Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past

by Paul Cude

  Chapter 3: A Major Disappointment

  Woken abruptly by the piercing sound of his alarm clock, Peter rubbed the sleep from his eyes and, almost on autopilot, wandered downstairs to the bathroom and began cleaning his teeth. Aware that most humans have their breakfast first and then clean their teeth, this wasn't really an issue for him, given that everything about his body was a lie. He did however try and get into a routine of doing all the right things to blend in, exactly as he'd been taught during his years of training. So he stood, tried to smile, although the early hour did little to help with that, finished his teeth, smeared a blue globule of gel into his hair, smoothing it back with his fingers before rinsing them off, and then headed back to the bedroom to get dressed. Grabbing a tie off the rack in the wardrobe and slapping the ‘off’ button on his clock radio on his way out of the room, he leapt down the stairs and into the kitchen, feeling much better than he had ten minutes earlier.

  Pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes, he grabbed the milk and a strawberry yoghurt from the fridge and sat down at the small pine dining table, smack bang in the middle of the kitchen. He drizzled milk over his cornflakes and munched his way through the whole bowl, before quickly wolfing down the yoghurt.

  Earlier than he'd planned on being, he decided to quickly catch up with events in the dragon world. Sitting back in the chair, a contented feeling of a full stomach washing over him, he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. It felt like flying. That was the only way he could think of to describe it. Reaching out with his mind, he searched for the nearest crystal booster, which not only had the power to amplify the telepathic information sent out, but was also able to store that self same information for dragons to access at will. Sitting at the table with his eyes closed, all the time maintaining his focus, small beads of sweat started to form on his forehead as his consciousness soared up and away over the rooftops of the adjacent houses, momentarily hovering uncertainly before suddenly shooting off in a south westerly direction. Even though it was only his mind racing through the cold, morning air, he was sure he could feel a chilly breeze brushing the hairs on his arms, making them all stand to attention. Thirty seconds or so later, he finally caught sight of his target. On the outskirts of the city, beautiful, famed gardens wandered along one of the main rivers, revealing amazing views of the fantastic cathedral and the picturesque water meadows. Twisting paths lined with flowers, punctuated by the occasional bench and a popular playground for young children, stood out for all to see.

  Opposite the children's play area, in the middle of the duck laden, lazy river, sat a small island with a huge oak tree growing out of it. Close enough to the bank for older children to jump over to, it stood out as a marked attraction. Swooping down and across the park, strangely, the oak was Peter's destination. His consciousness headed at speed towards a particular branch that instead of tapering off to a point, had a small dark hole in the end of it, through which Peter's wayward mind now dived. The pitch black interior came as something of a shock after the bright, gaudy colours of the playground. Nevertheless, he pressed on, his sense of speed gradually fading. Knowing what to expect because he'd done this hundreds of times before, a sudden encompassing bright light offered up a sense of familiarity. In a virtual room that disappeared off as far as he could see, glancing down row after row of huge wooden filing cabinets, he scanned the italic writing on the front of each for what he was looking for. Sol (April-May), Speculum (March-April-May), Liber (April-May) and Stella (April-May).

  Seconds later, he had it... The Daily Telepath (April-May). Using only the will of his mind, he pulled open the drawer, swooped up and dived in head first (well, since his head was back in his kitchen, that wasn't really possible... but you know what I mean), rifling through the thick wad of pages. To him it felt as though he was swimming through a book just as someone was flicking through all the pages. Odd and yet strangely compelling, particularly the smell, which for some reason reminded him of old books. He was so immersed in everything that he nearly missed last month's copies whizzing past him, but not quite. He knew he was close. Grinding gradually to a halt, he found himself right in front of today's copy, grasped it with his mind, and leapt right on out of the cabinet. Immediately an explosion of information wrapped itself around his conscious will and followed it back, exactly the same way it had come, until it plunged back down into his house and forced its way back into his head. With the information downloaded, it was no trouble now to access it inside his head, pretty much, in fact, like turning the pages of a real, tactile newspaper. The front page of today's Daily Telepath looked like this:

  After a quick flick through the headlines, he decided to store the rest of the paper to peruse later. Concentrating hard in his mind, mentally he screwed up the paper into a ball, and threw it into a huge green bucket marked LATER on the front. Twice the size of the green one, a red bucket marked RUBBISH looked full to the hilt, on the edge of darkness, deep inside his mind.

