'I've been asked to present one,' I replied. 'Being the newest Jurisfiction member affords one that privilege, apparently.'
'Oh?' he replied. 'It's the first year all the Generics will be going — we've had to give them a day off college.'
'What can I do for you?'
'Well,' he began, 'Lola has been late every day this week, constantly talks in class, leads the other girls astray, smokes, swears and was caught operating a distillery in the science block. She has little respect for authority and has slept with most of her male classmates.'
'That's terrible!' I said. 'What shall we do?'
'Do?' replied Fnorp. 'We aren't going to do anything. Lola has turned out admirably — so much so that we've got her a leading role in Girls Make all the Moves, a thirty-something romantic comedy novel. No, I'm really here because I'm worried about Randolph.'
'I … see. What's the problem?'
'Well, he's just not taking his studies very seriously. He's not stupid; I could make him an A-4 if only he'd pay a little more attention. Those good looks of his are probably his downfall. Aged fifty-something as he is and what we call a "distinguished grey" archetype, I think he feels he doesn't need any depth — that he can get away with a good descriptive passage at introduction and then do very little.'
'And this is a problem because—?'
'I just want something a bit better for him,' sighed Dr Fnorp, who clearly had the best interest of his students at heart. 'He's failed his B-grade exams twice; once more and he'll be nothing but an incidental character with a line or two — if he's lucky.'
'Perhaps that's what he wants,' I suggested. 'There isn't enough room for all characters to be A-grade.'
'That's what's wrong with the system,' said Fnorp bitterly. 'If incidental characters had more depth the whole of fiction would be a lot richer — I want my students to enliven even the C-grade parts.'
I got the point. Even from my relative ignorance I could see the importance of fully rounded characters — the trouble was, for budgetary reasons, the Council of Genres had pursued a policy of minimum requirements for Generics for more than thirty years.
'They fear rebellion,' he said quietly. 'The C of G wants Generics to stay stupid; an unsophisticated population is a compliant one — but it's at the cost of the BookWorld.'
'So what do you want me to do?'
'Well,' sighed Fnorp, finishing his coffee, 'have a word with Randolph and see what you can do — try to find out why he is being so intransigent.'
I told him I would and saw him to the door.
I found Randolph asleep in bed. He was clutching his pillow. Lola had gone out early to meet some friends. A photo of her was on the bedside table next to him and he snored quietly to himself. I crept back to the door and banged on it.
'Wshenifyduh,' said a sleepy voice from within.
'I need to run one of the engines,' I told him. 'Can you give me a hand?'
There was a thump as he fell out of bed. I smiled to myself and took my coffee up to the flight deck.
Mary had told me to run the number-three engine periodically and left instructions on how to do so in the form of a checklist. I didn't know how to fly but did know a thing or two about engines — and needed an excuse to talk to Randolph. I sat in the pilot's seat and looked along the wing to the engine. The cowlings were off and the large radial was streaked with oil and grime. It never rained here, which was just as well, although things didn't actually age either so it didn't matter if it did. I consulted the checklist in front of me. The engine would have to be turned by hand to begin with and I didn't really fancy this, so got a slightly annoyed Randolph out on the wing.
'How many times?' he asked, turning the engine by way of a crank inserted through the cowling.
'Twice should do,' I called back, and ten minutes later he returned, very hot and sweaty with the exertion.
'What do we do now?' he asked, suddenly a lot more interested. Starting big radial engines was quite a boy thing, after all.
'You read it out,' I said, handing him the checklist.
'Master fuel on, ignition switches off,' he read.
'Done.'
'Prop controls fully up and throttle open one inch.'
I wrestled with the appropriate levers in a small nest that sprouted from the centre console.
'Done. I had Mr Fnorp round this morning.'
'Gills set to open and mixture at idle cut-off. What did that old fart have to say for himself?'
I set the gills and pulled back the mixture lever.
'He said he thought you could do a lot better than you have been. What's next?'
'Switch on fuel booster pump until warning light goes out.'
'Where do you think that is?'
We found the fuel controls in an awkward position above our heads and to the rear of the flight deck. Randolph switched on the booster pumps.
'I don't want to be a featured character,' he said. 'I'll be quite happy working as a mature elder male mentor figure or something; there is call for one in Girls Make all the Moves.'
'Isn't that the novel Lola will be working in?'
'Is it?' he said, feigning ignorance badly. 'I had no idea.'
'Okay,' I said as the fuel pressure warning light went out, 'now what?'
'Set selector switch to required engine and operate priming pump until delivery pipes are full.'
I pumped slowly, the faint smell of aviation spirit filling the air.
'What's this love/hate thing between you and Lola?'
'Oh, that's all well over,' he said dismissively. 'She's seeing some guy over at the Heroes Advanced Classes.'
I stopped pumping as the handle met with some resistance.
'We have fuel pressure. What's next?'
'Ignition and booster coil both on.'
'Check.'
'Press starter and when engine is turning, operate primer. Does that make sense?'
'Let's see.'
I pressed the starter button and the prop slowly started to move. Randolph pumped the primer and there was a cough as the engine fired; then another, this time accompanied by a large puff of black smoke from the exhaust. A few waders that were poking around in the shallows took flight as the engine appeared to die, then caught again and started to fire more regularly, the loud detonations transmitting through the airframe as a series of rumbles, growls and squeaks. I released the start button and Randolph stopped priming. The engine smoothed out, I switched to auto-Rich and the oil pressure started to rise. I throttled back and smiled at Randolph, who grinned at me.
'Are you seeing anyone?' I asked him.
'No.'
He looked at me with his large eyes and his face fell. When we first met he had been an empty husk; a blank face with no personality or features to call his own. Now he was a man of fifty but with the emotional insecurity of a fifteen-year-old.
'I can't imagine life without her, Thursday!'
'So tell her.'
'And make myself look an idiot? She'd tell everyone at Tabularasa's — I'd be the laughing stock of them all!'
'Who cares? Dr Fnorp tells me it's affecting your work; do you want to end up as a walk-on part somewhere?'
'I really don't care,' he said sadly. 'Without Lola there isn't much of a future.'
'There'll be other Generics!'
'Not like her. Always laughing and joking. When she's around the sun shines and the birds sing.' He stopped and coughed, embarrassed at his admission. 'You won't tell anyone I said all that stuff, will you?'
He was smitten good and proper.
'Randolph,' I said slowly, 'you have to tell her your feelings, if only for your own sake. This will prey on your mind for years!'
'What if she laughs at me?'
'What if she doesn't? There's a good chance she actually quite likes you!'
Randolph's shoulders slumped.
'I'll speak to her as soon as she gets back.'
'Good.' I looked at my watch. 'I've got roll-call in twenty minutes. Let the engine run for ten minutes and then shut her down. I'll see you tonight.'
'Who are we waiting for?' asked the Bellman.
'Godot,' replied Benedict.
'Absent again. Anybody know where he is?'
There was a mass shaking of heads.
The Bellman made a note in his book, tingled his bell and cleared his throat.
'Jurisfiction session number 40320 is now in session,' he said in a voice tinged with emotion. 'Item one. Perkins and Snell. Fine operatives who made the ultimate sacrifice for duty. Their names will be carved into the Boojumorial to live for ever as inspiration for those who come after us. I call now for two minutes’ silence. Perkins and Snell!'
'Perkins and Snell,' we all repeated, and stood in silent memory of those lost.
'Thank you,' said the Bellman after two minutes had ticked by. 'Commander Bradshaw will be taking over the bestiary. Mathias’ mare has been contacted and asked me to say thank you to all those who sent tributes. The Perkins & Snell detective series will be taken over by B-2 clones from the tribute book, and I know you will join me in wishing them the very best in their new venture.'
He paused and took a deep breath.
'These losses are a great shock to us all, and the lessons to be learned must not be ignored. We can never be too careful. Okay, item two.'
He turned over a page on his clipboard.
'Investigation of Perkins' death. Commander Bradshaw, doesn't this come under your remit?'
'Investigations are proceeding,' replied Bradshaw slowly. 'There is no reason to suppose that their deaths were anything other than an accident.'
'So what stops you closing the case?'
'Because,' replied Bradshaw, trying to think up an excuse quickly, 'because — um — we still want to speak to Vernham Deane.'
'Deane is somehow involved?' asked the Bellman.
'Yes — perhaps.'
'Interesting turn of events,' said the Bellman, 'which brings us neatly on to item three. I'm sorry to announce that Vernham Deane has been placed on the PageRunners list.'
There was a sharp intake of breath. To be classed as a PageRunner meant only one thing: illegal activities.
'We've known Vern since he was written, guys, and hard as it might be, we think he's done something pretty bad. Tweed, haven't you got something to say about this?'
Harris Tweed stood up and cleared his throat.
