March: A Tale of Salmon and Swedes (The Glothic Tales Book 4) (7 page)

‘You’re hard at work it seems,’ Trys said, when she arrived with a tray of afternoon tea.

‘But making little progress.’

‘It’s less than a day since you arrived, so I doubt you will find all the answers to your questions so soon. Relax for a while and wait. I'm sure that opportunities and pleasant surprises will come your way, as you come to understand better the way Earth works. It took me a year before I got a grasp of the ways on this odd little planet.’

‘I don't have that long.’

‘Don't fret. I'll fill in some of the gaps for you and speed things up,’ she laughed. ‘Now, it's afternoon tea time, so it’s officially time to stop work and stop worrying.

‘Officially?’

‘Oh yes. Everything here stops for tea. Even cricket.’

‘What's cricket?

‘Do some night time reading on THE. If I tried to explain cricket to you, we would be here for at least a year or more. It's so complicated that only a very small percentage of Earth’s population understand it. Enough to say that it's a sport, bordering on a religion, which is played over five whole days, and then very often in the end, neither side wins.’

‘Is that because they stop too often for tea?’

‘Ah! Yes, perhaps, March.’

‘Can I ask you if you have approached the subject of installing entry ports with the Grand Council, or perhaps, with my father?’ he asked, changing the subject in an instant.

‘You are fixed on your task here it would seem. But yes, of course I have. It isn’t possible though, as they are not only extremely expensive; but before they could be installed, the whole force field would need an extensive and costly upgrade. The total cost would far exceed any realistic estimate of the increased trade opportunities that could be created by them. The last costing forecast I prepared a few years ago for the Grand Council estimated that the total cost of new entry ports would be in the vicinity of four thousand times the anticipated return from the wholesaling of Earth exports, and income from Earth imports, over the next ten years.’

‘No chance then.’

‘No, not until Earth has the potential to create an awful lot more wealth for Gloth.’

‘Well, that’s my challenge, and I will not fail in finding a way to succeed.’

‘You are very determined, March, but I have to say that it may well prove to be impossible. You should probably take a pragmatic view of the situation and perhaps set yourself more realistic and modest goals. If, in your time here, you could achieve even a ten to fifteen percent increase in trade, that would be a worthy achievement, and I am sure the Grand Council would be very pleased.’

‘Perhaps so, but not my father. He sent me here with a very specific purpose in mind, and I plan to return to Gloth, only when it will be possible for me to look him in the eye and inform him that I have succeeded in every respect.’

Tryskolia sipped her tea, letting a moment of silence pass, and then picked up the tray and offered March a biscuit, which he accepted. She watched him as he slowly munched on it, with his eyes fixed in a stare towards a point somewhere above her head, on the ceiling. When he had swallowed the last morsel, be started humming a tune, which Tryskolia recognised immediately.

Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)

There is nothing we can do

Knowing me, knowing you (ah-haa)

We just have to face it, this time we're through…

She waited until his humming abated. ‘I really think I should take you to the theatre to see Mamma Mia.’

Without moving his gaze, he replied, ‘I believe that they were married, but have since divorced. Agnetha would make for a fine bride for the heir to the Supreme Potentate, even if not of Glothic blood.’

‘Oh my goodness March, please never mention a thought such as that to anyone. Not only is it impossible that she would agree, even if by some miracle you had the opportunity to meet her and you asked her, but she obviously carries the Erdean gene, which must never be allowed to step foot on our planet and pollute Gloth ever again. Anyway, I really do think you have a far better chance of having ten new entry ports installed than meeting her, so the problem will never eventuate.’

March return his eyes to Tryskolia, and it seemed to her that he had exited his daydream. ‘Another biscuit?’

‘Thank you, they’re very good.’ He took a bite, and thoughtfully chewed for a moment. ‘Have you discussed the possibility of entry ports with the members of the Camera Stellata? I mean, the ones who know about Gloth.’

‘Um, er, yes, only once, but very briefly,’ she replied, as she was flummoxed for a moment by his sudden change of subject, yet again. She was however, starting to gather that this was normal practice for March, so she made a quick mental note to be more prepared in future.

‘I think we should discuss it with them again. Can you arrange that?’

‘We can discuss the subject when we meet the vice-president, if you wish.’

‘No, I think we’ll only discuss meeting the president, with the vice-president.’

‘Very well,’ she said, and let the subject drop by immediately adding, ‘um, I’ve booked dinner for this evening at a very fine hotel. It has salmon, caviar and oysters on the menu, which I thought would make for an ideal start to your research on exportable Earth products.’

‘Oh thank you, that sounds like a wonderful idea. Perhaps I should slow down on the biscuits then, and save my appetite for dinner.’

‘Yes, good idea.’

Long Blond Hair, A Goatee, And About This Tall

Tryskolia rose early after the late night, where their dinner at the Waldorf had turned into a punctilious research project for March. So impressed was he with his first taste of six natural oysters for his appetiser, he then insisted on knowing in what other ways they could be served. When the waiter told him they could be prepared Kilpatrick, with bacon and Worcestershire sauce, or Rockefeller with hot sauce and spinach, or Mornay with cheese, he immediately ordered a half dozen of all three.

‘Together, sir?’ the dumbfound waiter had asked, and was quite taken aback when March replied, ‘yes, and as quickly as you can. It’s rather important.’

