The holesmith shook my hand and made welcoming noises.
'I closed a hole in Great Expectations the other day,' I told him. 'Was that one of your books?'
'Goodness me no!' exclaimed the young man, smiling for the first time. 'Holestitching has come a long way since Dickens. You won't find a holesmith worth his thread trying the old "door opens and in comes the missing aunt/father/business associate/friend, etc.", all ready to explain where they've been since mysteriously dropping out of the narrative two hundred pages previously. The methodology we choose these days is to just go back and patch the hole, or more simply, to camouflage it.'
'I see.'
'Indeed,' carried on the young man, becoming more flamboyant in the light of my perceived interest, 'I'm working on a system that hides holes by highlighting them to the reader, which just says: "Ho! I'm a hole, don't think about it!", but it's a little cutting-edge. I think,' added the young man airily, 'that you will not find a more experienced holesmith anywhere in the Well; I've been doing it for more than forty years.'
'When did you start?' I observed, looking at the youth curiously. 'As a baby?'
The young man aged, greyed and sagged before my eyes until he was in his seventies and then announced, arms outstretched and with a nourish:
'Da-daaaa!'
'No one likes a show-off, Llyster,' said Bradshaw, looking at his watch. 'I don't want to hurry you, Tuesday, old girl, but we should be getting over to Norland Park for the roll-call.'
He gallantly offered me an elbow to hold and I hooked my arm in his.
'Thank you, Commander.'
'Stouter than stout!' Bradshaw laughed, and read us both into Sense and Sensibility.
10
The offices of Jurisfiction were situated at Norland Park, the house of the Dashwoods in Sense and Sensibility. The family kindly lent the ballroom to Jurisfiction on the unspoken condition that Jane Austen books would be an area of special protection.
Norland Park was located within a broad expanse of softly undulating grassland set about with ancient oaks. The evening was drawing on, as it generally did when we arrived, and wood pigeons cooed from the dovecote. The grass felt warm and comfortable like a heavily underlaid carpet, and the delicate scent of pine needles filled the air.
But all was not perfect in this garden of nineteenth-century prose; as we approached the house there seemed to be some sort of commotion. A demonstration, in fact — the sort of thing I was used to seeing at home. But this wasn't a rally about the price of cheese or whether the Whig Party were dangerously right wing and anti-Welsh, nor about whether Goliath had the right to force legislation compelling everyone to eat SmileyBurger at least twice a week. No, this demonstration was one you would expect to find only in the world of fiction.
The Bellman, elected head of Jurisfiction and dressed in the garb of a town crier, was angrily tingling his bell to try to persuade the crowd to calm down.
'Not again,' muttered Bradshaw as we walked up. 'I wonder what the Orals want this time?'
I was unfamiliar with the term, and since I didn't want to appear foolish, I tried to make sense of the crowd on my own. The person nearest to me was a shepherdess, although that was only a guess on my part as she didn't have any sheep — only a large crook. A boy dressed in blue with a horn was standing next to her discussing the falling price of lamb, and next to them was a very old woman with a small dog which whined, pretended to be dead, smoked a pipe and performed various other tricks in quick succession. Standing next to her was a small man in a long nightdress and bed hat who yawned loudly. Perhaps I was being slow, but it was only when I saw a large egg with arms and legs that I realised who they were.
'They're all nursery rhyme characters!' I exclaimed.
'They're a pain in the whatsit, that's what they are,' murmured Bradshaw as a small boy jumped from the crowd, grabbed a pig and made a dash for it. Bo-Peep hooked his ankle with her crook and the boy sprawled headlong on the grass. The pig rolled into a flower bed with a startled oink and then beat a hurried escape as a large man started to give the boy six of the best.
'… all we want is the same rights as any other character in the BookWorld,' said Humpty Dumpty, his ovoid face a deep crimson. 'Just because we have a duty to children and the oral tradition doesn't mean we can be taken advantage of.'
The crowd murmured and grunted their agreement. Humpty Dumpty continued as I stared at him, wondering whether his belt was actually a cravat, as it was impossible to tell which was his neck and which his waist.
'… we have a petition signed by over a thousand Orals who couldn't make it today,' said the large egg, waving a wad of papers amid shouts from the crowd.
'We're not joking this time, Mr Bellman,' added a baker, who was standing in a wooden tub with a butcher and a candlestick maker. 'We are quite willing to withdraw our rhymes if our terms are not met.'
There was a chorus of approval from the assembled characters.
'It was fine before they were unionised,' Bradshaw whispered in my ear. 'Come on, let's use the back door.'
We walked around to the side of the house, our feet crunching on the gravel chippings.
'Why can't characters from the oral tradition be a part of the Character Exchange Programme?' I asked.
'Who'd cover for them?' snorted Bradshaw. 'You?
'Couldn't we train up Generics as sort of, well, "character locums"?'
'Best to leave industrial relations to the people with the facts at their fingertips,' replied Bradshaw. 'We can barely keep pace with the volume of new material as it is. I shouldn't worry about Mr Dumpty; he's been agitating for centuries. It's not our fault he and his badly rhyming friends are still looked after by the old OralTradPlus agreement— Good heavens, Miss Dashwood! Does your mother know that you smoke?'
It was Marianne Dashwood, and she had been puffing away at a small roll-up as we rounded the corner. She quickly threw the butt away and held her breath for as long as possible before coughing and letting out a large cloud of smoke.
'Commander!' she wheezed, eyes watering. 'Promise you won't tell!'
'My lips are sealed,' replied Bradshaw sternly, just this once.'
Marianne breathed a sigh of relief and turned to me.
'Miss Next!' she enthused. 'Welcome back to our little book — I trust you are well?'
'Quite well,' I assured her, passing her the Marmite, Mintolas and AA batteries I had promised her from my last visit. 'Will you make sure these get to your sister and mother?'
She clapped her hands with joy and took the gifts excitedly.
'You are a darling!' she said happily. 'What can I do to repay you?'
'Don't let Lola Vavoom play you in the movie.'
'Out of my hands,' she replied unhappily, 'but if you need a favour, I'm here!'
We made our way up the servants' staircase and into the hall above where a much-bedraggled Bellman was walking towards us, shaking his head and holding the employment demands that Humpty Dumpty had thrust into his hands.
'Those Orals get more and more militant every day,' he gasped. 'They are planning a forty-eight-hour walk-out tomorrow.'
'What effect will that have?' I asked.
'I should have thought that would be obvious,' chided the Bellman. 'Nursery rhymes will be unavailable for recall. In the Outland there will be a lot of people thinking they have bad memories. It won't do the slightest bit of good — a story book is usually in reach wherever a nursery rhyme is told.'
'Ah,' I said.
'The biggest problem,' added the Bellman, mopping his brow, 'is that if we give in to the nursery rhymsters everyone else will want to renegotiate their agreements — from the poeticals all the way through to nursery stories and even characters in jokes. Sometimes I'm glad I'm up for retirement — then someone like you can take over, Commander Bradshaw!'
'Not me!' he said grimly. 'I wouldn't be the Bellman again for all the Ts in Little Tim Tottle's twin sisters take time tittle-tattling in a tuttle-tuttle tree — twice.'
The Bellman laughed and we entered the ballroom of Norland Park.
'Have you heard?' said a young man who approached us with no small measure of urgency in his voice. 'The Red Queen had to have her leg amputated. Arterial thrombosis, the doctor told me.'
'Really?' I said. 'When?'
'Last week. And that's not all.'
He lowered his voice.
'The Bellman has gassed himself! '
'But we were just talking to him,' I replied.
'Oh,' said the young man, thinking hard, 'I meant Perkins has gassed himself.'
Miss Havisham joined us.
'Billy!' she said in a scolding tone. 'That's quite enough of that. Buzz off before I box your ears!'
The young man looked deflated for a moment then pulled himself up, announced haughtily that he had been asked to write additional dialogue for John Steinbeck and strode off. Miss Havisham shook her head sadly.
'If he ever says "good morning",' she said, 'don't believe him. All well, Trafford?'
'Top hole, Estella, old girl, top hole. I bumped into Tuesday here in the Well.'
'Not selling parts of your book, were you?' she asked mischievously.
'Good heavens, no!' replied Bradshaw, feigning shock and surprise. 'Goodness me,' he added, staring into the room for some form of escape, 'I must just speak to the Cheshire Cat. Good day!'
And, tipping his pith helmet politely, he was gone.
'Bradshaw, Bradshaw,' sighed Miss Havisham, shaking her head sadly, 'soon Bradshaw defies the Kaiser will have so many holes we could use it as a colander.'
