A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (130 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

BOOK: A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5
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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 phone down and picked up his nameplate again and hovered it over his box.
“That was the CEO. He wants to apologize 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 said, “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 anymore.”
And he smiled a supercilious smile, put on his hat and was gone.
“Well!” said the new apologist as he walked around the desk and started to arrange his possessions in the new office. “Is there anything you'd like us to apologize for?”
“Your corporation,” I muttered.
“Fully, frankly 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 million employees in 14,000 companies dealing in over 12 million 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 percent of the planet's nations. This year we see the corporation take the next great leap forward—to fully recognized 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 endeavor as you have in all our past endeavors. A full 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 assitant. 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 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 on upwards, 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 we burst clear of the cloud and into bright sunshine and a deep blue sky a few seconds later. I stared across the tops of the clouds that stretched away unbroken into the distance. I was so enthralled by the spectacle that I didn't realize the elevator had stopped.
“Ipsum,” said Friday, who was also impressed and 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. It was on the top floor of the building. The walls and roof were all tinted glass and, from where we stood, on a clear day you must be able to look down upon the world with 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 was the boss when I noticed a large man staring out 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 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 and had piercing green eyes that seemed to look straight through me, and he 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 among them Brik Schitt-Hawse, who 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 you or your son.”
“Thank you.”
I asked Godfrey for an orange juice in a beaker for Friday and took Friday out of his stroller 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.
“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 a low point in employment opportunities.”
“It shall be so,” boomed the CEO. “What else?”
“Well, since we will take the role of ‘ecocustodians' 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 percent. 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 favor 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 silver dinner cover. He stopped next to the CEO's chair, took off the cover and served the CEO a small plate with what looked like sliced pork on it. 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 spit 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 72 of your agenda . . .”
All the board members simultaneously opened their files. Jarvis picked up his report 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, that penguins taste like creosote, and two, that 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-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 shall 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 noneatworthy perception of penguins in general?”
“Not insurmountable, sir. If you recall, we had a similar problem marketing baby-seal burgers, and that is 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 a bit 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 by-line? Have our people in advertising put a campaign together. The meeting is over.”
The board members closed their folders in one single synchronized movement and then filed in an orderly way to the far end of the room, where a curved staircase led downstairs. Within a few minutes, only Brik Schitt-Hawse and the CEO 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 that you will find there is no moral good or bad, Miss Next. Morality can be asserted only 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.”

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