I read the official report two years later; there had been forty-two guns trained on us from a thousand yards and they had expended three hundred and eighty-seven rounds of high-explosive shells — about four to each vehicle. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.
Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.
'But what were you really thinking about?' asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.
'Escape,' I said. 'I was terrified. We all were.'
'Next!' yelled Tozer. 'Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!'
I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.
I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn't looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded and as I turned round something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off — I would see the yard-long gouge in the armour plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game; in a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.
Acheron carried on where he had left off; he was looking at me with a triumphant expression.
'It may come as some consolation,' he carried on, 'that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of becoming Felix9— Who are you?'
He was looking at Aornis.
'Aornis,' she said shyly.
Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.
'Aornis?' he echoed. 'Little Aornis?' She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.
'My goodness!' he said, looking her over carefully. 'How you have grown! Last time I saw you you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me: did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?'
'I'm a mnemonomorph!' she said proudly, eager for her sibling's approval.
'Of course!' he said. 'I should have guessed. We're in that Next woman's memories right now, aren't we?'
She nodded enthusiastically.
'Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I'm only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.'
'I'm afraid not,' said Aornis glumly, 'she killed you well and good.'
'By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?'
'I'm afraid not — it was a noble victory.'
'Bitch!'
'Seconded. But I'll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.'
A family reunion like this should have been heart warming but I can't say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.
'Mother's very upset with you,' said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.
'Why?'
'Why do you think? You murdered Styx.'
'Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If Father were still alive he would have done the job himself
'Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologise.'
'Okay, next time. Wait a moment, I'm dead — I can't apologise to anyone. You apologise for me.'
'I'm a mnemonomorph, remember — and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she'd be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we'll do—'
'Psssst!' said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.
'Gran!' I said. 'Am I glad to see you!'
'C'mon,' she said, 'while Aornis is distracted.'
She took my hand and led me across the roof to the window where we entered the building. But instead of the burning remains of Thornfield Hall we were on the sidelines of a croquet match. Not any croquet match: it was a World Croquet League final — a SuperHoop. I used to play croquet quite seriously until SpecOps work absorbed all my free time. The two teams were in their body armour, leaning on their willow mallets and discussing strategy during a time-out.
'Okay,' said Aubrey Jarnbe, who was wearing the captain's sweater, 'Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Spike, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. George, I want you to mark their number five. He's a Neanderthal, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'
They all looked at me. I was in body armour too. I was a substitute. A croquet mallet was slung round my wrist with a lanyard and I was holding a helmet.
'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'
'I'm fine,' I said slowly, 'I'll wait for your command.'
'Good.'
A horn went off, indicating the time-out was over. I looked up at the Scoreboard. Swindon was losing 12 hoops to 21.
'Gran,' I said slowly, watching the team run out to continue play, 'I don't remember this.'
'Of course not!' she said, as though I were a fool. 'This is one of mine. Aornis will never find us here.'
'Wait a moment,' I said, 'how can I be dreaming with your memories?'
'Tch, tch,' she scolded, 'so many questions! It will all be explained in due course. Now, do you want to go into some of that deep, dreamless sleep, and get some rest?'
'Oh, please!' '
'Good. Aornis will not bother you again tonight — I shall watch over you.'
She approached a burly croquet player who had only one ear. After saying a few words, she pointed at me. I looked around at the stadium. It was the Swindon croquet stadium, yet somehow different. Behind me in the dignitaries' box I was surprised to see Yorrick Kaine speaking to one of his assistants. Next to him was President Formby, who gave me a smile and a wave. I turned away, my eyes looking into the crowd and falling upon the one person that I did want to see. It was Landen, and he was bouncing a young child on his lap.
'Landen!' I shouted, but a cheer went up from the crowd and I was drowned out. But he did see me, and smiled. He held the infant's hand and made it wave too. Gran tugged my shoulder pad to get my attention.