'He wanted to buy a dress for Mrs Bradshaw,' I explained.
'Have you met her yet?'
'Not yet.'
'When you do, don't stare, will you? It's very rude.'
'Why would I—'
'Come along!' interrupted Miss Havisham. 'Almost time for roll-call!'
The ballroom of Norland Park had long since been used for nothing but Jurisfiction business. The floor space was covered with tables and filing cabinets, and the many desks were piled high with files tied up with ribbon. There was a table to one side with food upon it and waiting for us — or the Bellman, at least — were the staff at Jurisfiction. There were about thirty operatives on the active list, and since up to ten of them were busy on assignment and five or so active in their own books, there were never more than fifteen people in the office at any one time. Vernham Deane gave me a cheery wave as we entered. He was the resident cad and philanderer in a Daphne Farquitt novel entitled The Squire of High Potternews, but you would never know to talk to him — he had always been polite and courteous to me. Next to him was Harris Tweed, who had intervened back at the Slaughtered Lamb only the day before.
'Miss Havisham!' he exclaimed, walking over and handing us both a plain envelope. 'I've got your bounty for those grammasites you killed; I split it equally, yes?'
He winked at me, then left before Havisham could say anything.
'Thursday!' said Akrid Snell. 'Sorry to dash off like that yesterday. Hello, Miss Havisham — I heard you got swarmed by a few grammasites; no one's ever shot six Verbisoids in one go before!'
'Piece of cake,' I replied. 'And Akrid, I've still got that — er — thing you bought.'
'Thing? What thing?'
'You remember,' I urged, knowing that trying to influence his own narrative was strictly forbidden, 'the thing. In a bag. You know.'
'Oh! Ah … ah, yes,' he said, finally realising what I was talking about. 'The thing thing. I'll pick it up after work, yes?'
'Snell insider-trading again?' asked Havisham quietly as soon as he had left.
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'd do the same if my book was as bad as his.'
I looked around to see who else had turned up. Sir John Falstaff was there, as was King Pellinore, Deane, Lady Cavendish, Mrs Tiggy-winkle with Emperor Zhark in attendance, Gully Foyle, and Perkins.
'Who are they?' I asked Havisham, pointing to two agents I didn't recognise.
'Ichabod Crane is the one on the left holding the pumpkin,' she explained. 'Beatrice is the other. A bit loud for my liking, but good at her job.'
I thanked her and looked around for the Red Queen, whose open hostility to Havisham was Jurisfiction's least well-kept secret; she was nowhere to be seen.
'Hail, Miss Next!' rumbled Falstaff, waddling up and staring at me unsteadily from within a cloud of alcohol fumes. He had drunk, stolen and womanised throughout Henry IV Parts I and II then inveigled himself into The Merry Wives of Windsor. Some saw him as a likeable rogue; I saw him as just plain revolting — although he was the blueprint of likeable debauchers in fiction everywhere, so I thought I should try to cut him a bit of slack.
'Good morning, Sir John,' I said, trying to be polite.
'Good morning to you, sweet maid,' he exclaimed happily. 'Do you ride?'
'A little.'
'Then perhaps you might like to take a ride up and down the length of my merry England? I could take you places and show you things—'
'I must politely decline, Sir John.'
He laughed noisily in my face. I felt a flush of anger rise within me but luckily the Bellman, unwilling to waste any more time, had stepped up to his small dais and tingled his bell.
'Sorry to keep you all waiting,' he muttered. 'As you have seen, things are a little fraught outside. But I am delighted to see so many of you here. Is there anyone still to come?'
'Shall we wait for Godot?' enquired Deane.
'Anyone know where he is?' asked the Bellman. 'Beatrice, weren't you working with him?'
'Not I,' replied the young woman. 'You might enquire this of Benedict if he troubles to attend but you would as well speak to a goat — a stupid goat, mark me.'
'The sweet lady's tongue does abuse to our ears,' said Benedict, who had been seated out of our view but now rose to glare at Beatrice. 'Were the fountain of your mind clear again, that I might water an ass at it.'
'Ah!' retorted Beatrice with a laugh. 'Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike!'
'Dear Beatrice,' returned Benedict, bowing low, 'I was looking for a fool when I found you.'
'You, Benedict, who has not so much brain as ear-wax?'
They narrowed their eyes at one another and then smiled with polite enmity.
'All right, all right,' interrupted the Bellman. 'Calm down, you two. Do you know where Agent Godot is or not?'
Beatrice answered that she didn't.
'Right,' announced the Bellman. 'Let's get on. Jurisfiction meeting number 40319 is now in session.'
He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted his clipboard.
'Item one. Our congratulations go to Deane and Lady Cavendish for foiling the Bowdlerisers in Chaucer.'
There were a few words of encouragement and back-slapping.
'There has been damage done but it's got no worse, so let's just try and keep an eye out in the future. Item two.'
He put down his clipboard and leaned on the lectern.
'Remember that craze a few years back in the BookWorld for sending chain letters? Receive a letter and send one on to ten friends? Well, someone has been over-enthusiastic with the letter "U". I've got a report here from the Text Sea Environmental Protection Agency saying that reserves of the letter "U" have reached dangerously low levels — we need to decrease consumption until stocks are brought back up. Any suggestions?'
'How about using a lower-case "N" upside down?' said Benedict.
'We tried that with "M" and "W" during the Great "M" Migration of '62; it never worked.'
'How about respelling what, what?' suggested King Pellinore, stroking his large white moustache. 'Any word with the "our" ending could be spelt "or", dontchaknow.'
'Like neighbor instead of neighbour?
'It's a good idea,' put in Snell. 'Labor, valor, flavor, harbor— there are hundreds. If we confine it to one geographical area we can claim it as a local spelling idiosyncrasy.'
'Hmm,' said the Bellman, thinking hard. 'Do you know, it just might work.'
He looked at his clipboard again.
'Item three — Tweed, are you here?'
Harris Tweed signalled from where he was sitting.
'Good,' continued the Bellman. 'I understand you were pursuing a PageRunner who had taken up residence in the Outland?'
Tweed glanced at me and stood up.
'Fellow by the name of Yorrick Kaine. He's something of a big cheese in the Outland — runs Kaine Publishing and has set himself up as head of his own political party—'
'Yes, yes,' said the Bellman impatiently, 'and he stole Cardenio, I know — but the point is, where is he now?'
'He went back to the Outland where I lost him,' replied Tweed.
'The Council of Genres are not keen to sanction any work in the real world,' said the Bellman slowly. 'It's too risky. We don't even know which book Kaine is from — and since he's not doing anything against us at present, I think he should stay in the Outland.'
'But Kaine is a real danger to our world,' I exclaimed.
Considering Kaine's righter-than-right politics, this was a fresh limit to the word understatement.
'He has stolen from the Great Library once,' I continued. 'How can we suppose he won't do the same again? Don't we have a duty to the readers to protect them from fictionauts hell-bent on—'
'Ms Next,' interrupted the Bellman, 'I understand what you are saying but I am not going to sanction an operation in the Outland. I'm sorry, but that is how it is going to be. He goes on the PageRunners' register and we'll set up textual sieves on every floor of the Library in case he plans to come back. Out there you may do as you please; here you do as we tell you. Is that clear?'
I grew hot and angry but Miss Havisham squeezed my arm, so I remained quiet.
'Good,' carried on the Bellman, consulting his clipboard again. 'Item four. Text Grand Central have reported several attempted incursions from the Outland. Nothing serious but enough to generate a few ripples in the Ficto-Outland barrier. Miss Havisham, didn't you report that an Outlander company was doing some research into entering fiction?'
It was true. Goliath had been attempting entry into the BookWorld for many years but with little success; all they had managed to do was extract a stodgy gunge from volumes one to eight of The World of Cheese. Uncle Mycroft had sought refuge in the Sherlock Holmes series to avoid them.
'It was called the Something Company,' replied Havisham thoughtfully.
'Goliath,' I told her. 'It's called the Goliath Corporation.'
'Goliath. That was it. I had a look round while I was retrieving Miss Next's TravelBook.'
'Do you think Outlander technology is that far advanced?' asked the Bellman.
'No. They're still a long way away. They'd been trying to send an unmanned probe into The Listeners but, from what I saw, with little success.'
'Okay,' replied the Bellman, 'we'll keep an eye on them. What was their name again?'
'Goliath,' I said.
He made a note.
'Item five. All of the punctuation has been stolen from the final chapter of Ulysses. Probably about five hundred assorted full stops, commas, apostrophes and colons.'
