14
The Goliath Apologarium™

   DANISH CAR 'A DEATHTRAP' CLAIMS KAINIAN MINISTER
   Robert Edsel, the Kainian minister of road safety, hit out at Danish car manufacturer Volvo yesterday, claiming the boxy and unsightly vehicles previously considered one of the safest cars on the market to be die complete reverse – a deathtrap for anyone stupid enough to buy one. 'The Volvo fared very poorly in the rocket-propelled grenade test,' claimed Mr Edsel in a press release yesterday, 'and owners and their children risk permanent spinal injury when dropped in the car from heights as low as sixty feet.' Mr Edsel continued to pour scorn on the pride of the Danish motoring industry by revealing that the Volvo's air filters offered 'scant protection' against pyroclastic flows, poisonous fumes and other forms of common volcanic phenomena. 'I would very much recommend that anyone thinking of buying this poor Danish product should think again,' said Mr Edsel. When the Danish foreign minister pointed out that Volvos were, in fact, Swedish, Mr Edsel accused the Danes of once again attempting to blame their neighbours for their own manufacturing weaknesses.

Article in The Toad on Sunday. 16 July, 1988


   The Isle of Man had been an independent corporate state within England since it was appropriated for the greater fiscal good in 1963. The surrounding Irish Sea was heavily mined to deter unwanted visitors and the skies above protected by the most technologically advanced anti-aircraft system known to man. It had hospitals and schools, a university, its own fusion reactor and also, leading from Douglas to Kennedy Graviport in New York, the world's only privately run Gravitube. The island was home to almost 200,000 people who did nothing but support, or support the support of, the one enterprise that dominated the small island: the Goliath Corporation.
   The old Manx town of Laxey was renamed Goliathopolis and was now the Hong Kong of the British archipelago, a forest of glassy towers striding up the hillside towards Snaefell. The largest of these skyscrapers rose higher even than the mountain peak behind it and could be seen glinting in the sunlight all the way from Blackpool, weather permitting. In this building was housed the inner sanctum of the whole vast multinational, the cream of Goliath's corporate engineers. An employee could spend a lifetime on the island and never even get past the front desk. And it was on the ground floor of this building, right at the heart of the corporation, that I found the Goliath apologarium.
   I joined a small queue in front of a modern glass-topped table where two smiling Goliath employees were giving out questionnaires and numbered tickets.
   'Hello!' said one of the clerks, a youngish girl with a lopsided smile. 'Welcome to the Goliath Corporation's Apology Emporium. Sorry you had to wait. How can we help you?'
   'The Goliath Corporation murdered my husband.'
   'How simply dreadful!' she responded in a lame and insincere display of sympathy. 'I'm so sorry to hear that. Goliath, as part of their move to a faith-based corporate management system, are committed to reversing all the unpleasant matters we may previously have been engaged in. You need to fill in this form, and this form – and section D of this one – and then take a seat. We'll get one of our highly trained apologists to see you just as soon as they can.'
   She handed me several long forms and a numbered ticket, then indicated a door to one side. I opened it and walked into the apologarium. It was a large hall with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a serene view of the Irish Sea. On one side was a row of perhaps twenty cubicles containing suited apologists, who all sat listening intently to what they were being told with the same sad and contrite expression. On the other side were rows upon rows of wooden seating that held eager and once bullied citizens, anxiously clasping their numbered tickets and patiently waiting their turn. I looked at my ticket. It was number 6,174. I glanced up at the board, which told me that number 836 was now being interviewed.
   'Dear, sweet people!' said a voice through a Tannoy. 'Goliath is deeply sorry for all the harm it may inadvertently have caused you in the past. Here at the Goliath Apologarium™ we are only too happy to assist in your problem, no matter how small . . .'
   'You!' I said to a man who was hobbling past me towards the exit. 'Have Goliath repented to your satisfaction?'
   'Well, they didn't really need to,' he replied blandly. 'It was I who was at fault – in fact, I apologised for wasting their valuable time!'
   'What did they do?'
   'They bathed my neighbourhood with ionising radiation, then denied it for seventeen years, even after people's teeth fell out and I grew a third foot.'
