Chapter Thirty Four
Vol-au-vent in a Pickle

The meeting at Pignut Minster had been acrimonious at times. Professor Rowling had become increasingly frustrated at what he perceived to be Dumbledalf’s ‘delaying tactics’. From the perspective of Dumbledalf, these were all the tactics he had at his elbow. Of the twenty-two people present, at least thirteen of them, including the incumbent Vice Chancellor, were clearly under the control of Vol-au-vent, or at least, under the control of the torus, which sat in Vol-au-vent’s briefcase. Only Mr Lime, of all Vol-au-vent’s team, had not yet contributed to the meeting. Hermetica Strange was regretting sitting next to him, since it necessitated either watching him dribbling, or steeling herself to wipe his chin periodically. His handkerchief was rapidly becoming soggy. Mr Lime’s silence only served to increase Vol-au-vent’s anger further.

On three occasions, he had called for an immediate vote, but had been thwarted each time by the delaying tactics of Dumbledalf. First a Point of Order, which had been about the insufficient time for debate up to that point, then a Point of Information, during which Dumbledalf had issued a thinly veiled challenge to Professor Pleader on the relevance of anyone from the Geography Department having any say whatsoever in the promotion of staff. Dumbledalf sat back in his chair with a glowing feeling of satisfaction but an outward appearance of interest as Professor Pleader made his careful, pedantic and predictable case for full and active involvement. When he seemed likely to tire, Dumbledalf stepped in.

“But my dear Alex”, said Dumbledalf, kindly, for he liked the professor personally, even though he was a geographer, “How on Earth do geographical concerns have any bearing at all on the appointment of the new Vice Chancellor? The idea cannot be supported.” Professor Pleader was almost incandescent.
“I assume that was some or other aspect of the humour, of the kind that you display all too frequently, Merlin, and will therefore forgive it as such. As you well know, everything”, he paused for greater effect, “I mean everything, is geography”.
He looked around the room, and glared at a couple of people who looked as if they might be suppressing titters, and then embarked upon a full and animated examination of all the reasons why, unequivocally, geography was at the centre of human existence. Dumbledalf was delighted.

When the geography lecture finally ended, the debate resumed at approximately the point where it has been interrupted, but after a few minutes, Dumbledalf unleashed his hidden gem: a rabbit, which suddenly and mysteriously emerged from his hat and ran around the room. The ensuing havoc interrupted proceedings to the extent that the meeting was adjourned for some time. Dumbledalf saw to it that Mrs Yoreth came in to discuss the meal. After twenty-five minutes, she was satisfied that everyone understood sufficiently that the potato supply was late and the supplier had sold the meat to a higher bidder and that was the market economy and there was plenty of macaroni cheese and vegetables, and that the kale was especially good at the moment, and that there was plenty of bread.
“What? No meat?”, complained a voice that sounded like Dr Morris’s but wasn’t.
“There’s the rabbit!”, said another that sounded like the Vice-Chancellor’s, who looked bemused.
“Where is it?”, said the real Dr Morris.
“It’s inside Mr Lime’s briefcase”, a voice said.
“You’re not going to kill it are you?, wailed Hermetica.
“Well, I’m not!”, protested Mrs Yoreth.
“You do it Dr Morris”, said a voice like the Vice Chancellor’s. “You’ve got to throttle it, Morris, I think you ought to kill it instantly, in case it starts trying to make friends with us”. Dr Morris went pale.
“Why me?”, he said, “Besides, I can’t! My thumbs have gone weird!”
This sort of thing went on for another twenty minutes, after which the food arrived.

When the meeting recommenced, Vol-au-vent was in a determined mood. After previously relying on his representatives (except Mr Lime) do the talking, now Vol-au-vent spoke for the first time.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, he began formally. “All this debate has got us nowhere so far. May I suggest that Professor Dumbledalf makes his final case on behalf of his client in, say, ten minutes, and then Mr Lime here will do the same for our side, after which we shall have a vote and thus bring this rather long meeting to a close. Is that agreeable to you Professor Dumbledalf, and to you, Lime?”. Mr Lime didn’t react. “… er.. Simon? … Mr Lime?”. Vol-au-vent looked irritated. “Well, if Mr Lime is not feeling up to it, would you encapsulate our evidence Dr Hite? Sheila?”, he said expectantly. Dr Hite leaned forwards, coughed and stood up.
“Of course, Professor Rowling. I would be delighted”, she said. All eyes fell on Dumbledalf, who, in a leisurely way, fetched himself some coffee, uncovering and retrieving the last remaining chocolate biscuit as he did so. He turned to the room, looked at the assembled faces, and smiled. As he began his catalogue of Professor Rowling’s misdemeanours, Vol-au-vent hurriedly reached into his briefcase to make sure that the torus was definitely switched off. After eighteen minutes, Dumbledalf sat down. A couple of people asked for clarification on some minor point. Tick, in particular, wanted to know if Dumbledalf felt that Professor Rowling was a decent and upright citizen, who would do his duty to others and society.
“Spoon!”, he said, on hearing the reply.