'Gran,' I said, 'it's Lan—'
And then the mallet struck my head. Blackness and oblivion. As usual, just when I got to the good bit.
16
I woke late the following morning. My bed was next to the porthole so I rolled over, doubled up a pillow and gazed out at the sun sparkling upon the surface of the lake. I could hear the gentle slap of the water against the flying boat's hull, and it gave me a sense of ease and inner peace that ten years of SpecOps' finest Stressperts couldn't bully into you.
I got up slowly and felt woozy all of a sudden. The room spun around and I felt hot. After a brief and unpleasant visit to the loo, I felt a bit better, and went downstairs.
I made myself some toast as it helped the nausea, and caught sight of myself in the chrome toaster. I looked dreadful, and I was holding up the toaster and sticking my tongue out, trying to see what it looked like, when the Generics walked in.
'What on earth are you doing?' asked Ibb.
'Nothing,' I replied, hurriedly replacing the toaster. 'Off to college?'
They both nodded. I noticed that they'd not only made their own lunch but actually cleared away after them. A certain sensitivity to others is a good sign in a Generic. It shows personality.
'Do you know where Gran is?' I asked.
'She said she was off to the Medici court for a few days,' replied Obb. 'She left you that note.'
I found the note on the counter and picked it up, studying the one-word message with slight confusion.
'We'll be back at five,' announced Ibb. 'Do you need anything?'
'What? Er — no,' I said, reading Gran's note again. 'See you then.'
I ate a huge breakfast and did some more of the multiple choice test. After a half-hour battling through such questions as: Which book does Sam Wetter the boot boy reside in? and Who said: 'When she appeared it was as though spring had finally arrived after a miserable winter'? I stopped and looked at Gran's note for the tenth time. It was confusing. Written in a small and shaky hand, the note consisted of a single word: REMEMBER!
'Remember what? I muttered to myself, and went for a walk.
I strolled down to the banks of the lake, taking a path through a grove of birches that grew by the water's edge. I ducked under the low branches and followed my nose towards the odd assortment of vessels that were moored next to the old Sunderland. The first was a converted naval pinnace, her decks covered in plastic and in a constant state of renovation. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, abandoned and sunk at its moorings. As I moved to walk on there was a sudden screech of demonic laughter followed by a peal of thunder and the smell of brimstone borne on a gust of icy wind. I blinked and coughed as thick green smoke momentarily enveloped me; when it had cleared I was no longer alone. Three old hags with hooked chins and mottled complexions danced and cackled in front of me, rubbing their dirty hands and dancing in the most clumsy and uncoordinated fashion. It was the worst piece of overacting I had ever seen.
'Thrice the blinded dog shall bark,' said the first witch, producing a cauldron from the air and placing it on the path in front of me.
'Thrice and once the hedge-pig ironed,' said the second, who conjured up a fire by throwing some leaves beneath the cauldron.
'Passer-by cries, 'Tis time, 'tis time!' screeched the third, tossing something into the cauldron that started to bubble ominously.
'I really don't have time for this,' I said crossly. 'Why don't you go and bother someone else?'
'Fillet of a pickled hake,' continued the second witch, 'In the cauldron broil and bake; Lie of Stig and bark of dog, Woolly hat and bowl of fog, Fadda loch and song by Bing, Wizard's leg and Spitfire's wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble!'
'I'm sorry to interrupt,' I said, 'but I really am very busy — and none of your prophecies have come true, apart from the citizen of Swindon bit and anyone with a telephone directory could find that out. And listen, you knew I was an apprentice so I had to be taking my jurisfiction finals sooner or later!'
They stopped cackling and looked at one another. The first witch drew a large pocket watch from the folds of her tatty cloak and looked at it carefully.
'Give it ye time, imperfect waiter!' she cried. 'All hail MsNext, beware and heed the thrice-read rule!'
'All hail MsNext, I before E except after C!' cackled the second.
