The Quorum (49 page)

‘Well,’ grunted the General, ‘it’s...’

‘Mr Woolavington, you start.’

The spinsterish English tycoon hadn’t been able to get out a complete sentence all afternoon. Sally thought she owed him a chance to say his piece.

‘Um, as you must know, General Jones and I are veterans of the trade. I inherited my business from my father, who had it from his father. We’ve been making model trains - not toy trains - for over one hundred years. Because we believe in craftsmanship, our prices are, um, high. In recent years, our market has mainly been among adult collectors. Still, we’ve been badly hit...’

‘Not as badly as some, Woolavington.’

‘Let him speak, General.’

‘The businesss changes, fluctuates, evolves. Woolavington and Company has stayed in business by staying the same. I’ve long been reconciled to the fact that our trains will never again be a majority force in the market, but I had thought we would be able to retain our grip on the customers we do have, but...’

‘But the Japs and the freaks are creaming us is what!’ shouted the General, fat face reddening, cigar ash falling unheeded on his lapels. ‘I ain’t like him, Miss Rhodes. I came into toys -toys, that’s what I call ’em, and I’m proud of ’em - when I was invalided out of the Corps. I got some extra bits and pieces in my leg on Iwo Jima. I put out the first Gung-Ho Jones in ’47. He was a Clean Marine then, like me. But I didn’t stick with that like Woolavington with his choo-choos. Gung-Ho Jones has kept up with the times. He’s been through all the services, plus he’s been a super-secret agent, an astronaut, a SWAT cop, counter-terrorist, you name it. A couple of years back, Gung-Ho was a barbarian swordsman on an alternate world. Now he’s a Blastmaster with the Universe Corps. Don’t ask me what that means. As far as I can tell, it’s a lot like being a Marine. Our strategy has been to stay in fashion, and, of course, to sell more and more units as the range of Gung-Ho Jones accessories, sidekicks and adversaries expands. It worked for thirty years, but these last couple of quarters, it’s been shot to shit...’

The General picked up a handful of leaflets and shook them. He obviously took his business personally. Sally wondered what an adult psychiatrist would have made of his obvious identification with his nine-inch tall product. Had he left his guts on Iwo Jima, and built up his toy empire to make himself into a hero by proxy, the victor of a million bedroom-floor battles?

‘Last year, I did three million in deals on the first day of this show, Miss Rhodes. Yesterday, I barely managed to get five K and change from a few individual orders. The main chains don’t want to know. I believe in market forces, supply and demand, competition, all that stuff. But this isn’t capitalism, it’s genocide.’

Sally wondered if the General realised that when he lost control his hands contorted like Gung-Ho Jones’ - one with an extended finger and a grip to (shakily) hold a gun, the other a tight fist with fingers fused like a deformity. The leaflets crumpled tight in the fist.

‘We’re not the only people affected,’ said Woolavington. ‘There are, um, over three hundred stands and displays in the halls downstairs. At this show, only two of them have been busy. And they’ve been very busy. They’re burying us.’

‘The Japs and the Freaks.’

‘So you said, General. Could you be more specific?’

‘The Gargantuabots and the Nice Mice. Take a look.’ The General took a boxed robot and a cuddly toy from the suite’s dressing table, and handed them to her. ‘They have TV shows, too.’

The cuddly toy was a fat mouse, the size of a teddy bear. It had heart-shaped eyes, a perky little smile and adorable whiskers. Still in its cellophane, it looked as if it was in cryogenesis until someone found a cure for terminal cuteness. Sally found the robot more appealing, marginally. She’d been like that as a child, too. She wondered how much her Thunderbirds models would be worth if she hadn’t set fire to them with lighter fluid when she was eleven.

‘Oh, these are the robots that turn into different things, right? They look like dinosaurs, but twist into tanks or aeroplanes. I’ve seen kids with them. They must be popular.’

‘Unnaturally popular, Miss Rhodes. And the Nice Mice are equally successful. This year, the toy business is a duopoly.’

‘Are you sure you’re not overreacting to bad sales? I can see the appeal of both lines. I did my thesis on Playthings and Society. The Gargantuabots combine many aspects which would appeal to the stereotypical small boy: prehistoric monsters, giant robots, motor-vehicles, martial imagery. The transformation aspect is undeniably ingenious, and probably helps kids develop hand-eye coordination. Most popular toys have some subliminal educational value, I suppose. Even Gung-Ho Jones. And the Nice Mice are innocuous, almost calculatedly so. They aren’t to my taste, certainly, but pre-school children need fantasies of reassurance, not of mass destruction. What with the backlash against war toys, something like the Nice Mice was bound to come along eventually. I expect you only wish you’d thought of it first.’