He paused for a moment.
'Vern, weren't you doing some work on this?'
'Indeed,' replied the squire, stepping forward and opening a notebook. 'We noticed the theft two days ago. I spoke to the Cat and he said that no one has entered the book, so we can only assume that the novel was penetrated through the literary interpretation of Dublin — which gives us several thousand suspects. I surmise the thief thought no one would notice as most readers never get that far into Ulysses — you will recall the theft of chapter sixty-two from Moby-Dick, which no one ever noticed? Well, this theft was noted, but initial reports show that readers are regarding the lack of punctuation as not a cataclysmic error but the mark of a great genius, so we've got some breathing space.'
'Are we sure it was a thief?' asked Beatrice. 'Couldn't it just be grammasites?'
'I don't think so,' replied Perkins, who had made bookzoology into something closely resembling a science. 'Punctusauroids are pretty rare, and to make off with so many punctuations you would need a flock of several hundred. Also, I don't think they would have left the last full stop — that looks to me like a mischievous thief
'Okay,' said the Bellman, 'so what are we to do?'
'The only ready market for stolen punctuation is in the Well.'
'Hmm,' mused the Bellman. 'A Jurisfiction agent down there is about as conspicuous as a brass band at a funeral. We need someone to go undercover. Any volunteers?'
'It's my case,' said Vernham Deane. 'I'll go. That is if no one thinks themselves better qualified.'
There was silence.
'Looks like you're it!' enthused the Bellman, writing a note on his clipboard. 'Item six. As you recall, David and Catriona Balfour were Boojummed a few weeks back. Because there can't be much Kidnapped and Catriona without them and Robert Louis Stevenson remains a popular author, the Council of Genres has licensed a pair of A-4 Generics to take their place. They'll be given unlimited access to all Stevenson's books, and I want you all to make them feel welcome.'
There was a murmuring from the collected agents.
'Yes,' said the Bellman with a resigned air, 'I know they'll never be exactly the same but with a bit of luck we should be okay; no one in the Outland noticed when David Copperfield was replaced, now, did they?'
No one said anything.
'Good. Item seven. As you know, I am retiring in two weeks' time and the Council of Genres will need a replacement Bellman. All nominations are to be given direct to the Council for consideration.'
He paused again.
'Item eight. As you all know, Text Grand Central have been working on an upgrade to the Book Operating System for the last fifty years—'
There was a groan from the assembled agents. Clearly this was a matter of some contention. Snell had explained about the ImaginoTransference technology behind books in general, but I had no idea how it worked. Still don't, as a matter of fact.
'Do you know what happened when they tried to upgrade SCROLL?' said Bradshaw. 'The system conflict wiped the entire library at Alexandria — they had to torch the lot to stop it spreading.'
'We knew a lot less about operating systems then, Commander,' replied the Bellman in a soothing voice, 'and you can rest assured that early upgrading problems have not been ignored. Many of us have reservations about the standard version of BOOK that all our beloved works are recorded in, and I think the latest upgrade to BOOK V9 is something that we should all welcome.'
No one said anything. He had our attention.
'Good. Well, I could rabbit on all day but I really feel that it would be better to let WordMaster Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central, tell you the full story. Xavier?'
11
A small and rather pallid-looking man took his position on the dais; he could only just see over the lectern. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and was almost weighed down by the number of pens in his top pocket. We all took a seat and gazed at him with interest; UltraWord™ had been the talk of the Well for ages and everyone was keen to learn whether the rumours of its technical virtuosity were true.
'Good morning, everyone,' began Libris in a nervous voice. 'Over the next thirty minutes I will try and explain a little about our latest operating system: BOOK Version 9, which we have code-named UltraWord™.'
There was silence as the agents mulled this over. I got the feeling in that this was not just important but really important. Like being at the signing of a peace accord or something. Even Bradshaw, who was no fan of technology, was leaning forward and listening with interest, a frown etched on his forehead.
Libris pulled the first sheet off a flipchart. There was a picture of an old book.
'Well,' he began, 'when we first came up with the "page" concept in BOOK V1 we thought we'd reached the zenith of story containment — compact, easy to read and, by using integrated PageNumber™ and SpineTitle™ technologies, we had a system of indexing far superior to anything SCROLL could offer. Over the years—'
Here he flipped the chart over to show us varying styles of books through the ages.
'—we have been refining the BOOK system. Illustrations were the first upgrade at 1.1, standardised spelling at V3.1 and vowel and irregular verb stability in V4.2. Today we use BOOK V8.3, one of the most stable and complex ImaginoTransference technologies ever devised — the smooth transfer of the written word into the reader's imagination has never been faster.'
He stopped for a moment. We all knew that BOOK V8.3 was excellent; apart from a few typos that crept in and the variable quality of stories — neither of which was the system's fault — it was good, very good indeed.
'Constructing the books down in the sub-basements, although time consuming, seems to work well, even if it is a little chaotic.'
There were murmurs of agreement from the assembled agents; it was clear that no one much liked it down there.
'But,' went on Libris, 'endlessly recycling old ideas might not hold the reader's attention for that much longer — the Council of Genres' own market research seems to indicate that readers are becoming bored with the sameness of plot lines.'
'I think it's already happened,' said the Bellman, then checked himself quickly, apologised for the interruption and let Libris carry on.
'But,' continued Libris, 'to understand the problem we need a bit of history. When we first devised the BOOK system eighteen hundred years ago, we designed it mainly to record events — we never thought there would be such a demand for story. By the tenth century story usage was so low that we still had enough new plots to last over a thousand years. By the time the seventeenth century arrived this had lowered to six hundred — but there was still no real cause for worry. Then, something happened that stretched the operating system to the limit.'
'Mass literacy,' put in Miss Havisham.
'Exactly,' replied Libris. 'Demand for written stories increased exponentially during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Ten years before Pamela was published in 1740 we had enough new ideas to last another four hundred years; by Dickens' time ideas were almost wholly recycled, something we have been doing on and off since the thirteenth century to stave off the inevitable. But by 1884, to all intents and purposes, we had depleted our stock of original ideas.'
There was muttering among the collected Jurisfiction agents.
'Flatland,' said Bradshaw after pausing for a moment's reflection. 'It was the last original idea, wasn't it?'
'Pretty much. The few leftover pieces were mopped up by the SF movement until the 1950s, but as far as pure ideas are concerned, 1884 was the end. We were expecting the worst — a meltdown of the whole BookWorld and a wholesale departure of readers. But that didn't happen. Against all expectations, recycled ideas were working.'
'But isn't it the way they are told?' asked Havisham in her not-to-be-argued-with voice. 'Surely the permutations of storytelling are endless!'
'Large perhaps, but not infinite, Miss Havisham. What I'm trying to say is that once all the permutations are used up there will be nowhere for us to go. The twentieth century has seen books being written and published at an unprecedented rate — even the introduction of the Procrastination1.3 and Writer'sBlock2.4 Outlander viruses couldn't slow the authors down. Plagiarism lawsuits are rising in the Outland; authors are beginning to write the same books. The way I see it we've got a year — possibly eighteen months — before the well of fiction runs dry.'
He paused to let this sink in.
'That's why we had to go back to the drawing board and rethink the whole situation.'
He flipped the chart again and there were audible gasps. On the chart was written '32-plot story systems'.
'As you know,' he went on, 'every Book Operating System has at its heart the basic eight-plot architecture we inherited from OralTrad. As we used to say: "No one will ever need more than eight plots.'"
'Nine if you count Coming of Age,' piped up Beatrice.
'Isn't that Journey of Discovery? said Tweed.
'What's Macbeth, then?' asked Benedict.
'Bitter Rivalry/Revenge, my dear,' answered Havisham.
'I thought it was Temptation,' mused Beatrice, who liked to contradict Benedict whenever possible.
'Please!' said the Bellman. 'We could argue these points all day. And if you let Libris finish, you can.'
The agents fell silent. I guessed this was a perennial argument.
'So the only way forward,' continued Libris, 'is to completely rebuild the operating system. If we go for a thirty-two-plot basis for our stories, there will be more ideas than you or I will know what to do with. The BookWorld won't have seen such an advance since the invention of movable type.'
'I'm always supportive of new technology, Mr Libris,' said Lady Cavendish kindly, 'but isn't the popularity of books a fair indication of how the good the current system actually is?'
'It depends what you mean by "popular". Only thirty per cent of the Outland read fiction on a regular basis — with UltraWord™ we aim to change all that. But I'm running ahead of myself — an abundance of new ideas is only half the story. Let me carry on and tell you what other benefits the new system will give us.'