'All hail MsNext!' added the third, who clearly didn't want to be left out. 'Meet a king but not be one, Read a King but not—'
'SHOO!' shouted a loud voice behind me. The three witches stopped and stared at the new visitor crossly. He was an old man whose weathered face looked as though it had been gnarled by years of adventuring across the globe. He wore a blue blazer over a polo-neck Aran sweater and on his head a captain's cap sat above his lined features, a few wisps of grey hair showing from underneath the sweatband. His eyes sparkled with life and a grimace cracked his craggy features as he walked along the path towards us. It could only be Captain Nemo.
'Away with you, crones!' he cried. 'Peddle your wares elsewhere!'
He probably would have beaten them with the stout branch he was brandishing had the witches not taken fright and vanished in a thunderclap of sound, cauldron and all.
'Hah!' said Nemo, throwing the branch towards where they had been. 'Next time I will make mincemeat of you, foul dissemblers of nature, with your hail this and your hail that!'
He looked at me accusingly.
'Did you give them any money?'
'No, sir.'
'Truthfully now! Did you give them anything at all?'
'No.'
'Good,' he replied. 'Never give them any money. It only encourages them. They'll coax you in with their fancy prophecies; suggest you'll have a new car and as soon as you start thinking you might need one — BANG! — they're offering you loans and insurance and other unwanted financial services. Poor old Macbeth took it a bit too seriously — all they were trying to do was sell him a mortgage and insurance on a bigger castle. When the Birnham wood and "no woman born" stuff all came true the witches were as surprised as anyone. So never fall for their little scams — it'll drain your wallet before you know it. Who are you, anyway?'
'Thursday Next,' I said, 'I'm standing in for—'
'Ah!' he muttered thoughtfully. 'The Outlander. Tell me, how do escalators work? Do they have one long staircase that is wound up on a huge drum and then rewound every night, or are they a continuous belt that just goes round and round?'
'An — um — continuous belt.'
'Really?' he replied reflectively. 'I've always wondered about that. Welcome to Caversham Heights. I am Captain Nemo. I have some coffee on the stove — I wonder whether you would grant me the honour of your company?'
I thanked him and we continued to walk along the lake's edge.
'A beautiful morning, would you not agree?' he asked, sweeping a hand towards the lake and the puffy clouds.
'It usually is,' I replied.
'For a terrestrial view it is almost passable,' added Nemo quickly. 'It is nothing but a passing fancy to the beauty of the deep, but in retirement we all have to make sacrifices.'
'I have read your book many times,' I said as courteously as I could, 'and have found much pleasure in its narrative.'
'Jules Verne was not simply my author but also a good friend,' said Nemo sadly. 'I was sorrowful on his passing, an emotion I do not share with many others of my kind.'
We had arrived at Nemo's home. No longer the sleek and dangerous craft from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, the riveted iron submarine was a shabby wreck streaked with rust, a thick green line of algae growing on the glass of the two large viewing windows. She belonged to a redolent age of high-technological expectation. She was the Nautilus.
We made our way up the gangplank and Nemo helped me aboard.
'Thank you,' I said, walking down the outer casing to the small conning tower where he had set up a chair and table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bade me sit down.
'You are here, like me,' he asked, 'resting — between engagements?'
'Maternity leave — of a sort,' I explained.
'Of these matters I know nothing,' he said gravely, pouring out a cup of coffee; the porcelain was White Star Line.
I took a sip and accepted the proffered biscuit. The coffee was excellent.
'Good, is it not?' he asked, a smile upon his lips.
'Indeed!' I replied. 'Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?'
'From the Guiana Basin,' he explained, 'an area of sea scattered with subterranean mountains and hills every bit as beautiful as the Andes. In a deep valley in this region I discovered an aquatic plant whose seeds, when dried and ground, make a coffee to match any that land can offer.'
His face fell for a moment and he looked into his cup, swirling the brown liquid around.
