War of the World Records (5 page)

“I'm afraid I'd rather not discuss the Ardmore Association either, Mr. Goldwin,” said Arthur's father.

“Well then,” Rex replied. “Since it seems I'm failing so miserably as your host, perhaps you might tell us what you
would
like to discuss.”

“Forgive me,” Mr. Whipple grumbled, “if, after such a
hearty
meal, I don't have the stomach for recounting one of the worst disasters in our family's history, or for hearing a recruitment talk from an organization whose past members turn up as skeletons. And while we're on the subject, perhaps you can shed some light on this shadowy board of directors running the show these days. We know they've added one new member at the very least. So tell me, Mr. Goldwin: who is the new treasurer? Friend of yours, is he?”

Mrs. Whipple dropped her fork, which clattered loudly against her empty plate.

Rex Goldwin did not miss a beat. “Wish I knew, Charlie. You'd think with the record-breaking deal we've made we'd be privy to that information, wouldn't you? But alas, we're just as much in the dark about the board of directors as anybody else. Of course, you're more than welcome to your opinions, Charlie. Chef Bijou's cuisine, as well as the Ardmore Association, are certainly not for everyone. I had hoped you were forward-thinking enough to embrace them—but I wonder if your resistance stems from another source altogether. It would seem by your behavior in the Lizard Lounge that you have not entirely overcome the past.” Rex's eyes narrowed as he flashed a roguish grin. “Surely you're not still sore about that business at
Norbury
, are you? I mean honestly, Charlie, that was ages ago—and you've more than proved yourself since then.”

Mr. Whipple said nothing. At the mention of the word “Norbury,” Arthur noticed his father's face become sullen and pale, its features frozen into an unnatural expression.

“Look, Charlie,” Rex declared, “why don't we let bygones be bygones and set the record straight once and for all? For my part, I hold no grudge—but if you're still intent on carrying out this imagined little feud of yours, why don't we at least have some fun with it? The World Record World Championships are coming up in a couple of months, you know. . . .”

Arthur's heart fluttered with equal parts excitement and anxiety, just as it always did at the mention of the WRWC.

The World Record World Championships, of course, is a week-long tournament—organized every two years by the International World Record Federation—in which the world's greatest world-record breakers travel across the globe to compete for universal fame and fortune. After seven days and more than a thousand record-setting events, awards are given in various categories to the entrants who have collected the most world records. The highest of these awards is the World Record World Championship Cup, presented at the end of the tournament to the Family to Hold the Most World Records on Earth. The Whipples had managed to bring home the cup at the past three championships, despite Arthur's failure to even qualify for a single event. Still, Arthur had always dreamt that one day he might have some small part in his family's success.

His father remained speechless as Rex continued his proposal. “What would you say to signing an official rivalry contract for this year's tournament, eh, Charlie? Now, I know you're not used to such heated competition, and what with the poorly timed return of this Lyon's Curse and these unfortunate catastrophes it keeps causing, I can see why you might not want to take on anything else at the moment. But then again, what better way to show the world you're still the undisputed Record-Breakingest Family on Earth?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Goldwin,” Arthur's mother cut in. “But what exactly is a rivalry contract?”

“Why, it's hardly anything at all, Mrs. Whipple,” Rex replied. “Just a way to keep things interesting. Simply offers a few advantages to the winning party—and a few penalties to the loser.”

“And what sort of penalties would those be exactly?”

“Oh, just that if one of our families wins the Championship Cup, the other would excuse themselves from any future events in which the winner is participating—for a specified period of two years. So as to ease the competition and give the winner a better chance of keeping the cup longer.”

Mrs. Whipple shook her head and turned to her husband, who was rubbing his jaw in deep thought. “I don't know, Charles,” she said. “The possible advantages scarcely seem worth the risk.”

Before her husband could answer, Rex interjected, “I completely understand, Mrs. Whipple. The penalties—however minor—would, of course, make it harder for the losing family to close the gap between the winning family after the championships. So, if you're not one hundred percent confident yours will come out on top, it really doesn't make sense for you to jeopardize your standing any further. I must say I'm flattered, though. Who ever would imagine the Whipples could have even the slightest doubt going up against a family of newcomers like ours? Unless, of course, Charlie is thinking about Norbury again. . . .”

Arthur's father choked on a fleck of truffled veal from their microscopic dinner but promptly cleared his throat. “There is no doubt, Mr. Goldwin,” he said, ignoring the stern look on his wife's face. “We accept.”

“Very well then,” Rex said as he stood from his chair. “I'll have our lawyer draft the official papers, and we can get this under way.” He pushed a button in a wall panel behind him and spoke into the speaker grille beside it. “Mr. Boyle, would you bring us the Ardmore paperwork?”

