“He’s not even a scientist,” Anton Verloc said. He glanced dismissively around at the party to celebrate the opening of The Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. “He makes kitchen gadgets for bored housewives.” He sneered at Richard Arkwright, who was chatting animatedly with Lionel Castershire. Verloc felt Castershire had even less business being here.
“Richard Arkwright,” Harry Haworth leaned in and said to Verloc in a lowered tone, “is the smartest person in this room.” That was saying something, considering the entirety of Wellington Wells’ scientific community was in attendance. Haworth had brought Verloc to this party to introduce him to those who would become his colleagues. Scientific endeavors in Wellington Wells were often a collaborative effort, so it would behoove the boy to do some networking.
“He doesn’t even have a doctorate,” Verloc said, rolling his eyes. Haworth watched in annoyance as they landed on the starry-eyed shop girl Stewart Adams had crassly brought instead of his wife, Fiona. He did note with reluctant approval that the girl had the presence of mind to forgo flirting with Dr. Faraday and engage his wife in conversation instead.
“No, he does not,” Haworth said patiently. “What he does have is the good sense to leave the future in the future instead of promising it tomorrow like the rest of us do.”
Verloc gave him a skeptical look.
“Arkwright promised the Executive Committee amazing technologies,” Haworth explained, “things we can only dream of today. And they fund his research accordingly. But Arkwright doesn’t actually have to deliver anything for twenty years.” Haworth snorted in secondhand satisfaction at this long con. “He has all the resources he’ll ever need and all the time in the world to use them. That man’s a bloody genius. He’s the only one of us who managed to negotiate a reasonable delivery date out of the Executive Committee.” Haworth gave Verloc a pointed look. “You could learn a lot from him.”
“Like how to make a Peeper spray water?” Verloc scoffed.
“Like how to pace yourself,” Haworth corrected. “Or how to manage expectations. Once you get on the Executive Committee’s radar – and I have no doubt that you will – they can be very demanding. Once you impress them, they’ll expect you to do it again. And again.” Though he usually kept his energy and spirits up by maintaining a consistent dosage of Joy, sometimes Haworth’s self-awareness would break through and belie the pressure he was caving under. He knew he couldn’t keep up with the Executive Committee’s demands for much longer. That’s why he was mentoring Verloc. Eventually, he’d need to step back and when that day came, he planned for Verloc to be ready to step in. “You’ve got on ego on you, Anton. You’ll need to be careful not to let them use it against you. They’ll trick you into over-promising if you’re not watching yourself.”
Verloc huffed, impatient with being lectured. Haworth relented on the topic. It might just be one of those things the boy would have to learn on his own.
“Look, there’s Harold Grenold,” Haworth said, pointing to a man entertaining a group of Doctors from Wellington Wells Health Institute by the punch bowl. The man said something and all the Doctors doubled over in laughter. Another nearby group of Doctors Haworth recognized from his own lab turned their noses up imperiously at the ruckus, too dignified to laugh at Grenold’s undoubtedly filthy jokes. “I’ll introduce you. The man’s hilarious.” Haworth’s Joy-grin resurfaced. “You’re going to hate him.”
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