‘We know all that, Miss Rhodes. Our toys are designed by shrinks too. Gung-Ho Jones and Sandie cover the whole range of socio-economic and psycho-behavioural classes. We offer something for every kid there is. Every kid whose parents have $14.99, that is. Until AIDS, we were even going to give Sandie a homo best friend who could wear all her dresses. The demographics were right for it. We were doing great, then these crazies came on like gangbusters and kicked our asses. We had the same thing with computer games, but that fad boomed and bust over three seasons, and even at its height it never came close to hurting us as bad as we’re hurting now.’

He balled the useless leaflets, and threw them in the general direction of a waste-paper basket. He missed. Woolavington fidgeted, cleaning his nails with an eyetooth. Sally wasn’t convinced these men were sane, but she could tell they were genuinely worried.

‘Okay, I’ll look into it,’ she said. ‘What can you tell me about the parent companies? And who they have here?’

‘Gargantuabots come out of Japan. The Sphere Corporation. Their top man is two floors down, in the Royal Suite. His name is Baron Toru Ghidrah. And the Nice Mice are headquartered in California, somewhere in Silicon Valley. They’re Buddhists or hippies or some shit. The parent company is registered as Cloud Incorporated. They don’t have executives or presidents, but the delegate who seems to be sort of in charge is called something stupid. Rainbow? Sunshine? Moonbeam? What is it, Woolavington?’

‘Cornfield. Cornfield Zwingli. I think he used to be Swiss.’

Sally took it all in. ‘Ghidrah and Zwingli. I’ll look them up. Of course, if I unearth any unethical or illegal business practices you’ll want full details before you decide whether to blow the whistle on them or copy them, right?’

‘Very funny, Miss Rhodes. Did you have a Sandie when you were a little girl?’

Sally said yes. The General leaned over the table and stubbed his cigar out on the perky smile of the mouse toy. Its cellophane crackled and hissed. ‘Then, get these bastards for her.’

* * *

Sally started on the floor, mingling with the buyers. The Exhibition Hall was the size of a dirigible hangar. It was easy to see who was doing business. At opposite ends crowds were gathered beneath two towering figures. The Gargantuabot was frozen mid-way between being a cyborg Tyrannosaurus Rex and a snarling bulldozer-cum-car crusher. Its eyes lit up like furnaces, its metallic limbs moved jerkily, its claw-catchers tore at the air and recorded growls filled the hall. Twin video projection screens stood either side of the robot. A trailer for the
Gargantuabots: The Motion Picture
was running on both screens, one weirdly about three seconds ahead of the other. The Nice Mouse (was that the singular form of Nice Mice?) was quieter, floating serene and chubby above a worshipping multitude, its heart-shaped eyes closed in blissful sleep, its perky smile beaming out, its adorable whiskers twitching in time to a happy tune. Large, cloud-shaped balloons lazily drifted upwards past the giant and gathered like a clump of unhealthy fruit under the ceiling.

There were other stands, but they were drab by comparison. Many were unmanned, their owners having drifted off to be where the action was. One or two were being gloomily dismantled by workmen under the direction of sad-eyed, shiny-suited executives who knew when to quit. At the Woolavington table, a couple of reps were playing Chinese checkers. A miniature fork-lift truck was removing a large, still-sealed block of imitation Trivial Pursuit games.

‘It’s so nice,’ gushed a middle-aged woman, whose lapel was infected with a rash of membership badges, to no one in particular. Sally decided to cultivate her as a source of information and nodded vigorously. From the badges, Sally gathered the woman’s name was Tilly Barnes, and that she was from the Happie Chappie toy shop in Slough. ‘They’re extending the Nice Mice line to include the Nice Mice Uncles! And they’re taking orders round-the-clock!’

Sally wondered if Tilly Barnes was on something. She’d have examined the buyer’s eyeballs, but her eyes were screwed almost shut in ecstasy. Her smile was uncannily familiar. Tilly Barnes’ nose twitched as if possessed of adorable whiskers. What a strange day: first Gung-Ho Jones in the flabby flesh, now an ageing Nice Mouse in dungarees.

‘I’ve had a simply super idea for a window display for the Uncles! I’m going to just fill the whole expanse of frontage with pink and pale blue fur, and have a big poster up with a list of Nice Things Children Can Do For Each Other. And every time I hear that a child has done one of those Nice Things I’ll have his or her name put up on another poster, with lots of Nice Mice Uncles standing around and cheering and applauding. Won’t that be nice?’