'Vernham Deane is familiar to all of us. As the resident cad in The Squire of High Potternews, he was well known for his cruelty towards the maidservant who he ravages and then casts from the house. The maid returns eight chapters later but three days ago — the morning following Perkins' death, I might add — she didn't.'
He placed a picture of an attractive dark-haired woman on the board.
'She's a C-3 Generic by the name of Mimi. Twenty years old, identification code: CDT/2511922.'
'What did Deane say about her disappearance?'
'That's just it,' replied Tweed grimly, 'he vanished at the same time. The Squire of High Potternews has been suspended pending further enquiries. It's been removed to the Well and will stay there until Deane returns. If he returns.'
'Aren't you leaping to conclusions just a little bit early?' asked Havisham, obviously concerned by the lack of objectivity in Tweed's report. 'Do we even have a motive?'
'We all liked Vern,' said Tweed, 'me included. Despite being a villain in Potternews, he never gave us any cause for alarm. I was surprised by what I found, and you might be too.'
He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket and unfolded it.
'This is a copy of a refusal by the Council of Genres narrative realignment subcommittee to agree to Deane's application for an Internal Plot Adjustment.'
He pinned it to the board next to the picture of the maidservant.
'In it he requests that the maidservant die in childbirth, thus saving his character from the traumatic scene at the end of chapter twenty-eight when the maidservant turns up with the infant, now aged six, to his wedding to Ellen O'Shaugnessy, the wealthy mill-owner's daughter. With the maidservant out of the way he can marry O'Shaugnessy and not suffer the degrading slide into alcoholism and death that awaits him in chapter thirty-two. I'm sorry to say that he had motive, Miss Havisham. He also had the opportunity — and the Jurisfiction skills to cover his tracks.'
There was silence as everyone took in the awful possibility of a Jurisfiction agent gone bad. The only time it had happened before was when David Copperfield murdered Dora Spenlow so he could marry Agnes Wickfield.
'Did you search his book?' asked Falstaff.
'Yes. We subjected The Squire of High Potternews to a word-by-word search and we found only one person who was not meant to be there — a stowaway from Farquitt's previous book, Canon of Love, hiding in a cupboard in Potternews Hall. She was evicted back to the Well.'
'Have you tried the bookhounds?' enquired the Red Queen, running a cleaner through the barrel of her pistol. 'Once they get on to a scent, there's no stopping them.'
'We lost them at the fence-painting sequence in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.'
'Tell them about the Perkins connection, Harris.'
'I think that is assumption, Bellman, if you please,' answered Tweed.
'Tell them,' repeated the Bellman, his shoulders sagging. 'I think everyone needs to know the full facts if we are to hunt Deane down.'
'Very well,' replied Tweed, upending a box and depositing a huge quantity of full stops, commas and semicolons on to the table.
'We found these hidden at the back of Deane's locker. We had them analysed and found traces of Guinness.'
'Ulyssesl' gasped Benedict.
'So it would appear,' replied Tweed gravely. 'Perkins mentioned something about a surprising discovery in a report filed the day before he died. We're working on the theory that Deane was involved in stealing or handling stolen punctuation. Perkins finds out so Deane releases the minotaur and vyrus to cover his tracks. Flushed with success and knowing he will have to vanish, he kills the maidservant, something he has been wanting to do since first publication.'
'Isn't Perkins my investigation?' asked Bradshaw.
'My apologies,' replied Tweed. 'I will give you a full copy of my report.'
He stopped and sat down.
'I hate to say this,' began the Bellman sadly, 'but it seems as though we have underestimated Deane. Until I am shown otherwise I have no choice but to declare him a PageRunner. He is to be arrested on sight — and exercise extreme caution. If he has killed twice he will not hesitate to kill again.'
We exchanged anxious glances. Being declared a PageRunner was serious — few were captured alive.
'Item four,' continued the Bellman, 'the minotaur. We've got an APB out on him at present but until he turns up or does something stupid, we won't know where he is. There was a report he had crossed over into non-fiction, which I would love to believe. Until we know otherwise, everyone should keep a good lookout.'
He consulted his clipboard again.
'Item five. The 923rd annual BookWorld Awards. Because we are launching UltraWord™ at the same time, all serving members of the BookWorld have been invited. Obviously we can't leave books unmanned, so a skeleton staff will be left in charge. The venue will be the Starlight Room again, although with a displacement field technology we've borrowed from SF, so everyone can attend. This will mean extra security and I have allocated Falstaff to look after it. Any questions?'
There weren't, so he moved on.
'Item six. Thursday Next has been made a probationary Jurisfiction member. Where are you?'
I put up my hand.
'Good. Let me be the first to welcome you to the service — and not before time; we need all the extra hands we can get. Ladies and gentlemen, Thursday Next!'
I smiled modestly. There was a round of applause and the people nearest me patted me on the arm.
'Well done!' said Tweed, who was close by.
'Miss Next will be afforded full rights and privileges although she will remain under Miss Havisham's watchful eye for twenty chapters or a year, whichever be the longer. Will you take her up to the Council of Genres and have her sworn in?'
'Happily,' replied Miss Havisham.
'Good. Item seven. The had had and that that problem. Lady Cavendish, weren't you working on this?'
Lady Cavendish stood up and gathered her thoughts.
'Indeed. The use of had had and that that has to be strictly controlled; they can interrupt the ImaginoTransference quite dramatically, causing readers to go back over the sentence in confusion, something we try to avoid.'
'Go on.'
'It's mostly an unlicensed usage problem. At the last count David Copperfield alone had had had had sixty-three times, all but ten unapproved. Pilgrim's Progress may also be a problem owing to its had had / that that ratio.'
'So what's the problem in Progress?'
'That that had that that ten times but had had had had only thrice. Increased had had usage had had to be overlooked but not if the number exceeds that that that usage.'
'Hmm,' said the Bellman. 'I thought had had had had TGC's approval for use in Dickens? What's the problem?'
'Take the first had had and that that in the book by way of example,' explained Lady Cavendish. 'You would have thought that that first had had had had good occasion to be seen as had, had you not? Had had had approval but had had had not; equally it is true to say that that that that had had approval but that that other that that had not.'
'So the problem with that other that that was that—?
'That that other-other that that had had approval.'
'Okay,' said the Bellman, whose head was in danger of falling apart like a chocolate orange, 'let me get this straight: David Copperfield, unlike Pilgrim’s Progress, which had had had, had had had had. Had had had had TGC's approval?'
There was a very long pause.
'Right,' said the Bellman with a sigh. 'That's it for the moment. I'll be giving out assignments in ten minutes. Session's over — and let's be careful out there.'
'Never would have thought it of Vernham, by George!' exclaimed Bradshaw as he walked up. 'He was like a son to me!'
'His character in Potternews wasn't that pleasant,' I observed.
'We usually try and keep our book personalities separate from our Jurisfiction ones,' said Havisham. 'Think yourself lucky I don't carry over any of my personality from Great Expectations — if I did I'd be pretty intolerable!'
'Yes,' I said diplomatically, 'I'm very grateful for it.'
'Ah!' said the Bellman as he joined us. 'Miss Havisham. You're to go and swear Agent Next at the C of G, then get yourself to the Well and see if you can find any clues inside The Squire of High Potternews. If possible I want him alive. But,' he added, 'take no risks.'
'Understood,' replied Miss Havisham.
'Good!' enthused the Bellman, clapping his hands together and departing to talk to the Red Queen.
Havisham beckoned me over to her desk and indicated for me to sit.
'Firstly, congratulations on becoming a full Jurisfiction agent.'
'I'm not ready for this!' I hissed. 'I'm probably going to fall flat on my face!'
'Probably has nothing to do with it,' replied Havisham. 'You shall. Failure concentrates the mind wonderfully. If you don't make mistakes you're not trying hard enough.'
I started to thank her for her faint praise but she interrupted.
'This is for you.'
From the bottom drawer of her desk she had withdrawn a small green leather box of the sort that might contain a wedding ring. She passed it over and I opened it. As I did I felt a flash of inspiration move through me. I knew what it was. No bigger than a grain of rice, it had value far in excess of its size.
'From the Last Original Idea,' murmured Havisham, 'a small shard from when the whole was cleaved in 1884, but a part nonetheless. Use it wisely.'
'I can't accept this,' I said, shutting the case.
'Rubbish,' replied Havisham, 'accept with good grace that which is given with good grace.'
'Thank you very much, Miss Havisham.'
'Don't mention it. Why do you have "Landen" written on your hand?'
I looked at my hand but had no idea why. Gran had put it there — she must have been having one of her fuzzy moments.
'I'm not sure, Miss Havisham.'
'Then wash it off — it looks so vulgar. Come, let us adjourn to the Council of Genres — you are to sign the pledge!'
