jack suspiciously.

  'What did he say?'

  'He said: "If you touch me my mum will break your nose.'"

  Jack stood up quickly.

  'I see. Goliath and myself offer a full, frank and unreserved apology.'

  'What for?'

  'I don't know. Have it on account. Would you care to come to my office?'

  He beckoned me out of the door and we crossed a courtyard with a large fountain in the middle, past a few suited Goliath officials chattering in a corner, then through another doorway and down a wide corridor full of clerks moving backwards and forwards with folders tucked under their arms.

  Jack opened a door, ushered me in, offered me a chair and then sat himself. It was a miserable little office, devoid of any decoration except a shabby Lola Vavoom calendar on the wall and a dead plant in a pot. The only window looked out on to a wall. He arranged some papers on his desk and spoke into the intercom.

  'Mr Higgs, would you bring the Thursday Next file in, please?'

  He looked at me earnestly and set his head at a slight angle, as though trying to affect some sort of apologetic demeanour.

  'None of us quite realised,' he began in the sort of soft voice that undertakers use when attempting to persuade you to buy the deluxe coffin, just how appalling we had been until we started asking people if they were at all unhappy with our conduct.'

  'Why don't we cut the cr—' I looked at Friday, who looked back at me. '—cut the, cut the . . . nonsense and go straight to the place where you atone for your crimes.'

  He sighed and stared at me for a moment, then said:

  'Very well. What did we do wrong again?'

  'You can't remember?'

  'I do lots of wrong things, Miss Next, you'll excuse me if I can't remember details.'

  'You eradicated my husband,' I said through gritted teeth. 'Of course! And what was the name of the eradicatee?'

  'Landen,' I replied coldly, 'Landen Parker-Laine.'

  At that moment a clerk arrived with a file marked 'most secret' and laid it on his desk. Jack opened it and leafed through.

  'The record shows that at the time you say your husband was eradicated your case officer was Operative Schitt-Hawse. It says here that he pressured you to release Operative Schitt — that's me — from within the pages of The Raven by utilising an unnamed ChronoGuard operative who volunteered his services. It says that you complied but our promise was revoked owing to an unforeseen and commercially necessary overriding blackmail continuance situation.'

  'You mean corporate greed, don't you?'

  'Don't underestimate greed, Miss Next — it's commerce's greatest motive force. In this context it was probably due to our plans to use the BookWorld to dump nuclear waste and sell our extremely high-quality goods and services to characters in fiction. You were then imprisoned in our most inaccessible vault from which you escaped, methodology unknown.'

  He closed the file.

  'What this means, Miss Next, is that we kidnapped you, tried to kill you, and then had you on our shoot-on-sight list for over a year. You may be in line for a generous cash settlement.'

  'I don't want cash, Jack. You had someone go back in time to kill Landen, now you can just get someone to go back again and unkill him!'

  Jack Schitt paused and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment.

  'That's not how it works,' he replied testily. 'The apology and restitution rules are very clear — for us to repent we must agree as to what we have done wrong, and there's no mention of any Goliath-led illegal time-related jiggery-pokery in our report. Since Goliath's records are time-audited on a regular basis, I think that proves conclusively that if there was any timefoolery it was instigated by the ChronoGuard — Goliath's chronological record is above reproach.'

  I thumped the table with my fist and Jack jumped. Without his henchmen around him he was a coward, and every time he flinched, I grew stronger.

  'This is complete and utter sh—' I looked at Friday again. '—rubbish, Jack. Goliath and the ChronoGuard eradicated my husband. You had the power to remove him — you can be the ones that put him back.'

  'That's not possible.'

  'GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND!'

  The anger in Jack returned. He also rose and pointed an accusing finger at me. 'Have you even the slightest idea how much it costs to bribe the ChronoGuard? More money than we care to spend on the sort of miserable half-hearted forgiveness you can offer us. And another thing, I . . . excuse me.'