Once, Sally had been stopped in the street and told how wonderful the Church of Scientology was. And, on another occasion, at a party, a young tycoon in a blue jump suit had tried to get off with her while explaining at unmerciful length just how EST had changed his life. She had even heard out a lady client who claimed opting for privatised medicine was the best decision she’d ever made. This was worse.

‘Are you ordering anything from Woolavington this year?’ Sally asked.

The buyer’s face went blank, as if someone had just ejected the software out of a slit in her back. Her eyes stared blind as shoebuttons - clear but empty - and then scrunched up again. She resumed her flow.

‘And I’m organising a Niceness drive with all the other toy shops in my area. It’ll coincide with the new film,
The Nice Mice in the Land of the Kuddlekats,
and the video release of
The Nice Mice Cheer Up the Prime Minister of Nastiness.
We’re making children who do Nice Things for OAPs into Honorary Nice Mice Little Ones. And giving out Nice Mice ears to the grannies and grandads. Won’t that be nice?’

Sally had a sudden urge to indulge in fantasies of massive violence. She excused herself, and headed for the Gargantuabots Stand. Four Japanese girls in Noh make-up and traditional dress were solemnly demonstrating the various transformations of the latest generation of Killatrons, who were apparently the Militant Tendency of the Gargantuabots. Admiring buyers stood in awed silence as the girls’ origami gestures reshaped stegosauri and dimetreodons into cybernetic samurai and robot crusaders. Nobody spoke, nobody moved from their place.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began a hawk-faced Japanese, ‘this season, the Gargantuabots will be moving forward again. We are introducing a line of quadruple-change figures, the Quadroids.’ There was a collective intake of breath. ‘All of you who increase your orders will be rewarded. All of you who do not will... let us say, be inconvenienced.’

The man, whom Sally had pegged as Baron Ghidrah himself, paused and looked around the crowd, making eye-contact with a dozen individuals. A tall young man standing near Sally looked down, and covered his face with his hands. Sally realised he was silently crying, his shoulders heaving with suppressed sobs. As he slid away, the others avoided his touch like a leper’s.

‘More! I’ll take more!’ shouted a very fat, very sweaty man. ‘As many as you can spare! I’ll discontinue all other brands. Just, let me carry the Quadroids, that’s all I ask. Let me carry the Quadroids!’

Japanese girls in conservative business suits calmed the fat man down, cooing reassurances Sally couldn’t hear into his ears. He stopped sweating. Baron Ghidrah momentarily did something with his face that might have counted as a smile, then resumed his speech.

‘But enough of such things. We are all aware of the situation. And of the importance of increasing sales and orders. I am pleased to report that the Quadroids are battle-ready as of this moment, and will be deployed in all outlets before the week is out. There can be no compromise. That is all.’

Baron Ghidrah bowed without a trace of humility and left the stand. The Japanese girls led polite applause, which was noisily and enthusiastically joined by the rest of the throng. There was a mighty creaking from above, as the Tyrannosaurus/bulldozer-crusher slowly stretched itself into a pterodactyl-winged space shuttle and then contracted into the figure of an armoured giant out of a gothic nightmare. As the monster changed, fire belched from its joints and metal strained noisily against metal. Sally wondered if the transformations were supposed to be painful.

There wasn’t much more she could pick up in the public section of the convention, but she dutifully double-checked her findings to date by dropping into the bar and striking up conversations with the buyers. She found that opening gambits like ‘well, are you going for the Gung-Ho Jones Undersea Adventurer line?’ or ‘what do you think of Sandie’s new pop star image?’ were liable to yield very, very short exchanges. However, the simple mention of the Quadroids or the Nice Mice Uncles was enough to have her pinned down for a quarter of an hour by either a simpering fanatic or a grim-faced yuppie zombie with a calculator for a heart. Didn’t anyone play with Lego any more?

A party of Arabs in sunglasses and burnouses in the hotel for a political negotiation had somehow got mixed in with the toy people. Not a few were clutching Nice Mice or Gargantuabots to be taken back to the Emirates. Sally wandered through the crowds drifting about the lower levels of the hotel, at something of a loss. This wasn’t the sort of case where her usual, highly ethical methods - footwork, meticulous questioning, library research, applied intelligence - were all that useful. Obviously, it was time to bring unusual, slightly unethical, methods to bear. She had her picklocks with her.