He flipped the chart again. This time it read: 'Enhanced Features'.
'Firstly, UltraWord™ is wholly reverse compatible with all existing novels, plays and poetry. Furthermore, new books written with this system will offer bonus features that will enhance and delight.'
'I say,' asked Bradshaw slowly, 'how do you hope to improve a book?'
'Let me give you an example,' replied Libris enthusiastically. 'In books that we know at present, dialogue has to be dedicated to the people who are talking as the reader has no idea who is speaking from the words alone. This can be tricky if we want a large scene with many people talking to one another — it's very easy to get bogged down in the "… said George", "… replied Michael", "… added Paul" and suchlike; with the UltraWord™ Enhanced Character Identification™, a reader will have no trouble placing who is speaking to whom without all those tedious dialogue markers. In addition, UltraWord™ will be bundled with PlotPotPlus™, which gives the reader a potted précis if they are lost or have put the book down unfinished for a few months or more. Other options will be ReadZip™, PageGlow™ and three music tracks.'
'How will the reader get these new features to work?' asked Lady Cavendish.
'There will be a preferences page inserted just after the frontispiece.'
'Touch sensitive?' I asked.
'No,' replied Libris excitedly, 'read sensitive. Words that know when they are being read. On the preferences page you can also select WordClot™, which adjusts the vocabulary to the reader — no more difficult words, or, if you like difficult words, you can increase the vocabulary complexity.'
There was silence as everyone took this in.
'But to get back to your point, Lady Cavendish, a lot of people reject fiction because they find reading tedious and slow. At present levels the fastest throughput we can manage is about six words per second. With UltraWord™ we will have the technology to quadruple the uptake — something that will be very attractive to new readers.'
'Cards on the table and all that, Libris,' said Bradshaw in a loud voice. 'Technology is all very well but unless we get it absolutely right, it could turn out to be a debacle of the highest order.'
'You didn't like the ISBN positioning system either, Commander,' replied Libris, 'yet book navigation has never been easier.'
They stared at one another until a loud belch rent the air. It was Falstaff.
'I have lived,' he said, getting to his feet with a great deal of effort, 'through much in my time; some good, some bad — I was witness to the great vowel shift, and remember fondly those better days when puns, fat people and foreigners were funny beyond all. I saw the novel rise and the epic poem fall, I remember when you could get blind drunk, eat yourself ill and still have change for a whore out of sixpence. I remember when water would kill you and spirits would save you; I remember—'
'Is there a point to all this?' asked Libris testily.
'Ah!' replied Falstaff, trying to figure out where he was going with his speech. 'Oh, yes. I was there for the much-heralded Version 4 upgrade in 1841. "Change the way we read for ever," quoth the Council of Genres. And what happened? The Deep Text Crash. Almost everything by Euripides, Aeschylus and Sophocles gone for ever — and we created grammasites.'
'It was never proven that Version 4 created the grammasites, Sir John—'
'Come, come, Libris, have you dried your brain? I was there. I saw it. I know.'
Libris put up his hands.
'I didn't come here to argue, Sir John — I just want to stick to the facts. Anyhow, UltraWord™ is incompatible with grammasites; text will be locked — they'll have nothing to feed on.'
'You hope, sir.'
'We know,' replied Libris firmly, adding more slowly: 'Listen, Version 4 was a big mistake, we freely admit that — which is why we have taken so long to design and rigorously test UltraWord™. It is no small boast that we call it the Ultimate Reading Experience.'
He paused for a moment.
'It's here to stay, ladies and gentlemen — so get used to it.'
He expected another attack from Falstaff but King Hal's old friend had sat down and was shaking his head sadly. No one else added anything.
Libris took a step back and looked at the Bellman, who tingled his bell.
'Well, thank you all for listening to WordMaster Libris' presentation, and I would like to thank him for coming here today to tell us all about it.'
He started to clap his hands and we joined in — with the notable exceptions of Falstaff and Bradshaw.
'Presentation booklets will be available shortly,' said the Bellman. 'Individual assignments will be given out in ten minutes. And remember: let's be careful out there. That's it. Session's over.'
And he tingled his bell once more.
Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.
'I'm too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,' he muttered.
'You and me both, Trafford. But who'd teach the young ones?'
She nodded in my direction. I hadn't been described as 'young' for over a decade.
'I'm spent, Estella,' said Bradshaw sadly. 'No more new technology for me. I'm going back to my own book for good. At least I won't have to put up with all this nonsense in Bradshaw of the Congo. Goodbye, old girl.'
'Goodbye, Commander — send my regards to Mrs Bradshaw.'
'Thank you. And to you, too. Miss … I'm sorry, what was your name again?'
'Thursday Next.'
'Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.'
And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.
'Dear old Bradshaw.' Miss Havisham smiled. 'He's retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we'll see him again next week.'
'Ah!' muttered the Bellman as he approached. 'Havisham and Next.'
He consulted his clipboard for a moment.
'You "weren't in the Outland on another land speed attempt, were you?'
'Me?' replied Havisham. 'Of course not!'
'Well,' murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, 'the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.'
'How severely?'
'Very severely.'
'They wouldn't dare,' replied Havisham haughtily. 'Now, what have you got for us?'
'You're chairing the Wuthering Heights rage counselling session.'
'I've done my six sessions,' replied Havisham. 'It's Falstaff's turn.'
'Now that's not true, is it?' replied the Bellman, 'You're only on your third. Changing counsellors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.'
She sighed. 'Very well.'
'Good. Better not keep them waiting!'
The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.
'Was that a smile?' she snapped.
'No, Miss Havisham,' I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything — especially rage.
'Please do tell me what you think is so very funny,' she demanded. 'I really am very keen to know.'
'It was a smile,' I said carefully, 'of surprise.'
'Was it now?' she replied. 'Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let's make it clear that I was ordered to do this job — same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I'd sooner he were dead, personally speaking — but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.'
There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy — that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It really was like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the refreshment table.
'Well,' said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, 'what do you think?'
'Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.'
'Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,' he said warily. 'What does Havisham think?'
'I'm really not sure.'
'Vern!' said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. 'Which plot does Winnie-the-Pooh have?'
'Triumph of the Underdog?' he suggested.
'Told you!' said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. '"Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity." Happy?'
'No,' she replied. 'It's Journey of Discovery all the way.'
'You think every story is Journey of Discovery!'
'It is.'
They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.
'Have you met Mrs Bradshaw yet?' asked Deane.
I told him that I hadn't.
'When you do, don't laugh or anything.'
'Why?'
'You'll see.'
I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first. Deane ate a canapé and asked:
'How are things with you these days? Last time we met you were having a little trouble at home.'
'I'm living in the Well,' I told him, 'as part of the Character Exchange Programme.'
'Really?' he said. 'What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?'
'Well, I think,' I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil squire figure, 'the working title is Shameless Love.'
'Sounds like a Farquitt.' Deane sighed. 'There'll be someone like me in it — there usually is. Probably a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, too — and then cruelly cast out to have her baby in the poorhouse only to have her revenge ten chapters later.
'Well, I don't know—'
'It's not fair, you know,' he said, his mood changing. 'Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?'
'Because you're the bad guy and they always get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?'
'It's still not fair.' He scowled. 'I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.'
'Would that be appropriate?' I asked. 'Me talking to her, I mean? Shouldn't you go through the usual channels?'
'Not really,' he retorted, 'but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?'
I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction but in The Squire of High Potternews he was a monster; dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him — in narrative terms, anyway.
I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who broke off talking to Perkins abruptly as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of Wuthering Heights in her hand. I knew that she probably did have a soft spot for Heathcliff — but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone Crag.
'Did you meet the three witches, by the way?' she asked.
'Yes,' I replied. 'They told me—'
'Ignore everything they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.'
'But they said—'
'I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo-jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?'
'I closed a hole in Great Expectations the other day,' I told him. 'Was that one of your books?'
'Goodness me no!' exclaimed the young man, smiling for the first time. 'Holestitching has come a long way since Dickens. You won't find a holesmith worth his thread trying the old "door opens and in comes the missing aunt/father/business associate/friend, etc.", all ready to explain where they've been since mysteriously dropping out of the narrative two hundred pages previously. The methodology we choose these days is to just go back and patch the hole, or more simply, to camouflage it.'
'I see.'
'Indeed,' carried on the young man, becoming more flamboyant in the light of my perceived interest, 'I'm working on a system that hides holes by highlighting them to the reader, which just says: "Ho! I'm a hole, don't think about it!", but it's a little cutting-edge. I think,' added the young man airily, 'that you will not find a more experienced holesmith anywhere in the Well; I've been doing it for more than forty years.'