  Leaving the table, he grabbed his sandwiches from the fridge, sports jacket from the coat stand and keys from the bowl on the table by the front door, before jumping into his car, which, much to his surprise, started first time. He then headed off to work.

  His dragon cover involved him working for the biggest employer in Salisbridge, Cropptech: a highly specialised and world renowned supplier of precious metals and valuable stones. Located on the western outskirts of the city, the main facility comprised a large office block, a small industrial area and a warehouse and logistics setup. The office complex housed the company's marketing, accounts, payroll, sales, administration, technical support, training and web management departments. The industrial aspect of the site dealt with the polishing and cutting of gems, refining and experimenting with rare and unstable metals. Responsibility for both the distribution of the newly cut gems and the safe delivery of the raw materials required, fell on the shoulders of the warehouse and logistics department.

  Cropptech's interests didn't just extend to the site here. They had numerous mines, small specialist production facilities, experimental bore holes, as well as tiny satellite offices dotted all around the globe, making them one of the leading experts in their field. Set up some one hundred and twenty years ago, it has been a family run business ever since. Currently in charge was the last living descendant of that family, a confirmed bachelor in his late forties by the name of Al Garrett. Plain enough that he wouldn't stand out in a crowd, his lean frame and shiny bald head with just a few etchings of grey hair around his temples were neatly complemented by a ferocious looking, matching grey moustache. Known affectionately by his staff as the 'bald eagle', he never seemed to miss anything that was going on inside his company. On inheriting the firm twenty five years ago, it didn't take long for Garrett to figure out that it was on the verge of bankruptcy, with very little in the way of future prospects. He was, however, a driven man and the thought of letting down the significant number of workers that he now employed, spurred him on to single-handedly turn the company's fortunes around, making it now one of the most financially prosperous corporations in Britain. As well as having brilliant business acumen and acquiring a substantial personal fortune (most of which he donated to charity), Garrett had become renowned for his generosity and the favourable way in which he treated his staff. Everyone who worked for him always thought of him as approachable and caring, with a wicked sense of humour that was almost legendary.

  Richie and Peter both worked for Cropptech and had started there, straight out of the nursery ring, some three years ago. Working in the training department, Richie regularly ran courses on anything from the latest payroll software to new health and safety requirements. Positively thriving in that environment, she'd been promoted twice in her short tenure. Starting off as a guard on the nightshift in the security department, Peter's dedication and enthusiasm for the job had seen him promoted to Assistant Security Co-ordinator, working mainly days, with the odd night shift when holiday cover required it. He had his own
tiny, ground floor office in the main block, just across the road from the main security gate outpost. A desk with a workstation, an array of grey metal filing cabinets, a bank of security monitors and a great view represented everything that kept him company while he was tucked away.

  Peter's promotion into his new role thrust an enormous amount of responsibility onto his very young and inexperienced shoulders. Just as well he was a dragon, with a bucket load of training behind him. All that stood between him and Garrett in the chain of authority was the chief security co-ordinator, who had been off sick with a mysterious virus for a matter of weeks now, resulting in Peter reporting directly to the head honcho himself. Dealing with Garrett on a daily basis had led Peter to re-evaluate his opinion of his boss. He'd thought the rumours of his generosity and kindness were all exaggerated, only to find out now that they were indeed all true, having witnessed some firsthand, as well as finding himself unexpectedly on the end of some of it. He now felt as though he had a rapport with Garrett, especially when the man himself constantly berated him for not using the term 'bald eagle', something Peter just couldn't get used to.

  With everything going swimmingly at work, Peter couldn't wait to get to get in every day.

  Parking his car, he walked briskly across the car park in the biting wind towards the security lodge at the main gate. Although no real need presented itself for him to go to the lodge, it was something of a habit he'd gotten into, to check that everything had gone smoothly the night before and that there were no outstanding issues. Smiling, he was reluctant to even admit to himself the other reason, which was the cheeky banter the staff threw his way, first thing in the morning. Having learned not only to take it, but to dish it out as well, it had become one of the highlights of his day, and his own personal mark that he'd put on the department in light of his direct superior's absence.

  'Just as well they're excellent at their jobs,' he thought, twisting the handle of the white, double glazed door to the lodge. Squeezing through, out of the wind, he strode up the short corridor, past the water cooler, toilets and photocopier and rounded the corner, drawing to a halt at the open plan area.

  "Good morning slaves," he announced sarcastically, ready for any and all x-rated replies. All he got instead, was a mumbled, "Morning."

