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 noticed 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, pointing 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.
As soon as Catriona was settled in the driving seat, Howard asked, “Do you farm anything else besides music?” He was determined to find out as much as possible. Torquil might be able to get him to forget, but it stood to reason that if Torquil wanted to talk to Catriona, she would have to remember what they said. And Howard could always ask her afterward.
“Mine are all the interesting things, like sport and shops,” Torquil said. “Now be quiet, or I’ll shut you up like the sheep.” He turned gracefully to Catriona. “Mrs. Sykes, you must be wondering what I’m going to say.”
“No, I’m not,” Catriona said, in her very driest way. “I know you’re going to ask me about the two thousand words Mr. Mountjoy gets my husband to write every three months.”
Howard could see from Torquil’s handsome profile that Torquil was annoyed, though he tried not to show it. “Very good, Mrs. Sykes,” he said. “Clever guess. And why am I asking?”
“Because you don’t know why Mr. Mountjoy wants them, and you want to find out,” Catriona said. “Let me tell you straightaway, I haven’t a clue why.”
Torquil was plainly irritated that she knew all this. He said huffily, “I know why. We all do. What I don’t know is who. Come now, Mrs. Sykes. Hasn’t your husband given you a little hint about who really wants his words?”
“He has not,” said Catriona. “He doesn’t know.”
“But you must have tried to guess,” Torquil said wheedlingly. “Give me just a hint about which of us you think it is.”
“I’ve no idea,” said Catriona. “Frankly, Torquil, I heard of your existence only three days ago. Before that I didn’t even know Quentin had been doing words for Mountjoy all these years.” Mum was taking the wrong line with Torquil, Howard thought. He did not like to be unknown. Her plain, sensible manner was rubbing him the wrong way. His profile was looking thoroughly sulky.
“You’ve had thirteen years to find out in,” Catriona went on. “Why is it suddenly so important now?”
“Because Archer’s made a move,” Torquil said irritably. “He’s finalized his plans to farm the world. So has Dillian. She’s been organizing all the women in the country all week. I always watch them. Besides,” he added, cheering up a bit, “there’s been a feeling in the air these last few days. Something important is going to happen. I’m extremely sensitive to that kind of thing.”
“Are you indeed?” Catriona said dryly.
“And very easily hurt,” announced Torquil.
“I’m sure,” Catriona said.
“And I’m getting offended,” Torquil said. “In fact, if there weren’t something you could do for me, I’d get out of this car this moment!”
“What can I do for you?” Catriona said, drier than ever. Howard longed to tell her to watch it. She was treating Torquil just the way she treated Awful, and it was a mistake with both. Torquil was beginning to tremble with anger.
“I’ll tell you,” Torquil said. “Your husband is going to write Archer two thousand words, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he will in the end,” Catriona agreed. Howard wondered, but he did not like to interrupt.
“When he does,” said Torquil, “you’re to get them and give them to me.”
“Now how could I do that?” Catriona asked. “I may not even be in the house when he does them.”
Howard could feel the seat Torquil was sitting in shaking. “Well, you’re to think of a way!” he ordered. “Use your female cunning. Get the words somehow. Then give them to me. I’m in the Bishop’s Lane disco most evenings except Sunday. You’ll find me in the cathedral otherwise.”
And Torquil, Howard supposed, was taking the wrong line with Catriona. She was getting more and more sensible. “But why should I?” she said.
Torquil’s temper cracked. His voice filled the car in a hysterical shriek. “Because I order you to! Because I farm music! Because you’ll lose your job if you don’t!”
“Lose my job?” Catriona was really alarmed.
“Yes! Lose your job!” Torquil shouted with obvious satisfaction. Then, just as Awful did when she made an impression on Catriona, he calmed down almost at once. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “Your job can be part of the government cuts. Do you think I can’t do it?”
“I … don’t know,” said Catriona.
“I can. Don’t risk it. Get me those words,” said Torquil. “Go on. Promise.” Catriona’s mouth opened. “Or the Council makes you redundant,” said Torquil.
Catriona sighed. “Very well. I promise. But—”
“Good!” Torquil said. He became very brisk and cheerful now that he had got his way. That was just like Awful, too. “I shall expect to hear from you next week. Make your husband write the words over the weekend. And—” He twisted around in his seat to look at Howard. The baton was ready in his hand. Howard swore to himself that Torquil would not make him forget. He would fight it somehow. But as Howard braced himself, a thought struck Torquil. “Oh, yes. Let’s hear from you, limpet. Who do you think is using your father’s words?”