A moment later, a high-foreheaded man with dark, puffily coiffed hair and huge black-rimmed glasses stepped into the room. His tiny, insect-like eyes peered lazily from behind the massive lenses as if gazing up from twin petri dishes. They blinked every few seconds, confirming they were still live specimens.

“Ah yes,” said Rex. “Malcolm Boyle, meet the Whipples, our new rivals. Mr. Boyle here is chief legal representative for the Ardmore Association.”

The corners of Mr. Boyle's mouth twitched upward to form the subtlest, wryest of smiles on an otherwise expressionless face. He stepped forward without a word and hefted a massive briefcase onto the table, then popped the clasps open with his thumbs to reveal a second, smaller briefcase, which he promptly popped open to reveal a third. From out of this briefcase he removed a stack of papers and set them before Arthur's father, while the Whipples looked on in disbelief. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Whipple,” the lawyer said finally in a low, languid voice that was both unhurried and oddly precise. “If you would just sign and date this official Intention of Rivalry form—in triplicate—your rivalry may commence.” He removed a gold pen from his jacket and circled a few key points on the contract as he skimmed over them out loud. “Penalties in effect for two years following the championships' end. . . . All disputes to be resolved by dueling . . . yada yada yada. . . . Standard boilerplate.”

“Goodness,” said Mr. Whipple as he reached the end of the form, “all our names have already been typed in here. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you drafted this long before we arrived here tonight. Why, you must be the Fastest Typist on the Planet, Mr. Boyle.”

“My personal record-breaking skills—though impressive—are immaterial in these proceedings, Mr. Whipple,” said Mr. Boyle. The corners of his mouth twitched upward once more. Then he held out the pen. “Simply sign and date in triplicate.”

Mr. Whipple took the pen from the lawyer. He gave a momentary glance to his wife, who widened her eyes and shook her head in silent protest. Then, catching a glimpse of the crooked smirk on Rex's face, Arthur's father lowered the pen and signed the form.

“There we are, Mr. Whipple,” said Rex, smiling as he extended his arm across the table. “It's settled.”

Mr. Whipple stood to grasp his rival's hand. “May the best family win,” he said.

“And we will,” Rupert snickered just loud enough for Arthur to hear.

The air hung heavy with tension.

“Now,” Rex declared, “let us kick off our official rivalry the old-fashioned way—with a cutthroat game of hide-and-seek!”

Unjust Desserts

U
ncle Mervyn, the
Whipples' longtime personal record certifier (and godfather to the Whipple children), stood calibrating his stopwatch on the terrace behind the Goldwin house, where he had been summoned to officiate. Mrs. Waite, the Whipples' plump, silver-haired housekeeper, stood beside him holding two-year-old Ivy, the youngest Whipple child, to whom she served as unofficial nanny. Ivy held her matching teddy bear, Mr. Growls, who was currently dressed like a ninja.

The members of the two teams spread themselves out across the area, warming up for the critical match to come, as Mr. Boyle approached Uncle Mervyn from across the terrace.

“Always fascinated me,” the lawyer said casually, “this Oath of Impartiality you certifiers swear to uphold.”

“Required by the IWRF, of course,” said Uncle Mervyn, still fussing with his watch, “but it's an oath I'd gladly take nonetheless.”

“Seems a bit absurd, though, doesn't it,” Mr. Boyle said dryly, “not to show preference for the people closest to you? The ones who pay your salary? The ones who trust you with their deepest secrets? I know I couldn't do it.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Lucky for me, we lawyers are required to take no such oath.”

Mrs. Waite stepped forward. “I'm not sure I like your tone, Mr. Boyle,” she said, linking her free arm in Uncle Mervyn's. “I've not been around record breaking long, but in my short time with the Whipples, Mervyn has already proved himself the World's Most Honest, Most Reliable, Most Trustworthy Soul on the Planet.” She placed her cheek against his grizzled beard and added quietly, “Not to mention the Sweetest.”

Uncle Mervyn's cheeks turned rosy as he straightened a clump of thinning gray hair on top of his head. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Waite,” he stammered. “You—you are quite remarkable yourself.”

“So, Mr. Boyle,” the woman concluded with a mischievous grin, “please refrain from your pointed comments—unless you'd like to find yourself facing the business end of an angry housekeeper's feather duster.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Waite,” said Mr. Boyle, his tiny eyes blinking behind his massive glasses. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Dis-re-speck!” chirped Ivy.

Arthur smiled at Mrs. Waite's noble defiance and at the sound of his little sister's voice. Then, following his family's lead, he moved away from the terrace and began stretching his muscles against a nearby tree—which he promptly discovered was like no other tree he had ever encountered.