'As soon as this coffee is drunk, that will be the end of it. I have been moved around the Well of Lost Plots for almost a century now. I was to be in a sequel, you know — Jules Verne had written half of it when he died. The manuscript, alas, was thrown out after his death, and destroyed. I appealed to the Council of Genres against the enforced demolition order, and I — and the Nautilus, of course — was reprieved.'
He sighed.
'We have survived numerous moves from book to book within the Well. Now, as you see, I am marooned here. The voltaic piles, the source of the Nautilus's power, are almost worn out. The sodium, which I extract from sea water, is exhausted. For many years I have been the subject of a preservation order, but preservation without expenditure is worthless. The Nautilus needs only a few thousand words to be as good as new — yet I have no money, nor influence. I am only an eccentric loner awaiting a sequel that I fear will never be written.'
'I … I wish I could do something,' I replied, 'but Jurisfiction only keeps fiction in order — it does not dictate policy, nor choose which books are to be written. You have, I trust, advertised yourself?'
'For many years. Here, see for yourself.'
He handed me a copy of The Word. The 'Situations Sought' page took up half the newspaper and I read where Nemo pointed it out.
I doubted that his idea of a sensible offer would be like anyone else's — 20,000 Leagues under the Sea was a tough act to follow.
'You have read Caversham Heights'?' he asked.
I nodded.
'Then you will know that the scrapping is not only inevitable, but quite necessary. When the book goes to the breaker's yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The Nautilus, and I too, will be broken down into text — and long have I wished for it!'
He scowled at the floor and poured another cup of coffee.
'Unless,' he added, suddenly perking up, 'you thought I should have the advert in a box, with a picture? It costs extra but it might make it more eye catching.'
'It is worth a try, of course,' I replied.
Nemo rose to his feet and went below without another word. I thought he might return, but after twenty minutes had elapsed I decided to go home. I was ambling back along the lakeside path when I got a call from Havisham on the footnoterphone.[12]
'As always, Miss Havisham.'[13]
'Perkins must be annoyed about that,' I said, thinking, what with grammasites, a minotaur, Yahoos and a million or two rabbits, life in the bestiary must be something of a handful.[14]
'I'm on my way.' ,
17
I read myself into the Well and was soon in an elevator, heading up towards the Library. I had bought a copy of The Word; the front page led with: 'Nursery rhyme characters to go on indefinite strike'. Farther down, the previous night's attack on Heathcliff had been reported. It added that a terror group calling itself 'The Great Danes' had also threatened to kill him — they wanted Hamlet to win this year's 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead' BookWorld award and would do anything to achieve this. I turned to page two and found a large article extolling the virtues of UltraWord™ with an open letter from Text Grand Central explaining how nothing would change and all jobs and privileges would be protected.
The elevator stopped on the first floor; I quickly made my way to Sense and Sensibility and read myself in. The crowd was still outside the doors of Norland Park, this time with tents, a brass band and a metal brazier burning scrap wood. As soon as they saw me a chant went up:
'WE NEED A BREAK, WE NEED A BREAK …'
A tired-looking woman with an inordinate number of children gave me a leaflet.
'Three hundred and twenty-five years I've been doing this job,' she said, 'without even so much as a weekend off!'
'I'm sorry.'
'We don't want pity,' said Solomon Grundy, who, what with it being a Saturday, wasn't looking too healthy, 'we want action. Oral traditionalists should be allowed the same rights as any other fictioneers.'
'Right,' said a young lad carrying a bucket with his head wrapped in brown paper, 'no amount of money can compensate the brotherhood for the inconvenience caused by repetitive retellings. However, we would like to make the following demands. One: that all nursery rhyme characters are given immediate leave of absence for a two-week period. Two: that—'
'Really,' I interrupted him, 'you're talking to the wrong person. I'm only an apprentice. Jurisfiction has no power to dictate policy anyway — you need to speak to the Council of Genres.'
