Part 18 (1/2)
”Shut the b.l.o.o.d.y doors, you fool!” he bellowed at the helpful wizard-Monaghan, one of Wycliffe's Second Graders.
Monaghan obeyed. As the doors slammed shut Errol triggered their protective s.h.i.+elding hex then staggered to a halt.
”Good job, I say, good job,” Methven was panting, shoving his way through the stunned crowd of wizards. ”Well done, Err-Mister Haythwaite! Are you all right, old ch-sir?”
Gerald, his heart stuttering, prudently hung back. Errol had dropped to his knees, the fingers of his left hand gripping his right wrist very tightly, his pale, sweaty face a grimacing mask of fury. He held up his right hand, and the other wizards gasped to see the livid, blood-filled blisters on its palm and fingers.
”Do I look all right to you, Methven?” he snarled. ”Where the h.e.l.l is Dunnywood, I'm going to-”
And then the floor heaved under their feet and the Pit's hexed doors buckled and the air beneath the high roof of the R&D division s.h.i.+vered, as Errol's caged First Grade staff surrendered to metaphysical inevitability and exploded.
”Where is he?” shouted Errol, lurching to his feet. ”Show your b.l.o.o.d.y face, Dunwoody, if you dare!”
Reluctantly abandoning the shelter of his muttering, whispering colleagues, Gerald shuffled into view. Oh dear. Oh no. I don't think this is what Sir Alec meant by keeping a low profile.
”I'm here, Mister Haythwaite.”
”And why is that, Dunwoody?” Errol ground out, his eyes slitted. ”Why are you here? Why are you anywhere? First you blow up Stuttley's. Then your new employer breaks his neck hunting. And now here you are trying to wreck Wycliffe's. You're a menace! You're a one-man walking disaster! Everything you touch turns to s.h.i.+t!”
”Ah-actually, Mister Haythwaite, that's not quite-” Methven started to say.
”Did I ask you, Robert, you-you turtle?” said Errol, turning on him. ”Did I invite you to express your ignorant opinion? Did I-”
”What in the name of all things thaumaturgical is going on here?” demanded an unimpressed baritone voice from the back of the crowd. ”Would someone kindly explain this fracas?”
Mister Ambrose Wycliffe, lured out of his den by all the excitement.
Gerald and his colleagues turned towards the man Sir Alec had characterised as decent enough, but not a patch on his father-and nearly fell over. Because hovering behind Mister Ambrose Wycliffe, the very image of sober prosperity in his black three-piece worsted morning suit, was-was- Melissande?
What? What? What was she doing here?
Melissande seemed just as shocked to see him as he was to see her. Mouth dropped, she slid her prim gla.s.ses down her nose and stared at him over their rims, dumbfounded. Clutched to her black-bloused chest-lord, that was an ugly outfit!-was a pile of buff-coloured folders.
Then her expression changed to a warning, which gave him just enough time to duck aside as Errol Haythwaite thrust his way past to confront Mister Ambrose Wycliffe.
”What's going on, sir, is that you've hired the most useless, incompetent and downright dangerous Third Grade idiot in the country... if not the entire world. If you'll accept my recommendation, sir, you'll get rid of him. Right now.”
Ambrose Wycliffe frowned, making his untrimmed bushy gingery grey eyebrows bristle. He looked a lot like a middle-aged ba.s.set-hound: sagging jowls, a wrinkled brow, and deeply dark brown, mournful eyes. ”What? Who? Who are you talking about, Haythwaite?”
Gerald exchanged looks with Melissande, sighed, and raised his hand. ”He's talking about me, sir,” he said, as his colleagues prudently retreated from the direct line of fire. ”Gerald Dunwoody.”
Ambrose Wycliffe squinted. ”Never heard of you. Never laid eyes on you before, have I? How long have you been here?”
”Three weeks, sir. I was sent by Truscott's, sir.”
”The loc.u.m agency?” Ambrose Wycliffe chewed at his lip. ”They sent you?”
”Yes, sir.”
Ambrose looked at Errol. ”You must be mistaken, Mister Haythwaite. He can't be that bad. Not if Truscott's sent him.”
Errol seemed nonplussed. ”You use a loc.u.m agency, Mister Wycliffe?”
”For the unimportant staff, yes,” said Ambrose Wycliffe. ”I only hand-pick the important people, like you. Don't have time to waste on functionaries. Leave that to Truscott's.”
”Oh,” said Errol. ”Well, sir, did Truscott's happen to mention that this functionary is the man who blew up Stuttley's last year?”
Ambrose Wycliffe blinked, then took a step forward, squinting again. His extravagant ginger muttonchop whiskers quivered. ”What? That was you, Mister Dunwoody?”
Gerald managed not to look at Errol. Managed to keep his lowly Third Grade obsequiousness intact. Just. d.a.m.n, Sir Alec. I told you this would happen.