  Turning to Jessica Freeman, currently in charge, but also the closest, he leaned in towards her and whispered,

  "What's going on?"

  Jessica replied in a low voice,

  "Not sure, but Mr Garrett wants to see you in his office, ASAP."

  "Mr Garrett?" replied Peter.

  "Hmmmm... that's right," whispered Jessica, looking straight at Peter and rolling her eyes.

  "Okay, ahhh, thanks, I think. I'll catch up with you a little later," said Peter, heading back the way he'd come in.

  'Odd,' he thought as he crossed the road that separated the security lodge from the complex that housed his office. Sensing that something was out of the ordinary, he paused briefly in his office to hang up his jacket and put his lunch in the top drawer of his desk, before heading for the lift that would take him up to the fourth floor and Al Garrett's plush set of offices. On the way up in the lift, Peter caught his reflection in the mirrored walls and straightened his tie, determined to look professional as he strode down the long, oak panelled corridor, past Garrett's personal secretary whom he smiled at, all the while his feet sinking into the plush, expensive carpet. Stopping outside the oak door with a brass plaque on it that read 'Al Garrett Chief Executive', he took a deep breath and knocked twice. A growl of "ENTER," reverberated through the door from deep within. Letting out his breath, he turned the handle and went in.

  Overpowering darkness was the first thing that struck Peter as strange, particularly given it was after nine am, and a beautifully sunny day outside. The second was not only the large, stocky figure peering through the drawn blinds of the window, behind Garrett's desk, with only his back on show, but the peculiar aroma that hung in the air throughout the room. All sorts of possibilities ran through his head, without much success. It was then that the seated Garrett peered up from behind his reading glasses.

  "I've implemented some changes, effective immediately, that you need to know about Mr Bentwhistle," Garrett declared, very much out of character.

  "Until further notice, every department head, yourself included, will report directly to Major Manson."

  The man stood at the window turned round to face Peter, a charmless grin smothered across his face.

  "Major Manson is from Darktech Technologies," continued Garrett, "a leading security consultancy. He will be carrying out a review of our security and operational procedures. I expect nothing but full co-operation from you and your staff. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Absolutely Al," answered Peter, smiling.

  "That's 'Mister Garrett' to you," announced a haughty voice from behind Garrett, dripping with condescension.

  "He's right," added Garrett.

  Looking straight into the unnaturally dark eyes of Major Manson, Peter needed all of his self control to keep his temper in check. Difficult to see in the lightless environment, he quickly applied his enhanced dragon senses to get a clearer picture of this uppity newcomer. Manson appeared stocky, but was about the same height as Peter. He had straight brown hair, or 'used to', Peter thought with a smirk. The left and the right side were now clearly having a race to see which could get to the back of his head first, that's how badly receding it was. Clean shaven with a square jaw, Peter hadn't been mistaken about his eyes. There was something just... wrong.

  Garrett cleared his throat, jolting Peter from his train of thought.

  "Sorry, MISTER Garrett, "Peter said with just a tinge of sarcasm.

  "That will be all. You're dismissed," announced the Chief Executive, not even bothering to look up from the paperwork on his desk.

  Frustrated, Peter wheeled round and headed out of the door without giving the other two a second glance. Barely managing not to slam the door on the way out, he returned to the lift, his head awash with thoughts, the first of which was, 'What the hell is going on?' Eccentric didn't even begin to cover it. The lighting, the bizarre smell, the whole, 'call me Al' one day, and then 'Mr Garrett' the next, and that's without even mentioning the elephant in the room. That made him smile, because of the very nearly direct comparison. Who was this security consultant, and why all of a sudden did the company need him? When Peter had used his senses to study the Major, he was half expecting to sense some sort of evil dragon. He hadn't of course, try as he might. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Nevertheless, something about the whole situation sat uneasily at the back of his mind. He vowed to keep a close eye on things, as he stepped out of the elevator.

  Peter spent the next few hours skulking in his office, making sure everything was up together should the worst happen, like getting an inspection from his newly appointed, interim boss. On three occasions he spotted the man, once going into the security lodge, once on the way to the distribution depot, and then again getting a big black box out of a shiny new Mercedes in the car park. What stood out on each of these occasions was that Major Manson walked with a limp, and was aided by a stick, made from rich, dark wood with an ornate silver ornament on top. He couldn't tell exactly what it was from so far away, even using the security camera's zoom function.

