Ethon flew through the night bearing the great burden that Mycroft and Scrotum had put upon him. There better be good liver treats at the end of this the big bird thought, half listening to a mad Viscount, well, the burden was none too happy, but mad certainly. On the long trip he had told the eagle about his cure for bad breath that was going to earn him a fortune after the grift from the climate change deniers dried up. Chris Monckton was getting tired of that, having to haul out to the Antipodes or the old colonies to shill for contributions, and frankly, Mycroft and especially Scrotum were getting tired of having to go out there to save his butt. Still everything, bad or good must come to an end, and comparing the waybill and the Garman, Ethon saw that he was rapidly nearing Bristol University Castle where the mythical Tol lived. Drat, thought Ethon, UPS, FedEx, they can just drop and run, sometimes just toss the package over the fence, but Scrotum insisted on a signature at the end of the journey
Mycroft had told him that he would recognize the place by the rather eccentric (Mycroft was being, well, economical with the description) decorations, the piles of Tol papers 232, nay 112 climate change papers, still only 10 acknowledged by the Cook, the error strewn econometric bushes scattered on the ramparts and the gremlins. Oh yes, an endless loop of gremlins, carefully going over all the lines of computer code and data tables to check where even more errors could be inserted. Bunnies and even demons would never have thought of shifting the x-axis back and forth as needed, but this is the kind of trick well tested in paleoclimate denial. Year zero leaves a considerable room for baby gremlings to play, but only Mad Professor Tol could use that ploy on the instrumental data record. True a few groundskeepers were employed in sweeping up, and there was someone at the gates with a couple of dumpsters, but Ethon, Mycroft had said at the top of the tower you will find the professor. You will know him by his hair. Ethon asked for a description, but Mycroft merely smiled and repeated, you will know him by his hair. Mycroft was right Ethon thought.
Landing and dumping his load, the eagle hauled out the delivery I-pad and inquired: Mad Professor Tol, I presume? The GWPF has sent a package for you. Put it in the corner the tall, red-haired economancer replied, better in the closet where he can't make too much noise. I am busy with two important things after returning from testifying where I carefully explained my superiority and the base nature of those who oppose me. But now the vermin beset me, making sport of my gremlins, recruiting those who know statistics rather than parsing them and in the midst of this, the Cook refuses to be refuted by my mathemagical genius. They mess with the wizard at their peril. There is more than one journal in the world, and I, the Mad Professor after many turndowns have found the one true journal of last resort in which to publish my gruntings about the Cook's 97% paper.
The editor is in my thrall, providing the Mad Professor Tol, the first and last words, but allowing only a few from the Cook. He shall be crushed and if not, there is always the apprentice. Brandon is skilled in URL hacking.
Grunts were heard from the closet. My liege, this humble viscount has done his part in your service. Indeed you have praised my efforts (head vice warning) on the Titter. (to be continued. . .)