   'And you forgave them?'
   'Of course. I can see now that it was a genuine accident and the public have to accept risks if we are to have abundant clean energy, limitless food and household electro-defragmentisers.'
   He was carrying a sheath of papers; not the application forms that I had to fill out but leaflets on how to join New Goliath. Not as a consumer, but as a worshipper. I had always been deeply distrustful of Goliath but this whole 'repentance' thing smelt worse than anything I had so far witnessed. I turned, tore up my numbered ticket and headed for the exit.
   'Miss Next!' called out a familiar voice. 'I say, Miss Next!'
   A short man with pinched features and a rounded head covered with the fuzz of an aggresively short crew cut was facing me. He was wearing a dark suit and heavy gold jewellery and was arguably the person I liked least – this was Jack Schitt, once Goliath's top advanced weapons guru and ex-convict of The Raven. This was the man who had tried to prolong the Crimean War so he could make a fortune out of Goliath's latest super-weapon, the plasma rifle.
   Anger rose quickly within me. I turned Friday in the other direction so as not to give his young mind any wrong ideas about the use of violence and then grasped Schitt by the throat. He took a step back, stumbled and collapsed beneath me with a yelp. Sensing I had been in this position before, I released him and placed my hand on the butt of my automatic, expecting to be attacked by a host of Jack's minders. But there was nothing. Just sad citizens looking on sorrowfully.
   'There is no one here to help me,' said Jack Schitt, slowly getting to his feet. '1 have been assaulted eight times today – I count myself fortunate. Yesterday it was twenty-three.'
   I looked at him and noticed, for the first time, that he had a black eye and a cut on his lip.
   'No minders?' I echoed. 'Why?'
   'It is my absolution to face those I have bullied and harangued in the past, Miss Next. When we last met I was head of Goliath's Advanced Weapons Division and corporate laddernumber 329.' He sighed. 'Now, thanks to your well-publicised denouncement of the failings of our plasma rifle, the corporation has decided to demote me. I am an Apology Facilitation Operative second class, ladder-number 12,398,219. The mighty have fallen, Miss Next.'
   'On the contrary,' I replied, 'you have merely been moved to a level more fitting to your competence. It's a shame. You deserved much worse than this.'
   His eyes twitched as he grew angry. The old Jack, the homicidal one, returned for a moment. But the feelings were short-lived and his shoulders fell as he realised that without the Goliath Security Service to back him up, his power over me was minimal.
   'Maybe you're right,' he said simply. 'You will not have to wait your turn, Miss Next, I will deal with your case personally. Is this your son?' He bent down to look closer. 'Cute fellow, isn't he?'
   'Eiusmod tempor incididunt adipisiting elit,' said Friday, glaring at Jack suspiciously.
   'What did he say?'
   'He said: "If you touch me my mum will break your nose.'"
   Jack stood up quickly.
   'I see. Goliath and myself offer a full, frank and unreserved apology.'
   'What for?'
   'I don't know. Have it on account. Would you care to come to my office?'
   He beckoned me out of the door and we crossed a courtyard with a large fountain in the middle, past a few suited Goliath officials chattering in a corner, then through another doorway and down a wide corridor full of clerks moving backwards and forwards with folders tucked under their arms.
   Jack opened a door, ushered me in, offered me a chair and then sat himself. It was a miserable little office, devoid of any decoration except a shabby Lola Vavoom calendar on the wall and a dead plant in a pot. The only window looked out on to a wall. He arranged some papers on his desk and spoke into the intercom.
   'Mr Higgs, would you bring the Thursday Next file in, please?'
   He looked at me earnestly and set his head at a slight angle, as though trying to affect some sort of apologetic demeanour.
   'None of us quite realised,' he began in the sort of soft voice that undertakers use when attempting to persuade you to buy the deluxe coffin, just how appalling we had been until we started asking people if they were at all unhappy with our conduct.'
   'Why don't we cut the cr—' I looked at Friday, who looked back at me. '—cut the, cut the . . . nonsense and go straight to the place where you atone for your crimes.'
   He sighed and stared at me for a moment, then said:
   'Very well. What did we do wrong again?'
   'You can't remember?'

