Ambrose Wycliffe blinked, then took a step forward, squinting again. His extravagant ginger muttonchop whiskers quivered. “ What? That was you, Mister Dunwoody?”
Gerald managed not to look at Errol. Managed to keep his lowly Third Grade obsequiousness intact. Just. Damn, Sir Alec. I told you this would happen.
“The investigation did exonerate me, Mister Wycliffe,” he murmured humbly. “Mister Harold Stuttley was found culpable on a number of regulatory violations. The official government conclusion was that the unfortunate destruction of the factory wasn’t my fault.”
“I see,” said Ambrose Wycliffe. He laced his pudgy fingers over his substantial belly and frowned more deeply, rocking slightly on his heels. “Still. That doesn’t explain what’s going on now. And what is going on now? I’m still waiting for someone to tell me. What the devil was that explosion?”
“ That,” said Errol, teeth glittering in a sabre smile, “was Mister Dunwoody destroying yet another of my First Grade staffs. He seems to think I have an unlimited supply. And I can I assure him that I don’t. Not of staffs… and not of patience, or tolerance for unmitigated incompetence. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mister Wycliffe, but he’s managed to wreck the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype as well.”
A cry of dismay went up from their audience of goggling wizards. The Mark VI was their latest, greatest project. A great many hopes and dreams-not to mention jobs-were pinned to its experimental fuselage and propulsion design.
Ambrose Wycliffe’s florid face paled, dramatically. “Is that true, Mister Dunwoody? Have you wrecked the Mark VI prototype?”
“No, he hasn’t, Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. “I’m sorry, Mister Haythwaite,” he added, coming forward. “I don’t mean to disrespect you or contradict you or interfere in any way. It’s just that Mister Dunwoody wasn’t working on the Mark VI. I was, as per Mister Haythwaite’s request. I just asked Mister Dunwoody to step in and read off the gauges on the etheretic quantifier while I fired the new engine up for a burst. That’s all. I swear, he didn’t lay so much as a finger on the airship prototype.”
“Maybe not,” muttered Errol. “But he looked at it. And that’s more than enough where Dunnywood’s concerned.”
“Now, now, Mister Haythwaite,” said Ambrose Wycliffe, indulgently. “I can see that what we have here is an unfortunate clash of personalities. But since it’s been proven by an official government investigation that Mister Dunwoody here didn’t blow up Stuttley’s, and our Mister Methven has manfully owned up to his part in this unfortunate business and exculpated Mister Dunwoody, I don’t think it’s fair to sack the chap. Not when he comes with a Truscott guarantee and I won’t get a refund on my deposit.”
“It’s your decision, sir, of course,” said Errol, his voice dangerously clipped. He turned on Methven. “So you’re saying I’m responsible? The Mark VI is my ship. I designed it. I invented the new thaumic conversion matrix. So if there is a problem with the engine the fault is mine? Is that what you’re saying?”
Gerald cleared his throat. “No, Mister Haythwaite, I think what Mister Meth-”
Errol seared him with such a look he actually stepped back. “ Shut up, Dunwoody,” Errol hissed. “Didn’t you get the memo? Third Grade wizards should be seen and not heard.”
A ripple of unease ran through the gaggle of watching wizards, and as though Errol’s vicious retort was some kind of signal-or warning-they began to drift away to their desks and benches and labs.
Ambrose Wycliffe unlaced his fingers from his belly and stepped to Errol’s side. Sliding an arm around his shoulders he harumphed, understandingly. “Mister Haythwaite, your distress does you credit. We all know how dedicated you are to the success of the Ambrose Mark VI. But you must not allow yourself to become overturned. We are still in the experimental stages, are we not? These little setbacks are bound to happen.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir,” said Errol, stiffly. “I appreciate your understanding.”
Ambrose Wycliffe shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. Why, I could tell you stories of prototype disasters in my late father’s day that make this look like a mere peccadillo. Don’t forget, Mister Haythwaite, that this grand laboratory was my childhood playpen. I grew up with airships and I can assure you, when it comes to design teething troubles there is nothing new under the sun.”
Errol grimaced. “Keep Dunwoody around, sir, and I promise you’ll see it.”
“Ah, you’re a witty man, Mister Haythwaite!” said Ambrose Wycliffe, jowls jiggling. “And I do so enjoy the company of witty men. But I’m bound to remind you, sir, that I lost the Ambroses Marks II through V long before Mister Dunwoody arrived on the scene.”
“Yes, sir,” said Errol. “Which is why you hired me, and why I’m determined we’ll not lose the Mark VI as well. The future of Wycliffe’s is riding on this airship and I’ll do whatever I must to makes sure it succeeds.”
Ambrose Wycliffe’s basset-hound eyes went moist. “Dear boy,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Come. Let’s inspect the prototype, shall we, and see what’s to be done about salvaging it. And then you’d better have some ointment put on those blisters. Very nasty. Mister Methven-”
Robert Methven, who’d been hovering uncertainly on the sidelines, jumped. “Mister Wycliffe?”
“You’d best accompany us. Perhaps you can shed some light on precisely what happened, and how we can avoid an encore performance.”
Swallowing convulsively, Methven shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe,” he whispered.
As Ambrose Wycliffe and Errol took a step towards the Mark VI lab, Melissande squeaked. “Ah, sir?”
He swung round. “Eh? What? Oh, it’s you. Permelia’s gel. What did you want?”
Gerald wondered if Ambrose Wycliffe knew how close he was to having his toes stamped on. “Miss Wycliffe requests that you read and authorise these purchase orders, Mister Wycliffe,” she said in the most alarmingly and uncharacteristic self-effacing murmur.
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe and held out his hand. Melissande passed him the first folder, which he flipped open. “What’s the woman fussing at me now for?” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Pen!”
Robert Methven snatched up a pen and inkpot from a nearby bench. “Here you are, sir.”
Without even bothering to read what he was authorising, Ambrose Wycliffe dashed his signature at the bottom of all seven purchase orders.
“There you are, gel,” he said, vaguely staring past Melissande’s left ear. “And tell Permelia not to send you back here again. If she wants me to sign things, tell her to send that office-boy. She knows I don’t allow gels in the lab. They interfere with the thaumaturgical ether. I expect when we look into it we’ll find it’s your presence that caused the Mark VI prototype to fail. Oh yes-and tell Permelia I’ll not be in for dinner tonight. I’m dining with Calthrop at the Club.”
Melissande thawed just enough to nod. “Yes, Mister Wycliffe. I shall do that, Mister Wycliffe. Thank you, Mister Wycliffe.”
As Ambrose Wycliffe swept a still icily furious Errol away to the other end of the building, Robert Methven took a moment to replace the inkpot and pen on the bench. Gerald waggled his eyebrows at Melissande then touched the First Grade wizard’s elbow, very deferential.
“Ah, sir? Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.”
Methven gave him a distracted look of intense dislike. “Wasn’t personal, Dunwoody. I’d sack you too, for damned cheek. But it’s not good form to blame an inferior who can’t defend himself. Now get back to work. Find some filing or something. Don’t touch anything remotely thaumaturgical, is that clear?”
He nodded. “Yes, Mister Methven.”
“ Pssst!” said Melissande, crept up behind him. “Gerald, what the-”
“No, no, not here,” he muttered, keeping an eye on the other wizards who’d returned to their own tasks. They hadn’t noticed anything but that wouldn’t last long. Robert Methven, scuttling to catch up with Errol and Ambrose Wycliffe, was looking back over his shoulder, his expression still unfriendly. “Employee garden. Lunch at one.”