CHAPTER 5 - PAPER

Crabdale handed over his identification papers to the sallow-faced receptionist and looked at her wistfully as she checked his signature with her slender fingers.

“Drone?” she asked mockpleasantly.

“Second caste – look it says here.” Crabdale indicated the place where he had carefully inserted the distinguishing detail.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” She eyed him thoughtfully, and then added, “you occupy your own room then, right?”

Crabdale looked down, a little embarrassed. “Yes, that’s right. It’s not that great, though. Just a small one. You must be on the ladder?”

“I’m going for my caste appraisal in eighteen months,” she made a little joking play of tense concentration, “already getting geared up for it all! Could you fill in the orange form with your name, room code and everything, then I’ll transfer it all to the entry permit for logging in. It only takes a few minutes.”

A quarter of an hour later, Crabdale was wandering the corridors of the Institute clutching his log-in receipt. He had to cross several wings of the building to get to the kitchen, but he didn’t mind; so much of his life had been spent in corridors that he felt immensely comfortable. It even gave him a peculiar sense of his own importance to be striding along empty-morningish, his echoing footsteps the only sign of life.

The head cook, Rosa Buckett, fixed him with her warm but piggy blue-jewelled eyes when he entered. (They looked so blue because of the ruddy pouches of her cheeks.)

“Hello, my darrlin’,” she bellowed “ it’s been an age and an ‘alf! We were just readyin’ the carcasses an’ I remembered you was comin’ so I saved you a few flaps and wraps.”

“Wonderful! Thank you.” Crabdale pretended an enthusiasm he did not feel.

The kitchens were cavernous; the air teemed with the sound of clattering cutlery and metallic scraping as trays were eased from gaping ovens. Vast clouds of steam erupted and dispersed below the vaulted ceiling, from where it dripped in spits on to the heads of the kitchen drones scurrying below. Even more impressive were the smells given off by rich treacly sauces, pungent roots and highly spiced carcass-cuts.

Crabdale took a moment to salivate and marvel at the vast space.

“Have the rest of my drones arrived?”

“Drones! They’re gentlefolk! One or two have started in the scullery and the second caster – I forget his name, sorry – is assessin’ the charnel.”

“I hope you’re storing the ribs separately from the entrails?”

Rosa produced from behind her back a wedge of forms, bespattered with fat. “I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that. All present and correct, Mr Crabdale, all scraped and scrotted!” she announced proudly. “I done the new returns just as you sed.”

Crabdale smiled but shuffled uneasily. “The thing is, Rosa… I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but those returns aren’t valid any more. The Department has changed the assessment protocols. You have to send the data direct to them, then they do an initial scan and pass them on to me. You can’t send those returns off as they won’t register on the new system. And we can't actually log today's work as a fully-fledged moderation.”

Rosa’s face dropped, for all she ever had wanted to do was prepare banquets.

“…in short, you need to do them all over again. I’ve brought you a summary of the new regs. But if you want to look on the glow rather than the glare, at least the hygiene and waste norms haven’t been changed – this time.” he smiled ruefully.

Rosa produced a huge handkerchief and plumped herself down on a tiny iron stool which almost buckled under her enormous bulk. “Oh, Mr Crabdale, I’m beside myself. I don’t know what to do, really I don’t! One day you’re tellin’ me this, then you goes and changes it, then we seem to be back where we started, and always so much paper.”

Crabdale put his hand on her shoulder rather awkwardly. “You and I both know that the paper is evidence of all your good work. Otherwise, how would the cardinals be able to keep tabs? Your kitchens are a shining example, you know. ”

Glumly, Rosa took the new documents and cursed. Crabdale, having failed to convince, went off to begin his part of the grind.