”The investigation did exonerate me, Mister Wycliffe,” he murmured humbly. ”Mister Harold Stuttley was found culpable on a number of regulatory violations. The official government conclusion was that the unfortunate destruction of the factory wasn't my fault.”
”I see,” said Ambrose Wycliffe. He laced his pudgy fingers over his substantial belly and frowned more deeply, rocking slightly on his heels. ”Still. That doesn't explain what's going on now. And what is going on now? I'm still waiting for someone to tell me. What the devil was that explosion?”
”That,” said Errol, teeth glittering in a sabre smile, ”was Mister Dunwoody destroying yet another of my First Grade staffs. He seems to think I have an unlimited supply. And I can I a.s.sure him that I don't. Not of staffs... and not of patience, or tolerance for unmitigated incompetence. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Wycliffe, but he's managed to wreck the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype as well.”
A cry of dismay went up from their audience of goggling wizards. The Mark VI was their latest, greatest project. A great many hopes and dreams-not to mention jobs-were pinned to its experimental fuselage and propulsion design.
Ambrose Wycliffe's florid face paled, dramatically. ”Is that true, Mister Dunwoody? Have you wrecked the Mark VI prototype?”
”No, he hasn't, Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. ”I'm sorry, Mister Haythwaite,” he added, coming forward. ”I don't mean to disrespect you or contradict you or interfere in any way. It's just that Mister Dunwoody wasn't working on the Mark VI. I was, as per Mister Haythwaite's request. I just asked Mister Dunwoody to step in and read off the gauges on the etheretic quantifier while I fired the new engine up for a burst. That's all. I swear, he didn't lay so much as a finger on the airs.h.i.+p prototype.”
”Maybe not,” muttered Errol. ”But he looked at it. And that's more than enough where Dunnywood's concerned.”
”Now, now, Mister Haythwaite,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, indulgently. ”I can see that what we have here is an unfortunate clash of personalities. But since it's been proven by an official government investigation that Mister Dunwoody here didn't blow up Stuttley's, and our Mister Methven has manfully owned up to his part in this unfortunate business and exculpated Mister Dunwoody, I don't think it's fair to sack the chap. Not when he comes with a Truscott guarantee and I won't get a refund on my deposit.”
”It's your decision, sir, of course,” said Errol, his voice dangerously clipped. He turned on Methven. ”So you're saying I'm responsible? The Mark VI is my s.h.i.+p. I designed it. I invented the new thaumic conversion matrix. So if there is a problem with the engine the fault is mine? Is that what you're saying?”
Gerald cleared his throat. ”No, Mister Haythwaite, I think what Mister Meth-”
Errol seared him with such a look he actually stepped back. ”Shut up, Dunwoody,” Errol hissed. ”Didn't you get the memo? Third Grade wizards should be seen and not heard.”
A ripple of unease ran through the gaggle of watching wizards, and as though Errol's vicious retort was some kind of signal-or warning-they began to drift away to their desks and benches and labs.
Ambrose Wycliffe unlaced his fingers from his belly and stepped to Errol's side. Sliding an arm around his shoulders he harumphed, understandingly. ”Mister Haythwaite, your distress does you credit. We all know how dedicated you are to the success of the Ambrose Mark VI. But you must not allow yourself to become overturned. We are still in the experimental stages, are we not? These little setbacks are bound to happen.”
”That's very generous of you, sir,” said Errol, stiffly. ”I appreciate your understanding.”
Ambrose Wycliffe shook his head. ”Not at all, not at all. Why, I could tell you stories of prototype disasters in my late father's day that make this look like a mere peccadillo. Don't forget, Mister Haythwaite, that this grand laboratory was my childhood playpen. I grew up with airs.h.i.+ps and I can a.s.sure you, when it comes to design teething troubles there is nothing new under the sun.”
Errol grimaced. ”Keep Dunwoody around, sir, and I promise you'll see it.”
”Ah, you're a witty man, Mister Haythwaite!” said Ambrose Wycliffe, jowls jiggling. ”And I do so enjoy the company of witty men. But I'm bound to remind you, sir, that I lost the Ambroses Marks II through V long before Mister Dunwoody arrived on the scene.”
”Yes, sir,” said Errol. ”Which is why you hired me, and why I'm determined we'll not lose the Mark VI as well. The future of Wycliffe's is riding on this airs.h.i.+p and I'll do whatever I must to makes sure it succeeds.”
Ambrose Wycliffe's ba.s.set-hound eyes went moist. ”Dear boy,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. ”Come. Let's inspect the prototype, shall we, and see what's to be done about salvaging it. And then you'd better have some ointment put on those blisters. Very nasty. Mister Methven-”
Robert Methven, who'd been hovering uncertainly on the sidelines, jumped. ”Mister Wycliffe?”