  The phone had rung and he picked it up, his eyes flicking instantly to me as he listened.

  'Yes, it is . . . Yes, she is . . . Yes, we do . . . Yes, I will.'

  His eyes opened wide.

  'This is indeed an honour, sir . . . No, that would not be a problem at all, sir . . . Yes, I'm sure I can persuade her about that, sir . . . no, it's what we all want . . . And a very good day to you, sir. Thank you.'

  He put the receiver down and fetched an empty cardboard box from the cupboard with a renewed spring in his step.

  'Good news!' he exclaimed, taking some junk out of his desk and placing it in the box. 'The CEO of New Goliath has taken a special interest in your case and will personally guarantee the return of your husband.'

  'I thought you said that timefoolery had nothing to do with you?'

  'Apparently I was misinformed. We would be very happy to reactualise Libner.'

  'Landen.'

  'Right.'

  'What's the catch?' I asked suspiciously.

  'No catch,' replied Jack, picking up his desk nameplate and depositing it in the box along with the calendar, 'we just want you to forgive us and like us.'

  'Like you?'

  'Yes. Or pretend to, anyway. Not so very hard, now, is it? Just sign this Standard Forgiveness Release Form at the bottom here, and we'll reactualise your hubby. Simple, isn't it?'

  I was still suspicious.

  'I don't believe you have any intention of getting Landen back.'

  'All right, then,' said Jack, taking some files out of the filing cabinet and dumping them in his cardboard box, 'don't sign and you'll never know. As you say, Miss Next — we got rid of him so we can get him back.'

  'You stiffed me once before, Jack. How do I know you won't do it again?'

  Jack paused in his packing and looked slightly apprehensive.

  'Are you going to sign?'

  'No.'

  Jack sighed and started to take everything back out of the cardboard box and return it to its place.

  'Well,' he muttered, 'there goes my promotion. But listen: whether you sign or not you walk out of here a free woman. New Goliath have no argument with you any longer. Besides, what do you have to lose?'

  'All I want,' I replied, 'is to get my husband back. I'm not signing anything.'

  Jack took his nameplate out of the cardboard box and put it back on his desk.

  The phone rang again.

  'Yes, sir . . . No, she won't, sir . . . I tried that, sir . . . very well, sir.'

  He put the receiver down and picked up his nameplate again; it hovered over his box.

  'That was the CEO. He wants to apologise to you personally. Will you go?'

  I paused. Seeing the head honcho of Goliath was an almost unprecedented event for a non-Goliath official. If anyone could get Landen back, it was him.

  'Okay.'

  Jack smiled, dropped the nameplate in his box and then hurriedly threw everything else back in.

  'Well,' he continued, 'must dash — I've just been promoted up three laddernumbers. Go to the main reception desk and someone will meet you. Don't forget your Standard Forgiveness Release Form, and if you could mention my name I'd be really grateful.'

  He handed me my unsigned forms as the door opened a
nd another Goliath operative walked in, also holding a cardboard box full of possessions.

  'What if I don't get him back, Mr Schitt?'

  'Well,' he said, looking at his watch, 'if you have any grievances about the quality of our contrition you had better take it up with your appointed Goliath apologist. I don't work here any more.'

  And he smiled a supercilious smile, put on his hat and was gone.

  'Well!' said the new apologist as he skirted the desk and started to arrange his possessions around his new office. 'Is there anything you'd like us to apologise for?'

  'Your corporation,' I muttered.

  'Full, frank and unreservedly,' replied the apologist in the sincerest of tones.

