The Fourth Bear

the far side of the plant, he still managed to blow out all the windows in the village.”

“But you never found the body.”

“We never found the laboratory, Inspector.”

“Might he have escaped somehow?”

“No. We had closed-circuit TV of him right up until the moment of the blast; it was all played at the inquest. It wasn’t just him, you know. He took three lab assistants with him. He cost us over thirty million pounds, and all for nothing. Project Supremely Optimistic Belief was abandoned soon after.”

“What else was Miss Hatchett asking about?”

“I think that was pretty much it.”

“Did she mention other explosions she was looking at?”

Bisky-Batt thought for a moment. “No. It was McGuffin she was after. We get a lot of requests for information about Angus, so I have most of it at my fingertips. I understand he’s become the patron saint of the conspiracy movement.”

“And what about Obscurity?”

“Somewhere the Quangle-Wangle shall never be, Inspector.”

“I meant the village.”

“You’re not the first to ask. Yes, I can confirm that we were requested by the Home Office to do a detailed examination of the site. The results were sent on to NS-4 and published the same day—a wartime bomb, detonated accidentally.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Tell me,” said Jack, “does QuangTech have an interest in genetically modified foodstuffs?”

“Owing to the almost blanket ban here in Europe,” replied Bisky-Batt after considering the question briefly, “GM foodstuffs are not a market worth the very great expenditure and stringent regulations. However, we do have a cross-pollination seed division that does generate a good deal of income. High-yield crops are big business. Unlike many of our competitors, we have a rigorously applied ethical policy, so that we are not exploiting those least able to defend themselves. It’s a contentious subject, and despite our very best intentions we are still lambasted for our efforts. Sadly, globalization and multinational business are seen as a great evil in many people’s eyes, despite the good that we do.”

“What about cucumbers?”

Bisky-Batt raised an eyebrow. “In what respect?”

“Genetically modified or cross-pollinated oversize vegetables to—I don’t know—feed the hungry masses or something?”

“With cucumbers?” asked Bisky-Batt, a lean smile crossing his impassive features. “The most remarkable thing about cucumbers is that they have the least caloric value of any vegetable. Good for the crunch in a salad, but otherwise pretty useless. We concentrate on those foodstuffs that are themselves a staple—such as rice, maize, oats, wheat and so forth.”

“I see,” said Jack thoughtfully, “so the financial sense in breeding a giant cucumber is…?”

“Not very high, although there may be value to the competitive veg-growing industry. Cucumbers are technically a fruit and in the same family as pumpkins, melons and squash, so it may benefit those markets, although, to be honest, giant melons don’t strike me as potentially that commercial. But it’s not something we go in for, so my knowledge is a little sparse on the subject. May I ask why?”

“Just something that has come up in the course of our inquiries.”

There was another pause. Annoyingly, Bisky-Batt was being disarmingly candid.

“Can we interview the Quangle-Wangle?”

“I can certainly ask him, but I shouldn’t hold your breath. He grants me an audience every morning. I am, to all intents and purposes, his arms and eyes and voice. The Quangle-Wangle is old and frail. He has fought in two world wars and built an empire that straddles the globe. His body is wasted, but his mind is still keen. He told me once, although I think he was paraphrasing Carnegie, that a man who dies rich dies without honor. He has spent the last ten years of his life giving away more than fifty million pounds to needy institutions through his various charitable trusts. All requests are considered on their own merits by a table of eight consultants, but the Quang makes the final decision. A request for a new scout hut in Wantage is taken with the same seriousness as a diphtheria-inoculation program in Splotvia. As I recall, both were approved.”

“And SommeWorld?”

Bisky-Batt smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, SommeWorld. The Quangle fought as a foot soldier in the Great War and was in the third wave at the Battle of the Somme. He knows more than most the horrors of war. The theme park was an idea he had been toying with for a while. He wanted to demonstrate to the world the hideous conditions and pointless loss of life in warfare but didn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite, so he sold QuangTech’s weapons division and poured the proceeds into SommeWorld. What did you think of it?”

“Very impressive—but none too cheap, I should think.”

“Too true. The land alone cost over a hundred million. Can you imagine trying to buy a single two-thousand- acre tract in the Home Counties? He had to purchase an entire village to make it. The park itself cost another hundred million to build. Even with five hundred thousand visitors a year, it will take seventy years to break even.”

“Hardly good business.”

Bisky-Batt shrugged. “The Quang’s like that. But even with the vast cost of SommeWorld, he’s still one of the wealthiest men on the planet.”

There was more small talk, but nothing of any relevance, and after another twenty minutes Jack and Mary rose to leave. They had heard enough for the moment and could easily return. Bisky-Batt showed them back to the entrance lobby and shook them once again by the hand. He was the vice president of a major corporation and had given them an hour of his time without being the least bit obstructive. He had supplied straight answers and volunteered information. QuangTech’s ethical policy was well known, and perhaps, thought Jack, his own prejudices against big corporations were clouding his judgment. Then again, if someone’s behavior is too good to be true, it generally is.

“What do you think?” asked Mary as they walked back to the car.

“He seemed straight enough,” replied Jack, “but I’d still like to have interviewed the Quangle-Wangle personally.”

“By the way he spoke, you’d think it would be easier to have an audience with the Easter Bunny.”

“Almost certainly. Why, do you think it would help?”

“No, Jack—I mean, aren’t you taking all this missing-scientist and mysterious-explosions stuff a little bit too seriously?”

“How do you mean?”

“Okay, devil’s advocate here. We have a dead journalist, with no sign whatsoever that it was anything but an accident. She was trying to link—as the conspiracy theorists have been doing for years —a doubtlessly insane and almost certainly dead scientist with unexplained explosions around the globe, which on the face of it appear to have no link at all. QuangTech is a big corporation, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad. The Quangle-Wangle has built SommeWorld as a graphic lesson in the horrors of war, and they haven’t indulged in any sort of weapons development in over a decade. I just think it all sounds a little far-fetched—even by NCD standards.”

“I see your point,” replied Jack slowly, “but what about the nature of the blast at Obscurity?”

“Jack,” said Mary, “Parks based his entire theory on that one piece of baked ceramic. It could have come from anywhere. He could have sent it to Goldilocks himself.”

“And the radioactivity?”

“The radium from an old watch would have done the trick.”

“Is that likely?”

“Why not? It won’t be the first time that an overly keen journalist has been given the runaround by a source more eager to receive fifteen minutes of fame than deliver facts. Conspiracy nuts are always looking for mainstream outlets for their rantings. Perhaps Goldilocks was just being used.”