'The Council sent us to talk to TGC, who referred us to the Great Panjandrum,' said Humpty Dumpty to a chorus of vigorous head-nodding, 'but no one seems to know if he — or she -even exists.'
'If you've never seen him he probably doesn't exist,' said Little Jack Horner. 'Pie, anyone?'
'I've never seen Vincent Price,' I observed, 'but I know he exists.'
'Who?'
'An actor,' I explained, feeling somewhat foolish. 'Back home.'
Humpty Dumpty narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
'You're talking complete Lear, Miss Next.'
'King?'
'No,' he replied, 'Edward.'
'Oh.'
'MONGOOSE!' yelled Humpty, drawing a small revolver and throwing himself to the ground where, unluckily for him, there just happened to be a muddy puddle.
'You're mistaken,' explained Grundy wearily, 'it's a guide dog. Put the gun away before you hurt yourself.'
'A guide dog?' repeated Humpty, slowly getting to his feet. 'You're sure?'
'Have you spoken to WordMaster Libris?' I asked. 'We all know he exists.'
'He won't speak to us,' said Humpty Dumpty, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. 'The oral tradition is unaffected by the UltraWord™ upgrade so he doesn't think we're that important. If we don't negotiate a few rights before the new system comes in, we won't ever get any!'
'Libris won't even speak to you?' I repeated.
'He sends us notes,' squeaked the oldest of three mice, all of whom had no tails, held a white cane in one hand and a golden retriever in the other. 'He says that he is very busy but will give "our concerns his fullest attention".'
'What's going on?' squeaked one of the other mice. 'Is that Miss Next?'
'It's a brush-off,' said Grundy. 'Unless we get an answer soon there won't be a single nursery rhyme anywhere, either spoken or read! We're going on a forty-eight-hour stoppage from midnight. When parents can't remember the words to our rhymes, the fur will really fly, I can promise you that!'
'I'm sorry,' I began again, 'I have no authority — I can't do anything—'
'Then just take this to Agent Libris?'
Humpty Dumpty handed me a list of demands, neatly written on a page of foolscap paper. The crowd grew suddenly silent. A sea of eyes, all blinking expectantly, were directed at me.
'I promise nothing,' I said, taking the piece of paper, 'but if I see Libris, I will give this to him — okay?'
'Thank you very much,' said Humpty. 'At last someone from Jurisfiction will listen!'
I turned away and overheard Humpty say to Grundy: 'Well, I thought that went pretty well, didn't you?'
I walked briskly up the front steps of Norland Park, where I was admitted by the same frog-like footman I had seen on my first visit. I crossed the hall and entered the ballroom. Miss Havisham was at her desk with Akrid Snell, who was talking into the footnoterphone. Standing next to them was Bradshaw, who had not retired as promised, filling out a form with the Bellman, who appeared very grave. The only other occupant of the room was Harris Tweed, who was reading a report. He looked up as I entered, said nothing and continued reading. Miss Havisham was studying some photographs as I walked up.
'Damn and blast!' she said, looking at one before tossing it over her shoulder and staring at the next. 'Pathetic!' she muttered, looking at another. 'Derisive!'
'Perkins?' I asked, sitting down.
'Speed camera pictures back from the labs,' she said, handing them over. 'I thought I would have topped one hundred and sixty, but look — well, it's pitiful, that's what it is!'
I looked. The speed camera had caught the Higham Special but recorded only a top speed of 152.76 mph. But what was worse, it showed Mr Toad travelling at over a hundred and eighty — and he had even raised his hat at the speed camera as he went past.
'I managed a hundred and seventy when I tried it on the M4,' she said sadly. 'Trouble is, I need a longer stretch of road — or sand. Well, can't be helped now. The car has been sold. I'll have to go cap in hand to Sir Malcolm if I want to get a shot at beating Toad.'