  'I do lots of wrong things, Miss Next, you'll excuse me if I can't remember details.'
   'You eradicated my husband,' I said through gritted teeth. 'Of course! And what was the name of the eradicatee?'
   'Landen,' I replied coldly, 'Landen Parker-Laine.'
   At that moment a clerk arrived with a file marked 'most secret' and laid it on his desk. Jack opened it and leafed through.
   'The record shows that at the time you say your husband was eradicated your case officer was Operative Schitt-Hawse. It says here that he pressured you to release Operative Schitt – that's me – from within the pages of The Raven by utilising an unnamed ChronoGuard operative who volunteered his services. It says that you complied but our promise was revoked owing to an unforeseen and commercially necessary overriding blackmail continuance situation.'
   'You mean corporate greed, don't you?'
   'Don't underestimate greed, Miss Next – it's commerce's greatest motive force. In this context it was probably due to our plans to use the BookWorld to dump nuclear waste and sell our extremely high-quality goods and services to characters in fiction. You were then imprisoned in our most inaccessible vault from which you escaped, methodology unknown.'
   He closed the file.
   'What this means, Miss Next, is that we kidnapped you, tried to kill you, and then had you on our shoot-on-sight list for over a year. You may be in line for a generous cash settlement.'
   'I don't want cash, Jack. You had someone go back in time to kill Landen, now you can just get someone to go back again and unkill him!'
   Jack Schitt paused and drummed his fingers on the table for a moment.
   'That's not how it works,' he replied testily. 'The apology and restitution rules are very clear – for us to repent we must agree as to what we have done wrong, and there's no mention of any Goliath-led illegal time-related jiggery-pokery in our report. Since Goliath's records are time-audited on a regular basis, I think that proves conclusively that if there was any timefoolery it was instigated by the ChronoGuard – Goliath's chronological record is above reproach.'
   I thumped the table with my fist and Jack jumped. Without his henchmen around him he was a coward, and every time he flinched, I grew stronger.
   'This is complete and utter sh—' I looked at Friday again. '—rubbish, Jack. Goliath and the ChronoGuard eradicated my husband. You had the power to remove him – you can be the ones that put him back.'
   'That's not possible.'
   'GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND!'
   The anger in Jack returned. He also rose and pointed an accusing finger at me. 'Have you even the slightest idea how much it costs to bribe the ChronoGuard? More money than we care to spend on the sort of miserable half-hearted forgiveness you can offer us. And another thing, I . . . excuse me.'
   The phone had rung and he picked it up, his eyes flicking instantly to me as he listened.
   'Yes, it is . . . Yes, she is . . . Yes, we do . . . Yes, I will.'
   His eyes opened wide.
   'This is indeed an honour, sir . . . No, that would not be a problem at all, sir . . . Yes, I'm sure I can persuade her about that, sir . . . no, it's what we all want . . . And a very good day to you, sir. Thank you.'
   He put the receiver down and fetched an empty cardboard box from the cupboard with a renewed spring in his step.
   'Good news!' he exclaimed, taking some junk out of his desk and placing it in the box. 'The CEO of New Goliath has taken a special interest in your case and will personally guarantee the return of your husband.'
   'I thought you said that timefoolery had nothing to do with you?'
   'Apparently I was misinformed. We would be very happy to reactualise Libner.'
   'Landen.'
   'Right.'
   'What's the catch?' I asked suspiciously.
   'No catch,' replied Jack, picking up his desk nameplate and depositing it in the box along with the calendar, 'we just want you to forgive us and like us.'
   'Like you?'
   'Yes. Or pretend to, anyway. Not so very hard, now, is it? Just sign this Standard Forgiveness Release Form at the bottom here, and we'll reactualise your hubby. Simple, isn't it?'
   I was still suspicious.
   'I don't believe you have any intention of getting Landen back.'
   'All right, then,' said Jack, taking some files out of the filing cabinet and dumping them in his cardboard box, 'don't sign and you'll never know. As you say, Miss Next – we got rid of him so we can get him back.'
   'You stiffed me once before, Jack. How do I know you won't do it again?'
   Jack paused in his packing and looked slightly apprehensive.
   'Are you going to sign?'
   'No.'
   Jack sighed and started to take everything back out of the cardboard box and return it to its place.
   'Well,' he muttered, 'there goes my promotion. But listen: whether you sign or not you walk out of here a free woman. New Goliath have no argument with you any longer. Besides, what do you have to lose?'
   'All I want,' I replied, 'is to get my husband back. I'm not signing anything.'
   Jack took his nameplate out of the cardboard box and put it back on his desk.
   The phone rang again.
   'Yes, sir . . . No, she won't, sir . . . I tried that, sir . . . very well, sir.'
   He put the receiver down and picked up his nameplate again; it hovered over his box.
   'That was the CEO. He wants to apologise to you personally. Will you go?'
   I paused. Seeing the head honcho of Goliath was an almost unprecedented event for a non-Goliath official. If anyone could get Landen back, it was him.
   'Okay.'
   Jack smiled, dropped the nameplate in his box and then hurriedly threw everything else back in.
   'Well,' he continued, 'must dash – I've just been promoted up three laddernumbers. Go to the main reception desk and someone will meet you. Don't forget your Standard Forgiveness Release Form, and if you could mention my name I'd be really grateful.'
   He handed me my unsigned forms as the door opened and another Goliath operative walked in, also holding a cardboard box full of possessions.
   'What if I don't get him back, Mr Schitt?'
   'Well,' he said, looking at his watch, 'if you have any grievances about the quality of our contrition you had better take it up with your appointed Goliath apologist. I don't work here any more.'