It was a perfect opportunity to fish for more information. Howard took it. “Well, it can’t be you,” he said, flattering Torquil, “though you could be bluffing. And so could Dillian. Obviously the one who’s doing it doesn’t want the rest of you to know. But I don’t think it’s Archer. He said he wasn’t, and I think he was telling the truth. I haven’t seen Shine yet—”
“And I don’t advise you to, limpet,” said Torquil. “Shine farms crime. Go on.”
“So Shine is quite likely,” said Howard. “I haven’t a clue about Hathaway, but it could be Venturus, if he farms housing. Mountjoy was in the housing department.” Here he remembered that Quentin had met Mountjoy playing golf, and Torquil farmed sport. He decided not to mention that. He said, “But I think Erskine was the one Archer suspected.”
Torquil, to Howard’s relief, took the baton back in order to tap thoughtfully at his mouth with it. “Hm. Erskine. That’s quite an idea. Erskine’s a dark horse. And he’s bound to want to climb out of his drains by now.”
“Why do you want Mum to get you the words?” Howard asked boldly.
Torquil laughed, showing teeth as handsome as the rest of him. “Simple, my dear limpet! If someone’s found a way to keep us all here while they go out and farm the world, I want my share. I badly want to farm America at least. And now—” The baton reached out. “Forget,” said Torquil, and rapped Howard’s head.
It felt as if someone had clashed a pair of cymbals on both ears. Howard went deaf. There was a moment of numb blankness following that. Howard struggled against it with all his might and then went on struggling, without quite knowing why anymore. He could still see Torquil as a blur of scarlet and white and gold, climbing out of the car. He clung to that. He watched Torquil slam the car door, then, more blurred still through the rainy window, cram the golden turban back on his head and stride away. When he was out of sight, Howard climbed over into the front seat beside Catriona. Both of them sat there limply, watching rain patter and run on the windshield. For a while there was nothing else in Howard’s head. But slowly, in the same way that the raindrops ran together into blobs, and the blobs into clots, and then into streams of water, memory began to clot in Howard’s brain. He let it clot, without forcing it.
After a while he was helped by seeing Torquil again, blurred and blobbed by the rain on the windshield. Torquil had reformed his procession. He came striding out of the hall into the schoolyard, followed by the dancers and the choir, with the choirmaster hurrying behind. A few strides into the yard Torquil held up his baton. The whole procession vanished. The yard was suddenly empty. Oddly enough, that made Howard quite sure of his memory.
Catriona moaned slightly. “Howard,” she said, “can you remember?”
“Yes,” said Howard. “All of it.”
“Thank goodness for that!” said Catriona. “Otherwise, I’d have trouble believing any of it. What’s-his-name did just vanish, did he?”
“Torquil. Yes,” said Howard. “And he was dressed like the Arabian Nights.”
“Then we’re not mad,” said Catriona. They sat for a while longer, watching the rain drip across the empty yard. Then Catriona said, “I don’t feel up to facing your school orchestra again; it’s beyond hope anyway. Shall we just go home?”
“Let’s,” said Howard.
So Catriona started the engine and the wipers, and they rolled down the yard to the gates. As they turned out into the yard, Howard saw that in spite of the rain, two or three boys were loitering on the sidewalk opposite. Another one, with ginger hair, was loitering up to join those. Howard grinned. Let Hind’s gang gather. They would have to wait till Monday now to get him! Then a thought struck him.
“Mum,” he said, “how about driving around by Awful’s school and picking her up, too?”
“Yes, it’ll save her getting wet,” Catriona agreed, and turned left instead of right.
Sure enough, when they came to Awful’s school and joined the line of cars waiting to take children home, there were three wet boys waiting on the other side of the road there, too. While they waited, another thought struck Howard. Archer had thrown him to his school, but he had no way of knowing if Archer had done the same for Awful—or what he had done with Dad and Fifi. As a way of preparing Catriona, in case Awful was not there, he told her about Archer while they waited.
“So Archer’s just such another?” was Mum’s dry comment.
Howard was going to protest that Archer was not really like Torquil when he saw Awful in the distance come through the school gate, see the boys, and stop. He saw her turn and say something to two girls her own age who were just coming out, too. Both little girls tossed their heads angrily and walked away, leaving Awful standing looking dejected. Poor Awful, Howard thought, as he got out of the car. She would quarrel with people. He suspected Torquil was the same. “Over here!” he shouted, waving.
