The Sleeping Army Awakes

Chinese Meal Fit for Cabbages and Kings Part 7

Back in London the luncheon had been slow to start. The rivalry and posturing had subsided, due to the quantity of brandy that Sir Percy and Sir Gilbert had consumed, and it had given way to an almost cordial armistice. Spencer knew that they had entered the most critical phase of the operation. The aged and skeletal Ruthers for his part, winked conspiratorially at the young secretary. Ruthers meant the facial expression to express comradeship with his younger counterpart but it had all the reassurance that a smile from a crocodile generally has.

In fact Spencer felt distinctly queasy in his stomach afterwards. Spencer wondered what the old man had planned. The old relic generally had something in mind. He knew that he could only trust Ruthers as far as he could comfortably throw a snowflake. He wondered what the wink could possibly signify. Seeing that the wink hadn't had the required effect Ruthers repeated the gesture. Seeing no alternative Spencer winked back and smiled, thus upping the ante, and then nodded towards the clock indicating that it was almost time. Ruthers smiled back indicating that Spencer had guessed correctly what he had been trying to communicate. All of this conversation had totally eluded their respective employers.

The holographic projection of a sophisticated, crystal glass water clock, hung ephemerally in the centre of the restaurant, projected onto a fog of fine water particles. The images of the clock's rose water droplets appeared to slither inexorably down the inside of the spiral glass tubes, descending towards their ultimate goal to accumulate in lotus shaped translucent bowls. On the original these pivoted on fulcrums balanced to with one hundredth of a grain of rice.

Everyone's senses were assaulted by powerful rose scented wafts of spray, atomised into the air by suitably gaudy looking gold dragon snout nozzles, placed at strategic intervals all around the restaurant. The clock's ghostly glowing fluid congregated, until their combine weight tipped their bowls and the liquid entered yet further transparent conduits. Until this in turn accumulated at the base, to fill the last reservoirs to capacity, thus unbalancing and tipping a lever, to signify that it had reached eleven o'clock at night. The projected lever in turn tripped the pawl, to release the mechanism to strike the hour. The view of the clock was abruptly replaced by that of a burly bare breasted man, who hit the precise centre of a substantial brass gong with a striker, sending out a crescendo of multi-tonal sound that reverberated around the restaurant.

The gong sounding was the traditional starting pistol for the adversaries to withdraw the napkin rings from their orchid shaped origami serviettes, like two gunfighters, trying to prove that each was the faster draw. Sir Percy won this time, he invariably did. Neither of the dignitaries cared that the nimble fingers at least of one of the servants must have laboured for an anxious eternity, preparing each orchid, forming the exquisite petals and the subtle fabric pockets and folds, risking worse than just a reprimand for any inadequacy of form. The two of them flattened the flowers in an instant and spread the yellow and gold-threaded, silk material on their laps, barely noticing that they had ever been folded.

"Ah thank Fred dinner is on it's way." Sir Gilbert remarked, finishing his sixth two hundred year old Napoleon brandy. "My stomach was beginning to think that my throat had been cut."

"And there was me thinking that your throat had been amply lubricated with Brandy." Sir Percy remarked.

"Huh!" Sir Gilbert said, not knowing how to reply.

"Always thinking of your stomach Gilly!" Sir Percy remarked, thinking that the throat-cutting could always be arranged, if and when the opportunity arose. "You were always the first to hit the trough when we were younger and lately you were always the first to hit the bottle. How many have you had you old glutton, is it five bottles or six bottles so far."

"It's six glasses so far Perseus as you well know and you have sent images of each new glass to your friends. You have so far sent six images."

Sir Percy sniggered into his own brandy, "Touché!" he admitted.

"You have to admit, that when we are in a restaurant!" Sir Gilbert said pompously, "It is more than appropriate to have an aperitif or two before the repast and to be hungry prior to its arrival. In fact I think that there's some law that requires it. Showing an appetite encourages the menials to strive for excellence. By the way it's your turn to foot the bill."

"Oh dear, Gilly are you a bit short of the old readies this month?" Sir Percy teased, "Is Pater's allowance not sufficient for your wildly extravagant lifestyle? It must be so frustrating that you still can't inherit the bulk of the estate, simply on the technicality that the old boy was frozen just on the point of death."

"You just have to keep on bringing that up don't you and he was already dead?" Sir Gilbert sulked. "But at least in his current state Pater can hardly criticise my spending any more and I have been more than adequately provided for thank you very much, probably more money than you will ever see."

"Gilly, Gilly. It is not seeing the moolah that matters!" Sir Percy said, "It's how you put it to work."