Quentin nodded. “I see. A different question now.” He waved his last lump of hamburger around the scoop and outward at the rest of the huge workshop. “All this,” he said. “It must take a great deal of money.”
Archer grinned across his own last piece of hamburger. “Yes, but I’m a millionaire. It’s no problem.”
“I thought you must be,” said Quentin. “But there must have been a time, more than twenty-six years ago, I suppose, when you weren’t a millionaire. How did you get the money to start?”
Howard thought this question was rather an impudence. So did Fifi. They both looked nervously at Archer. But Archer smiled his agreeable wry smile. “I got money from the taxes,” he said. “We all farm the taxes. We agreed on that when we first came.”
Howard could see that the cool way Archer said this made Quentin very angry. He interrupted hurriedly, “How did Erskine know it was twenty-six years?”
“I didn’t ask,” said Archer. “Erskine farms drains and water, so I suppose he keeps watch through his pipes.”
“This town seems well and truly bugged,” Quentin remarked. He still sounded calm, but Howard could tell he was getting angrier every second. “Looking at this stuff you have in this place,” he said, “I’m surprised you haven’t taken over the world by now.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Archer said cheerfully. “As soon as I’ve stopped the person who’s stopping me.” And he finished his second hamburger, obviously quite unaware that by saying this, he had turned Quentin utterly against him. But Howard knew. He saw it in his father’s eyes as Quentin politely asked his next question.
“And who do you suspect is stopping you?”
Archer considered ruefully. He smiled his agreeable smile. “I suspect everyone,” he said. “I’d have done it myself if I’d thought of it. It makes sense to stop the rest of them from getting in your way while you take over. I suspect Erskine most, even though I quite like him, because he’s almost as clever as I am. Venturus is clever, too, and he farms education, so he could have got on to you through the Poly. Shine is ruthless enough, Torquil and Dillian are selfish enough, and Hathaway hates us all even if he is a recluse.” Archer thought again. “Torquil now,” he said. “Your wife comes under Torquil.”
“Mum’s got nothing to do with this,” Howard said quickly. And Awful did her best to defend Catriona, too, by asking, “Is Torquil the youngest?”
“No, Torquil’s after Hathaway—fifth,” said Archer. “Erskine’s sixth. Venturus is the youngest.”
“Is Venturus selfish, too?” Awful asked. “I am.”
“Probably. I haven’t seen him for years,” said Archer.
“Then I like Venturus best,” Awful decided.
Archer laughed, but he looked rueful, too. “You could do worse,” he said. “I like Venturus next after Erskine.”
Quentin stood up and wiped hamburger grease onto his coat. “Come on, Awful. We all must be going.” And he said to Archer, “If you would make this gadget put us down?”
Regretfully Howard got up as well and threw the newspaper from his chips at the slot, which swallowed it with a most satisfactory whoof. He would have loved to stay, and to miss orchestra practice, and perhaps persuade Archer to show him some of his technology. But he could tell that Quentin was trying to get away without making any promises to Archer, and that did seem the right thing to do. Fifi was looking even more depressed to be going. Perhaps that was because she had not done anything yet about picking a quarrel with Archer. She sat where she was, with her arms around her knees and a mournful smile on her face.
“Wait a minute,” said Archer. “You haven’t told me your exact orders for writing those words.”
“You know as much as I do,” Quentin said. “Two thousand of them, not a copy or anything I’ve done before. Nothing else. Come along, Fifi.”
“Then you’ll do me two thousand by those orders for tomorrow,” Archer said, smiling.
“Regard them as done,” Quentin said, waving a vague hand.
“Mr. Sykes!” Fifi said reproachfully.
Archer glanced from Fifi to Quentin. He was clearly astonished to see that Quentin had not agreed to do the words. A blush swept across his face. Then the grim look gathered on it. “I warn you, Sykes,” he said, “I don’t like being made a fool of. The trouble you’ve had up to now is nothing to the trouble you’ll have if you don’t do those words.”