24
We took the elevator. Miss Havisham told me that it was considered the height of poor breeding and vulgarity to jump all the way to the lobby at the Council of Genres — and it was impossible to jump straight into the council chambers for security purposes. The chambers were situated on the twenty-sixth floor of the Great Library. Like the seventeenth floor, it was almost deserted; authors whose names begin with Q and Z are not that abundant. The doors opened and we stepped out. But it wasn't like the previous Library floors I had visited, all sombre dark wood, moulded plaster ceilings and busts of long-dead writers — the twenty-sixth floor had a glazed roof. Curved spans of wrought iron arched high above our heads, supporting the glass through which we could see clouds and a blue sky beyond. I had always thought that the Library was created conceptually to contain the books and had no use or existence outside that. Miss Havisham noticed me staring up at the sky and drew me towards a large window. Although it was the twenty-sixth floor it seemed a lot higher — and the Library, inwardly shaped like a fine cross many miles in length, was far squatter when seen from the outside. I looked down the rain-streaked exterior and beyond the stone gargoyles to a tropical forest far below us, where wispy clouds flecked the tops of the lush foliage.
'Anything is possible in the BookWorld,' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The only barriers are those of the human imagination. See the other libraries?'
Not more than five miles distant, just visible in the aerial haze, was another tower like ours, and beyond that, another — and over to my right, six more. We were just one towering library among hundreds — or perhaps thousands.
'The nearest one to us is German,' said Miss Havisham, 'beyond that French and Spanish. Arabic is just beyond them — and that one over there is Welsh.'
'What are they standing on?' I asked, looking at the jungle far below. 'Where exactly are we?'
'Getting all philosophical, are we?' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The long and short answer is we really don't know. Some people claim we are just part of a bigger story that we can't see. Others maintain that we were created by the Great Panjandrum, and still others that we are merely in the mind of the Great Panjandrum.'
'Who,' I asked, my curiosity finally getting the better of me, 'is the Great Panjandrum?'
'Come and see the statue,' she said.
We turned from the window and walked along the corridor to where a large lump of marble rested on a plinth in the middle of the lobby. The marble was roped off and below it was a large and highly polished plaque proclaiming: 'Our Glorious Leader'.
'That's the Great Panjandrum?' I asked, looking at the crude block of stone.
'No,' replied Miss Havisham, 'that's only the statue of the great P — or at least it will be, when we figure out what he or she looks like. Good afternoon, Mr Price.'
Mr Price was a stonemason but he wasn't doing anything; in fact, I don't think he had ever done anything — his tools were brightly polished, unmarked, and lying in a neat row next to where he was sitting, reading a copy of Movable Type.
'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham,' he said, politely raising his hat.
Havisham indicated the surroundings. 'The Great Panjandrum is meant to be the architect of all this and control everything we do. I'm a little sceptical myself; no one controls my movements.'
'They wouldn't dare,' I whispered.
'What did you say?'
'I said: they couldn't care. Not a great deal, given the violence in books.'
She looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
'Perhaps. Come along and see the Council at work.'
She steered me down the corridor to a door that opened into a viewing gallery above a vast council chamber with desks arranged in concentric circles.
'The main genres are seated at the front,' whispered Miss Havisham. 'The sub-genres are seated behind and make up a voting group that can be carried forward to the elected head of each genre, although they do have a veto. Behind the sub-genres are elected representatives from the Congress of Derivatives who bring information forward to the Sub-genres Inspectorate — and behind them are the subcommittees who decide on day-to-day issues such as the Book Inspectorate, new words, letter supply and licensing the reworkings of old ideas. The Book Inspectorate also license plot devices, Jurisfiction agents and the supply and training schedules for Generics.'
'Who's that talking now?' I asked.
'The Thriller delegate. She's arguing against Detective having a genre all of its own — at present Detective is under Crime, but if they break away the genres at Thriller will want to split themselves three ways into Adventure, Spy and Thriller.'
'Is it always this boring?' I asked, watching the Thriller delegate drone on.
'Always,' replied Havisham. 'We try to avoid any entanglements and let Text Grand Central take all the flak. Come on, you must sign the pledge.'
We left the viewing gallery and padded down the corridor to a door that led into the smallest room I had ever seen. It seemed to be mostly filing cabinet and desk. An equally small man was eating biscuits — and most of them were falling down his front.
'Thursday Next to take the pledge,' announced Miss Havisham. 'I have the documents all signed and sealed by the Bellman.'
'Work, work, work,' said the small man, taking a swig of tea and looking up at me with small yet oddly intense eyes. 'I rarely get any peace — you're the second pledge this year.'
He sighed and wiped his mouth on his tie.
'Who seconds the application?'
'Commander Bradshaw.'
'And who vouches for Miss Next?'
'I do.'
'Good. Repeat the oath of the BookWorld.' Primed by Miss Havisham, I repeated:
'I swear by the Great Panjandrum that I shall uphold the rules of Jurisfiction, protect the BookWorld and defend every fictioneer, no matter how poorly written, against oppression. I shall not shirk from my duty, nor use my knowledge or position for personal gain. Secrets entrusted to me by the Council of Genres or Text Grand Central must remain secret within the service, and I will do all I can to maintain the power of storytelling within the minds and hearts of the readers.'
'That'll do,' said the small man, taking another bite of his biscuit. 'Sign here, here and — er — here. And you have to witness it, Miss Havisham.'
I signed where he indicated in the large ledger, noting as I did so that the last Jurisfiction agent to have signed was Beatrice. He snapped the book shut after Miss Havisham had witnessed my signature.
'Good. Here's your badge.'
He handed over a shiny Jurisfiction badge with my name and number engraved below the colourful logo. It could get me into any book I wanted without question — even Poe if I so chose, although it wasn't recommended.
'Now if you'll excuse me,' said the bureaucrat, looking at his watch, 'I'm very busy. These forms have to be processed in under a month.'
We returned to the elevator and Miss Havisham pressed the twenty-sixth sub-basement button. We were going back into the Well.
'Good,' she said. 'Now that's out of the way we can get on. Perkins and Mathias we can safely say were murdered; Snell might as well have been. We are still waiting for Godot and someone tried to kill you with an exploding hat. As an apprentice you have limited powers; as a full member of Jurisfiction you can do a lot more. You must be on your guard!'
'But why?'
'Because I don't want you dead and if you know what's good for you, neither do you.'
'No, I mean why is someone trying to kill me?'
'I wish I knew.'
'Let's suppose,' I said, 'that Deane isn't just missing — that he may have been murdered. Is there a link between Perkins, Deane, Mathias and myself?'
'None that I can think of,' said Miss Havisham after a great deal of thought, 'but if we consider that Mathias may have been killed because he was a witness, and that one of your Outlander friends may be trying to kill you, then that narrows the list to Perkins and Deane. And there is a link between those two.'
'Yes?'
'Harris Tweed, myself, Perkins and Deane were all given an UltraWord™ book to test.'
'I didn't know that.'
'No one did. I can only tell you now because you are a full agent — didn't you hear what was in the pledge?'
'I see,' I said slowly. 'What's UltraWord™ like?'
'As Libris states: "The ultimate reading experience". The first thing that hits you is the music and colour.'
'What about the new plots?'
'I didn't see that,' confessed Miss Havisham as the elevator doors opened. 'We were all given a copy of The Little Prince updated with the new operating system — but Pageglow™, WordBuddy™, PlotPotPlus™ and ReadZip™ are all quite dazzling in their simplicity.'
'That's good.'
'But something just doesn't seem right.'
'That's not so good.'
We walked along the corridor to where the Text Sea opened out in front of us, the roof of the corridor lifting higher and higher until it had no discernible end, just swirling patterns of punctuation forming into angry storm clouds. At the dockside scrawltrawlers rode gently at their moorings while the day's wordcatch was auctioned off at the dockside.
'Like what? A problem with the system?'
'I wish I knew,' said Miss Havisham, 'but try as I might I couldn't make the book do anything it shouldn't. In BOOK V7.2 you could force an uncommanded translation into Esperanto by subjecting the book to a high "G" manoeuvre. In BOOK V6.3 the verb "to eat" conflicted with any description of a pangolin and caused utter mayhem with the tenses. I've tried everything to get UltraWord™ to fail but it's steady as a rock.'
We walked beyond the harbour to where large pipes spewed jumbled letters back into the Text Sea amidst a strong smell of rubber.[22]
'That's where the words end up when you erase them in the Outland,' mentioned Miss Havisham as we strolled past. 'Anything the matter?'
'Junk footnoterphones again,' I muttered, trying to screen the rubbish out. 'A scam of some sort, I think. What makes you believe anything is the trouble with UltraWord™?'
'Perkins called me the night before he died. He said he had a surprising discovery but didn't want to talk over the footnoterphone.'
'Was it about UltraWord™?'
Havisham shrugged.
'To be truthful, I don't know. It's possible — but it could have been about Deane just as easily.'