As Trys made her breakfast, she smiled as she recalled the evening and especially March’s meticulous note taking on his Q’muniktor, after tasting each dish that was served. She thought he might burst as they finally made it to dessert, such was the number of dishes served, but she had also noticed that March had been judicious, and had made no attempt to scoff down every serving. Once satisfied, he rested his cutlery and made his notes. Over coffee, when she asked him what his thoughts were about the meal, he was fervently of the belief that salmon, lobster, caviar and especially oysters were definitely products, which could be traded at a princely profit throughout the Twelve Sun Systems. When she had asked him about how he would go about obtaining sufficient quantities, bearing in mind the popularity of them all on Earth, he had explained that it would be easy; by offering to pay more than the current market value, which would still allow for a handsome profit for Gloth.

‘Simple economics,’ he had said, but then followed up immediately with the one flaw in his plan. ‘But shipping from here in tradable tonnage isn’t possible yet. I am sure that we could manipulate the market here to buy thousands of tons per day, and I know we have the wholesale markets available to sell even more than that, but to get it from one to the other is the problem.’

When she had told him that this had been her problem since she had started her job on Earth, he had shrugged his shoulders and replied, ‘it’s only one tiny problem, and problems such as this can always be solved. One way or another.’

She had to explain her reply, as he was not familiar with the expression, by hook or by crook, but once he understood, he smiled knowingly and nodded.

Once she had finished her breakfast, she glanced at the kitchen clock and was surprised that it was well after nine, and that there was no sign of March as yet. When she considered how much he had eaten the evening before though, it was not a surprise that he may be having a little sleep-in. By ten she was a little concerned, but by midday she was worried enough to check her Q’muniktor and check his geoping location. It confirmed that he was still in his bedroom. By one, and still with no sign of him waking, she knocked on his bedroom door. No reply. She knocked again, waited, and knocked again. After five minutes of waiting, she turned the doorknob and opened the door slightly.

‘March? Are you awake?’

No reply.

She pushed the door open a little more and looked inside. His bed was made, very neatly, and sitting on top of it was his Q’muniktor. She entered and checked, finding the en suite door open, but no sign of March. When she turned, she looked down at his Q’muniktor, again with a little envy as she had when she had first seen it, because it was not only a much newer model than hers, but it was also made of solid gold. She bent down and tapped the screen with her finger in the faint hope that he may have forgotten to iris lock it. To her surprise he had, and the screen flashed on. She was nonplussed when she saw that it was an Internet page, and wondered how on earth he had managed to connect his Q’muniktor to the Net. But all that mattered little when she saw the page he had been reading. It was a music site carrying an advertisement.

Buy Abba at the HMV store, Oxford Street.

She hobbled back downstairs as fast as she could, grabbing her hat, handbag and walking stick, before she left for the short walk down to Oxford Street.

Even though it was not far, it still took her aging legs nearly half an hour to make to the HMV store. Puffing a little, she strode up to the first cashier she could find.

‘Can I help you, m’am?’ a young woman in her early twenties asked.

‘Yes, I believe a friend of mine may have visited your store earlier. A young man with long blond hair, a goatee and he’s about this tall,’ she said, gesturing with her hand above her head.

‘With quite a large nose, and Abba obsessed?’

‘Yes!’

‘Are you related to him?’

‘He’s a distant relative from abroad, but he’s staying with me, and I’m supposed to be looking after him, as he’s visiting London for the first time. He’s only been here a day or two, so I was quite worried when he went out by himself. But, he was here?’

‘Yes, about two hours ago, but I’m afraid there was a little problem.’

‘Oh dear, what was the problem?’

‘Well, he was very insistent on buying Abba, and when the assistant showed him the CD and DVD selection available on our shelves, he became quite upset. He said he wasn’t interested in the recordings and videos; he wanted to buy Abba. He started shouting that the advertisement clearly said, ‘buy Abba at HMV’, and he wanted to buy them.’

‘Oh dear me, I am so sorry. As I said, he’s from abroad, so he must have misunderstood. Um, so I don’t suppose you know where he may have gone after leaving here, do you?’

‘Oh yes. He really became quite angry, and even though it was quite funny when he emptied his pockets onto the counter and yelled, ‘but I have the money to buy them,’ which amounted to about fifty pounds plus a handful of change, the manager lost patience. He did ask him politely to leave, a few times, but your relative refused, still insisting that Abba was for sale, so the manager finally called the police. I would imagine he is probably at the West End Central Police Station.’

‘Oh, I am so sorry he caused such a fuss. I should have kept a better eye on him.’

‘Don’t worry m’am. In the end it was simply a misunderstanding. I’m sure the police will wait for him to calm down a bit and then let him go home, as I doubt that our manager would press any charges, because he would only do so normally in the case of theft.’

‘Well, at least he didn’t steal anything.’

‘No, he didn’t, so no harm done.’

‘Look, thank you so much, dear, for taking the time to explain the whole story to me. I’d better let you get back to work and I’ll walk down to the police station and see what I can do. I hope they haven’t let him wander off again though.’

‘Good luck,’ the cashier said, and shook Tryskolia’s hand.’

‘Thank you, so much, again.’

It was only half a kilometre to the police station, but it took Tryskolia nearly an hour to arrive at the front doors, after stopping on her way to rest her tired legs for a little while, and have a glass of lemonade to quench her thirst. Her back was starting to ache, as she paused before entering the police station. After making her enquiries with the young constable at the counter, he asked her to take a seat while he checked. It was well over half an hour before another officer entered the reception area from a door to her right.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Senior Sergeant James. I believe you are a relative of Mr. March Gregorian.’

‘Yes, a distant relative,’ she replied, as she went to stand.

‘Oh, no need to get up,’ he said, as he sat down in the plastic chair beside her. ‘I need a few details from you, if I may, as March seems a little confused about some matters.’

‘Of course, and yes, I know he is well – this is his first time in London, so he is a little disoriented.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘But he is ok, isn’t he? I mean, I hope he hasn’t caused any problems for you.’