The first thing he noticed was how strangely clean and squishy its bark felt. He then stepped back to find its branches were identical on either side of its trunk, so that from where he stood, the tree appeared to be perfectly symmetrical. He studied the other trees around him and realized they all shared the same odd quality. Clearly, something had changed since his prior visit to the Crosley estate.

It then struck him his fingers were coated in a clear gel that looked and smelled like tree sap, but with none of its stickiness.

Two trees over, Arthur's little brother George held up a goo-covered hand and asked, “What's wrong with this tree, Dad?”

Mr. Whipple, busy studying his own upturned palm, appeared just as baffled.

Rex Goldwin, however, was quick to answer. “Don't tell me your old dad's never let you climb a Sim-o-Tree before! Really, Charlie, you've got to get with the times.
Actual
trees are a thing of the past—the future's all about Sim-o-Trees. This place was absolutely teeming with actual trees when we bought it, but with a little bit of vision on our part, we transformed this overgrown, grimy little grove into the Largest Synthetic Woodland on the Planet.”

“And with Sim-o-Trees,” his wife added, “you never have to worry about leaves falling off and dirtying up the ground—or getting that disgusting tree sap all over your hands and clothes.”

Her six-year-old son, Randolf, began rubbing the seat of his trousers onto the tree behind him, then turned it to face the Whipples. “See?” he said.

“Hmm,” said Mr. Whipple, rubbing his fingers together in the unidentified ooze. “But what's this then?” he asked.

“Pine-scented disinfectant hand soap,” Rita replied. “Only comes in the top-of-the-line models. The more you climb, the cleaner you get. I'd like to see you try that in a normal tree!”

“And to cap it off,” said Roland, “our fabricated forest here has just been recognized by the Intercontinental Hide-and-Seek Commission as an Optimum Field of Play, the highest distinction in the sport. . . .”

“But don't be too intimidated,” added Roxy. “We'll try and go easy on you.”

“Oh, don't worry about us,” Cordelia replied.

“Yeah,” said George. “Do your worst.”

After winning the coin toss, the Goldwins chose to hide first—as is the usual preference in premier division hide-and-seek. They took their places at the hiding line as the Whipples circled around the giant Sim-o-Tree that served as home base.

Uncle Mervyn raised his megaphone. “On my mark,” he announced, “seekers may commence countdown. And . . .”

Arthur felt his throat go dry as a woozy feeling rushed over him. He doubled over and gave a violent gagging cough. He would have felt rather embarrassed, had half his family members not done the very same a moment later.

“Goodness, Whipples!” said Rex, turning back to face his opponents. “What on earth is the matter? Word of advice: you might not want to burst out in spontaneous coughing once the hide-and-seek match actually begins. Sort of makes it difficult to conceal your position, don't you think?”

Arthur's father, hands on his knees and wheezing like the rest of his family, cocked his head toward Rex Goldwin and rasped, “What did you put out here?”

Rex looked puzzled. “What do you . . . ? Ohhh—you're not having a bad reaction to the Sim-o-Trees, are you? I'm told it takes a few months for the advanced polymers to stabilize, and that in the meantime, they might give off a slightly noxious gas, which may cause temporary dizziness and respiratory trauma to the unconditioned. But we're so used to being surrounded by plastics, we haven't noticed it! Ohhh—I really feel terrible about this. I should have warned you—I sometimes forget that not everyone has upgraded to the luxury of plastics like we have.”

Another bout of coughing broke out amongst the Whipples.

Mr. Boyle stepped forward. “I think you'll find this covered in Article Seventeen of the Intention of Rivalry form: ‘Rival A shall not be held liable for any health complications of Rival B resulting from side effects of artificial vegetation.'”

“Ooh,” said Rex. “It does say that, doesn't it? Not to worry, though—you'll all be right as rain in just a few minutes. Deep breaths now.” Rex checked his watch a moment later and added, “Hmm. I really wish we could delay the start time, but it is already on the books.”

His eldest daughter Rosalind spoke up. “We could always fit them with gas masks from the new Reek Chic collection, couldn't we, Dad? Sure to improve their wardrobe at the very least. . . .”

“That won't be necessary,” Arthur's father wheezed. He gritted his teeth and stifled a cough. “Let's get on with it.”

“Very well, Charlie,” said Rex as both families returned to their starting points. “Good luck to you.”

Uncle Mervyn, still wheezing himself, lifted the megaphone to his lips and cried feebly, “Go!”

The Goldwins scattered into the surrounding fake forest while Arthur and his family did their best to stand up straight and count down from one hundred.