Quentin sighed. He folded his arms. “Howard,” he said, “you have sense. Speak to him from me, as a taxpayer and a citizen of the world. If I tell him, I’ll lose my temper.”
“He means he won’t,” Howard explained a little nervously. “He doesn’t like your ideas.”
The blush swept over Archer’s face again. “But I answered all his questions! I thought—”
“Precisely,” Quentin said meaningfully.
“He doesn’t think you ought to take over the world,” Howard interpreted. And seeing the irate astonishment growing on Archer’s face, he added, “And he doesn’t bully easily.”
The red of Archer’s face grew brighter still. His eyes blazed blue. “But my plans are all made!” he said. “I’m not going to be stopped by you! Write those words or suffer!”
“No,” said Quentin. “I can’t square it with—”
Archer hurled himself around in his chair. His hands swept out to a whole clutch of buttons in his console. “Oh, get out of my sight!” he yelled. “I’ve had enough of all of you!”
The scoop tilted and then seemed to whirl through the air. Howard had a dizzying feeling of being slung by it, as if it were a Roman catapult. Bright light and wet rain washed over him. He found himself standing on wet tarmac, staggering a little, and staggered farther, across some red painted letters that said “ARCHER,” to hold himself up on what turned out to be the school gate. He stood there, panting, catching up with the fact that Archer’s technology was something other than normal technology. Then he wondered where Dad and Awful and Fifi had got to. Just as he had caught up with the fact that he was outside his own school, he heard a bell ringing from inside the buildings.
Howard cursed. He was in time for orchestra practice after all.
Chapter Six
Catriona was already there when Howard slithered into the hall and left his violin case among the stack of odd-shaped bags and cases at the end. She tactfully pretended not to know Howard as he tiptoed gloomily to sit in one of the little wooden chairs arranged by the platform. The violins were always given the small chairs. Howard’s legs stuck out like the Goon’s, and there was no way he could prevent Mr. Caldwick from noticing him.
Mr. Caldwick left off talking to Catriona and came down from the platform to tell Howard he was late. “It’s really most discourteous to keep your mother waiting like this,” he bleated as he made sure Howard’s violin was in tune.
This, of course, made all the other violins turn around and whisper, “Is that your mum?” Howard could hear the whisper spreading while Mr. Caldwick went back to the platform and made a long bleating speech about how lucky they were to have Mrs. Sykes with them this afternoon. Howard doubled his legs up and tried not to listen. He had enough to think about. He thought about Archer and could not decide if he liked Archer or not. Then he thought about that vast space full of technology and knew what he thought about that. He was about as envious as a person could be. Real technology was better any day than imaginary spaceships, however well designed. Howard thought he could cheerfully go without the alien suns and settle for the banks of instruments. He wished he were Archer like anything.
He came back to reality to hear his mother speaking. “I want you to pretend I’m not here,” Catriona was saying, “and play just as you usually do. I shall listen, but I shan’t say anything till later. Ready?”
Mr. Caldwick stepped forward and raised his baton. Howard made haste to put his violin under his chin. And they played just as they usually did. It was terrible. Because Catriona was there, Howard found he really notice
d for once. Everyone who could played a different wrong note. Howard wondered how it was possible, without the law of averages producing at least one right one. He had not thought there were so many notes you could play. And of course, everyone was so busy searching his or her music for his or her wrong note that no one had time to look at Mr. Caldwick’s baton at all. The music swiftly became a race to get to the end first. The first violins won the race, by a triumphant short bar, from the cellos, with the trumpets beating the flutes breathlessly into fourth place. The drums came last, because the drummer had lost his place in the music and never hit his drums at all.
Knowing some of the things Catriona said about school orchestras at home, Howard was pleasantly surprised when she came forward and said, “Well, that was quite a good effort. But I think some of you haven’t seen quite what this music’s supposed to be doing. Let me show you on the piano.” She went to the piano, and to Howard’s surprise, she did show them. She showed them what each set of instruments was doing, holding the tune, supporting it, or pushing pieces of a new tune through the first one. The shape of the music suddenly became clear. And what was more, after about half of an hour of being shown, everyone became very excited about getting it right. When Catriona told them to try again, violins were put eagerly under chins and wind instruments to mouths. Howard, feeling as eager as the rest, realized that his mother was very good at her job.