  15

  Meeting the CEO

  '. . . Fifty years ago we were only a small multinational with barely 7,000 employees. Today we have over 38,000,000 employees in 14,000 companies dealing in over 12,000,000 different products and services. The size of Goliath is what gives us the stability to be able to say confidently that we will be looking after you for many years to come. By 1980 our turnover was equal to the combined GNP of 72 per cent of the planet's nations. This year we see the corporation take the next great leap forward — to fully recognised religion with our own gods, demigods, priests, places of worship and prayerbook. Goliath shares will be exchanged for entry into our new faith-based corporate management system, where you (the devotees) will worship us (the gods) in exchange for protection from the world's evils and a reward in the afterlife. I know you will join me in this endeavour as you have in all our past endeavours. A comprehensive leaflet explaining how you can help further the corporation's interest in this matter will be available shortly. New Goliath. For all you'll ever need. For all you'll ever want. Ever.'

  Extract from the Goliath Corporation CEO's 1988 conference speech

  I walked to the main desk and gave my name to the receptionist, who, raising her eyebrows at my request, called the 110th floor, registered some surprise and then asked me to wait. I pushed Friday towards the waiting area and gave him a banana I had in my bag. I sat and watched the Goliath officials walking briskly backwards and forwards across the polished marble floors, all looking busy but seemingly doing nothing.

  'Miss Next?'

  There were two individuals standing in front of me. One was dressed in the dark Goliath blue of an executive; the other was a footman in full livery, holding a polished silver tray.

  'Yes?' I said, standing up.

  'My name is Mr Godfrey, the CEO's personal assistant's assistant. If you would be so kind?'

  He indicated the tray.

  I understood his request, unholstered my automatic and laid it on the salver. The footman paused politely. I got the message and placed my two spare clips on it as well. He bowed and silently withdrew, and the Goliath executive led me silently towards a roped-off elevator at the far end of the concourse. I wheeled Friday in and the doors hissed shut behind us.

  It was a glass elevator that rose on the outside of the building and from our vantage point as we were whisked noiselessly heavenward I could see all of Goliathopolis's buildings reaching almost all the way down the coast to Douglas. The size of the corporation's holdings was never more so demonstrably immense — all these buildings simply administered the thousands of companies and millions of employees around the world. If I had been in a charitable frame of mind I might have been impressed by the scale and grandeur of Goliath's establishment. As it was, I saw only ill-gotten gains.

  The smaller buildings were soon left behind as we continued upward, until even the other skyscrapers were dwarfed. I was staring with fascination at the spectacular view when without warning the exterior was suddenly obscured by a white haze. Water droplets formed on the outside of the elevator and I could see nothing until a few seconds later we burst clear of the cloud and into bright sunshine and a deep blue sky. I stared across the top of the clouds, which stretched away unbroken into the distance. I was so enthralled by the spectacle that I didn't realise the elevator had stopped.

  'Ipsum,' said Friday, who was also impressed, and he pointed in case I had missed the view.

  'Miss Next?'

  I turned. To say the boardroom of the Goliath Corporation was impressive would not be doing it the justice it deserves. I was on the top floor of the building. The walls and roof were all tinted glass, and from here on a clear day you must be able to look down upon the world from the viewpoint of a god. Today it looked as though we were afloat on a cotton-wool sea. The building and its position, high above the planet both geographically and morally, perfectly reflected the corporation's dominance and power.

  In the middle of the room was a long table with perhaps thirty suited Goliath board members all standing next to their seats, watching me in silence. No one said anything, and I was about to ask who the boss was when I noticed a large man staring out of the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

  'Ipsum!' said Friday.

  'Allow me,' began my escort, 'to introduce the Chief Executive Officer of the Goliath Corporation, John Henry Goliath V, great-great-grandson of our founder, John Henry Goliath.'

  The figure staring out of the window turned to meet me. He must have been over six foot eight and was large with it. Broad, imposing and dominating. He was not yet fifty, had piercing green eyes that seemed to look straight through me, and gave me such a warm smile that I was instantly put at my ease.

  'Miss Next?' he said in a voice like distant thunder. 'I've wanted to meet you for some time.'

  His handshake was warm and friendly; it was easy to forget just who he was and what he had done.

  'They are standing for you,' he announced, indicating the board members. 'You have personally cost us over a billion pounds in cash and at least four times that in lost revenues. Such an adversary is to be admired rather than reviled.'