   And he smiled a supercilious smile, put on his hat and was gone.
   'Well!' said the new apologist as he skirted the desk and started to arrange his possessions around his new office. 'Is there anything you'd like us to apologise for?'
   'Your corporation,' I muttered.
   'Full, frank and unreservedly,' replied the apologist in the sincerest of tones.

15
Meeting the CEO

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

Extract from the Goliath Corporation CEO's 1988 conference speech


   I walked to the main desk and gave my name to the receptionist, who, raising her eyebrows at my request, called the 110th floor, registered some surprise and then asked me to wait. I pushed Friday towards the waiting area and gave him a banana I had in my bag. I sat and watched the Goliath officials walking briskly backwards and forwards across the polished marble floors, all looking busy but seemingly doing nothing.
   'Miss Next?'
   There were two individuals standing in front of me. One was dressed in the dark Goliath blue of an executive; the other was a footman in full livery, holding a polished silver tray.
   'Yes?' I said, standing up.
   'My name is Mr Godfrey, the CEO's personal assistant's assistant. If you would be so kind?'
   He indicated the tray.
   I understood his request, unholstered my automatic and laid it on the salver. The footman paused politely. I got the message and placed my two spare clips on it as well. He bowed and silently withdrew, and the Goliath executive led me silently towards a roped-off elevator at the far end of the concourse. I wheeled Friday in and the doors hissed shut behind us.
   It was a glass elevator that rose on the outside of the building and from our vantage point as we were whisked noiselessly heavenward I could see all of Goliathopolis's buildings reaching almost all the way down the coast to Douglas. The size of the corporation's holdings was never more so demonstrably immense – all these buildings simply administered the thousands of companies and millions of employees around the world. If I had been in a charitable frame of mind I might have been impressed by the scale and grandeur of Goliath's establishment. As it was, I saw only ill-gotten gains.
   The smaller buildings were soon left behind as we continued upward, until even the other skyscrapers were dwarfed. I was staring with fascination at the spectacular view when without warning the exterior was suddenly obscured by a white haze. Water droplets formed on the outside of the elevator and I could see nothing until a few seconds later we burst clear of the cloud and into bright sunshine and a deep blue sky. I stared across the top of the clouds, which stretched away unbroken into the distance. I was so enthralled by the spectacle that I didn't realise the elevator had stopped.
   'Ipsum,' said Friday, who was also impressed, and he pointed in case I had missed the view.
   'Miss Next?'
   I turned. To say the boardroom of the Goliath Corporation was impressive would not be doing it the justice it deserves. I was on the top floor of the building. The walls and roof were all tinted glass, and from here on a clear day you must be able to look down upon the world from the viewpoint of a god. Today it looked as though we were afloat on a cotton-wool sea. The building and its position, high above the planet both geographically and morally, perfectly reflected the corporation's dominance and power.
   In the middle of the room was a long table with perhaps thirty suited Goliath board members all standing next to their seats, watching me in silence. No one said anything, and I was about to ask who the boss was when I noticed a large man staring out of the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
   'Ipsum!' said Friday.
   'Allow me,' began my escort, 'to introduce the Chief Executive Officer of the Goliath Corporation, John Henry Goliath V, great-great-grandson of our founder, John Henry Goliath.'
   The figure staring out of the window turned to meet me. He must have been over six foot eight and was large with it. Broad, imposing and dominating. He was not yet fifty, had piercing green eyes that seemed to look straight through me, and gave me such a warm smile that I was instantly put at my ease.
   'Miss Next?' he said in a voice like distant thunder. 'I've wanted to meet you for some time.'
   His handshake was warm and friendly; it was easy to forget just who he was and what he had done.
   'They are standing for you,' he announced, indicating the board members. 'You have personally cost us over a billion pounds in cash and at least four times that in lost revenues. Such an adversary is to be admired rather than reviled.'
   The board members applauded for about ten seconds, then sat back down at their places. I noticed Brik Schitt-Hawse among them; he inclined his head to me in recognition.
   'If I didn't already know the answer I would offer you a position on our board,' said the CEO with a smile. 'We're just finishing a board meeting, Miss Next. In a few minutes I shall be at your disposal. Please ask Mr Godfrey if you require any refreshments for yourself or your son.'
   'Thank you.'
   I asked Godfrey for an orange juice in a beaker for Friday, took him out of his pushchair and sat with him on a nearby armchair to watch the proceedings.
   'Item seventy-six,' said a small man wearing a Goliath-issue cobalt-blue suit, 'Antarctica. There has been a degree of opposition to our purchase of the continent by a small minority of do-gooders who believe our use is anything but benevolent.'
   'And this, Mr Jarvis, is a problem because—?' demanded John Henry Goliath V.
   'Not a problem but an observation, sir. I propose that to offset any possible negative publicity we let it be known that we merely acquired the continent to generate new ecotourism-related jobs in an area traditionally considered poor in employment opportunities.'
   'It shall be so,' boomed the CEO. 'What else?'
   'Well, since we will take the role of "eco-custodians" very seriously, I propose sending a fleet of ten warships to protect the continent against vandals who seek to harm the penguin population, illegally remove ice and snow and create general "mischief".'
   'Warships eat heavily into profit margins,' said another member of the board. But Mr Jarvis had already thought of that.
   'Not if we subcontract the security issue to a foreign power eager to do business with us. I have formulated a plan whereby the United Caribbean Nations will patrol the continent in exchange for all the ice and snow they want. With the purchase of Antarctica we can undercut snow exports from all the countries in the Northern Alliance. Their unsold snow will be bought by us at four pence a ton, melted and exchanged for building sand with Morocco. This will be exported to sand-deficient nations at an overall profit of twelve per cent. You'll find it all in my report.'
   There was a murmur of assent around the table. The CEO nodded his head thoughtfully.
   'Thank you, Mr Jarvis, your idea finds favour with the board. But tell me, what about the vast natural resource that we bought Antarctica to exploit in the first place?'
   Jarvis snapped his fingers and the elevator doors opened to reveal a chef, who wheeled in a trolley with a covered silver dish on it. He stopped next to the CEO's chair, took off the cover and laid a small plate with what looked like sliced pork on it on the table. A footman laid a knife and a fork next to the plate along with a crisp napkin, then withdrew.
   The CEO took a small forkful and put it in his mouth. His eyes opened wide in shock and he spat it out. The footman passed him a glass of water.
   'Disgusting!'
   'I agree, sir,' replied Jarvis, 'almost completely inedible.'
   'Blast! Do you mean to tell me we've bought an entire continent with a potential food yield of ten million penguin units per year only to find we can't eat any of them