They played. This time they were almost tuneful. Some of them even watched the baton. They had got some way, and the drummer had just hit a drum for the first time that afternoon, when there was a strange clattering among the instrument cases behind Howard. Someone seemed to be chanting. Mr. Caldwick looked over there irritably and froze, staring. Catriona also stared. The music died away as the orchestra, one by one, turned to look and stayed twisted around, staring. Howard turned to look, too. And he stayed twisted around, just like the rest of them, staring. Only the violin under his chin stopped his mouth from dropping open.
A tall and startling figure was walking up the middle of the hall, surrounded by bobbing disco dancers in wild clothes and followed by what seemed to be the cathedral choir. At any rate, there was a line of about two dozen small choirboys walking and singing behind them, and behind that was an agitated man in a black cassock whom Howard recognized as the choirmaster. But his eyes went back to the tall figure in front, dressed like something from “Aladdin and the Lamp.” He knew it was Torquil. It could be nobody else.
Torquil was wearing an immense golden turban. Ruby earrings dangled from his ears. He wore a wide red sash, baggy white trousers, and golden slippers with turned-up toes. He twirled a small jeweled baton as he strode.
“Do you think he’s a genie?” somebody said beside Howard.
In that case, Howard thought, who was the fool who rubbed the lamp? He supposed Torquil had chosen to dress like that because he was as handsome as Dillian, but what had possessed him to bring twenty disco dancers and the cathedral choir was beyond Howard to guess. He was very annoyed. Torquil had interrupted just as he was enjoying orchestra practice for the first time ever, and he could see that his mother was so confounded by this strange procession of people that she could think of nothing to do or say.
Mr. Caldwick pulled himself together and bleated, “I don’t know who you are, sir, but you can just go away!”
Torquil halted at the back of the orchestra. His dark eyes flashed proudly under his glittering turban. “I am Torquil!” he cried out. “I farm music in this town, and I have a perfect right to be here.”
“Go away!” bleated Mr. Caldwick. “Take all these people out of here!” The choir had stopped singing by this time because most of the choirboys were staring about and giggling; but the dancers were still dancing away, and the choirmaster was wringing his hands. “The orchestra is trying to practice,” Mr. Caldwick bleated. “And you—”
“Oh, be quiet, you old sheep!” said Torquil, and he flourished his jeweled baton at Mr. Caldwick.
Most of the orchestra gasped at hearing Mr. Caldwick called an old sheep, even though many of them usually called him that themselves. The choirboys laughed, and even the busy dancers grinned. Everyone’s head swung toward Mr. Caldwick, expecting him to grow wool and drop on all fours. But nothing seemed to happen.
Torquil’s baton pointed at Catriona. “I want a few words with you in private,” Torquil announced.
By this time Catriona had recovered from her surprise. She said, in the firm matter-of-fact manner that worked so well on the Goon, “Then you’ll have to come see me after school. I’m busy now.”
The manner made no impression on Torquil at all. His baton whisked round to point at the disco dancers. “Jump about, all of you,” he said. The baton whirled on to point at the choir. “Sing,” Torquil instructed them. “All of you make a noise. Interrupt.” The choir obediently burst into an anthem. The dancers moved in among the chairs of the orchestra, jigging and whirling. Torquil smiled as he turned back to Catriona. “Now you can’t be busy till I let you,” he called out. “Don’t put me off anymore, or I shall be angry.” And he strode through the orchestra toward the platform, with the dancers whirling about him. Music stands fell in all directions. A dancer in shiny purple with crimson hair knocked into Howard and then cannoned into his music. Howard watched sheets of music flying and all the anger he had somehow not managed to feel at Archer rose up in him.