  After lunch, he paid another visit to the security lodge. Back in the familiar office, the unusual atmosphere stuck out like a sore thumb, with everyone there keeping their heads down and getting on with their work, in pretty much total silence. The atmosphere was most out of place for the normally jovial, well run, efficient department.

  Having sorted out his paperwork and spoken to the members of his team, he walked down the corridor towards the exit. Weaving his way past the large photocopier, he felt like banging his head against the wall in frustration. Things had been working so well, everybody had seemed so happy... and now this. The atmosphere was terrible wherever he'd b
een today, and he was sure the staff... his friends, hated what had happened, but were too afraid to speak out. He couldn't really blame them. With a view to getting some perspective, he resolved to speak to Richie that night.

  The end of the working day arrived, with Peter doing his normal trick of staying on just that bit later to avoid the worst of the traffic, in particular the queues out of the massive car parks from within Cropptech. Spending this last hour or so looking out of his office window and using the security cameras to try and gauge the mood of the workers all heading for their cars, he was puzzled to find only a few glum faces amongst the majority, who, on inspection, looked like their normal, happy selves. He wasn't sure if that bothered him more or not, after the kind of day he'd been through.

  At precisely a quarter to six he grabbed his jacket and lunch box and, with his phone in his hand, raced across to his car which looked rather lonely in the depleted car park. Texting his friend on the way, he marvelled at how difficult it was for him to type and walk at the same time. Sending his message off into the ether, he jumped into his car and started it up. As he made a sharp turn, heading towards the exit, his headlights lit up the shiny black Mercedes that belonged to Major Manson. Shaking his head and uttering a very bad word under his breath, he made for home.

  Richie's reply to his text startled him in the middle of cooking tea, and a small smile at her willingness to meet him later in the bar of the sports club peeked through his gruff demeanour, caused by his worst working day ever. Food eaten, household jobs done, he walked out of the front door with a spring in his step.

  Pushing through the giant double glass doors, he skipped past the notice boards, deserted reception area/shop and turned the corner into the bar proper, only to be greeted by a riot of noise and colour. A raucous game of pool was taking place, in between some drinking. An even noisier battle was taking place between two stocky chaps on the arcade 'shoot-em-up' game off to one side. On top of all of that, drunken men enthusiastically playing a fruit machine and a dozen or so track suited males flipping a matchbox furiously, amid drinking their beer as fast as was humanly possible, all added to the atmosphere, if indeed that's how it could be described.

  Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he had but one thought.

  'PANTS... it's Wednesday!' A rugby coaching course had been going on all day, which went some way to explaining the ensuing chaos and high jinks. Weaving in and out the chairs and tables, narrowly missing the game of pool that looked as though it was about to turn into a contact sport, he reached the bar and ordered his usual: large diet Pepsi, lots of ice. Scanning the room for Richie, it didn't take long to spot her tucked away in the far corner, nursing her drink, on a table next to two young rugby players arm wrestling each other. Even from this distance she looked stunning. Long, dark brown, curly hair flowed down the back of her neck, framing her ever so cute face, completed by a freckly complexion and a petite body that perfectly mirrored her dragon form. For a few seconds he stood captivated by her beauty and thoughts of something he could never have, before realising that he probably looked a bit odd, which was enough in itself to get him scuttling on over in her direction. The closer he got to her table, the more apparent it was that the arm wrestling rugby players were trying to impress her with their macho deeds. Ignoring their scowls, he pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. As he did so, one of the tough guys piped up,

  "Look, it's one of the juniors from the hockey club."

  His friend joined in the fun,

  "You'd have thought it would have been well past his bedtime."

  They both seemed to think this was hilarious, as they sat waiting for Peter to react. Richie leant in close to Peter, nodded her head in the direction of the two idiots and said,

  "Aren't you going to say something?"

  "It's not worth it," he whispered back, hoping the whole thing would just go away.

  But Richie had other ideas. With the two drunken rugby players laughing louder than ever now, bringing their antics to the attention of the rest of the clubhouse, a mischievous glint flickered briefly in Richie's eyes. Before he could stop her, she stood and addressed the two rugby players, in a very loud and very confident voice.

  "You two so-called real men think you're tough eh? I'll arm wrestle you both at the same time and still win. How about that?"

  Everyone had now focused their attention on what was happening, including all the staff. If nothing else, the challenge had momentarily wiped the smile from the two drunken rugby players’ faces because they, like most there, were well aware of Richie's reputation, not only as a supreme athlete, but as someone capable of 'pulling a rabbit out of a hat' anytime she liked, so to speak. Deep down they knew her to be formidable and not someone to be trifled with, but as they looked her up and down, taking in her diminutive frame and her skinny little biceps, the alcohol kicked in.