The road petered out into a beach formed by shards of broken letters. This was where novels met their end. Beneath the leaden skies the books — here taking the appearance of seven-storey buildings — were cast high upon the shore, any plot devices and settings of any use torn out to be sold as salvage. The remaining hulks were then pulled to pieces by Generics working in teams with nothing more high tech than crowbars, cutting torches and chains, stripping the old novel back into words which were tipped into the sea by wheelbarrow gangs, the words dissolving back into letters, their meaning burning off into a slight bluish haze that collected at the foreshore.
We arrived at the copy of The Squire of High Potternews. It looked dark and sombre here on the shore of the Text Sea. If anyone tried to find their copy in the Outland they would have a great deal of trouble; when Text Grand Central withdraw a book, they really mean it.
The book was resting on its end and was slightly open. A large tape had been run round the outside that read: 'Jurisfiction, do not cross'.
'Looking for something?'
It was Harris Tweed and Uriah Hope; they jumped down from the book and looked at us curiously.
'Good evening, Harris,' said Miss Havisham. 'We were trying to find Deane.'
'Me too. Have a look around if you wish but I'm damned if I can find a single clue as to his whereabouts.'
'Has anyone tried to kill you recently?' I asked.
'Me?' replied Harris. 'No. Why, should they?'
I told him about the UltraWord™ connection.
'It's possible that there might be a link,' he mused, 'but I gave UltraWord™ the fullest test; it seemed to work extremely well no matter what I did! Do you have any idea what Perkins had discovered?'
'We don't know he found anything wrong at all,' said Havisham.
Harris thought for a moment.
'I think we should definitely keep this to ourselves,' he said at last, 'and take great care what we do. If Deane is about and had anything to do with Perkins' death, he might be after you or me next.'
Havisham agreed, told me to go and see Professor Plum to ascertain whether he could shed any more light on the failed Eject-O-Hat and vanished after telling me she had an urgent appointment to keep. When she had gone, Harris said to me:
'Keep an eye on the old girl, won't you?'
I promised I would and made my way back towards the elevators, deep in thought.
25
'Ah!' said Plum as I walked into his office. 'Miss Next — good news and bad news.'
'Better give me the bad news first.'
Plum took off his spectacles and polished them.
'The Eject-O-Hat. I've pulled the records and traced the manufacturing process all the way back to the original milliner; it seems that over a hundred people have been involved in its manufacture, modification and overhaul schedules. Fifteen years is a long service life for an Eject-O-Hat. Add the people with the know-how and we've got a short list of about six hundred.'
'A broad net.'
'I'm afraid so.'
I went to the window and looked out. Two peacocks were strutting across the lawn.
'What was the good news?'
'You know Miss Scarlett at Records?'
'Yes?'
'We're getting married on Tuesday.'
' Congratulations.'
'Thank you. Was there anything else?'
'I don't think so,' I replied, walking to the door. 'Thanks for your help, Plum.'
'My pleasure!' he replied kindly. 'Tell Miss Havisham she should get a new Eject-O-Hat — this one is quite beyond repair.'
'It wasn't Havisham's,' I told him, 'it was mine.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'You're mistaken,' he said after a pause. 'Look.'
He pulled the battered Homburg from his desk and showed me Havisham's name etched on the sweatband with a number, manufacturing details and size.
'But,' I said slowly, 'I was wearing this hat in—'
The awful truth dawned. There must have been a mix-up with the hats. They hadn't been trying to kill me that day — they had been after Miss Havisham!
'Problems?' said Plum.
'Of the worst sort,' I muttered. 'Can I use your footnoterphone?'
I didn't wait for a reply; I picked up the brass horn and asked for Miss Havisham. She wasn't in the Well, nor Great Expectations. I replaced the speaking horn and jumped to the lobby of the Great Library where the general stores were situated; if anyone knew what Havisham was up to, it would be Wemmick.
Mr Wemmick wasn't busy; he was reading a newspaper with his feet on the counter.
'Miss Next!' he said happily, getting up to shake me warmly by the hand. 'What can I do for you?'
'Miss Havisham,' I blurted out, 'do you know where she is?'
W'emmick squirmed inwardly.
'I'm not sure she'd like me to tell—'
'Wemmick!' I cried. 'Someone tried to kill Miss Havisham and they may try again!'
He looked shocked and bit his lip.
'I don't know where she is,' he said slowly, 'but I know what she's doing.'
My heart sank.
'It's another land speed attempt, isn't it?'
He nodded miserably.
'Where?'
'I don't know. She said the Higham wasn't powerful enough. She signed out for the Bluebird, a twin-engined, 2,500-horsepower brute of a car — it almost didn't fit in the storeroom.'
'Do you have any idea where she's going to drive it?'
'None at all.'
'Damn!' I yelled, slamming my hand against the counter. 'Think, Thursday, think!'
I had an idea. I grasped the footnoterphone and asked to be put through to Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows. He wasn't in but Ratty was; and after I had explained who I was and what I wanted, he gave me the information I needed. Havisham and Mr Toad were racing on Pendine Sands, in the Socialist Republic of Wales.
I ran up the stairs and to the works of Dylan Thomas, picked up a slim volume of poetry and concentrated on my exit point in the Outland. To my delight it worked and I was catapulted out of fiction and into an untidy heap in a small bookshop in Laugharne, Thomas's old village in South Wales. Now a shrine for Welsh and non-Welsh visitors alike, the bookshop was one of eight in the village selling nothing but Welsh literature and Thomas memorabilia.
There was a scream from a startled book-buyer as I appeared and I stepped backwards in alarm only to fall over a pile of Welsh cookery books. I got up and ran from the shop as a car screeched to a halt in front of me. Pendine Sands with its ten miles of flat beach was down the coast from Laugharne and I would need transport to get me there.
I showed the driver my Jurisfiction badge, which looked official even if it meant nothing, and said, in my very best Welsh:
'Esgipysgod fi ond ble mae bws i Pendine?'
She got the message and drove me along the road towards Pendine. Before we arrived I could see Bluebird on the sands, together with Mr Toad's car and a small group of people. The tide was out and a broad expanse of inviting smooth sand greeted Miss Havisham; as I watched, my pulse racing, two plumes of black smoke erupted from the back of the record-breaker as the engines fired up. Even through the window I could hear the guttural cry of the engines.
'Dewch ymlaen!' I urged the driver, and we swerved on to the car park just near the statue of John Parry Thomas. I ran down on to the beach, waving my arms and yelling, but no one heard me above the roar of the engines, and even if they had, there was little reason for them to take any notice.
'Hi!' I shouted. 'Miss Havisham!'
I ran as fast as I could but only exhausted myself so that I ran more slowly with every passing step.
'Stop!' I yelled, getting weaker and breathless. 'For pity's sake—!'
But it was too late. With another deep growl the car moved off and started to gather speed across the sand. I stopped and dropped to my knees, trying to gulp deep lungfuls of air, my heart racing. The car hurtled away from me, the engine roar fading as Miss Havisham tore along the hard sand. I watched it go at medium speed to the far end of the beach, then turn in a large arc for the first of her two runs. The engine growled again, rising to a high scream as the car gathered speed, the driving wheels throwing a shower of sand and pebbles far behind it. I willed her to be safe and for nothing to happen, and indeed, nothing did until she was decelerating after the first run. I was breathing a sigh of relief when one of the front wheels broke loose and was dragged beneath the car, throwing it up into the air. The front edge of the bodywork dug into the sand and the car swerved violently sideways. I heard a cry of fear from the small crowd and a series of sickening thuds as the car rolled end over end down the beach, the engine screaming out of control as the wheels gripped nothing but air. It came to rest right way up not five hundred yards from me, and I ran towards it. I was three hundred yards away when the petrol tank ignited in a mushroom of fire that lifted the three-ton car from the sand. When I got there I found that by some miracle she had survived. Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't — Miss Havisham was horribly burned.
'Water!' I cried. 'Water for her burns!'
The small crowd of onlookers were hopeless and could do nothing but stare at us in shock.
'Thursday?' she murmured although she couldn't see me. 'Please take me home.'
I'd never jumped dual, taking someone with me, but I did it now. I jumped clean out of Pendine and into Great Expectations, right into Miss Havisham's room at Satis House, next to the rotting wedding party that never was, the darkened room, the clocks stopped at twenty to nine. It was the place where I had first seen her all those weeks ago, and it would be the place I saw her last. I laid her on the bed and tried to make her comfortable.
'Dear Thursday,' she said. 'They got to me, didn't they?'
'Who, Miss Havisham?'
'I don't know.'
'Oh?' he replied. 'It's the first year all the Generics will be going — we've had to give them a day off college.'
'What can I do for you?'
'Well,' he began, 'Lola has been late every day this week, constantly talks in class, leads the other girls astray, smokes, swears and was caught operating a distillery in the science block. She has little respect for authority and has slept with most of her male classmates.'