Awful’s head came up, like something springing to life. She came racing along to the car. The boys started to move after her, but when they saw Howard and the car, they gave up and turned away. Awful pounded up and dived headfirst into the back seat. “I love coming in the car!” she said, bouncing up and down. “Archer threw me back to school. Did he throw you?” She sat up as Howard got in. “What’s wrong? You both look funny.”
“Torquil,” said Catriona. “Fasten your seat belt, Howard.”
“Oh, have you seen him? Is he very horrible?” Awful asked eagerly.
Howard said what he thought Torquil was. It made Catriona say as she drove, “Howard! You shouldn’t teach her words like those!”
“I know them anyway,” said Awful. “Dad says them a lot, too. And I thought he would be because he was the one horrible Dillian liked. Tell me.”
The drive home was so short that they were still telling her as they walked up the side passage and Catriona unlocked the kitchen door.
The Goon looked up with a grin as they came in. He was filling the kitchen with leg, just as usual.
“How did you get here?” Howard said.
“Broke in,” the Goon observed. He grinned at Catriona beguilingly. “Won’t get any burglars with me here. Keep them out.”
“You have a nerve!” said Howard. “Where’s Dad? And Fifi?”
The Goon did not seem to know. “Poly?” he suggested.
Catriona flopped into a chair. “Well, since you’re here, you can make us a cup of tea,” she said. The Goon got up at once and did so, slowly, carefully, and humbly. Catriona drank a cup of tea. Then she had the Goon make her two cups of coffee and drank those. Otherwise, she simply sat, waiting for Quentin. Howard supposed she must be anxious. But it was not so. When Quentin did at last come in, Catriona said, “Quentin!” in the voice that sent Howard and Awful sliding for cover to the corners of the room.
Quentin took his coat off and threw it into the third corner. He flung his briefcase into the remaining corner. “What did Archer do with Fifi?” he said irritably. “He slung me all the way to the Poly, but Fifi never turned up. The wretched girl’s got half the books I needed for the afternoon!”
“Quentin,” said Catriona, “I insist that you go to your study this minute and write four thousand words!”
“Oh, do you?” Quentin said nastily.
The rest of the day was devoted to a family row. It was an epic row, even for the Sykes household, and it went in three parts.
The first part of the row was entirely between Catriona and Quentin. Catriona towered and boomed. She insisted that Quentin write two thousand words for Archer and two thousand words for Torquil. This, as she thundered more and more angrily, was the only possible way to stop them all from being pestered like this. Quentin stood and shouted that nothing would possess him to write any words for anyone anymore. At which Catriona thundered that he was selfish. To which Quentin howled that he was not selfish; it was a matter of right and wrong. To which Catriona boomed that he should have thought of right and wrong thirteen years ago. To which Quentin bawled that he had only just found out the facts!
Since Quentin was the only person Howard knew who could stand up to Catriona when she was angry, this part went on for some time. Howard was reminded of that saying about an irresistible force’s meeting an immovable object. The Goon was clearly fascinated. His mouth opened, and his little head turned from Quentin to Catriona like someone watching a tennis match. When it got too dark for him to see the one who was shouting, the Goon got up and tiptoed heavily to put the light on.
Quentin, at that point, was yelling, “Face the facts, you stupid woman! This town is run by seven megalomaniac wizards!” He blinked at the sudden light and rounded on the Goon. “You!” he bawled. “I hope you’re taking this down in shorthand. I want Archer to know!”
The Goon blinked, too, and grinned foolishly. Howard and Awful both looked at the lighted bulb and thought Archer probably knew anyway. Then they looked at the taps over the sink and wondered if Erskine did, too.
“Leave the Goon alone!” thundered Catriona. “He’s only doing his job!”
“Only doing his job!” Quentin howled scornfully. “People excuse every kind of dirt by calling it only a job! He’s a good chap, this Goon. He’s getting paid for terrorizing my household, so that’s all right!”
“You brought it on yourself!” boomed Catriona. “But you’d no business to bring it on me and the children!”
“What’s a megglemaniac?” Awful asked hurriedly, hoping to stop the row there.
It did not stop the row. It just moved it into Phase Two, which was the part when Quentin and Catriona both kept appealing to Howard and Awful to say that they were right and the other one was wrong. Howard did not like their doing that. He seemed to be on both sides at once.
Quentin said, “A megalomaniac is someone who thinks he owns the world. Archer’s one. This Torquil seems to be another.” And he embarked on a long speech about them, with digressions on Dillian and the Goon. “Look at them all!” he shouted. “Two of them in expensive fancy dress, and Archer wallowing in a shed full of costly hardware! How much does it all cost? Who pays for it? I do. I pay my taxes as a citizen; they use the money for their luxuries. Parasites, all seven of them. And you”—he rounded on the Goon—“you’re a parasite’s parasite. How do you like being a louse on a louse?”