  "No problem luv," said one, as they simultaneously slammed their fists down on the table.

  Almost as one, the rest of the room shook their head, rubbed their eyes, and then SMILED! As everyone slowly gathered round to watch, the two rugby players took a seat next to each other.

  "You sure you wanna do us both at the same time?" one tittered.

  Again the crowd shook their heads, all speculating inside their minds about the amount of humiliation that was about to be dished out.

  "We'll try not to hurt you luv," slurred the slightly less drunk of the two.

  This was going to be BAD!

  Richie sat relaxed in her chair, smiling confidently at the two fools, as she put both her elbows on the table and offered out her petite hands. Having a pretty good idea of just how this was going to go, Peter couldn't watch. Once each of the rugby players had taken a hand, someone in the crowd started to count down.

  "5... 4..."

  The rugby players’ biceps positively bulged as their arms tensed.

  "3... 2..."

  The smile still on her face, Richie closed her eyes and...

  "1!"

  SMASH!!!!!!!! The two rugby players yelped with pain as their bruised hands bounced back up from the undamaged table.

  "Thanks guys," Richie scoffed, as she got up and performed a mock bow for the crowd, who all, right on cue, erupted with applause and laughter.

  Heading off through the crowd towards the bar, the two rugby players were mocked and ridiculed relentlessly.

  Dropping back into her seat opposite Peter, with everyone having dispersed, Richie took a big swig of her drink, before looking at Peter and saying,

  "That's how you handle them."

  "That's not really how we're supposed to do things... is it?" replied Peter, rolling his eyes for effect.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

  "It's not exactly BLENDING in, is it?" he whispered, sternly. "If the Council heard about all this, you'd be in so much trouble."

  "You don't get it Pete. I don't care. Some of these humans desperately need some lessons in manners."

  "I can't say I disagree with you. But it's not your job to teach them."

  "Isn't it?!" declared Richie. "I don't stop being who or WHAT I am as soon as the clock strikes five and I head for home every day. And you can't tell me you don't either. So why shouldn't our mandate extend a little further? If you ask me, our roles do extend outside our jobs, and this is exactly the kind of thing we should be doing."

  Abruptly the two friends brought their conversation to a halt, realising that someone was approaching the table. Richie's beautiful face cracked a grin as one of the shamed, arm wrestling rugby players approached carrying fresh drinks for them both.

  "We're both very sorry... and... um... have both learned a valuable lesson today," he managed to stutter, looking as though he'd sobered up considerably over the course of the last few minutes.

  "Good," quipped Richie, raising the fresh glass in his direction, the natural balance of things restored, with her looking cooler than a polar bear in the Arctic, eating an ice cream, sponsored by Ferra
ri.

  With the ambient noise having dropped to its lowest since he'd arrived, Peter figured now was his chance to talk to his friend about work.

  "So, how's your day been Rich?" he asked.

  Still smirking from her easily won victory, she pondered the question for a few seconds before replying.

  "Pretty quiet really. Health and safety training this morning, which was all over by lunch time, so quite an easy afternoon."

  "You haven't heard then, about a new consultant guy that Garrett's brought in?"

  "Oh you mean Major Manson."

  "That's the one," muttered Peter, frowning.

  "What a charming man. We were all introduced to him this afternoon when Al showed him around our offices. I'd say he'll fit in nicely around here."

  "WHAT!!!" fumed Peter, nearly knocking over his drink. "You've got to be kidding me!"

  A worried look on her face, Richie leaned across the table and took hold of Peter's hand.

  "What is it? What's the matter?"

  He snatched his hand away from Richie's grasp, shaking ever so slightly. Richie decided she'd wait for him to explain what the problem was. Letting his anger drift away, after a short while he took a sip of his drink, looked his friend in the face, and continued.

  "Could you not see how he was manipulating Garrett?"

  "What on earth do you mean?" she responded, puzzled.

  Trying his best to keep calm, he said,

  "Major Manson, the guy from Darktech, has got some sort of hold on Garrett... I'm sure of it."

  "What makes you say that?"