'That's terrible!' I said. 'What shall we do?'
'Do?' replied Fnorp. 'We aren't going to do anything. Lola has turned out admirably — so much so that we've got her a leading role in Girls Make all the Moves, a thirty-something romantic comedy novel. No, I'm really here because I'm worried about Randolph.'
'I … see. What's the problem?'
'Well, he's just not taking his studies very seriously. He's not stupid; I could make him an A-4 if only he'd pay a little more attention. Those good looks of his are probably his downfall. Aged fifty-something as he is and what we call a "distinguished grey" archetype, I think he feels he doesn't need any depth — that he can get away with a good descriptive passage at introduction and then do very little.'
'And this is a problem because—?'
'I just want something a bit better for him,' sighed Dr Fnorp, who clearly had the best interest of his students at heart. 'He's failed his B-grade exams twice; once more and he'll be nothing but an incidental character with a line or two — if he's lucky.'
'Perhaps that's what he wants,' I suggested. 'There isn't enough room for all characters to be A-grade.'
'That's what's wrong with the system,' said Fnorp bitterly. 'If incidental characters had more depth the whole of fiction would be a lot richer — I want my students to enliven even the C-grade parts.'
I got the point. Even from my relative ignorance I could see the importance of fully rounded characters — the trouble was, for budgetary reasons, the Council of Genres had pursued a policy of minimum requirements for Generics for more than thirty years.
'They fear rebellion,' he said quietly. 'The C of G wants Generics to stay stupid; an unsophisticated population is a compliant one — but it's at the cost of the BookWorld.'
'So what do you want me to do?'
'Well,' sighed Fnorp, finishing his coffee, 'have a word with Randolph and see what you can do — try to find out why he is being so intransigent.'
I told him I would and saw him to the door.
I found Randolph asleep in bed. He was clutching his pillow. Lola had gone out early to meet some friends. A photo of her was on the bedside table next to him and he snored quietly to himself. I crept back to the door and banged on it.
'Wshenifyduh,' said a sleepy voice from within.
'I need to run one of the engines,' I told him. 'Can you give me a hand?'
There was a thump as he fell out of bed. I smiled to myself and took my coffee up to the flight deck.
Mary had told me to run the number-three engine periodically and left instructions on how to do so in the form of a checklist. I didn't know how to fly but did know a thing or two about engines — and needed an excuse to talk to Randolph. I sat in the pilot's seat and looked along the wing to the engine. The cowlings were off and the large radial was streaked with oil and grime. It never rained here, which was just as well, although things didn't actually age either so it didn't matter if it did. I consulted the checklist in front of me. The engine would have to be turned by hand to begin with and I didn't really fancy this, so got a slightly annoyed Randolph out on the wing.
'How many times?' he asked, turning the engine by way of a crank inserted through the cowling.
'Twice should do,' I called back, and ten minutes later he returned, very hot and sweaty with the exertion.
'What do we do now?' he asked, suddenly a lot more interested. Starting big radial engines was quite a boy thing, after all.
'You read it out,' I said, handing him the checklist.
'Master fuel on, ignition switches off,' he read.
'Done.'
'Prop controls fully up and throttle open one inch.'
I wrestled with the appropriate levers in a small nest that sprouted from the centre console.
'Done. I had Mr Fnorp round this morning.'
'Gills set to open and mixture at idle cut-off. What did that old fart have to say for himself?'
I set the gills and pulled back the mixture lever.
'He said he thought you could do a lot better than you have been. What's next?'
'Switch on fuel booster pump until warning light goes out.'
'Where do you think that is?'
We found the fuel controls in an awkward position above our heads and to the rear of the flight deck. Randolph switched on the booster pumps.
'I don't want to be a featured character,' he said. 'I'll be quite happy working as a mature elder male mentor figure or something; there is call for one in Girls Make all the Moves.'
'Isn't that the novel Lola will be working in?'
'Is it?' he said, feigning ignorance badly. 'I had no idea.'
'Okay,' I said as the fuel pressure warning light went out, 'now what?'
'Set selector switch to required engine and operate priming pump until delivery pipes are full.'
I pumped slowly, the faint smell of aviation spirit filling the air.
'What's this love/hate thing between you and Lola?'
'Oh, that's all well over,' he said dismissively. 'She's seeing some guy over at the Heroes Advanced Classes.'
I stopped pumping as the handle met with some resistance.
'We have fuel pressure. What's next?'
'Ignition and booster coil both on.'
'Check.'
'Press starter and when engine is turning, operate primer. Does that make sense?'
'Let's see.'
I pressed the starter button and the prop slowly started to move. Randolph pumped the primer and there was a cough as the engine fired; then another, this time accompanied by a large puff of black smoke from the exhaust. A few waders that were poking around in the shallows took flight as the engine appeared to die, then caught again and started to fire more regularly, the loud detonations transmitting through the airframe as a series of rumbles, growls and squeaks. I released the start button and Randolph stopped priming. The engine smoothed out, I switched to auto-Rich and the oil pressure started to rise. I throttled back and smiled at Randolph, who grinned at me.
'Are you seeing anyone?' I asked him.
'No.'
He looked at me with his large eyes and his face fell. When we first met he had been an empty husk; a blank face with no personality or features to call his own. Now he was a man of fifty but with the emotional insecurity of a fifteen-year-old.
'I can't imagine life without her, Thursday!'
'So tell her.'
'And make myself look an idiot? She'd tell everyone at Tabularasa's — I'd be the laughing stock of them all!'
'Who cares? Dr Fnorp tells me it's affecting your work; do you want to end up as a walk-on part somewhere?'
'I really don't care,' he said sadly. 'Without Lola there isn't much of a future.'
'There'll be other Generics!'
'Not like her. Always laughing and joking. When she's around the sun shines and the birds sing.' He stopped and coughed, embarrassed at his admission. 'You won't tell anyone I said all that stuff, will you?'
He was smitten good and proper.
'Randolph,' I said slowly, 'you have to tell her your feelings, if only for your own sake. This will prey on your mind for years!'
'What if she laughs at me?'
'What if she doesn't? There's a good chance she actually quite likes you!'
Randolph's shoulders slumped.
'I'll speak to her as soon as she gets back.'
'Good.' I looked at my watch. 'I've got roll-call in twenty minutes. Let the engine run for ten minutes and then shut her down. I'll see you tonight.'
'Who are we waiting for?' asked the Bellman.
'Godot,' replied Benedict.
'Absent again. Anybody know where he is?'
There was a mass shaking of heads.
The Bellman made a note in his book, tingled his bell and cleared his throat.
'Jurisfiction session number 40320 is now in session,' he said in a voice tinged with emotion. 'Item one. Perkins and Snell. Fine operatives who made the ultimate sacrifice for duty. Their names will be carved into the Boojumorial to live for ever as inspiration for those who come after us. I call now for two minutes’ silence. Perkins and Snell!'
'Perkins and Snell,' we all repeated, and stood in silent memory of those lost.
'Thank you,' said the Bellman after two minutes had ticked by. 'Commander Bradshaw will be taking over the bestiary. Mathias’ mare has been contacted and asked me to say thank you to all those who sent tributes. The Perkins & Snell detective series will be taken over by B-2 clones from the tribute book, and I know you will join me in wishing them the very best in their new venture.'
He paused and took a deep breath.
'These losses are a great shock to us all, and the lessons to be learned must not be ignored. We can never be too careful. Okay, item two.'
He turned over a page on his clipboard.
'Investigation of Perkins' death. Commander Bradshaw, doesn't this come under your remit?'
'Investigations are proceeding,' replied Bradshaw slowly. 'There is no reason to suppose that their deaths were anything other than an accident.'
'So what stops you closing the case?'
'Because,' replied Bradshaw, trying to think up an excuse quickly, 'because — um — we still want to speak to Vernham Deane.'
'Deane is somehow involved?' asked the Bellman.
'Yes — perhaps.'
'Interesting turn of events,' said the Bellman, 'which brings us neatly on to item three. I'm sorry to announce that Vernham Deane has been placed on the PageRunners list.'
There was a sharp intake of breath. To be classed as a PageRunner meant only one thing: illegal activities.
'We've known Vern since he was written, guys, and hard as it might be, we think he's done something pretty bad. Tweed, haven't you got something to say about this?'
Harris Tweed stood up and cleared his throat.
'Vernham Deane is familiar to all of us. As the resident cad in The Squire of High Potternews, he was well known for his cruelty towards the maidservant who he ravages and then casts from the house. The maid returns eight chapters later but three days ago — the morning following Perkins' death, I might add — she didn't.'
He placed a picture of an attractive dark-haired woman on the board.
'She's a C-3 Generic by the name of Mimi. Twenty years old, identification code: CDT/2511922.'