  'Only a minor setback, sir. If you would all turn to page seventy-two of your agenda . . .'
   All the board members simultaneously opened their files. Jarvis picked his report up and walked to the window to read it.
   'The problem of selling penguins as the Sunday roast of choice can be split into two parts: one, penguins taste like creosote, and two, many people have a misguided idea that penguins are somewhat "cute" and "cuddly" and "endangered". To take the first point first, I propose that as part of the launch of this abundant new foodstuff there should be a special penguin cookery show on GoliathChannel 16, as well as a highly amusing advertising campaign with the catchy phrase: "P-p-p-prepare a p-p-penguin".'
   The CEO nodded thoughtfully.
   'I further suggest,' continued Jarvis, 'that we finance an independent study into the health-imbuing qualities of seabirds in general. The findings of this independent and wholly impartial study will be that the recommended weekly intake of penguin per person should be . . . one penguin.'
   'And point two?' asked another board member. 'The public's positive and non-eatworthy perception of penguins in general?'
   'Not insurmountable, sir. If you recall, we had a similar problem marketing baby seal burgers, and they are now one of our most popular lines. I suggest we depict penguins as callous and unfeeling creatures who insist on bringing up their children in what is little more than a large chest freezer. Furthermore, the "endangered" marketing problem can be used to our advantage by an advertising strategy along the lines of "Eat them quick before they're all gone!'"
   'Or,' said another board member, '"Place a penguin in your kitchen – have a snack before extinction.'"
   'Doesn't rhyme very well, does it?' said a third. 'What about: "For a taste that's more distinct, eat a bird before it's extinct?'"
   'I preferred mine.'
   Jarvis sat down and awaited the CEO's thoughts.
   'It shall be so. Why not "Antarctica – the new Arctic" as a byline? Have our people in advertising put a campaign together. The meeting is over.'
   The board members closed their folders in one single synchronised movement and then filed in orderly fashion to the far end of the room, where a curved staircase led down. Within a few minutes only the CEO and Brik Schitt-Hawse remained. He placed his red-leather briefcase on the desk in front of me and looked at me dispassionately, saying nothing. For someone like Schitt-Hawse who loved the sound of his own voice, it was clear the CEO called every shot.
   'What did you think?' asked Goliath.
   'Think?' I replied. 'How about "morally reprehensible"?'
   'I believe you will find there is no moral good or bad, Miss Next. Morality can only be asserted from the safe retrospection of twenty years or more. Parliaments have far too short a life to do any long-term good. It is up to corporations to do what is best for everyone. The tenure of an administration may be five years – for us it can be several centuries, and none of that tiresome accountability to get in the way. The leap to Goliath as a religion is the next logical step.'
   'I'm not convinced, Mr Goliath,' I told him. 'I thought you were becoming a religion to evade the seventh Revealment of St Zvlkx.'
   He gazed at me with his piercing green eyes.
   'It's avoid, not evade, Miss Next. A trifling textual change but legally with great implications. We can legally attempt to avoid the future but not evade it. As long as we can demonstrate a forty-nine per cent chance that our future-altering attempts might fail, we are legally safe. The ChronoGuard are very strict on the rules and we'd be fools to try and break them.'
   'You didn't ask me up here to argue legal definitions, Mr Goliath.'
   'No, Miss Next. I wanted to have this opportunity to explain ourselves to you, one of our most vociferous opponents. I have doubts too, and if I can make you understand then I will have convinced myself that what we are doing is right, and good. Have a seat.'
   I sat, rather too obediently. Mr Goliath had a strong personality.
   'Humans are moulded by evolution to be short-termists, Miss Next,' he continued. His voice rumbled deeply and seemed to echo inside my head. 'We need only to see our children to reproductive age to be successful in a biological sense. We have to move beyond that. If we see ourselves as residents on this planet for the long term we need to plan for the long term. Goliath has a thousand-year plan for itself. The responsibility for this planet is far too important to leave to a fragmented group of governments, constantly bickering over borders and only looking towards their own self-interest. We at Goliath see ourselves not as a corporation or a government but as a force for good. A force for good in waiting. We have thirty-eight million employees at present; it isn't difficult to see the benefit of having three billion. Imagine everyone on the planet working towards a single goal – the banishment of all governments and the creation of one business whose sole function it is to run the planet, by people on the planet, for the people on the planet, equally and sustainable for all – not Goliath but Earth, Inc. A company with every member of the world holding a single, equal share.'
   'Is that why you're becoming a religion?'
   'Let's just say that your friend Mr Zvlkx has goaded us into a course of action that is long overdue. You used the word religion but we see it more as a single, unifying faith to bring all mankind together. One world, one nation, one people, one aim. Surely you can see the sense in that?'
   The strange thing was, I almost could. Without nations there would be no border disputes. The Crimean War alone had lasted for nearly 132 years, and there were at least a hundred smaller conflicts going on around the planet. Suddenly, Goliath seemed not so bad after all, and was indeed our friend. I was a fool not to realise it before.
   I rubbed my temples.
   'So,' continued the CEO in a soft rumble, 'I'd like to offer an olive branch to you right now and uneradicate your husband.'
   'In return,' added Schitt-Hawse, speaking for the first time, 'we would like for you to accept our full, frank and unreserved apology and sign our Standard Forgiveness Release Form.'
   I looked at them both in turn, then at the contract they had placed in front of me, then at Friday, who had put his fingers in his mouth and was looking up at me with an inquisitive air. I had to get my husband back, and Friday his father. There didn't seem any good reason not to sign.
   'I want your word you'll get him back.'
   'You have it,' replied the CEO.
   I took the offered pen and signed the form at the bottom.
   'Excellent!' muttered the CEO. 'We'll reactualise your husband as soon as possible. Good day, Miss Next, it was a very great pleasure to meet you.'
   'And you,' I replied, smiling and shaking both their hands. 'I must say I'm very pleased with what I've heard here today. You can count on my support when you become a religion.'
   They gave me some leaflets on how to join New Goliath, which I eagerly accepted. I was shown out a few minutes later, the shuttle to Tarbuck Graviport having been held on my account. By the time I had reached Tarbuck the mane grin had subsided from my face; by the time I had arrived at Saknussum I was confused; on the drive back to Swindon I was suspicious that something wasn't quite right; by the time I had reached Mum's home I was furious. I had been duped by Goliath – again.

16
That Evening

   TOAST MAY BE INJURIOUS TO HEALTH
   That was the shock statement put out by a joint Kaine/Goliath research project undertaken last Tuesday morning. 'In our research we have found that in certain circumstances eating toast may make the consumer writhe around in unspeakable agony, foaming at the mouth before death mercifully overcomes them.' The scientists went on to report that although these findings were by no means complete, more work needed to be done before toast had a clean bill of health. The Toast Marketing Board reacted angrily and pointed out that the 'at risk' slice of toast in the experiment had been spread with the deadly poison strychnine and these 'scientific' trials were just another attempt to besmirch the board's good name and that of their sponsee, opposition leader Redmond van de Poste.