Vol-au-vent’s rage had been building steadily. At a couple of points in Dumbledalf’s presentation, he had interjected to deny some especially devastating point, always of course, reaching into his briefcase before and afterwards. In this way, he got general support for his point, even in the midst of Dumbledalf’s anti-Rowling polemic. Dumbledalf knew that the influence of the mind control device would remain for up to a minute after Vol-au-vent had switched off the machine, and he made full use of it, partly to undo something of what Rowling had said, and partly to antagonise him. He was, as previously reported, fond of pyrotechnics.

As Vol-au-vent’s face became more and more red with anger, Dumbledalf considered that he was doing well. At one point, Vol-au-vent began writing, and a note was passed, hand-to-hand, to Dumbledalf. On opening it, Dumbledalf read, ‘You beastly little parasite. How dare you? You little thug How dare you? Ooohh, beastly ungrateful little swine!’ Dumbledalf was aware, of course, that with the torus intact, Vol-au-vent would win the vote, and it would not be long before the hammer would fall on dissenters such as himself. Nevertheless, he allowed himself a brief inward smile at the note.

When it came to Vol-au-vent’s turn to present his case, the room became calm and expectant. Professor Rowling stood up. He introduced Dr Hite’s credentials first, before giving her the floor. Dr Hite’s presentation was smooth, professional and persuasive. Even Dumbledalf felt himself warming to the idea of Professor Rowling (‘How could people dare to use the term Vol-au-vent?’, he was aware of himself wondering) as the new Vice-Chancellor. The case seemed eminently reasonable and, in truth, just. As these thoughts were infusing his very being, however, a nagging consciousness dragged his mind to dwell on Hapless and Ro.
‘Wherever were they?’, he thought. It was nearly too late now. Everything was on the verge of being lost. ‘Was it over? Had it all been for nothing?’, he mused. As if in answer, a small ‘pop’ was heard, coming from the general direction of Professor Rowling, who’s head had disappeared, and was now inside his briefcase. When Rowling emerged, with face drawn and pale, his glance met the steady gaze of Dumbledalf, who smiled at him with an expectant expression. Rowling looked back at him accusingly. His felt his head beginning to pound. Dr Hite’s flawless presentation faltered, and the attention around the room wavered from the subject at hand. Rowling stood up.
“What have you done?”, he demanded.
The whole room looked at him. Rowling knew that the osmium-taegidium effect would be waning fast.
“I call for an immediate vote!”, he said.
“Well, that seems in order.”, responded the Vice Chancellor.
“A Point of Information if I may?”, requested Dumbledalf.
“Of course Professor”, said the Vice Chancellor.
“Nooooooooooo!”, screamed Rowling.
“Why ever not, Professor?”, asked Morris. This was one of Rowling’s own people. Rowling panicked.
“He’s so mauve!”, he said.
“Eh?”, came the collective response.
“This is all your doing, Dumbledalf!”, asserted Rowling, stridently.
Dumbledalf stood up. Raising his hands above his head, he cried, “Stand, academics of Middle England! The doughnut-bearer has fulfilled his quest!”
“Has everyone taken leave of their senses?”, asked the Vice Chancellor. It was too much for Vol-au-vent. He glared at Dumbledalf.
“Get that damned little swine out of here. He’s trying to get himself in with you. He’s trying for even more advantage.”
“But, Professor Rowling”, appealed Dr Morris. Rowling looked at him vacantly.
“You too Morris”, he snapped.
“But … I can help”, said Morris.
Rowling blankly placed his hand on Dr Morris’s shoulder.
“No, dear boy. You must leave. You must leave. Once again that oaf has destroyed my day”, he said.

Rowling looked up to see everyone in the room staring at him, some with incredulous expressions, as if they had suddenly woken from a long and complicated dream, which was apt. Rowling knew it was over. He slammed shut the lid of his briefcase, picked up his coffee cup, and threw it against the far wall, where it smashed into numerous pieces that clattered on the table and arrayed refreshments beneath. A distinct pattern of dregs and coffee grounds was left on the wall, emanating in all directions from the point of impact. To all present, the pattern seemed to resemble a great eye, and all intelligent people present (i.e. not Mr Lime), save Vol-au-vent, though nothing was said, reflected on how the greater proportion of all Rowling’s works bore more than a fleeting resemblance to the work of that other celebrated master of fantasy, though representing only the merest counterfeit of the latter’s majesty.

In the 13.4 seconds of silence that ensued, Rowling slumped into his chair, put his head in his hands, and wept. Mr Lime smiled. The Vice Chancellor said, “Well now, that was … er…. interesting, and … as a result, we can cross Professor Rowling off the list.” He smiled, “Forever, actually!”, he added with a bigger smile. “He he he”, he giggled, and a relieved titter went around the room.
Morris looked at Rowling. “Silly tit!”, he said.