The Goon wriggled and then scratched his head as if he thought the louse part ought to be taken literally. Catriona again told Quentin to leave the Goon alone. “We’re not talking about what you pay!” she thundered. “We’re talking about what I earn! Howard, do you think it’s right I should lose my job because your father has fine feelings?”
“It’s not fine feelings. It’s right and wrong!” Quentin shouted. “Howard, you’ve spoken to Archer. You heard him coolly announce he’s out to rule the world. And he’s worried that someone’s trying to stop him! I say more power to that person’s elbow.”
Howard found himself wriggling, like the Goon. “But,” he said, “the person who’s stopping him wants to farm the world, too.”
“Exactly,” said his father. “So I write nothing for any of them. Awful, don’t you think that’s something worth sacrificing your bread and peanut butter for?”
“Not if there’s nothing else to eat,” Awful said anxiously.
“We all shall be out in the street!” boomed Catriona. “Howard, you know I earn more than he does!”
“Yes, you oughtn’t to sacrifice Mum’s job,” Howard said.
“Am I not sacrificing my own?” Quentin yelled, flinging out a dramatic arm. “Knowing what I know, I shall never dare sit at my typewriter again. What do you think?” he asked the Goon. “Do you really, even with your tiny mind, want Archer to rule the world?”
“Do it better than Dillian or Torquil,” the Goon said.
“That’s no answer!” said Quentin.
“Need my supper,” the Goon said sadly.
“Then go out and get something,” Howard said. “Hold up a fish and chip shop. Rob a hot dog stand. I’m starving!”
It was now late enough to be Awful’s bedtime. The Goon arose dolefully and turned out the empty pockets of his jeans. He looked plaintively at Quentin. “Don’t prey on me,” said Quentin. “Go and batten on Archer. Go and—”
But here the back door opened and Fifi came in. This started Phase Three of the row. Fifi had a pale, unfocused look, as if she had a cold or had been watching too much television. Howard and Awful were glad to see her. She was safe, and the row might end now. Even the Goon looked at her as if he thought she might lend him some money.
“Fifi!” said Catriona. “You said you’d be in to get supper!”
“Yes, where were you?” said Quentin.
“Oh—walking about,” Fifi answered dreamily. “What’s the matter? Why are you all looking so upset?”
“Won’t do the words,” said the Goon. “Didn’t like Archer. Holy duty.”
Pink swept into Fifi’s pale face. “Didn’t like Archer!” she almost shrieked. “Oh, Mr. Sykes! Archer’s the most wonderful person in the world! Of course, you’ll write something for him. You have to be joking!”
The Goon’s mouth opened. Everyone else stared. Awful suddenly exclaimed, “Oh. Boring. Fifi’s in love with Archer. Boring, boring, boring!”
“What if I am?” Fifi said defiantly. “I’m doing no harm.” Her voice wobbled a little. “I know he’ll never look at me.”
Quentin staggered to the table and sat down with his head in his hands. “This was all I needed!” he proclaimed. “Fifi on the other side! We now have a fifth column in our midst!”
“The Goon’s that, too,” Howard pointed out.
“The Goon is sold by the meter and doesn’t argue,” said his father.
“Fifi,” said Catriona, “help me make him see sense.”
So began Phase Three of the row, which was more of a passionate argument than a row. Fifi and Catriona combined against Quentin at first. But Howard was slowly drawn in on Quentin’s side. At first he joined in only to make the sides even, but as time went on, he was convinced by Quentin’s arguments. It did make sense to stop Archer or one of the others from farming the whole world, if you happened to have a way to do it. And though Mum and Fifi kept saying that Quentin had no right to make the rest of them suffer, Howard began to agree with Quentin more and more that you had to do a thing you knew was right, even if people did suffer. It seemed worth a sacrifice.
Meanwhile, Awful and the Goon formed an alliance, too. They tiptoed to the stove and tried to make something to eat. There were a lot of things neither of them knew. Awful kept pulling Howard’s arm and whispering things like “The Goon says you have to break eggs before you fry them. Is that right?” or “If I put a slice of bread under the grill with an egg on it, does it end up as scrambled eggs on toast? Or not?”
Howard was so busy with the argument that he was rather impatient with these questions. So when the Goon pulled at his sleeve sometime later, looking woebegone, Howard did not feel very sympathetic.
“What have you done now?” he said. “Burned some water?”
“No,” the Goon said dolefully. “Want Fifi. Archer gets everything.”