Article in The Mole, 16 July 1988

 
   'How was your day?' asked Mum, handing me a large cup of tea. Friday had been tuckered out by the long day and had fallen asleep into his cheesy bean dips. I had bathed him and put him to bed before having something to eat myself. Hamlet and Emma were out at the movies or something, Bismarck was listening to Wagner on his Walkman, so Mum and I had a moment to ourselves.
   'Not good,' I replied slowly. 'I can't dissuade an assassin from trying to kill me, Hamlet isn't safe here but I can't send him back and if I don't get Swindon to win the Superhoop then the world will end. Goliath somehow duped me into forgiving them, I have my own stalker and also have to figure out how to get the banned books I should be hunting for out of the country. And Landen's still not back.'
   'Really?' she said, not having listened to me at all. 'I think I've got a plan for dealing with that annoying offspring of Pickwick's.'
   'Lethal injection?'
   'Not funny. No, my friend Mrs Beatty knows a dodo whisperer who can work wonders with unruly dodos.'
   'You're kidding me, right?'
   'Not at all.'
   'I'll try anything, I suppose. I can't understand why he's so difficult – Pickers is a real sweetheart.'
   We fell silent for a moment.
   'Mum?' I said at last.
   'Yes?'
   'What do you think of Herr Bismarck?'
   'Otto? Well, most people remember him for his "blood and iron" rhetoric, unification arguments and the wars – but few give him credit for devising the first social security system in Europe.'
   'No, I mean . . . that is to say . . . you wouldn't—'
   But at that moment we heard some oaths and a slammed door. After a few thumps and bumps Hamlet burst into the living room with Emma in tow. He stopped, composed himself, rubbed his forehead, looked heavenward, sighed deeply and then said:
   'O! that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!'[1]
   'Is everything all right?' I asked.
   'Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!'[2]
   'I'll make a cup of tea,' said my mother, who had an instinct for these sorts of things. 'Would you like a slice of Battenberg, Mr Hamlet?'
   'O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable – yes, please – Seem to me all the uses of this world!'[3]
   She nodded and moved off.
   'What's up?' I asked Emma as Hamlet strutted around the living room, beating his head in frustration and grief.
   'Well, we went to see Hamlet at the Alhambra.'
   'Crumbs!' I muttered. 'It – er – didn't go down too well, I take it?'
   'Well,' reflected Emma, as Hamlet continued his histrionics around the living room, 'the play was okay apart from Hamlet shouting out a couple of times that Polonius wasn't meant to be funny and Laertes wasn't remotely handsome. The management weren't particularly put out – there were at least twelve "Hamlets" in the audience and they all had something to say about it.'
   'Fie on't! O fie!' continued Hamlet, ''tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely—!'[4]
   'No,' continued Emma, 'it was when we and the twelve other Hamlets went to have a quiet drink with the play's company afterwards that things turned sour. Piarno Keyes – who was playing Hamlet – took umbrage at Hamlet's criticisms of his performance; Hamlet said his portrayal was far too indecisive. Mr Keyes said Hamlet was mistaken, that Hamlet was a man racked by uncertainty. Then Hamlet said he was Hamlet so should know a thing or two about it; one of the other "Hamlets" disagreed and said he was Hamlet and thought Mr Keyes was excellent. Several of the "Hamlets" agreed and it might have ended there but Hamlet said that if Mr Keyes insisted on playing Hamlet he should look at how Mel Gibson did it and improve his performance in the light of that.'
   'Oh dear.'
   'Yes,' said Emma, 'oh dear. Mr Keyes flew right off the handle. "Mel Gibson?" he roared. "Mel ****ing Gibson? That's all I ever ****ing hear these days!" and he then tried to punch Hamlet on the nose. Hamlet was too quick, of course, and had his bodkin at Keyes' throat before you could blink, so one of the other "Hamlets" suggested a Hamlet contest. The rules were simple: they all had to perform the "To be or not to be" soliloquy and the drinkers in the tavern gave them points out often.'
   'And—?'
   'Hamlet came last.'
   'Last? How could he come last?'
   'Well, he insisted on playing the soliloquy less like an existential question about life and death and the possibility of an afterlife, and more as if it were about a post-apocalyptic dystopia where crossbow-wielding punks on motorbikes try to kill people for their gasoline.'
   I looked across at Hamlet, who had quietened down a bit and was looking through my mother's video collection for Olivier's Hamlet to see whether it was better than Gibson's.

   'No wonder he's hacked off.'
   'Here we go!' said my mother, returning with a large tray of tea things. 'There's nothing like a nice cup of tea when things look bad!'
   'Humph,' grunted Hamlet, staring at his feet. 'I don't suppose you've got any of that cake, have you?'
   'Especially for you!' My mother smiled, producing the Battenberg with a flourish. She was right, too. After a few cups and a slice of cake, Hamlet was almost human again.
   I left Emma and Hamlet arguing with my mother over whether they should watch Olivier's Hamlet or Great Croquet Sporting Moments on the television and went to sort some washing in the kitchen. I stood there trying to figure out just what sort of brain-scrubbing technique Goliath had used on me to get me to sign their forgiveness release. Oddly, I was still getting pro-Goliath flashbacks. In absent moments I felt they weren't so bad, then had to consciously remind myself that they were. On the plus side there was a possibility that Landen might be reactuallsed, but I didn't know when it would happen, or how.
   I was just getting round to wondering whether a cold soak might remove ketchup stains better than a hot wash when there was a light crackling sound in the air like crumpled cellophane. It grew louder and green tendrils of electricity started to envelop the Kenwood mixer, then grew stronger until a greenish glow like St Elmo's fire was dancing around the microwave. There was a bright light and a rumble of thunder as three figures started to materialise into the kitchen. Two of them were dressed in body armour and holding ridiculously large blaster-type weapons; the other figure was tall and dressed in jet-black high-collared robes which hung to the floor on one side and buttoned tightly up to his throat on the other. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and very precise goatee. He stood with his arms crossed and was staring at me with one eyebrow raised imperiously. This was truly a tyrant among tyrants, a cruel galactic leader who had murdered billions in his never-ending and inadequately explained quest for total galactic domination. This . . . was Emperor Zhark.

17
Emperor Zhark

   'The eight "Emperor Zhark" novels were written in the seventies by Handley Paige, an author whose previous works included Spacestation Z—5 and Revenge of the Thraals. With Zhark he hit upon a pastiche of everything a bad SF novel should ever be: weird worlds, tentacled aliens, space travel and square-jawed fighter aces doing battle with a pantomime emperor who lived for no other reason than to cause evil and disharmony in the galaxy. His usual nemesis in the books was Colonel Brandt of the Space Corps, assisted by his alien partner Ashley. There have been two Zhark films starring Buck Stallion, Zhark the Destroyer and Bad Day at Big Rock, neither of which was any good.'