'What did Deane say about her disappearance?'
'That's just it,' replied Tweed grimly, 'he vanished at the same time. The Squire of High Potternews has been suspended pending further enquiries. It's been removed to the Well and will stay there until Deane returns. If he returns.'
'Aren't you leaping to conclusions just a little bit early?' asked Havisham, obviously concerned by the lack of objectivity in Tweed's report. 'Do we even have a motive?'
'We all liked Vern,' said Tweed, 'me included. Despite being a villain in Potternews, he never gave us any cause for alarm. I was surprised by what I found, and you might be too.'
He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket and unfolded it.
'This is a copy of a refusal by the Council of Genres narrative realignment subcommittee to agree to Deane's application for an Internal Plot Adjustment.'
He pinned it to the board next to the picture of the maidservant.
'In it he requests that the maidservant die in childbirth, thus saving his character from the traumatic scene at the end of chapter twenty-eight when the maidservant turns up with the infant, now aged six, to his wedding to Ellen O'Shaugnessy, the wealthy mill-owner's daughter. With the maidservant out of the way he can marry O'Shaugnessy and not suffer the degrading slide into alcoholism and death that awaits him in chapter thirty-two. I'm sorry to say that he had motive, Miss Havisham. He also had the opportunity — and the Jurisfiction skills to cover his tracks.'
There was silence as everyone took in the awful possibility of a Jurisfiction agent gone bad. The only time it had happened before was when David Copperfield murdered Dora Spenlow so he could marry Agnes Wickfield.
'Did you search his book?' asked Falstaff.
'Yes. We subjected The Squire of High Potternews to a word-by-word search and we found only one person who was not meant to be there — a stowaway from Farquitt's previous book, Canon of Love, hiding in a cupboard in Potternews Hall. She was evicted back to the Well.'
'Have you tried the bookhounds?' enquired the Red Queen, running a cleaner through the barrel of her pistol. 'Once they get on to a scent, there's no stopping them.'
'We lost them at the fence-painting sequence in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.'
'Tell them about the Perkins connection, Harris.'
'I think that is assumption, Bellman, if you please,' answered Tweed.
'Tell them,' repeated the Bellman, his shoulders sagging. 'I think everyone needs to know the full facts if we are to hunt Deane down.'
'Very well,' replied Tweed, upending a box and depositing a huge quantity of full stops, commas and semicolons on to the table.
'We found these hidden at the back of Deane's locker. We had them analysed and found traces of Guinness.'
'Ulyssesl' gasped Benedict.
'So it would appear,' replied Tweed gravely. 'Perkins mentioned something about a surprising discovery in a report filed the day before he died. We're working on the theory that Deane was involved in stealing or handling stolen punctuation. Perkins finds out so Deane releases the minotaur and vyrus to cover his tracks. Flushed with success and knowing he will have to vanish, he kills the maidservant, something he has been wanting to do since first publication.'
'Isn't Perkins my investigation?' asked Bradshaw.
'My apologies,' replied Tweed. 'I will give you a full copy of my report.'
He stopped and sat down.
'I hate to say this,' began the Bellman sadly, 'but it seems as though we have underestimated Deane. Until I am shown otherwise I have no choice but to declare him a PageRunner. He is to be arrested on sight — and exercise extreme caution. If he has killed twice he will not hesitate to kill again.'
We exchanged anxious glances. Being declared a PageRunner was serious — few were captured alive.
'Item four,' continued the Bellman, 'the minotaur. We've got an APB out on him at present but until he turns up or does something stupid, we won't know where he is. There was a report he had crossed over into non-fiction, which I would love to believe. Until we know otherwise, everyone should keep a good lookout.'
He consulted his clipboard again.
'Item five. The 923rd annual BookWorld Awards. Because we are launching UltraWord™ at the same time, all serving members of the BookWorld have been invited. Obviously we can't leave books unmanned, so a skeleton staff will be left in charge. The venue will be the Starlight Room again, although with a displacement field technology we've borrowed from SF, so everyone can attend. This will mean extra security and I have allocated Falstaff to look after it. Any questions?'
There weren't, so he moved on.
'Item six. Thursday Next has been made a probationary Jurisfiction member. Where are you?'
I put up my hand.
'Good. Let me be the first to welcome you to the service — and not before time; we need all the extra hands we can get. Ladies and gentlemen, Thursday Next!'
I smiled modestly. There was a round of applause and the people nearest me patted me on the arm.
'Well done!' said Tweed, who was close by.
'Miss Next will be afforded full rights and privileges although she will remain under Miss Havisham's watchful eye for twenty chapters or a year, whichever be the longer. Will you take her up to the Council of Genres and have her sworn in?'
'Happily,' replied Miss Havisham.
'Good. Item seven. The had had and that that problem. Lady Cavendish, weren't you working on this?'
Lady Cavendish stood up and gathered her thoughts.
'Indeed. The use of had had and that that has to be strictly controlled; they can interrupt the ImaginoTransference quite dramatically, causing readers to go back over the sentence in confusion, something we try to avoid.'
'Go on.'
'It's mostly an unlicensed usage problem. At the last count David Copperfield alone had had had had sixty-three times, all but ten unapproved. Pilgrim's Progress may also be a problem owing to its had had / that that ratio.'
'So what's the problem in Progress?'
'That that had that that ten times but had had had had only thrice. Increased had had usage had had to be overlooked but not if the number exceeds that that that usage.'
'Hmm,' said the Bellman. 'I thought had had had had TGC's approval for use in Dickens? What's the problem?'
'Take the first had had and that that in the book by way of example,' explained Lady Cavendish. 'You would have thought that that first had had had had good occasion to be seen as had, had you not? Had had had approval but had had had not; equally it is true to say that that that that had had approval but that that other that that had not.'
'So the problem with that other that that was that—?
'That that other-other that that had had approval.'
'Okay,' said the Bellman, whose head was in danger of falling apart like a chocolate orange, 'let me get this straight: David Copperfield, unlike Pilgrim’s Progress, which had had had, had had had had. Had had had had TGC's approval?'
There was a very long pause.
'Right,' said the Bellman with a sigh. 'That's it for the moment. I'll be giving out assignments in ten minutes. Session's over — and let's be careful out there.'
'Never would have thought it of Vernham, by George!' exclaimed Bradshaw as he walked up. 'He was like a son to me!'
'His character in Potternews wasn't that pleasant,' I observed.
'We usually try and keep our book personalities separate from our Jurisfiction ones,' said Havisham. 'Think yourself lucky I don't carry over any of my personality from Great Expectations — if I did I'd be pretty intolerable!'
'Yes,' I said diplomatically, 'I'm very grateful for it.'
'Ah!' said the Bellman as he joined us. 'Miss Havisham. You're to go and swear Agent Next at the C of G, then get yourself to the Well and see if you can find any clues inside The Squire of High Potternews. If possible I want him alive. But,' he added, 'take no risks.'
'Understood,' replied Miss Havisham.
'Good!' enthused the Bellman, clapping his hands together and departing to talk to the Red Queen.
Havisham beckoned me over to her desk and indicated for me to sit.
'Firstly, congratulations on becoming a full Jurisfiction agent.'
'I'm not ready for this!' I hissed. 'I'm probably going to fall flat on my face!'
'Probably has nothing to do with it,' replied Havisham. 'You shall. Failure concentrates the mind wonderfully. If you don't make mistakes you're not trying hard enough.'
I started to thank her for her faint praise but she interrupted.
'This is for you.'
From the bottom drawer of her desk she had withdrawn a small green leather box of the sort that might contain a wedding ring. She passed it over and I opened it. As I did I felt a flash of inspiration move through me. I knew what it was. No bigger than a grain of rice, it had value far in excess of its size.
'From the Last Original Idea,' murmured Havisham, 'a small shard from when the whole was cleaved in 1884, but a part nonetheless. Use it wisely.'
'I can't accept this,' I said, shutting the case.
'Rubbish,' replied Havisham, 'accept with good grace that which is given with good grace.'
'Thank you very much, Miss Havisham.'
'Don't mention it. Why do you have "Landen" written on your hand?'
I looked at my hand but had no idea why. Gran had put it there — she must have been having one of her fuzzy moments.
'I'm not sure, Miss Havisham.'
'Then wash it off — it looks so vulgar. Come, let us adjourn to the Council of Genres — you are to sign the pledge!'
24
Pledges, the Council of Genres
and searching for Deane
'Bookhound/booktracker: Name given to a breed of bloodhound peculiar to the Well. With a keen sense of smell (almost unheard of in the BookWorld) and boundless energy, a bookhound can track a PageRunner not only from page to page but from book to book. The finest bookhounds, diligently trained, have also been known to track trans-genre PageRunners — on occasion, to the Outland. They drool and slobber a lot. Not recommended as pets.'
