The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [587]
“There are too many of them,” panted Snake. “Eight-four is the worst opening score for a SuperHoop final ever.”
“We’re not beat yet,” replied Jambe, taking a drink. “Thursday, you played well.”
“Well?” I returned, taking off my helmet and wiping the sweat from my brow. “I sank the ball with my first whack and dropped us a hoop on the offside penalty!”
“But we still scored a hoop—and we would have already lost if you hadn’t joined us. You just need to relax more. You’re playing as though the world depended on it.”
The team didn’t know it, but I was.
“Just calm down a bit, take a second before you whack, and you’ll be fine. Biffo—good work, and nice hoop, Penelope, but if you chase their wingman again, you might be booked.”
“Urg,” replied Penelope.
“Mr. Jambe?” said Mr. Runcorn, who had been working on a rearguard legal challenge to the antineanderthal ruling.
“Yes? Do we have a case?”
“I’m afraid not. I can’t seem to find any grounds for one. The nonhuman precedent was overruled on appeal. I’m very sorry, sir. I think I’m playing very badly—might I resign and bring on the legal substitute?”
“It’s not your fault,” said Jambe kindly. “Have the substitute lawyer continue the search.”
Runcorn bowed and went to sit on the lawyers’ bench, where a young man in a badly fitting suit had been sitting silently throughout the first third.
“That Duchess is murder,” muttered Biffo, breathlessly. “She almost had me twice.”
“Isn’t striking an opponent a red-card three-hoop penalty offense?” I asked.
“Of course! But if she can take out our best player, then it might be worth it. Keep an eye on her, everyone.”
“Mr. Jambe?”
It was the referee, who told us further litigation had been brought against our team. We dutifully approached the Port-a-Court, where the judges were just signing an amendment to the World Croquet League book of law.
“What is it?”
“As a result of the Danish Economic (Scapegoat) Act coming into law, people of Danish descent are not permitted to vote or take key jobs.”
“When did this law come into effect?”
“Five minutes ago.”
I looked up at Kaine in the VIP box, where he smiled and waved at me.
“So?” asked Jambe. “Kaine’s dopey ideas have no reflection on croquet—this is sport, not politics.”
The Whackers’ lawyer, Mr. Wapcaplitt, coughed politely.
“In that you would be mistaken. The definition of ‘key job’ includes being a highly paid sports personality. We have conducted some background checks and discovered that Ms. Penelope Hrah was born in Copenhagen—she’s Danish.”
Jambe was silent.
“I might have been born there, but I’m not Danish,” said Hrah, taking a menacing step towards Wapcaplitt. “My parents were on holiday at the time.”
“We are well aware of the facts,” intoned Wapcaplitt, “and have already gained judgment on this matter. You were born in Denmark, you are technically Danish, you are in a ‘key job,’ and you are thus disqualified from playing on this team.”
“Balls!” yelled Aubrey. “If she was born in a kennel, would that make her a dog?”
“Hmm,” replied the attorney thoughtfully, “it’s an interesting legal question.”
Penelope couldn’t contain herself any longer and went for him. It took four of us to hold her back, and she had to be forcibly restrained and frog-marched from the green.
“Down to five players,” muttered Jambe. “Below the minimum player requirement.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wapcaplitt glibly, “it appears the Whackers are the winners—”
“I think not,” interrupted our substitute lawyer, whose name we learned was Twizzit. “As my most esteemed colleague so rightly pointed out, the rule states thus: ‘Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players