MILLON DE FLOSS – The Books of H. Paige


   'Do you have to do that?' I asked.
   'Do what?' replied the emperor.
   'Make such a pointlessly dramatic entrance. And what are those two goons doing here?'
   'Who said that?' said a muffled voice from inside the opaque helmet of one of his minders. 'I can't see a sodding thing in here.'
   'Who's a goon?' said the other.
   Zhark laughed, ignoring them both. 'It's a contractual thing. I've got a new agent who knows how to properly handle a character of my quality. I have to be given a minimum of eighty words' description at least once in any featured book, and at least twice in a book a chapter has to end with my appearance.'
   'Do you get book title billing?'
   'We gave that one away in exchange for chapter heading status. If this were a novel you'd have to start a new chapter as soon as I appeared.'
   'Well, it's a good thing it's not,' I replied. 'If my mother was here she'd probably have had a heart attack.'
   'Oh!' replied the emperor, looking around. 'Do you live with your mother too?'
   'What's up? Problems at Jurisdiction?'
   'Take five, lads,' said Zhark to the two guards, who felt around the kitchen until they found chairs and sat down. 'Mrs Tiggy-Winkle sent me,' he breathed. 'She's busy at the Beatrix Potter Characters AGM but wanted to give you an update on what's happening at Jurisfiction.'
   'Who's that, darling?' called my mother from the living room.
   'It's a homicidal maniac intent on galactic domination,' I called back.
   'That's nice, dear.'
   I turned back to Zhark.
   'So, what's the news?'
   'Max de Winter from Rebecca,' said Zhark thoughtfully. 'The Book World Justice Department has rearrested him.'
   'I thought Snell got him off the murder charge?'
   'He did. The department are still gunning for him, though. They've arrested him for – get this – insurance fraud. Remember the boat he sank with his wife in it?'
   I nodded.
   'Well, apparently he claimed the insurance on the boat, so they think they might be able to get him on that.'
   It was not an untypical turn of events in the BookWorld. Our mandate from the Council of Genres was to keep fictional narrative as stable as possible. As long as it was how the author intended, murderers walked free and tyrants stayed in power – that was what we did. Minor infringements that weren't obvious to the reading public we tended to overlook. However, in a master stroke of inspired bureaucracy, the Council of Genres also empowered a Justice Department to look into individual transgressions. The conviction of David Copperfield for murdering his first wife was their biggest cause célèbre – before my time, I hasten to add – and
   Jurisfiction, unable to save him, could do little except tram another character to take Copperfield's place. They had tried to get Max de Winter before but we had always managed to outmanoeuvre them. Insurance fraud. I could scarcely believe it.
   'Have you alerted the Gryphon?'
   'He's working on Fagin's umpteenth appeal.'
   'Get him on it. We can't leave this to amateurs. What about Hamlet? Can I send him back?'
   'Not . . . as such,' replied Zhark hesitantly.
   'He's becoming something of a nuisance,' I admitted, 'and Danes are liable to be arrested. I can't keep him amused watching Mel Gibson's films for ever.'
   'I'd like Mel Gibson to play me,' said Zhark thoughtfully.
   'I don't think Gibson does bad guys,' I told him. 'You'd probably be played by Geoffrey Rush or someone.'
   'That wouldn't be so bad. Is that cake going begging?'
   'Help yourself.'
   Zhark cut a large slice of Battenberg, took a bite and continued:
   'Okay, here's the deal: we managed to get the Polonius family to attend arbitration over their unauthorised rewriting of Hamlet.'
   'How did you achieve that?'
   'Promised Ophelia her own book. All back to normal – no problem.'
   'So . . . I can send Hamlet back?'
   'Not quite yet,' replied Zhark, trying to hide his unease by pretending to find a small piece of fluff on his cape. 'You see, Ophelia has now got her knickers in a twist about one of Hamlet's infidelities – someone she thinks is called Henna Appleton. Have you heard anything about this?'
   'No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. Don't even know anyone called Henna Appleton Why?'
   'I was hoping you could tell me. Well, she went completely nuts and threatened to drown herself in the first act rather than the fourth. We think we've got her straightened out. But while we were doing this there was a hostile takeover.'
   I cursed aloud and Zhark jumped. Nothing was ever straightforward in the BookWorld. Book mergers, where one book joined another to increase the collective narrative advantage of their own mundane plotlines, were thankfully rare but not unheard of. The most famous merger in Shakespeare was the conjoinment of the two plays Daughters of Lear and Sons of Gloucester into King Lear. Other potential mergers such as Much Ado about Verona and A Midsummer Night's Shrew were denied at the planning stage and hadn't taken place. It could take months to extricate the plots, if indeed it was possible at all. King Lear resisted unravelling so strongly we just let it stand.
   'So what merged with Hamlet?'
   'Well, it's now called The Merry Wives of Elsinore, and features Gertrude being chased around the castle by Falstaff while being outwitted by Mistress Page, Ford and Ophelia. Laertes is the king of the fames and Hamlet is relegated to a sixteen-line sub-plot where he is convinced Dr Caius and Fenton have conspired to kill his father for seven hundred pounds.'