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Peter explained what had happened that day, particularly the encounter with Manson in Garrett's office, the darkness, the smell, the odd behaviour... all of it. Richie listened intently, not interrupting once. After having finished, he waited patiently for her take in his views, giving her the time and space she'd afforded him earlier. Not knowing quite what to make of Peter's account, she dived in head first, explaining how they'd been introduced that afternoon by Garrett, and how after the guided tour, all of her colleagues had gone on and on about just how considerate, witty and charming the new man had seemed. Almost the perfect gentleman you could say. Needless to say, Richie's experience was almost a polar opposite to his encounter, and was about as far removed as it was possible to be. Richie rounded off her tale by saying that Al Garrett had dropped by much later on, to ask the staff's opinion of Manson. Everyone had told him what they thought, with nearly all agreeing that they'd be happy to report to him regularly. For his part, Garrett went on to explain the reason for Manson being there was to gain fresh perspective and insight into the way the company operates, and to take a little bit of the responsibility and pressure away from himself, which everyone agreed, after he'd left, could only be a good thing.

  After Richie had finished recounting her story, the two friends sat in silence for a good few minutes, both gazing into the bottom of their almost drained glasses. By this time the clubhouse was nearly empty, but that didn't stop Peter from looking around conspiratorially, making sure no one was listening in.

  "Listen Rich, I know from everything you've said, that you can't see anything untoward in what's going on, but I swear to you on our friendship that there's something very wrong with this Manson guy."

  There was a long pause as Peter considered his next words carefully.

  "It's almost like he's... one of us."

  "Are you INSANE?" countered Richie, lowering her voice immediately. "We'd know if he was a dragon; we'd sense him, and he just isn't.”

  "I know he doesn't feel like a dragon," retorted Peter, "but... there's something else that just makes him feel really, really wrong to everyone of my senses."

  "Have you considered the possibility that your dislike for him stems from the fact that he's just waltzed into Cropptech, and you've gotten off on the wrong foot? Or that you don't like the thought of having to report to someone new, someone who's been here less time than you have?"

  "I know it sounds a bit like that Rich, but there's more to it than that, I'm sure. You have to believe me... please. I've never been so sure about anything in my entire life," Peter pleaded.

  "Enough with the begging, alright. I'll do what I can to keep an eye on him, as should you. With both of us working together, nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary will go unnoticed. Deal?"

  "Deal," agreed Peter cheerfully.

  With proceedings concluded, and both of them stifling yawns, the friends deposited their empty glasses on the bar, and after a quick goodnight embrace in the car park, went their separate ways.

  Driving home, Peter wasn't sure what to make of their conversation. Glad that Richie had agreed to keep a watchful eye on Manson, but concerned that the entire office staff thought him to be a decent chap. As he slipped into bed, he hoped things would look better after a full night's sleep.

  Following his normal routine, right down to the letter, the next morning. It was only when he'd closed the front door and headed down the path to his car that he realised the difference between this day and all the rest. For the first time ever, he wasn't looking forward to going into work. Quite the opposite in fact.

  Thursday and Friday passed without incident at work. Atmosphere wise, in the security department, it was pretty much as it had been, an overwhelming cauldron of negativity, leaving the staff there with little choice but to knuckle down and get on with their work, with not a hint of the little jokes or quirky humour that Peter so loved.

  For him, Friday was spent touring the whole site, checking security standards and protocol, making sure that as a company they were being extra vigilant, not wishing to give Manson any cause to pick fault with his work, but also it was an excuse to gauge the mood of a larger cross section of Cropptech employees, and get some sort of insight into just how they were feeling.

  For the most part, the workers across the rest of the facility appeared happy and productive. Not sure what to make of all of this, he replayed that day over and over in his mind, wondering if, as Richie had suggested, he'd made a mistake, or jumped to a rash conclusion. Could it all be completely innocent, with him being the one to blow everything out of proportion with his vivid imagination? Despite going over it dozens of times, he still didn't think he was wrong. Something else he found suspicious was that Al Garrett had stayed in his office throughout normal working hours all day on Thursday, something that was practically unheard of. He'd checked.

  'Very unusual,' he thought as he wandered the entire site, whilst also trying to keep an eye out for Major Manson, without much success. From reviewing the recordings in his office, he could see that the Major returned to his parked car every three to four hours, sitting in it for approximately five minutes, before heading back up to Garrett's office. It was impossible to see what exactly he was doing, due to the heavily darkened windows across the whole car, but he pondered all of this right up to the point that he left for home, his head buzzing with everything that had gone on that week. The only thing he knew at the moment was that he was glad it was the weekend.