Howard jumped up. He found himself running after Torquil as he strode and gripping his violin by its neck like a club to hit Torquil with. Torquil leaped gracefully up onto the platform. Howard floundered noisily up after him and grabbed Torquil by his silken sleeve. “Stop it!” he said. “Do you hear?”
He was rather frightened when Torquil swung around to glare disdainfully at him. He did not quite dare club him with the violin, even though all Torquil did was to tug to get his sleeve away. Howard hung on angrily. “Let go!” Torquil said. “Are you a boy or a limpet? I only want to speak to Mrs. Sykes.”
“Then do it, and stop acting about!” Howard said, and he let go of Torquil’s silken sleeve with a shove, rather surprised at his own daring.
Torquil flashed him a contemptuous look and turned to Catriona. “Mrs. Sykes, is there somewhere we can talk without being overheard?”
Catriona looked at Mr. Caldwick to see if he knew. Mr. Caldwick held out both hands piteously and made gasping noises. Howard was puzzled. But Torquil stretched out his baton and tapped Mr. Caldwick smartly on the head with it. “Glunk only suggest the storeroom behind the platform,” bleated Mr. Caldwick.
“No good. Venturus will hear. He farms schools,” said Torquil. “Why do you think I brought all these noisy people along?”
“We could go sit in my car,” Catriona suggested.
“Good idea,” said Torquil.
“Now look here, Mr.—er—Torquil …” Mr. Caldwick began.
Torquil tapped him on the head and shut him up again. Then he turned and beckoned the choirmaster. “You. Choirmaster,” he said. “You come take this music lesson, or whatever it is, while we’re gone. He’ll do it twice as well as the sheep,” he said to Catriona.
“I know,” she said. It was true. The choirmaster was a friend of hers. Howard tried to give the choirmaster a friendly smile as he struggled among the knocked-over music stands to get to the platform. But the choirmaster was evidently as much under the spell of Torquil’s baton as Mr. Caldwick. He simply gave Howard an agitated stare. And Howard felt Catriona’s hand on his arm. The hand gave a shaky little pull, to tell him Catriona wanted him to come to the car, too. Howard nodded. He did not want Torquil hitting Mum with his baton. Catriona gave his arm a grateful pat before she turned away to get out her car keys.
As the choirmaster scrambled unhappily onto the platform, Torquil waved his baton across everyone else in the hall. The choir stopped singing with a jerk. The dancers stood where they were. The faces of the orchestra all turned to him. “Now you’re all to do what he says,” Torquil called out, p
ointing the baton at the choirmaster. “Is that clear?” He jumped off the platform and strode through the hall to the door, calling over his shoulder to Catriona, “They’ll all forget everything straight afterward. Not to worry. Where’s your car?”
“In the yard outside the main door,” Catriona said, hurrying after him.
Howard grabbed up his violin case and ran after them. And to think he had wanted to miss orchestra practice! he thought as he ran. It was almost funny. But not quite.
When he caught up, Torquil was standing out in the rain in his finery, prodding Catriona’s car with his baton. “Hathaway runs transport,” he was saying. “Archer knows machines, and Dillian and Shine could both have it bugged. There. It’s safe from all of them. But Erskine could still hear if you chance to have it parked over a drain.” He bent down to look under the car and saw Howard. “Oh, the limpet boy’s still here.”
“Howard is my son,” Catriona said. “He’s going to sit in the back while we talk.”
“Suit yourself,” said Torquil. “He’ll forget with the rest. Get in then, limpet. I’m getting wet.”
Catriona opened the car door. Howard tipped the front seat forward and scrambled in. “Who runs housing?” he asked as he went.
“Um,” said Torquil. “I forget. Venturus probably. He got stuck farming all the dull things.” He tipped the seat straight and climbed in after Howard. It was a small car. As Torquil sat down, his great golden turban got squashed against the roof and began to slip off sideways. He tried to push it straight, but there was no room. Torquil took it off in the end, with a flourish, as if that were what he had always meant to do. His hair tumbled out from underneath, curly and not as dark as Archer’s. Howard thought he looked better without the turban.