'When did you start?' I observed, looking at the youth curiously. 'As a baby?'
The young man aged, greyed and sagged before my eyes until he was in his seventies and then announced, arms outstretched and with a nourish:
'Da-daaaa!'
'No one likes a show-off, Llyster,' said Bradshaw, looking at his watch. 'I don't want to hurry you, Tuesday, old girl, but we should be getting over to Norland Park for the roll-call.'
He gallantly offered me an elbow to hold and I hooked my arm in his.
'Thank you, Commander.'
'Stouter than stout!' Bradshaw laughed, and read us both into Sense and Sensibility.
10
Jurisfiction session number 40319
'JurisTech: Popular contraction of Jurisfiction Technological Division. This R&D company works exclusively for JunsFiction and is financed by the Council of Genres through Text Grand Central. Owing to the often rigorous and specialised tasks undertaken by Prose Resource Operatives, JurisTech is permitted to build gadgets deemed outside the usual laws of physics — the only department (aside from the SF genre) licensed to do so. The standard item in a PRO's manifest is the TravelBook (q.v.), which itself contains other JurisTech designs like the Martin-Bacon Eject-O-Hat, MV Mask, Textmarker, String™ and textual sieves of vanous porosity, to name but a few.'
UA OF W CAT — The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)
The offices of Jurisfiction were situated at Norland Park, the house of the Dashwoods in Sense and Sensibility. The family kindly lent the ballroom to Jurisfiction on the unspoken condition that Jane Austen books would be an area of special protection.
Norland Park was located within a broad expanse of softly undulating grassland set about with ancient oaks. The evening was drawing on, as it generally did when we arrived, and wood pigeons cooed from the dovecote. The grass felt warm and comfortable like a heavily underlaid carpet, and the delicate scent of pine needles filled the air.
But all was not perfect in this garden of nineteenth-century prose; as we approached the house there seemed to be some sort of commotion. A demonstration, in fact — the sort of thing I was used to seeing at home. But this wasn't a rally about the price of cheese or whether the Whig Party were dangerously right wing and anti-Welsh, nor about whether Goliath had the right to force legislation compelling everyone to eat SmileyBurger at least twice a week. No, this demonstration was one you would expect to find only in the world of fiction.
The Bellman, elected head of Jurisfiction and dressed in the garb of a town crier, was angrily tingling his bell to try to persuade the crowd to calm down.
'Not again,' muttered Bradshaw as we walked up. 'I wonder what the Orals want this time?'
I was unfamiliar with the term, and since I didn't want to appear foolish, I tried to make sense of the crowd on my own. The person nearest to me was a shepherdess, although that was only a guess on my part as she didn't have any sheep — only a large crook. A boy dressed in blue with a horn was standing next to her discussing the falling price of lamb, and next to them was a very old woman with a small dog which whined, pretended to be dead, smoked a pipe and performed various other tricks in quick succession. Standing next to her was a small man in a long nightdress and bed hat who yawned loudly. Perhaps I was being slow, but it was only when I saw a large egg with arms and legs that I realised who they were.
'They're all nursery rhyme characters!' I exclaimed.
'They're a pain in the whatsit, that's what they are,' murmured Bradshaw as a small boy jumped from the crowd, grabbed a pig and made a dash for it. Bo-Peep hooked his ankle with her crook and the boy sprawled headlong on the grass. The pig rolled into a flower bed with a startled oink and then beat a hurried escape as a large man started to give the boy six of the best.
'… all we want is the same rights as any other character in the BookWorld,' said Humpty Dumpty, his ovoid face a deep crimson. 'Just because we have a duty to children and the oral tradition doesn't mean we can be taken advantage of.'
The crowd murmured and grunted their agreement. Humpty Dumpty continued as I stared at him, wondering whether his belt was actually a cravat, as it was impossible to tell which was his neck and which his waist.
'… we have a petition signed by over a thousand Orals who couldn't make it today,' said the large egg, waving a wad of papers amid shouts from the crowd.
'We're not joking this time, Mr Bellman,' added a baker, who was standing in a wooden tub with a butcher and a candlestick maker. 'We are quite willing to withdraw our rhymes if our terms are not met.'
There was a chorus of approval from the assembled characters.
'It was fine before they were unionised,' Bradshaw whispered in my ear. 'Come on, let's use the back door.'
We walked around to the side of the house, our feet crunching on the gravel chippings.
'Why can't characters from the oral tradition be a part of the Character Exchange Programme?' I asked.
'Who'd cover for them?' snorted Bradshaw. 'You?
'Couldn't we train up Generics as sort of, well, "character locums"?'
'Best to leave industrial relations to the people with the facts at their fingertips,' replied Bradshaw. 'We can barely keep pace with the volume of new material as it is. I shouldn't worry about Mr Dumpty; he's been agitating for centuries. It's not our fault he and his badly rhyming friends are still looked after by the old OralTradPlus agreement— Good heavens, Miss Dashwood! Does your mother know that you smoke?'
It was Marianne Dashwood, and she had been puffing away at a small roll-up as we rounded the corner. She quickly threw the butt away and held her breath for as long as possible before coughing and letting out a large cloud of smoke.
'Commander!' she wheezed, eyes watering. 'Promise you won't tell!'
'My lips are sealed,' replied Bradshaw sternly, just this once.'
Marianne breathed a sigh of relief and turned to me.
'Miss Next!' she enthused. 'Welcome back to our little book — I trust you are well?'
'Quite well,' I assured her, passing her the Marmite, Mintolas and AA batteries I had promised her from my last visit. 'Will you make sure these get to your sister and mother?'
She clapped her hands with joy and took the gifts excitedly.
'You are a darling!' she said happily. 'What can I do to repay you?'
'Don't let Lola Vavoom play you in the movie.'
'Out of my hands,' she replied unhappily, 'but if you need a favour, I'm here!'
We made our way up the servants' staircase and into the hall above where a much-bedraggled Bellman was walking towards us, shaking his head and holding the employment demands that Humpty Dumpty had thrust into his hands.
'Those Orals get more and more militant every day,' he gasped. 'They are planning a forty-eight-hour walk-out tomorrow.'
'What effect will that have?' I asked.
'I should have thought that would be obvious,' chided the Bellman. 'Nursery rhymes will be unavailable for recall. In the Outland there will be a lot of people thinking they have bad memories. It won't do the slightest bit of good — a story book is usually in reach wherever a nursery rhyme is told.'
'Ah,' I said.
'The biggest problem,' added the Bellman, mopping his brow, 'is that if we give in to the nursery rhymsters everyone else will want to renegotiate their agreements — from the poeticals all the way through to nursery stories and even characters in jokes. Sometimes I'm glad I'm up for retirement — then someone like you can take over, Commander Bradshaw!'
'Not me!' he said grimly. 'I wouldn't be the Bellman again for all the Ts in Little Tim Tottle's twin sisters take time tittle-tattling in a tuttle-tuttle tree — twice.'
The Bellman laughed and we entered the ballroom of Norland Park.
'Have you heard?' said a young man who approached us with no small measure of urgency in his voice. 'The Red Queen had to have her leg amputated. Arterial thrombosis, the doctor told me.'
'Really?' I said. 'When?'
'Last week. And that's not all.'
He lowered his voice.
'The Bellman has gassed himself! '
'But we were just talking to him,' I replied.
'Oh,' said the young man, thinking hard, 'I meant Perkins has gassed himself.'
Miss Havisham joined us.
'Billy!' she said in a scolding tone. 'That's quite enough of that. Buzz off before I box your ears!'
The young man looked deflated for a moment then pulled himself up, announced haughtily that he had been asked to write additional dialogue for John Steinbeck and strode off. Miss Havisham shook her head sadly.
'If he ever says "good morning",' she said, 'don't believe him. All well, Trafford?'
'Top hole, Estella, old girl, top hole. I bumped into Tuesday here in the Well.'
'Not selling parts of your book, were you?' she asked mischievously.
'Good heavens, no!' replied Bradshaw, feigning shock and surprise. 'Goodness me,' he added, staring into the room for some form of escape, 'I must just speak to the Cheshire Cat. Good day!'
And, tipping his pith helmet politely, he was gone.
'Bradshaw, Bradshaw,' sighed Miss Havisham, shaking her head sadly, 'soon Bradshaw defies the Kaiser will have so many holes we could use it as a colander.'
'He wanted to buy a dress for Mrs Bradshaw,' I explained.
'Have you met her yet?'
'Not yet.'
