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Spoons looked at the figures again. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re right. It’s 322 pounds and 67 p.”
It wasn’t quite the level of mistake I was hoping for. At this rate I’d have to ask a hundred million times to make a difference, and I didn’t think that was going to happen. I looked around the table. Jack Schitt had a supercilious half grin on his face, and Braxton and Phoebe were looking elsewhere. Colonel Wexler was unconcerned, since her budget had not been affected in any way. Mrs. Fairweather was the only one returning my stare.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t stop all funding. That’s just . . . well, insane.”
“Not insane,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “stupid. There’s a big difference, and the Swindon City Council is taking the stupidity deficit issue very seriously—we have to meet our stupidity targets just like any other, and cutting all funding to the Wessex Library Service is an act of such astonishing idiocy that we need commit no additional dumb acts for at least five years. You should be honored that your department is discharging the surplus for the rest of us. It’s going to be hard, and we’re all in this together.”
“Commander,” I said, addressing Braxton, “you told me when I took this job that I had an operating budget of one hundred and fifty million pounds. Okay, I understand that SO-27 will have to take some of that as we relinquish security duties, but—”
“I didn’t lie,” said Braxton. “You do have that for this year— it’s next year we’re seeing reductions.”
I suddenly had a nasty thought. “When does the new financial year begin?”
“Midnight on Sunday,” replied Spoons. “Four days away.”
“That figures,” I said, glancing at Jack Schitt. “And how long will 322 pounds and 67 p keep us going?”
“I thought you might ask,” said Conrad, checking his notepad. “If we assume a hundred-million-pound budget without Colonel Wexler and the SLS, 322 pounds equates to about one minute and forty-two seconds. If we cut everything to the bone and buy only seven books next year, we might stretch that same 322 pounds to last eight minutes and nine seconds.”
“What about if we lose the Michelin-starred chef?”
He checked his notes. “Eight minutes and twelve seconds.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Come Monday morning there won’t be any libraries open in Wessex at all?”
“Not a single one,” said Mrs. Fairweather, “but don’t take it personally. To make this even more idiotic, you’ll receive a final salary pension after less than a week’s work, and a hefty bonus for surpassing your own stupidity target.”
There was silence in the room. I asked if there was anything I could do about this and was told there wasn’t. It was a done deal, probably agreed well before any of us had entered the room, and with Goliath’s connivance.
“Okay,” I said slowly, “any other business?”
Astonishingly, there wasn’t.
“Then I call this meeting adjourned.”
Everyone got up and left. Phoebe and Braxton apologized to me and said that they didn’t like it either, but it was out of their hands. Conrad Spoons shrugged at me across the table and said he was off to the job center and would be back in an hour if there was nothing suitable available.
“I’ll be here Monday,” said Duffy, “and every day you need me until I collapse from starvation.”
“Me, too,” added Geraldine, “although I’ll probably last longer than Mr. Duffy, as I?
?m carrying a little extra weight at the moment.”
I gathered them closer so the others couldn’t hear.
“I appreciate the loyalty, guys. Does the library have anything to sell? Spare books or Finisterre’s tiltrotor or a private airship or something?”
“The books are owned by the nation,” said Duffy, “but we’ll have a look at everything else. What are you thinking of? A garage sale?”
“Pretty much. For breathing space. See what you can find.”
They told me they would and filed out, leaving only myself and Jack Schitt in the room.
“Well,” I said, “did that meet all your expectations?”
“Surpassed them, old girl,” he said. “I wonder what the press will make of your generous pension and bonus.”
“This is all your doing, isn’t it?”