UA OF W CAT — The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)
We took the elevator. Miss Havisham told me that it was considered the height of poor breeding and vulgarity to jump all the way to the lobby at the Council of Genres — and it was impossible to jump straight into the council chambers for security purposes. The chambers were situated on the twenty-sixth floor of the Great Library. Like the seventeenth floor, it was almost deserted; authors whose names begin with Q and Z are not that abundant. The doors opened and we stepped out. But it wasn't like the previous Library floors I had visited, all sombre dark wood, moulded plaster ceilings and busts of long-dead writers — the twenty-sixth floor had a glazed roof. Curved spans of wrought iron arched high above our heads, supporting the glass through which we could see clouds and a blue sky beyond. I had always thought that the Library was created conceptually to contain the books and had no use or existence outside that. Miss Havisham noticed me staring up at the sky and drew me towards a large window. Although it was the twenty-sixth floor it seemed a lot higher — and the Library, inwardly shaped like a fine cross many miles in length, was far squatter when seen from the outside. I looked down the rain-streaked exterior and beyond the stone gargoyles to a tropical forest far below us, where wispy clouds flecked the tops of the lush foliage.
'Anything is possible in the BookWorld,' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The only barriers are those of the human imagination. See the other libraries?'
Not more than five miles distant, just visible in the aerial haze, was another tower like ours, and beyond that, another — and over to my right, six more. We were just one towering library among hundreds — or perhaps thousands.
'The nearest one to us is German,' said Miss Havisham, 'beyond that French and Spanish. Arabic is just beyond them — and that one over there is Welsh.'
'What are they standing on?' I asked, looking at the jungle far below. 'Where exactly are we?'
'Getting all philosophical, are we?' murmured Miss Havisham. 'The long and short answer is we really don't know. Some people claim we are just part of a bigger story that we can't see. Others maintain that we were created by the Great Panjandrum, and still others that we are merely in the mind of the Great Panjandrum.'
'Who,' I asked, my curiosity finally getting the better of me, 'is the Great Panjandrum?'
'Come and see the statue,' she said.
We turned from the window and walked along the corridor to where a large lump of marble rested on a plinth in the middle of the lobby. The marble was roped off and below it was a large and highly polished plaque proclaiming: 'Our Glorious Leader'.
'That's the Great Panjandrum?' I asked, looking at the crude block of stone.
'No,' replied Miss Havisham, 'that's only the statue of the great P — or at least it will be, when we figure out what he or she looks like. Good afternoon, Mr Price.'
Mr Price was a stonemason but he wasn't doing anything; in fact, I don't think he had ever done anything — his tools were brightly polished, unmarked, and lying in a neat row next to where he was sitting, reading a copy of Movable Type.
'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham,' he said, politely raising his hat.
Havisham indicated the surroundings. 'The Great Panjandrum is meant to be the architect of all this and control everything we do. I'm a little sceptical myself; no one controls my movements.'
'They wouldn't dare,' I whispered.
'What did you say?'
'I said: they couldn't care. Not a great deal, given the violence in books.'
She looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
'Perhaps. Come along and see the Council at work.'
She steered me down the corridor to a door that opened into a viewing gallery above a vast council chamber with desks arranged in concentric circles.
'The main genres are seated at the front,' whispered Miss Havisham. 'The sub-genres are seated behind and make up a voting group that can be carried forward to the elected head of each genre, although they do have a veto. Behind the sub-genres are elected representatives from the Congress of Derivatives who bring information forward to the Sub-genres Inspectorate — and behind them are the subcommittees who decide on day-to-day issues such as the Book Inspectorate, new words, letter supply and licensing the reworkings of old ideas. The Book Inspectorate also license plot devices, Jurisfiction agents and the supply and training schedules for Generics.'
'Who's that talking now?' I asked.
'The Thriller delegate. She's arguing against Detective having a genre all of its own — at present Detective is under Crime, but if they break away the genres at Thriller will want to split themselves three ways into Adventure, Spy and Thriller.'
'Is it always this boring?' I asked, watching the Thriller delegate drone on.
'Always,' replied Havisham. 'We try to avoid any entanglements and let Text Grand Central take all the flak. Come on, you must sign the pledge.'
We left the viewing gallery and padded down the corridor to a door that led into the smallest room I had ever seen. It seemed to be mostly filing cabinet and desk. An equally small man was eating biscuits — and most of them were falling down his front.
'Thursday Next to take the pledge,' announced Miss Havisham. 'I have the documents all signed and sealed by the Bellman.'
'Work, work, work,' said the small man, taking a swig of tea and looking up at me with small yet oddly intense eyes. 'I rarely get any peace — you're the second pledge this year.'
He sighed and wiped his mouth on his tie.
'Who seconds the application?'
'Commander Bradshaw.'
'And who vouches for Miss Next?'
'I do.'
'Good. Repeat the oath of the BookWorld.' Primed by Miss Havisham, I repeated:
'I swear by the Great Panjandrum that I shall uphold the rules of Jurisfiction, protect the BookWorld and defend every fictioneer, no matter how poorly written, against oppression. I shall not shirk from my duty, nor use my knowledge or position for personal gain. Secrets entrusted to me by the Council of Genres or Text Grand Central must remain secret within the service, and I will do all I can to maintain the power of storytelling within the minds and hearts of the readers.'
'That'll do,' said the small man, taking another bite of his biscuit. 'Sign here, here and — er — here. And you have to witness it, Miss Havisham.'
I signed where he indicated in the large ledger, noting as I did so that the last Jurisfiction agent to have signed was Beatrice. He snapped the book shut after Miss Havisham had witnessed my signature.
'Good. Here's your badge.'
He handed over a shiny Jurisfiction badge with my name and number engraved below the colourful logo. It could get me into any book I wanted without question — even Poe if I so chose, although it wasn't recommended.
'Now if you'll excuse me,' said the bureaucrat, looking at his watch, 'I'm very busy. These forms have to be processed in under a month.'
We returned to the elevator and Miss Havisham pressed the twenty-sixth sub-basement button. We were going back into the Well.
'Good,' she said. 'Now that's out of the way we can get on. Perkins and Mathias we can safely say were murdered; Snell might as well have been. We are still waiting for Godot and someone tried to kill you with an exploding hat. As an apprentice you have limited powers; as a full member of Jurisfiction you can do a lot more. You must be on your guard!'
'But why?'
'Because I don't want you dead and if you know what's good for you, neither do you.'
'No, I mean why is someone trying to kill me?'
'I wish I knew.'
'Let's suppose,' I said, 'that Deane isn't just missing — that he may have been murdered. Is there a link between Perkins, Deane, Mathias and myself?'
'None that I can think of,' said Miss Havisham after a great deal of thought, 'but if we consider that Mathias may have been killed because he was a witness, and that one of your Outlander friends may be trying to kill you, then that narrows the list to Perkins and Deane. And there is a link between those two.'
'Yes?'
'Harris Tweed, myself, Perkins and Deane were all given an UltraWord™ book to test.'
'I didn't know that.'
'No one did. I can only tell you now because you are a full agent — didn't you hear what was in the pledge?'
'I see,' I said slowly. 'What's UltraWord™ like?'
'As Libris states: "The ultimate reading experience". The first thing that hits you is the music and colour.'
'What about the new plots?'
'I didn't see that,' confessed Miss Havisham as the elevator doors opened. 'We were all given a copy of The Little Prince updated with the new operating system — but Pageglow™, WordBuddy™, PlotPotPlus™ and ReadZip™ are all quite dazzling in their simplicity.'
'That's good.'
'But something just doesn't seem right.'
'That's not so good.'
We walked along the corridor to where the Text Sea opened out in front of us, the roof of the corridor lifting higher and higher until it had no discernible end, just swirling patterns of punctuation forming into angry storm clouds. At the dockside scrawltrawlers rode gently at their moorings while the day's wordcatch was auctioned off at the dockside.
'Like what? A problem with the system?'
'I wish I knew,' said Miss Havisham, 'but try as I might I couldn't make the book do anything it shouldn't. In BOOK V7.2 you could force an uncommanded translation into Esperanto by subjecting the book to a high "G" manoeuvre. In BOOK V6.3 the verb "to eat" conflicted with any description of a pangolin and caused utter mayhem with the tenses. I've tried everything to get UltraWord™ to fail but it's steady as a rock.'
We walked beyond the harbour to where large pipes spewed jumbled letters back into the Text Sea amidst a strong smell of rubber.[22]
'That's where the words end up when you erase them in the Outland,' mentioned Miss Havisham as we strolled past. 'Anything the matter?'
'Junk footnoterphones again,' I muttered, trying to screen the rubbish out. 'A scam of some sort, I think. What makes you believe anything is the trouble with UltraWord™?'
'Perkins called me the night before he died. He said he had a surprising discovery but didn't want to talk over the footnoterphone.'