'When you do, don't stare, will you? It's very rude.'
'Why would I—'
'Come along!' interrupted Miss Havisham. 'Almost time for roll-call!'
The ballroom of Norland Park had long since been used for nothing but Jurisfiction business. The floor space was covered with tables and filing cabinets, and the many desks were piled high with files tied up with ribbon. There was a table to one side with food upon it and waiting for us — or the Bellman, at least — were the staff at Jurisfiction. There were about thirty operatives on the active list, and since up to ten of them were busy on assignment and five or so active in their own books, there were never more than fifteen people in the office at any one time. Vernham Deane gave me a cheery wave as we entered. He was the resident cad and philanderer in a Daphne Farquitt novel entitled The Squire of High Potternews, but you would never know to talk to him — he had always been polite and courteous to me. Next to him was Harris Tweed, who had intervened back at the Slaughtered Lamb only the day before.
'Miss Havisham!' he exclaimed, walking over and handing us both a plain envelope. 'I've got your bounty for those grammasites you killed; I split it equally, yes?'
He winked at me, then left before Havisham could say anything.
'Thursday!' said Akrid Snell. 'Sorry to dash off like that yesterday. Hello, Miss Havisham — I heard you got swarmed by a few grammasites; no one's ever shot six Verbisoids in one go before!'
'Piece of cake,' I replied. 'And Akrid, I've still got that — er — thing you bought.'
'Thing? What thing?'
'You remember,' I urged, knowing that trying to influence his own narrative was strictly forbidden, 'the thing. In a bag. You know.'
'Oh! Ah … ah, yes,' he said, finally realising what I was talking about. 'The thing thing. I'll pick it up after work, yes?'
'Snell insider-trading again?' asked Havisham quietly as soon as he had left.
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'd do the same if my book was as bad as his.'
I looked around to see who else had turned up. Sir John Falstaff was there, as was King Pellinore, Deane, Lady Cavendish, Mrs Tiggy-winkle with Emperor Zhark in attendance, Gully Foyle, and Perkins.
'Who are they?' I asked Havisham, pointing to two agents I didn't recognise.
'Ichabod Crane is the one on the left holding the pumpkin,' she explained. 'Beatrice is the other. A bit loud for my liking, but good at her job.'
I thanked her and looked around for the Red Queen, whose open hostility to Havisham was Jurisfiction's least well-kept secret; she was nowhere to be seen.
'Hail, Miss Next!' rumbled Falstaff, waddling up and staring at me unsteadily from within a cloud of alcohol fumes. He had drunk, stolen and womanised throughout Henry IV Parts I and II then inveigled himself into The Merry Wives of Windsor. Some saw him as a likeable rogue; I saw him as just plain revolting — although he was the blueprint of likeable debauchers in fiction everywhere, so I thought I should try to cut him a bit of slack.
'Good morning, Sir John,' I said, trying to be polite.
'Good morning to you, sweet maid,' he exclaimed happily. 'Do you ride?'
'A little.'
'Then perhaps you might like to take a ride up and down the length of my merry England? I could take you places and show you things—'
'I must politely decline, Sir John.'
He laughed noisily in my face. I felt a flush of anger rise within me but luckily the Bellman, unwilling to waste any more time, had stepped up to his small dais and tingled his bell.
'Sorry to keep you all waiting,' he muttered. 'As you have seen, things are a little fraught outside. But I am delighted to see so many of you here. Is there anyone still to come?'
'Shall we wait for Godot?' enquired Deane.
'Anyone know where he is?' asked the Bellman. 'Beatrice, weren't you working with him?'
'Not I,' replied the young woman. 'You might enquire this of Benedict if he troubles to attend but you would as well speak to a goat — a stupid goat, mark me.'
'The sweet lady's tongue does abuse to our ears,' said Benedict, who had been seated out of our view but now rose to glare at Beatrice. 'Were the fountain of your mind clear again, that I might water an ass at it.'
'Ah!' retorted Beatrice with a laugh. 'Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike!'
'Dear Beatrice,' returned Benedict, bowing low, 'I was looking for a fool when I found you.'
'You, Benedict, who has not so much brain as ear-wax?'
They narrowed their eyes at one another and then smiled with polite enmity.
'All right, all right,' interrupted the Bellman. 'Calm down, you two. Do you know where Agent Godot is or not?'
Beatrice answered that she didn't.
'Right,' announced the Bellman. 'Let's get on. Jurisfiction meeting number 40319 is now in session.'
He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted his clipboard.
'Item one. Our congratulations go to Deane and Lady Cavendish for foiling the Bowdlerisers in Chaucer.'
There were a few words of encouragement and back-slapping.
'There has been damage done but it's got no worse, so let's just try and keep an eye out in the future. Item two.'
He put down his clipboard and leaned on the lectern.
'Remember that craze a few years back in the BookWorld for sending chain letters? Receive a letter and send one on to ten friends? Well, someone has been over-enthusiastic with the letter "U". I've got a report here from the Text Sea Environmental Protection Agency saying that reserves of the letter "U" have reached dangerously low levels — we need to decrease consumption until stocks are brought back up. Any suggestions?'
'How about using a lower-case "N" upside down?' said Benedict.
'We tried that with "M" and "W" during the Great "M" Migration of '62; it never worked.'
'How about respelling what, what?' suggested King Pellinore, stroking his large white moustache. 'Any word with the "our" ending could be spelt "or", dontchaknow.'
'Like neighbor instead of neighbour?
'It's a good idea,' put in Snell. 'Labor, valor, flavor, harbor— there are hundreds. If we confine it to one geographical area we can claim it as a local spelling idiosyncrasy.'
'Hmm,' said the Bellman, thinking hard. 'Do you know, it just might work.'
He looked at his clipboard again.
'Item three — Tweed, are you here?'
Harris Tweed signalled from where he was sitting.
'Good,' continued the Bellman. 'I understand you were pursuing a PageRunner who had taken up residence in the Outland?'
Tweed glanced at me and stood up.
'Fellow by the name of Yorrick Kaine. He's something of a big cheese in the Outland — runs Kaine Publishing and has set himself up as head of his own political party—'
'Yes, yes,' said the Bellman impatiently, 'and he stole Cardenio, I know — but the point is, where is he now?'
'He went back to the Outland where I lost him,' replied Tweed.
'The Council of Genres are not keen to sanction any work in the real world,' said the Bellman slowly. 'It's too risky. We don't even know which book Kaine is from — and since he's not doing anything against us at present, I think he should stay in the Outland.'
'But Kaine is a real danger to our world,' I exclaimed.
Considering Kaine's righter-than-right politics, this was a fresh limit to the word understatement.
'He has stolen from the Great Library once,' I continued. 'How can we suppose he won't do the same again? Don't we have a duty to the readers to protect them from fictionauts hell-bent on—'
'Ms Next,' interrupted the Bellman, 'I understand what you are saying but I am not going to sanction an operation in the Outland. I'm sorry, but that is how it is going to be. He goes on the PageRunners' register and we'll set up textual sieves on every floor of the Library in case he plans to come back. Out there you may do as you please; here you do as we tell you. Is that clear?'
I grew hot and angry but Miss Havisham squeezed my arm, so I remained quiet.
'Good,' carried on the Bellman, consulting his clipboard again. 'Item four. Text Grand Central have reported several attempted incursions from the Outland. Nothing serious but enough to generate a few ripples in the Ficto-Outland barrier. Miss Havisham, didn't you report that an Outlander company was doing some research into entering fiction?'
It was true. Goliath had been attempting entry into the BookWorld for many years but with little success; all they had managed to do was extract a stodgy gunge from volumes one to eight of The World of Cheese. Uncle Mycroft had sought refuge in the Sherlock Holmes series to avoid them.
'It was called the Something Company,' replied Havisham thoughtfully.
'Goliath,' I told her. 'It's called the Goliath Corporation.'
'Goliath. That was it. I had a look round while I was retrieving Miss Next's TravelBook.'
'Do you think Outlander technology is that far advanced?' asked the Bellman.
'No. They're still a long way away. They'd been trying to send an unmanned probe into The Listeners but, from what I saw, with little success.'
'Okay,' replied the Bellman, 'we'll keep an eye on them. What was their name again?'
'Goliath,' I said.
He made a note.
'Item five. All of the punctuation has been stolen from the final chapter of Ulysses. Probably about five hundred assorted full stops, commas, apostrophes and colons.'
He paused for a moment.
'Vern, weren't you doing some work on this?'
