The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [582]
“Is Swindon going to win?” asked Polly.
“I hope so,” I said, not brimming with confidence.
“The problem with you, Thursday,” put in Joffy, “is that you have no faith. We in the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx have complete faith in the revealments. Lose and Goliath moves to new heights of human exploitation and unfathomable avarice, hidden amongst the trappings of religious formality and perverted ecclesiastical dogma.”
“That was a very good speech.”
“Yes, I thought so, too. I was practicing on the march last night. Don’t feel you’re under any pressure now.”
“Thanks for nothing. Where’s Hamlet?”
“He said he’d join us later.”
I left them to do a live broadcast with Lydia Startright, who was really more interested in knowing where I had been for the past two and a half years than asking me about Swindon’s chances. After this I hurried down to the players’ entrance to welcome Stig—who was playing—and the four other neanderthals. They were completely unfazed by the media attention and ignored the phalanx of pressmen completely. I thanked them for joining our team, and Stig pointed out that they were there only because that was part of the deal, and nothing more.
I walked them towards the changing rooms, where the human team members greeted them with a good measure of curiosity. They talked haltingly with one another, the neanderthals confining their speech to the technical aspects of croquet play. It was of no matter or consequence to them if they won or lost—they would simply do the best they could. They refused body armor, as they preferred instead to play barefoot in shorts and brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. This caused a slight problem with the Toast Marketing Board, which had insisted that its name be on the team strip, but I smoothed it over with them eventually and all was well. There was less than ten minutes before we were due out, so Aubrey made a stirring speech to the team, which the neanderthals didn’t really comprehend. Stig, whose understanding of humans was perhaps a little better than most, just told them to “hoop as much as we can,” which they understood.
“Miss Next?”
I turned to face a thin, cadaverous man staring at me. I recognized him instantly. It was Ernst Stricknene, Kaine’s adviser—and he was carrying a red briefcase. I had seen a similar case at Goliathopolis and during Evade the Question Time. It doubtless concealed an Ovinator.
“What do you want?”
“Chancellor Kaine would like to meet the Swindon team for a pep talk.”
“Why?”
Stricknene looked at me coldly. “It is not for you to question the will of the Chancellor, young lady.”
It was then that Kaine marched in, surrounded by his goons and entourage. The team stood up respectfully—except the neanderthals, who, completely ambivalent to the vagaries of perceived hierarchy, carried on talking to one another in soft grunts. Kaine looked at me triumphantly, but I noticed, too, that he had changed slightly. His eyes looked tired and his mouth had a barely discernible sag to it. He’d started to show signs of being human. He was beginning to age.
“Ah!” he said. “The ubiquitous Miss Next. LiteraTec, team manager, savior of Jane Eyre. Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I’m not that good at knitting.”
There was a ripple of laughter amongst the team, and also from Kaine’s followers, who abruptly silenced themselves as Kaine glanced around the room, scowling. But he controlled himself and gave a disingenuous smile after nodding to Stricknene.
“I just came down here to talk to the team and tell all of you that it would be a far better thing for this country if I stayed in power, and even though I don’t know how Zvlkx’s revealment will work, I can’t leave the secure future of this nation to the vagaries of a thirteenth-century