   I groaned.
   'What's it like?'
   'It takes a long time to get funny and when it does everyone dies.'
   'Okay,' I conceded, 'I'll try and keep Hamlet amused. How long do you need to unravel the play?'
   Zhark winced and sucked in air through his teeth in the way heating engineers do when quoting on a new boiler.
   'Well, that's the problem, Thursday. I'm not sure that we can do it all. If this had happened anywhere but the original we could have just deleted it. You know the trouble we had with King Lear? Well, I don't see that we're going to have any better luck with Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.'
   I sat down and put my head in my hands. No Hamlet. The loss was almost too vast to comprehend.
   'How long have we got before Hamlet starts to change?' I asked without looking up.
   'About five days, six at the outside,' replied Zhark quietly. 'After that the breakdown will accelerate. In two weeks' time the play as we know it will have ceased to exist.'
   'There must be something we can do.'
   'We've tried pretty much everything. We're stuffed – unless you've got a spare William Shakespeare up your sleeve.'
   I sat up.
   'What?'
   'We're stuffed?'
   'After that.'
   'A spare William Shakespeare up your sleeve?'
   'Yes. How will that help?'
   'Well,' said Zhark thoughtfully, 'since no original manuscripts of either Hamlet or Wives exist, a freshly penned script by the author would thus become the original manuscript – and we can use those to reboot the storycode engines from scratch. It's quite simple, really.'
   I smiled but Zhark looked at me with bewilderment.
   'Thursday, Shakespeare died in 1616!'
   I stood up and patted him on the arm.
   'You get back to the office and make sure things don't get any worse. Leave the Shakespeare up to me. Now, has anyone figured out which book Yorrick Kaine is from?'
   'We've got all available resources working on it,' replied Zhark, still a bit confused, 'but there are a lot of novels to go through. Can you give us any pointers?'
   'Well, he's not very multi-dimensional so I shouldn't go looking into anything too literary. I'd start at Political Thrillers and work your way towards Spy.'
   Zhark made a note.
   'Good. Any other problems?'
   'Yes,' replied the emperor, 'Simpkin is being a bit of a pest in The Tailor of Gloucester. Apparently the tailor let all his mice escape and now Simpkin won't let him have the cherry-coloured twist. If the mayor's coat isn't ready for Christmas there'll be hell to pay.'
   'Get the mice to make the waistcoat. They're not doing anything.'
   He sighed. 'Okay, I'll give it a whirl.' He looked at his watch. 'Well, better be off. I've got to annihilate the planet Thraal at four and I'm already late. Do you think I should use my trusty Zharkian Death Ray and fry them alive in a millisecond or nudge an asteroid into their orbit, thus unleashing at least six chapters of drama as they try to find an ingenious solution to defeat me?'
   'The asteroid sounds a good bet.'
   'I thought so too. Well, see you later.'
   I waved goodbye as he and his two guards were beamed out of my world and back into theirs, which was certainly the best place for them. We had quite enough tyrants in the real world as it was.
   I was just wondering what The Merry Wives of Elsinore might be like when there was another buzzing noise and the kitchen was filled with light once more. There, imperious stare, high collar, etc., etc., was Emperor Zhark.

18
Emperor Zhark Again

   PRESIDENT GEORGE FORMBY OPENS MOTORCYCLE FACTORY
   The President opened the new Brough-Vincent-Norton motorcycle factory yesterday in Liverpool, bringing much-welcomed jobs to the area. The highly modernised factory, which aims to produce up to A thousand quality touring and racing machines every week, was described by the President as 'cracking stuff!' The President, a long-time advocate of motorcycling, rode one of the company's new Vincent 'Super Shadow' racers around the test track, reportedly hitting over 120 mph, much to his retinue's obvious concern for the octogenarian Presidents health. Our George then gave a cheerful rendering of 'Riding in the TT Races', reminding his. audience of the time he won the Manx Tourist Trophy on a prototype Rainbow motorcycle.

Article in The Toad, 9 July 1988


   'Forget something?' I asked.
   'Yes. What was that cake of your mother's?'
   'It's called Battenberg.'
   He got a pen and made a note on his cuff.
   'Right. Well, that's it, then.'
   'Good.'
   'Right.'
   'Is there something else?'
   'Yes.'
   'And—?'
   'It's . . . it's . . .'
   'What?'
   Emperor Zhark bit his lip, looked around nervously and drew closer. Although I had had good reason for reprimanding him in the past – and had even suspended his Jurisfiction badge for 'gross incompetence' on two occasions – I actually liked him a great deal. Within the amnesty of his own books he was a sadistic monster who murdered millions with staggering ruthlessness, but out here he had his own fair share of worries, demons and peculiar habits – many of which seemed to have stemmed from the strict upbringing undertaken by his mother, the Empress Zharkeena.
   'Well,' he said, unsure of quite how to put it, 'you know the sixth in the Emperor Zhark series is being written as we speak?'
   'Zhark: End of Empire? Yes, I'd heard that. What's the problem?'
   'I've just read the advanced plotline and it seems that I'm going to be vanquished by the Galactic Freedom Alliance.'
   'I'm sorry, Emperor, I'm not sure I see your point – are you concerned about losing your empire?'
   He moved closer.
   'If the story calls for it, I guess not. But it's what happens to me at the end that I have a few problems with. I don't mind being cast adrift in space on the imperial yacht or left marooned on an empty planet, but my writer has planned . . . a public execution.'
   He stared at me, shocked by the enormity of it all.
   'If that's what he has planned—'
   'Thursday, you don't understand. I'm going to be killed off – written out! I'm not sure I can take that kind of rejection.'
   'Emperor,' I said, 'if a character has run its course, then it's run its course. What do you want me to do? Go and talk the author out of it?'
   'Would you?' replied Zhark, opening his eyes wide. 'Would you really do that?'
   'No. You can't have characters trying to tell their authors what to write in their books. Besides, within your books you are truly evil, and need to be punished.'
   Zhark pulled himself up to his full height.
   'I see,' he said at length. 'Well, I might decide to take drastic action if you don't at least attempt to persuade Mr Paige. And besides, I'm not really evil, I'm just written that way.'
   'If I hear any more of this nonsense,' I replied, beginning to get annoyed, 'I will have you placed under book arrest and charged with incitement to mutiny for what you've just told me.'
   'Oh, crumbs,' he said, suddenly deflated, 'you can can't you?'
   'I can. I won't because I can't be bothered. But if I hear anything more about this I will take steps – do you understand?'
   'Yes,' replied Zhark meekly, and without another word he vanished.