'Indeed,' replied the squire, stepping forward and opening a notebook. 'We noticed the theft two days ago. I spoke to the Cat and he said that no one has entered the book, so we can only assume that the novel was penetrated through the literary interpretation of Dublin — which gives us several thousand suspects. I surmise the thief thought no one would notice as most readers never get that far into Ulysses — you will recall the theft of chapter sixty-two from Moby-Dick, which no one ever noticed? Well, this theft was noted, but initial reports show that readers are regarding the lack of punctuation as not a cataclysmic error but the mark of a great genius, so we've got some breathing space.'
'Are we sure it was a thief?' asked Beatrice. 'Couldn't it just be grammasites?'
'I don't think so,' replied Perkins, who had made bookzoology into something closely resembling a science. 'Punctusauroids are pretty rare, and to make off with so many punctuations you would need a flock of several hundred. Also, I don't think they would have left the last full stop — that looks to me like a mischievous thief
'Okay,' said the Bellman, 'so what are we to do?'
'The only ready market for stolen punctuation is in the Well.'
'Hmm,' mused the Bellman. 'A Jurisfiction agent down there is about as conspicuous as a brass band at a funeral. We need someone to go undercover. Any volunteers?'
'It's my case,' said Vernham Deane. 'I'll go. That is if no one thinks themselves better qualified.'
There was silence.
'Looks like you're it!' enthused the Bellman, writing a note on his clipboard. 'Item six. As you recall, David and Catriona Balfour were Boojummed a few weeks back. Because there can't be much Kidnapped and Catriona without them and Robert Louis Stevenson remains a popular author, the Council of Genres has licensed a pair of A-4 Generics to take their place. They'll be given unlimited access to all Stevenson's books, and I want you all to make them feel welcome.'
There was a murmuring from the collected agents.
'Yes,' said the Bellman with a resigned air, 'I know they'll never be exactly the same but with a bit of luck we should be okay; no one in the Outland noticed when David Copperfield was replaced, now, did they?'
No one said anything.
'Good. Item seven. As you know, I am retiring in two weeks' time and the Council of Genres will need a replacement Bellman. All nominations are to be given direct to the Council for consideration.'
He paused again.
'Item eight. As you all know, Text Grand Central have been working on an upgrade to the Book Operating System for the last fifty years—'
There was a groan from the assembled agents. Clearly this was a matter of some contention. Snell had explained about the ImaginoTransference technology behind books in general, but I had no idea how it worked. Still don't, as a matter of fact.
'Do you know what happened when they tried to upgrade SCROLL?' said Bradshaw. 'The system conflict wiped the entire library at Alexandria — they had to torch the lot to stop it spreading.'
'We knew a lot less about operating systems then, Commander,' replied the Bellman in a soothing voice, 'and you can rest assured that early upgrading problems have not been ignored. Many of us have reservations about the standard version of BOOK that all our beloved works are recorded in, and I think the latest upgrade to BOOK V9 is something that we should all welcome.'
No one said anything. He had our attention.
'Good. Well, I could rabbit on all day but I really feel that it would be better to let WordMaster Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central, tell you the full story. Xavier?'
11
Introducing Ultra Word™
"… First there was OralTrad, upgraded ten thousand years later by the rhyming (for easier recall) OralTradPlus. For thousands of years this was the only Story Operating System and it is still in use today. The system branched in two about twenty thousand years ago; on one side with CaveDaubPro (forerunner of PaintPlusV2.3, GrecianUrnV1.2, SculptMarble V1.4, and the latest, all-encompassing SuperArtisticExpression-5). The other strand, the Picto-Phonetic Storytelling Systems, started with ClayTablet V2.1 and went through several competing systems (WaxTablet, Papyrus, VellumPlus) before merging into the award-winning SCROLL, which was upgraded eight times to V3.5 before being swept aside by the all-new and clearly superior BOOK V1. Stable, easy to store and transport, compact and with a workable index, BOOK has led the way for nearly eighteen hundred years …'
WORDMASTER XAVIER LIBRIS — Story Operating Systems — The Early Years
A small and rather pallid-looking man took his position on the dais; he could only just see over the lectern. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and was almost weighed down by the number of pens in his top pocket. We all took a seat and gazed at him with interest; UltraWord™ had been the talk of the Well for ages and everyone was keen to learn whether the rumours of its technical virtuosity were true.
'Good morning, everyone,' began Libris in a nervous voice. 'Over the next thirty minutes I will try and explain a little about our latest operating system: BOOK Version 9, which we have code-named UltraWord™.'
There was silence as the agents mulled this over. I got the feeling in that this was not just important but really important. Like being at the signing of a peace accord or something. Even Bradshaw, who was no fan of technology, was leaning forward and listening with interest, a frown etched on his forehead.
Libris pulled the first sheet off a flipchart. There was a picture of an old book.
'Well,' he began, 'when we first came up with the "page" concept in BOOK V1 we thought we'd reached the zenith of story containment — compact, easy to read and, by using integrated PageNumber™ and SpineTitle™ technologies, we had a system of indexing far superior to anything SCROLL could offer. Over the years—'
Here he flipped the chart over to show us varying styles of books through the ages.
'—we have been refining the BOOK system. Illustrations were the first upgrade at 1.1, standardised spelling at V3.1 and vowel and irregular verb stability in V4.2. Today we use BOOK V8.3, one of the most stable and complex ImaginoTransference technologies ever devised — the smooth transfer of the written word into the reader's imagination has never been faster.'
He stopped for a moment. We all knew that BOOK V8.3 was excellent; apart from a few typos that crept in and the variable quality of stories — neither of which was the system's fault — it was good, very good indeed.
'Constructing the books down in the sub-basements, although time consuming, seems to work well, even if it is a little chaotic.'
There were murmurs of agreement from the assembled agents; it was clear that no one much liked it down there.
'But,' went on Libris, 'endlessly recycling old ideas might not hold the reader's attention for that much longer — the Council of Genres' own market research seems to indicate that readers are becoming bored with the sameness of plot lines.'
'I think it's already happened,' said the Bellman, then checked himself quickly, apologised for the interruption and let Libris carry on.
'But,' continued Libris, 'to understand the problem we need a bit of history. When we first devised the BOOK system eighteen hundred years ago, we designed it mainly to record events — we never thought there would be such a demand for story. By the tenth century story usage was so low that we still had enough new plots to last over a thousand years. By the time the seventeenth century arrived this had lowered to six hundred — but there was still no real cause for worry. Then, something happened that stretched the operating system to the limit.'
'Mass literacy,' put in Miss Havisham.
'Exactly,' replied Libris. 'Demand for written stories increased exponentially during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Ten years before Pamela was published in 1740 we had enough new ideas to last another four hundred years; by Dickens' time ideas were almost wholly recycled, something we have been doing on and off since the thirteenth century to stave off the inevitable. But by 1884, to all intents and purposes, we had depleted our stock of original ideas.'
There was muttering among the collected Jurisfiction agents.
'Flatland,' said Bradshaw after pausing for a moment's reflection. 'It was the last original idea, wasn't it?'
'Pretty much. The few leftover pieces were mopped up by the SF movement until the 1950s, but as far as pure ideas are concerned, 1884 was the end. We were expecting the worst — a meltdown of the whole BookWorld and a wholesale departure of readers. But that didn't happen. Against all expectations, recycled ideas were working.'
'But isn't it the way they are told?' asked Havisham in her not-to-be-argued-with voice. 'Surely the permutations of storytelling are endless!'
'Large perhaps, but not infinite, Miss Havisham. What I'm trying to say is that once all the permutations are used up there will be nowhere for us to go. The twentieth century has seen books being written and published at an unprecedented rate — even the introduction of the Procrastination1.3 and Writer'sBlock2.4 Outlander viruses couldn't slow the authors down. Plagiarism lawsuits are rising in the Outland; authors are beginning to write the same books. The way I see it we've got a year — possibly eighteen months — before the well of fiction runs dry.'
He paused to let this sink in.
'That's why we had to go back to the drawing board and rethink the whole situation.'
He flipped the chart again and there were audible gasps. On the chart was written '32-plot story systems'.
'As you know,' he went on, 'every Book Operating System has at its heart the basic eight-plot architecture we inherited from OralTrad. As we used to say: "No one will ever need more than eight plots.'"
'Nine if you count Coming of Age,' piped up Beatrice.
'Isn't that Journey of Discovery? said Tweed.
'What's Macbeth, then?' asked Benedict.
'Bitter Rivalry/Revenge, my dear,' answered Havisham.
'I thought it was Temptation,' mused Beatrice, who liked to contradict Benedict whenever possible.