'Was it about UltraWord™?'
Havisham shrugged.
'To be truthful, I don't know. It's possible — but it could have been about Deane just as easily.'
The road petered out into a beach formed by shards of broken letters. This was where novels met their end. Beneath the leaden skies the books — here taking the appearance of seven-storey buildings — were cast high upon the shore, any plot devices and settings of any use torn out to be sold as salvage. The remaining hulks were then pulled to pieces by Generics working in teams with nothing more high tech than crowbars, cutting torches and chains, stripping the old novel back into words which were tipped into the sea by wheelbarrow gangs, the words dissolving back into letters, their meaning burning off into a slight bluish haze that collected at the foreshore.
We arrived at the copy of The Squire of High Potternews. It looked dark and sombre here on the shore of the Text Sea. If anyone tried to find their copy in the Outland they would have a great deal of trouble; when Text Grand Central withdraw a book, they really mean it.
The book was resting on its end and was slightly open. A large tape had been run round the outside that read: 'Jurisfiction, do not cross'.
'Looking for something?'
It was Harris Tweed and Uriah Hope; they jumped down from the book and looked at us curiously.
'Good evening, Harris,' said Miss Havisham. 'We were trying to find Deane.'
'Me too. Have a look around if you wish but I'm damned if I can find a single clue as to his whereabouts.'
'Has anyone tried to kill you recently?' I asked.
'Me?' replied Harris. 'No. Why, should they?'
I told him about the UltraWord™ connection.
'It's possible that there might be a link,' he mused, 'but I gave UltraWord™ the fullest test; it seemed to work extremely well no matter what I did! Do you have any idea what Perkins had discovered?'
'We don't know he found anything wrong at all,' said Havisham.
Harris thought for a moment.
'I think we should definitely keep this to ourselves,' he said at last, 'and take great care what we do. If Deane is about and had anything to do with Perkins' death, he might be after you or me next.'
Havisham agreed, told me to go and see Professor Plum to ascertain whether he could shed any more light on the failed Eject-O-Hat and vanished after telling me she had an urgent appointment to keep. When she had gone, Harris said to me:
'Keep an eye on the old girl, won't you?'
I promised I would and made my way back towards the elevators, deep in thought.
25
Havisham: the final bow
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Macbeth Retold for Yeast, translated by ../ / / / ../ / / ..
'Ah!' said Plum as I walked into his office. 'Miss Next — good news and bad news.'
'Better give me the bad news first.'
Plum took off his spectacles and polished them.
'The Eject-O-Hat. I've pulled the records and traced the manufacturing process all the way back to the original milliner; it seems that over a hundred people have been involved in its manufacture, modification and overhaul schedules. Fifteen years is a long service life for an Eject-O-Hat. Add the people with the know-how and we've got a short list of about six hundred.'
'A broad net.'
'I'm afraid so.'
I went to the window and looked out. Two peacocks were strutting across the lawn.
'What was the good news?'
'You know Miss Scarlett at Records?'
'Yes?'
'We're getting married on Tuesday.'
' Congratulations.'
'Thank you. Was there anything else?'
'I don't think so,' I replied, walking to the door. 'Thanks for your help, Plum.'
'My pleasure!' he replied kindly. 'Tell Miss Havisham she should get a new Eject-O-Hat — this one is quite beyond repair.'
'It wasn't Havisham's,' I told him, 'it was mine.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'You're mistaken,' he said after a pause. 'Look.'
He pulled the battered Homburg from his desk and showed me Havisham's name etched on the sweatband with a number, manufacturing details and size.
'But,' I said slowly, 'I was wearing this hat in—'
The awful truth dawned. There must have been a mix-up with the hats. They hadn't been trying to kill me that day — they had been after Miss Havisham!
'Problems?' said Plum.
'Of the worst sort,' I muttered. 'Can I use your footnoterphone?'
I didn't wait for a reply; I picked up the brass horn and asked for Miss Havisham. She wasn't in the Well, nor Great Expectations. I replaced the speaking horn and jumped to the lobby of the Great Library where the general stores were situated; if anyone knew what Havisham was up to, it would be Wemmick.
Mr Wemmick wasn't busy; he was reading a newspaper with his feet on the counter.
'Miss Next!' he said happily, getting up to shake me warmly by the hand. 'What can I do for you?'
'Miss Havisham,' I blurted out, 'do you know where she is?'
W'emmick squirmed inwardly.
'I'm not sure she'd like me to tell—'
'Wemmick!' I cried. 'Someone tried to kill Miss Havisham and they may try again!'
He looked shocked and bit his lip.
'I don't know where she is,' he said slowly, 'but I know what she's doing.'
My heart sank.
'It's another land speed attempt, isn't it?'
He nodded miserably.
'Where?'
'I don't know. She said the Higham wasn't powerful enough. She signed out for the Bluebird, a twin-engined, 2,500-horsepower brute of a car — it almost didn't fit in the storeroom.'
'Do you have any idea where she's going to drive it?'
'None at all.'
'Damn!' I yelled, slamming my hand against the counter. 'Think, Thursday, think!'
I had an idea. I grasped the footnoterphone and asked to be put through to Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows. He wasn't in but Ratty was; and after I had explained who I was and what I wanted, he gave me the information I needed. Havisham and Mr Toad were racing on Pendine Sands, in the Socialist Republic of Wales.
I ran up the stairs and to the works of Dylan Thomas, picked up a slim volume of poetry and concentrated on my exit point in the Outland. To my delight it worked and I was catapulted out of fiction and into an untidy heap in a small bookshop in Laugharne, Thomas's old village in South Wales. Now a shrine for Welsh and non-Welsh visitors alike, the bookshop was one of eight in the village selling nothing but Welsh literature and Thomas memorabilia.
There was a scream from a startled book-buyer as I appeared and I stepped backwards in alarm only to fall over a pile of Welsh cookery books. I got up and ran from the shop as a car screeched to a halt in front of me. Pendine Sands with its ten miles of flat beach was down the coast from Laugharne and I would need transport to get me there.
I showed the driver my Jurisfiction badge, which looked official even if it meant nothing, and said, in my very best Welsh:
'Esgipysgod fi ond ble mae bws i Pendine?'
She got the message and drove me along the road towards Pendine. Before we arrived I could see Bluebird on the sands, together with Mr Toad's car and a small group of people. The tide was out and a broad expanse of inviting smooth sand greeted Miss Havisham; as I watched, my pulse racing, two plumes of black smoke erupted from the back of the record-breaker as the engines fired up. Even through the window I could hear the guttural cry of the engines.
'Dewch ymlaen!' I urged the driver, and we swerved on to the car park just near the statue of John Parry Thomas. I ran down on to the beach, waving my arms and yelling, but no one heard me above the roar of the engines, and even if they had, there was little reason for them to take any notice.
'Hi!' I shouted. 'Miss Havisham!'
I ran as fast as I could but only exhausted myself so that I ran more slowly with every passing step.
'Stop!' I yelled, getting weaker and breathless. 'For pity's sake—!'
But it was too late. With another deep growl the car moved off and started to gather speed across the sand. I stopped and dropped to my knees, trying to gulp deep lungfuls of air, my heart racing. The car hurtled away from me, the engine roar fading as Miss Havisham tore along the hard sand. I watched it go at medium speed to the far end of the beach, then turn in a large arc for the first of her two runs. The engine growled again, rising to a high scream as the car gathered speed, the driving wheels throwing a shower of sand and pebbles far behind it. I willed her to be safe and for nothing to happen, and indeed, nothing did until she was decelerating after the first run. I was breathing a sigh of relief when one of the front wheels broke loose and was dragged beneath the car, throwing it up into the air. The front edge of the bodywork dug into the sand and the car swerved violently sideways. I heard a cry of fear from the small crowd and a series of sickening thuds as the car rolled end over end down the beach, the engine screaming out of control as the wheels gripped nothing but air. It came to rest right way up not five hundred yards from me, and I ran towards it. I was three hundred yards away when the petrol tank ignited in a mushroom of fire that lifted the three-ton car from the sand. When I got there I found that by some miracle she had survived. Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't — Miss Havisham was horribly burned.
'Water!' I cried. 'Water for her burns!'
The small crowd of onlookers were hopeless and could do nothing but stare at us in shock.
'Thursday?' she murmured although she couldn't see me. 'Please take me home.'
I'd never jumped dual, taking someone with me, but I did it now. I jumped clean out of Pendine and into Great Expectations, right into Miss Havisham's room at Satis House, next to the rotting wedding party that never was, the darkened room, the clocks stopped at twenty to nine. It was the place where I had first seen her all those weeks ago, and it would be the place I saw her last. I laid her on the bed and tried to make her comfortable.
'Dear Thursday,' she said. 'They got to me, didn't they?'
'Who, Miss Havisham?'
'I don't know.'