Read The Sprouts of Wrath for Free Online Page A

sure it would get him nowhere, Clyde Ffog persisted, “What if someone drops something during the actual assembling? Hammer? Rivets? Someone in Brentford is sure to get killed!”
    “No chance of that whatsoever.” Julian’s smugness was becoming roundly intolerable. “Gravitite possesses other qualities. Its molecular structure is such that two pieces need only be touched together for them to weld unbreakably as one. Therefore no rivets, no visible joins, no hammers. The stadium will be constructed elsewhere in sections, towed into place by dirigibles and manoeuvred together at night.”
    Councillor Ffog knew when he was licked. (He also enjoyed it very much at times.) The whole thing was utterly fantastic. Pure science fiction.
    Philip Cameron’s eyes suddenly shone with a strange light. It was the light of realization. Realization that The Moment that only comes to a man once in his lifetime had just arrived. Before him, hanging motionless in the air was an apparently endless row of pound note signs.
    “This Gravitite stuff,” he said casually, “obviously it can be produced pretty cheaply if you intend to build an entire stadium out it.” Julian nodded. “Then I’m sure you won’t object if I have this piece as a souvenir.”
    Julian plucked the disc from the air. It turned weightlessly in his hand. “I’m afraid not,” he said, thrusting it back into his pocket.
    “How rude of me,” said Philip, praying despairingly that the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead would remain unnoticed. “Let me write you out a cheque for your time and trouble.”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Come now,” crooned Cameron, “you’ll take Barclaycard surely, American Express?”
    “I’m afraid not,” Julian patted his pocket.
    “Oh, come on, please, it’s only a tiny piece, you can spare it!” Cameron’s voice was cracking and he knew it. So did everyone else.
    A suddenly enlightened Barry Geronimo broke in with, “I’ll go cash on it, John, how does a century sound?”
    “One hundred and fifty,” said Councillor Ffog, “no, make it two hundred.”
    “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Julian raised his hand to bring the feverish bidding to a halt. There were knighthoods in this project and he knew it. Also his partnership had been promised the Gravitite account when it went public after the games. “It is not the money, I assure you,” he lied. “I cannot sell what is not mine to sell. We have been honoured with the trust of our client. M.M.W.T. and G. never betray the trust of a client.”
    Philip Cameron sank away into a chair. He had missed his Moment and would live out the rest of his days a broken man. Mavis Peake put her arm about his shoulder and offered her hanky. “Have a good blow,” she said.
    “Gentlemen, please,” Julian Membrane raised an admonitory palm towards the Geronimo brothers, whose conversation had turned towards the taking of paleface scalps and who were delving into their medicine bags for suitable war-paint. “Lucas here is a master of Dimac, deadliest form of martial art known to mankind.”
    Paul peered suspiciously over his make-up mirror. “Sitting Bullshit,” he said, smearing Mary Quant across his right cheek.
    “If there are no further questions,” said Lucas, “we shall not take up any more of your valuable time.”
    “I have a couple,” said Clyde Ffog.
    “And they are?” The unveiled condescension in Julian’s voice grated upon Ffog’s soul. She’s a prize bitch, this one, he thought to himself.
    “Just a couple of small matters I’d like you to put me straight on.”
    Julian glanced at the Geronimos. They were momentarily preoccupied with their make-up. “Yes then?”
    “Firstly, who owns the sites on which you plan to erect the leg columns?”
    “Ah,” said Julian. “That is the beauty of the concept. Our client owns all five sites; he purchased them all most recently. From you, the Brentford Council.”
    “I see,” said Ffog. “You seem to have