The Fourth Bear

“Not to me. Does QuangTech usually do investigative work for the government?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that their trucks and personnel were swarming over here for the first week after the blast. They were the ones that took all the topsoil.”

Jack thanked Parks and walked back along the road past the scorched hedgerows to the car. The presence of QuangTech might have been nothing except a coincidence, but it had to be looked into. Within ten minutes they were on the road again, the Vicar’s increasingly aggressive offers of scones and tea notwithstanding.

They were both silent until Mary had driven them onto the main road back to Reading, when she said, “That’s odd.”

“You’re not kidding,” replied Jack, who had been making notes since the moment they left. “I wonder if Parks was talking any sense at all when he thought Obscurity was an explosion of a type unknown to science.”

“No, I mean it’s odd that your odometer is going backward.”

“I noticed that, too. This is how I see it: McGuffin is still alive and conducting secret tests of some sort. In Pasadena, Tunbridge Wells, the Nullarbor—and now here. He’s going to reveal everything to Goldilocks, but then… something happens—and she has to be silenced.”

“Where do the cucumbers come into it?” asked Mary.

“I’d forgotten about them,” replied Jack with a frown. “Perhaps they don’t. In any event I think we need to start getting some answers out of QuangTech. Perhaps we should even try to speak to… the Quangle-Wangle himself.”

22. QuangTech

Biggest fictional multinational corporation: Largest of all imaginary megacompanies is The Goliath Corporation, with an illusory net worth of 6.2 quipzillion pounds. Despite falling under the brief control of the Toast Marketing Board in 1987, Goliath resumed control of its own affairs and by the beginning of the fifth Thursday Next novel was once again ready to bully and cajole anyone who dared stand in its way. Claims that a larger and more oppressive fictional corporation had been dreamed up on a word processor in Oregon were dismissed by several illusory Goliath executives as “fanciful nonsense.”

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

The headquarters of QuangTech Industries was a series of large and generally low-lying buildings built within the boundaries of an old airfield. They had been based there since the early fifties, and QuangTech’s rapid expansion had seen the company’s buildings, offices and manufacturing facilities spread in every direction on the seven-hundred-acre site, and then to satellite factories dotted around the Home Counties. When you factored in all the smaller companies that operated under the umbrella of QuangTech, it was easily Berkshire’s biggest employer.

Mary parked the Allegro, and they walked across to the reception. They announced themselves to an attractive receptionist, were given visitors’ passes and then escorted into the main office building, where they were met by Mr. Bisky-Batt himself. He called the receptionist by her first name, and the receptionist did likewise. They noticed that he was carrying a coffee from the vending machine in the lobby. Clearly, QuangTech’s reputation for egalitarian business practices was not without foundation: Bisky-Batt was second only to the Quangle-Wangle himself, and he fetched his own coffee.

The vice president was a tall, heavyset man with massive hands that enveloped Jack’s and Mary’s as they shook. “Welcome to QuangTech,” said the giant, whose voice seemed to rumble on after he had spoken. He smiled at them both, his heavy brow and large jaw reminding Mary of a model Neanderthal she had seen in a museum once. “How have you been these past few years, Jack?”

“I’ve been good.”

“Impressive work on the Humpty Dumpty inquiry,” said Bisky-Batt with another smile. “I was particularly glad the Jellyman came to no harm.”

“Us, too.”

“I always think our lack of association with the NCD is something we can be justly proud of,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “You haven’t questioned us since that unfortunate business concerning the Dong’s luminous nose.”

“Eight years,” said Jack. “How’s the Quangle-Wangle these days?”

“Still going,” replied Bisky-Batt, “although now extremely frail.”

He opened a door and led them into his office. They had visited vice presidents of other corporations in the past, but Bisky-Batt’s office was the most modest they had seen. Completely unostentatious, it was almost austere. A collection of old-fashioned dial phones sat on his desk next to the very latest Quang-6000 desktop computer, the only piece of modern or high-tech equipment that could be seen. He indicated chairs, and they all sat down.

“You’re very kind,” said Jack, “and I hope not to take up too much of your time, but QuangTech’s name has been flagged several times in a recent inquiry, and I was hoping you could offer me some information.”

Bisky-Batt held up his enormous hands. “Ask whatever you wish, Inspector. QuangTech has no secrets from the police, but you must understand that we are a vast company with subsidiaries in thirty-one countries and every major city of the world. The Quangle-Wangle has interests in food, wine, engineering, electronics, software and construction all over the globe. More than one million people worldwide are somehow employed by the corporation either directly or indirectly, and we can’t be held responsible for every one of them.”

“I understand that,” answered Jack, “but I have to ask. It’s about a woman named Henrietta Hatchett.”

“Ah, yes,” replied Bisky-Batt, “the unfortunate woman who was caught in the barrage up at SommeWorld. Most upsetting. Are you satisfied with the extra precautions we have taken to ensure that this sort of tragedy does not happen again?”

“I have heard that the Health and Safety people are more than happy with your efforts. I was just wondering if Ms. Hatchett had ever approached QuangTech Industries for information?”

Bisky-Batt frowned. “Indeed she did. She was most insistent about speaking to the Quangle-Wangle, but as you know, he sees no one. She was so forceful I agreed to see her myself.”

“What did she want?”

“She wanted to know about an ex-confederate of ours named Angus McGuffin.”

Jack said nothing, and Bisky-Batt continued.

“During the eighties the Quangle-Wangle waged a policy of funding projects on the very fringes of science on the basis that if they did work, then the profits might be very substantial indeed. He called it Project Supremely Optimistic Belief. We had a few mild successes. Pumpkin transmogrification was one of them, but in general the project was a failure. McGuffin’s time here at QuangTech was a particularly expensive failure. He arrived in 1984 with claims of being able to synthesize oil from grass cuttings; it was an idea the Quangle-Wangle found irresistible.”

“There are many people who say the grass-cutting story is a myth to cover his true intent.”

“If only it were.”

“So you’re saying McGuffin was a charlatan?”

Bisky-Batt shrugged. “‘Charlatan’ would be a polite term. Personally I would have had him drummed out ASAP, but the Quang calls the shots. We gave McGuffin a laboratory. He blew it up. We gave him another. He blew that one up as well. We rebuilt the lab for the third time a little farther away from the other buildings, and he blew that up, too.”

“He was making progress?”

“No, I think he just liked blowing things up. He destroyed at least two labs a year, until even the Quangle- Wangle began to see that he was pouring money down the drain, and McGuffin’s contract was terminated in 1988.”

“And his death?”

“The day before he was due to leave. A parting shot, we think, and although the coroner recorded an open verdict, we considered it suicide. It was his biggest explosion to date. Despite our having isolated his laboratory on