'Please!' said the Bellman. 'We could argue these points all day. And if you let Libris finish, you can.'
The agents fell silent. I guessed this was a perennial argument.
'So the only way forward,' continued Libris, 'is to completely rebuild the operating system. If we go for a thirty-two-plot basis for our stories, there will be more ideas than you or I will know what to do with. The BookWorld won't have seen such an advance since the invention of movable type.'
'I'm always supportive of new technology, Mr Libris,' said Lady Cavendish kindly, 'but isn't the popularity of books a fair indication of how the good the current system actually is?'
'It depends what you mean by "popular". Only thirty per cent of the Outland read fiction on a regular basis — with UltraWord™ we aim to change all that. But I'm running ahead of myself — an abundance of new ideas is only half the story. Let me carry on and tell you what other benefits the new system will give us.'
He flipped the chart again. This time it read: 'Enhanced Features'.
'Firstly, UltraWord™ is wholly reverse compatible with all existing novels, plays and poetry. Furthermore, new books written with this system will offer bonus features that will enhance and delight.'
'I say,' asked Bradshaw slowly, 'how do you hope to improve a book?'
'Let me give you an example,' replied Libris enthusiastically. 'In books that we know at present, dialogue has to be dedicated to the people who are talking as the reader has no idea who is speaking from the words alone. This can be tricky if we want a large scene with many people talking to one another — it's very easy to get bogged down in the "… said George", "… replied Michael", "… added Paul" and suchlike; with the UltraWord™ Enhanced Character Identification™, a reader will have no trouble placing who is speaking to whom without all those tedious dialogue markers. In addition, UltraWord™ will be bundled with PlotPotPlus™, which gives the reader a potted précis if they are lost or have put the book down unfinished for a few months or more. Other options will be ReadZip™, PageGlow™ and three music tracks.'
'How will the reader get these new features to work?' asked Lady Cavendish.
'There will be a preferences page inserted just after the frontispiece.'
'Touch sensitive?' I asked.
'No,' replied Libris excitedly, 'read sensitive. Words that know when they are being read. On the preferences page you can also select WordClot™, which adjusts the vocabulary to the reader — no more difficult words, or, if you like difficult words, you can increase the vocabulary complexity.'
There was silence as everyone took this in.
'But to get back to your point, Lady Cavendish, a lot of people reject fiction because they find reading tedious and slow. At present levels the fastest throughput we can manage is about six words per second. With UltraWord™ we will have the technology to quadruple the uptake — something that will be very attractive to new readers.'
'Cards on the table and all that, Libris,' said Bradshaw in a loud voice. 'Technology is all very well but unless we get it absolutely right, it could turn out to be a debacle of the highest order.'
'You didn't like the ISBN positioning system either, Commander,' replied Libris, 'yet book navigation has never been easier.'
They stared at one another until a loud belch rent the air. It was Falstaff.
'I have lived,' he said, getting to his feet with a great deal of effort, 'through much in my time; some good, some bad — I was witness to the great vowel shift, and remember fondly those better days when puns, fat people and foreigners were funny beyond all. I saw the novel rise and the epic poem fall, I remember when you could get blind drunk, eat yourself ill and still have change for a whore out of sixpence. I remember when water would kill you and spirits would save you; I remember—'
'Is there a point to all this?' asked Libris testily.
'Ah!' replied Falstaff, trying to figure out where he was going with his speech. 'Oh, yes. I was there for the much-heralded Version 4 upgrade in 1841. "Change the way we read for ever," quoth the Council of Genres. And what happened? The Deep Text Crash. Almost everything by Euripides, Aeschylus and Sophocles gone for ever — and we created grammasites.'
'It was never proven that Version 4 created the grammasites, Sir John—'
'Come, come, Libris, have you dried your brain? I was there. I saw it. I know.'
Libris put up his hands.
'I didn't come here to argue, Sir John — I just want to stick to the facts. Anyhow, UltraWord™ is incompatible with grammasites; text will be locked — they'll have nothing to feed on.'
'You hope, sir.'
'We know,' replied Libris firmly, adding more slowly: 'Listen, Version 4 was a big mistake, we freely admit that — which is why we have taken so long to design and rigorously test UltraWord™. It is no small boast that we call it the Ultimate Reading Experience.'
He paused for a moment.
'It's here to stay, ladies and gentlemen — so get used to it.'
He expected another attack from Falstaff but King Hal's old friend had sat down and was shaking his head sadly. No one else added anything.
Libris took a step back and looked at the Bellman, who tingled his bell.
'Well, thank you all for listening to WordMaster Libris' presentation, and I would like to thank him for coming here today to tell us all about it.'
He started to clap his hands and we joined in — with the notable exceptions of Falstaff and Bradshaw.
'Presentation booklets will be available shortly,' said the Bellman. 'Individual assignments will be given out in ten minutes. And remember: let's be careful out there. That's it. Session's over.'
And he tingled his bell once more.
Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.
'I'm too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,' he muttered.
'You and me both, Trafford. But who'd teach the young ones?'
She nodded in my direction. I hadn't been described as 'young' for over a decade.
'I'm spent, Estella,' said Bradshaw sadly. 'No more new technology for me. I'm going back to my own book for good. At least I won't have to put up with all this nonsense in Bradshaw of the Congo. Goodbye, old girl.'
'Goodbye, Commander — send my regards to Mrs Bradshaw.'
'Thank you. And to you, too. Miss … I'm sorry, what was your name again?'
'Thursday Next.'
'Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.'
And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.
'Dear old Bradshaw.' Miss Havisham smiled. 'He's retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we'll see him again next week.'
'Ah!' muttered the Bellman as he approached. 'Havisham and Next.'
He consulted his clipboard for a moment.
'You "weren't in the Outland on another land speed attempt, were you?'
'Me?' replied Havisham. 'Of course not!'
'Well,' murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, 'the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.'
'How severely?'
'Very severely.'
'They wouldn't dare,' replied Havisham haughtily. 'Now, what have you got for us?'
'You're chairing the Wuthering Heights rage counselling session.'
'I've done my six sessions,' replied Havisham. 'It's Falstaff's turn.'
'Now that's not true, is it?' replied the Bellman, 'You're only on your third. Changing counsellors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.'
She sighed. 'Very well.'
'Good. Better not keep them waiting!'
The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.
'Was that a smile?' she snapped.
'No, Miss Havisham,' I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything — especially rage.
'Please do tell me what you think is so very funny,' she demanded. 'I really am very keen to know.'
'It was a smile,' I said carefully, 'of surprise.'
'Was it now?' she replied. 'Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let's make it clear that I was ordered to do this job — same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I'd sooner he were dead, personally speaking — but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.'
There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy — that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It really was like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the refreshment table.
'Well,' said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, 'what do you think?'
'Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.'
'Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,' he said warily. 'What does Havisham think?'
'I'm really not sure.'
'Vern!' said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. 'Which plot does Winnie-the-Pooh have?'
'Triumph of the Underdog?' he suggested.
'Told you!' said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. '"Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity." Happy?'
'No,' she replied. 'It's Journey of Discovery all the way.'
'You think every story is Journey of Discovery!'
'It is.'
They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.
'Have you met Mrs Bradshaw yet?' asked Deane.
I told him that I hadn't.
'When you do, don't laugh or anything.'
'Why?'
'You'll see.'
I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first. Deane ate a canapé and asked:
'How are things with you these days? Last time we met you were having a little trouble at home.'
'I'm living in the Well,' I told him, 'as part of the Character Exchange Programme.'
'Really?' he said. 'What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?'
'Well, I think,' I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil squire figure, 'the working title is Shameless Love.'
'Sounds like a Farquitt.' Deane sighed. 'There'll be someone like me in it — there usually is. Probably a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, too — and then cruelly cast out to have her baby in the poorhouse only to have her revenge ten chapters later.
'Well, I don't know—'
'It's not fair, you know,' he said, his mood changing. 'Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?'
'Because you're the bad guy and they always get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?'
'It's still not fair.' He scowled. 'I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.'
'Would that be appropriate?' I asked. 'Me talking to her, I mean? Shouldn't you go through the usual channels?'
'Not really,' he retorted, 'but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?'
I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction but in The Squire of High Potternews he was a monster; dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him — in narrative terms, anyway.
I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who broke off talking to Perkins abruptly as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of Wuthering Heights in her hand. I knew that she probably did have a soft spot for Heathcliff — but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone Crag.
'Did you meet the three witches, by the way?' she asked.
'Yes,' I replied. 'They told me—'
'Ignore everything they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.'
'But they said—'
'I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo-jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?'