'Norland Park to Perkins,' said Snell into the footnoterphone, 'come in, please. Over.'
I looked at Havisham.
'No answer for almost six hours,' she said. 'Mathias isn't answering either — we got a Yahoo once but you might as well talk to Mrs Bennett. What's that?'
'It's a list of demands from the nurseries outside.'
'Rabble,' replied Havisham, 'all of them replaceable. How hard can it be, appearing in a series of rhyming couplets? If they don't watch themselves they'll be replaced by scab Generics from the Well. It happened when the Amalgamated Union of Gateway Guardians struck in 1932. They never learn.'
'All they want is a holiday—'
'I shouldn't concern yourself with nursery politics, Miss Next,' said Havisham, so sharply I jumped.
'Good work on the ProCath attack,' announced Tweed, who had walked over. 'I've had a word with Plum over at JurisTech; he's going to extend the footnoterphone network to cover more of Wuthering Heights — we shouldn't have a problem with mobilefootnoterphones dropping out again.'
'We'd better not,' replied MissHavisham coldly. 'Lose Heathcliff and the Council of Genres will have our colons for garters. Now, to work. We don't know what to expect as regards the minotaur, so we have to be prepared.'
'Like boy scouts?'
'Can't stand them, but that's beside the point. Turn to page seven eighty-nine in your TravelBook.'
I did as she bade. This was in an area of the book where the pages contained gadgets in hollowed-out recesses deeper than the book was thick. One page contained a device similar to a flare gun which had 'Mk IV TextMarker' written on its side. Another page had a glass panel covering a handle like a fire alarm. A note painted on the glass read: 'IN UNPRECEDENTED EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS'. The page Havisham had indicated was neither of these; page 789 contained a brown Homburg hat. Hanging from the brim was a large red toggle with 'In emergency pull down sharply' written on it. There was also a chin strap, something I've never seen on a Homburg before — or even a fedora or trilby, come to that.
Havisham took the hat from my hands and gave me a brief induction course.
'This is the Martin-Bacon Mk VII Eject-O-Hat,' she explained, for high-speed evacuation from a book. Takes you straight out in an emergency.'
'Where to?'
'A little-known novel entitled The Middle of Next Week. You can make your way out to the Library at leisure. But be warned: the jump can be painful, even fatal — so it should only be used as a last resort. Remember to keep the chin strap tight or it'll take your ears off during the ejection sequence. I will say "JUMP!" twice — by the third I will have gone. Any questions?'
'How does it work?'
'I'll rephrase that — any questions I can possibly hope to answer?'
'Does this mean we'll see Bradshaw without his pith helmet?'
'Ha-ha!' Bradshaw laughed, releasing the toggle from the brim. 'I have the smaller Mk XII version — it could be fitted into a beret or a veil, if we so wished.'
I picked up the Homburg from the table and put it on.
'What are you expecting?' I asked slightly nervously, adjusting the chin strap.
'We think the minotaur has escaped,' she answered gravely. 'If it has and we meet it, just pull the cord as quickly as you can. It always takes at least ten to twelve words to initiate a standard jump — you could be minotaur appetiser by that time.'
I pulled out my automatic to check it but Bradshaw shook his head.
'Your Outlander lead will not be enough.'
He held up the box of cartridges he had signed for.
'Boojum-tipped,' he explained, tapping the large hunting rifle he was carrying, 'for total annihilation. Back to text in under a second. We call them Eraserheads. Snell? Are you ready?'
Snell had a fedora version of the Eject-O-Hat which suited his trenchcoat a bit better. He grunted but didn't look up. This assignment was personal. Perkins was his partner—not just at jurisfiction but in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels. If Perkins was hurt in some way, the future could be bleak. Generics could be trained to take over a vacated part, but it's never the same.
'Okay,' said Havisham, adjusting her own Homburg, 'we're out of here. Hold on to me, Next. If we are split up we'll meet at the gatehouse — no one enters the castle without Bradshaw, okay?'