  The board members applauded for about ten seconds, then sat back down at their places. I noticed Brik Schitt-Hawse among them; he inclined his head to me in recognition.

  'If I didn't already know the answer I would offer you a position on our board,' said the CEO with a smile. 'We're just finishing a board meeting, Miss Next. In a few minutes I shall be at your disposal. Please ask Mr Godfrey if you require any refreshments for yourself or your son.'

  'Thank you.'

  I asked Godfrey for an orange juice in a beaker for Friday, took him out of his pushchair and sat with him on a nearby armchair to watch the proceedings.

  'Item seventy-six,' said a small man wearing a Goliath-issue cobalt-blue suit, 'Antarctica. There has been a degree of opposition to our purchase of the continent by a small minority of do-gooders who believe our use is anything but benevolent.'

  'And this, Mr Jarvis, is a problem because—?' demanded John Henry Goliath V.

  'Not a problem but an observation, sir. I propose that to offset any possible negative publicity we let it be known that we merely acquired the continent to generate new ecotourism-related jobs in an area traditionally considered poor in employment opportunities.'

  'It shall be so,' boomed the CEO. 'What else?'

  'Well, since we will take the role of "eco-custodians" very seriously, I propose sending a fleet of ten warships to protect the continent against vandals who seek to harm the penguin population, illegally remove ice and snow and create general "mischief".'

  'Warships eat heavily into profit margins,' said another member of the board. But Mr Jarvis had already thought of that.

  'Not if we subcontract the security issue to a foreign power eager to do business with us. I have formulated a plan whereby the United Caribbean Nations will patrol the continent in exchange for all the ice and snow they want. With the purchase of Antarctica we can undercut snow exports from all the countries in the Northern Alliance. Their unsold snow will be bought by us at four pence a ton, melted and exchanged for building sand with Morocco. This will be exported to sand-deficient nations at an overall profit of twelve per cent. You'll find it all
in my report.'

  There was a murmur of assent around the table. The CEO nodded his head thoughtfully.

  'Thank you, Mr Jarvis, your idea finds favour with the board. But tell me, what about the vast natural resource that we bought Antarctica to exploit in the first place?'

  Jarvis snapped his fingers and the elevator doors opened to reveal a chef, who wheeled in a trolley with a covered silver dish on it. He stopped next to the CEO's chair, took off the cover and laid a small plate with what looked like sliced pork on it on the table. A footman laid a knife and a fork next to the plate along with a crisp napkin, then withdrew.

  The CEO took a small forkful and put it in his mouth. His eyes opened wide in shock and he spat it out. The footman passed him a glass of water.

  'Disgusting!'

  'I agree, sir,' replied Jarvis, 'almost completely inedible.'

  'Blast! Do you mean to tell me we've bought an entire continent with a potential food yield of ten million penguin units per year only to find we can't eat any of them?'

  'Only a minor setback, sir. If you would all turn to page seventy-two of your agenda . . .'

  All the board members simultaneously opened their files. Jarvis picked his report up and walked to the window to read it.

  'The problem of selling penguins as the Sunday roast of choice can be split into two parts: one, penguins taste like creosote, and two, many people have a misguided idea that penguins are somewhat "cute" and "cuddly" and "endangered". To take the first point first, I propose that as part of the launch of this abundant new foodstuff there should be a special penguin cookery show on GoliathChannel 16, as well as a highly amusing advertising campaign with the catchy phrase: "P-p-p-prepare a p-p-penguin".'

  The CEO nodded thoughtfully.

  'I further suggest,' continued Jarvis, 'that we finance an independent study into the health-imbuing qualities of seabirds in general. The findings of this independent and wholly impartial study will be that the recommended weekly intake of penguin per person should be . . . one penguin.'

  'And point two?' asked another board member. 'The public's positive and non-eatworthy perception of penguins in general?'