“. . . five, four, three, two, one,” the Whipples coughed at last. “Ready or not, here we come!”

• • •

An hour and a half after leaving home base, the Whipples had largely adapted to the effects of the Sim-o-Trees, but had yet to find a single member of the Goldwin family.

Arthur had been assigned the specialized position of “flusher,” whose job it was to wander alone and flush out any hiders he might stumble upon. So far, he had stumbled upon a plastic owl, three plastic squirrels, and a section of synthetic shrubbery that looked exactly like Rita Goldwin from ten paces away, but nothing yet that would qualify as an actual human being.

As he crept into an exceptionally dark section of Sim-o-Trees, Arthur glimpsed a hint of movement to his right and lunged toward it, only to discover a live barn owl swooping off with a plastic field mouse in its talons. Arthur had no trouble identifying with the disappointment the owl would shortly be experiencing.

Arthur turned around with a sigh but was halted in his tracks by a curious sound overhead.

“Pssst,” called the noise.

Arthur peered into the branches above him but saw no sign of its source.

“Pssst,” it called again. If it was some other confused woodland creature, he did not recognize its call.

Arthur took a small step forward to adjust his vantage point and looked up once more. This time, he could just make out the shadowy face of a girl between the branches.

It was Ruby. And she was beckoning him to join her.

By the time he had clambered up the rubbery trunk and onto Ruby's branch some twenty feet off the ground, Arthur's hands and clothes had become as clean as they had been all day—apart from the strong smell of synthetic pine that now clung to them.

He took a seat beside Ruby, who turned to him with a smile. “Looks like you've found me,” she whispered.

“I'm pretty sure it's the other way around,” he said, panting from the climb. “You're quite the hider, aren't you? You've managed to stay hidden for nearly two hours.”

Ruby shrugged. “Didn't really do it on purpose.” She held up her copy of
Poise and Poisonousness
. “Just catching up on some reading.” She lowered the book and clapped it shut. “You know,” she added, “this is a bit like our very first meeting, isn't it? Though it was you up a tree stalking
me
then. Not far from where we are now, I reckon.”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, rubbing the back of his shoulder. “Glad to see the branches on these new trees are a bit sturdier.”

Ruby gave a smirk. “I seem to recall it wasn't the fall that sent you running away screaming that night. Come on now, was I really that terrifying?”

“Sort of,” said Arthur. “I mean you did look a bit like . . .” He shifted his gaze toward the ground and mumbled the rest of the sentence under his breath.

“What was that?” said Ruby. “I don't think I quite heard you.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I may have kind of thought you were . . . a ghost.”

“Really?!” Ruby snickered. “Do you see ghosts often?”

“Well, no,” Arthur said defensively. “But you must admit—you didn't look completely un-ghostlike back then, what with all the black nail polish and eye makeup. And have you ever considered it might have been easy in that particular setting to mistake
anyone
for the vengeful spirit of a child murdered by a toffee mogul? I mean, surely you've heard about the Crosley ghosts.”

“Can't say I have. But if that's the sort of conclusion you come to every time you see a defenseless girl sitting alone in the woods, you probably shouldn't be leaving the house. Quite the sensitive type, aren't we?”

“Hey—
I
wasn't the one crying my eyes out, if you recall.”

As the words left Arthur's mouth, the haunting image of the ghost girl's swollen green eyes and tear-stained cheeks suddenly filled his mind. “By the way,” he added, “why
were
you crying?”

“I don't know if that's a very polite thing to ask someone.”

“No. You're right,” said Arthur. “I'm sorry.”

Ruby nodded—then closed her book and set it beside her on the ledge. “Well,” she said, “if you really want to know—that was the day I found out about the trees.”

Arthur's brow furrowed. “Found out
what
about the trees?”

“That they were all going to be cut down, and replaced with—” Ruby knocked on the hollow-sounding Sim-o-Tree branch beneath them “—these man-made monstrosities. Just when I thought I was going to have actual trees of my own. . . . It was such a beautiful grove, wasn't it?”

Arthur thought back to the gnarled, gloomy entanglement of vegetation that had nearly served as his final resting place. “‘Beautiful' may be a
bit
strong. . . .”

“Ah, what do you know, anyway?” snapped Ruby. “Your house has more trees than you know what to do with. This was going to be my first real house, you know. I thought it was going to be different from the compound, but it's turned out to be more or less the same. They didn't have real trees there either.”

“Wait—what do you mean
compound
?”

“The place we lived before we moved here. Elite fitness facilities, world-class tutors, electrified fences—that sort of thing. What, you never had to grow up in a remote high-tech training station?”