Everyone agreed and Havisham mumbled to herself the code word and some of the text of Sword of the Zenobians.
Pretty soon Norland Park had vanished and the bright sun of Zenobia greeted us. The grass was springy under foot and herds of unicorns grazed peacefully beside the river. Grammasites wheeled in the blue skies, riding the thermals that rose from the warm grassland.
'Everyone here?' asked Havisham.
Bradshaw, Snell and I nodded our heads. We walked in silence, past the bridge, up to the old gatehouse and across the drawbridge. A dark shadow leaped from a corner of the deserted guardroom but before Bradshaw could fire Havisham yelled 'Wait!' and he stopped. It was a Yahoo — but he hadn't come to throw his shit about, he was running away in terror.
Bradshaw and Havisham exchanged nervous looks and we moved closer to where Perkins and Mathias had been doing their work. The door was broken and the hinges had vanished, replaced by two very light burn marks.
'Hold it!' said Bradshaw, pointing at the hinges. 'Did Perkins hold any vyrus on the premises?'
For a moment I didn't understand why Bradshaw was asking this question, but realisation slowly dawned upon me. He meant the mispeling vyrus. The hinges had become singes. The vyrus was a lot more powerful than I had supposed. Mispeled speech was only the start of it.
'Yes,' I replied, 'a small jar — well shielded by dictionaries.'
There was a strange and pregnant pause. The danger was real and very clear, and even seasoned PROs like Bradshaw and Havisham were thinking twice about entering Perkins' lab.
'What do you think?' asked Bradshaw.
'Vyrus and a minotaur,' Havisham sighed. 'We need more than the four of us.'
'I'm going in,' said Snell, pulling a respirator from his TravelBook. The mask was made of rubber and similar to the ones at home — only with a dictionary where the filter would have been. It wasn't just one dictionary, either — the Lavina-Webster had been taped back to back with the Oxford English Dictionary.
Don't forget your carrot,' said Havisham, pinning a vegetable to the front of his jacket.
'I'll need the rifle,' said Snell.
No,' replied Bradshaw, 'I signed for it, so I'm keeping it.'
'This is not the time for sticking to the rules, Bradshaw — my partner's in there!'
'This is exactly the time we should stick to the rules, Snell.'
They stared at one another.
'Then I'll go alone,' replied Snell with finality, pulling the mask down over his face and releasing the safety catch on his automatic. Havisham caught his elbow as she rummaged in her TravelBook for her own mask. 'We go together or not at all, Akrid.'
I found the correct page for the mask, pulled it out of its slot and put it on under the Eject-O-Hat. Miss Havisham pinned a carrot to my jacket, too.
'A carrot is the best litmus test for the mispeling vyrus,' she said, helping Bradshaw on with his mask. 'As soon as the carrot comes into contact with the vyrus, it will start to mispel into parrot. You need to be out before it can talk. We have a saying: "When you can hear Polly, use the brolly."'
She tapped the toggle of the Eject-O-Hat. X
'Understand?'
I nodded.
'Good. Bradshaw, lead the way!'
We stepped carefully across the door with its mispeled hinges and into the lab, which was in a state of chaotic disorder. Mispeling was merely an annoyance to readers in the real world — but inside fiction it was a menace. The mispeling was the effect of sense distortion, not the cause — once the internal meaning of a word started to break down then the mispeling arose as a consequence of this. Unmispeling the word at TGC might work if the vyrus hadn't taken a strong hold but usually it was pointless; like making the beds in a burning house.
The interior of the laboratory was heavily disrupted. On the far wall the shelves were filled with a noisy company of feather-bound rooks; we stepped forward on to the fattened tarpit only to see that the imposing table in the centre of the room was now an enormous label. The glass apparatus had become grass asparagus, and worst of all, Mathias the talking horse was simply a large model house — like a doll's house but much more detailed. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot. Already it was starting to change colour — I could see tinges of red, yellow and blue.
'Careful,' said Snell, 'look!'
On the floor next to more shards of broken grass was a small layer of the same purple mist I had seen the last time I was here. The area of the floor touched by the vyrus was constantly changing meaning, texture, colour and appearance.
'Where was the minotaur kept?' asked Havisham, her carrot beginning to sprout a small beak.
I pointed the way and Bradshaw took the lead. I pulled out my gun, despite Bradshaw's assurances that it was a waste of time, and he gently pushed open the door to the vault beneath the old hall. Snell snapped on a torch and flicked the beam into the chamber. The door to the minotaur's cage was open but of the beast there was no sign. I wish I could have said the same for Perkins. He — or what was left of him — was lying on the stone floor. The minotaur had devoured him up to his chest. His spine had been picked clean and the lower part of a leg had been thrown to one side. I choked at the sight and felt a knot rise in my throat. Bradshaw cursed and turned to cover the doorway. Snell dropped to his knees to close Perkins' eyes, which were staring off into space, a look of fear still etched upon his features. Miss Havisham laid a hand on Snell's shoulder.
'I'm so sorry, Akrid. Perkins was a good man.'
'I can't believe he would have been so stupid,' muttered Snell angrily.
'We should be leaving,' said Bradshaw. 'Now we know there is definitely a minotaur loose, we must come back better armed and with more agents!'
Snell got up. Behind his MV mask I could see tears in his eyes. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot, which had started to sprout feathers. A proper clean-up gang would be needed. Snell placed his jacket over Perkins and joined us as Bradshaw led the way out.
'Back to Norland, yes?'
'I've hunted minotaur before,' said Bradshaw, his instincts alerted. 'Tsaritsyn, 1944. They never stray far from the kill.'
'Bradshaw—!' urged Miss Havisham, but the commander wasn't the sort to take orders from another, not even someone as forthright as Havisham.
'I don't get it,' murmured Snell, stopping for a moment and staring at the chaos within the laboratory and the small glob of purple mist on the floor. 'There just isn't enough vyrus here to cause the problems we've seen.'
'What are you saying?' I asked.
Bradshaw looked carefully out of the open door, indicated all was clear and beckoned for us to leave.
'There might be some more vyrus around,' continued Snell. 'What's in this cupboard?'
He strode towards a small wooden cabinet that had telephone directory pages pasted all over it.
'Wait!' said Bradshaw, striding from the other side of the room. 'Let me.'
He grasped the handle as a thought struck me. They weren't telephone directory pages, they were from a dictionary. The door was shielded.
I shouted but it was too late. Bradshaw opened the cupboard and was bathed in a faint purple light. The cabinet contained two dozen or so broken jars, all of which leaked the pestilential vyrus.
'Ahh!' he cried, staggering backwards and dropping his gum as the carrot transformed into a very loud parrot. Bradshaw, his actions instinctive after years of training, pulled the cord on his Eject-O-Hat and vanished with a loud bang.
The room mutated as the mispelmg got a hold. The floor buckled and softened into flour, the walls changed into balls. I looked across at Havisham. Her carrot was a parrot, too — it had hopped to her other shoulder and was looking at me with its head cocked to one side.
'GO, GO!' she yelled at me, pulling the cord on her hat and vanishing like Bradshaw before her. I grasped the handle on mine and pulled — but it came off in my hand. I threw it to the ground where it became a candle.
'Hear,' said Snell, removing his own Eject-O-Hat, 'use myne.'
'Bat the vyruz!'
'Hange the vyruz, Neckts — jist go!'
He did not look at me again. He just walked towards the cupboard with the broken jars and slowly closed the door, his hands melting into glands as he touched the raw power of the vyrus. I ran outside, casting off the now useless hat and attempting to clip on the chin strap of Snell's. It wasn't easy. I caught my foot on a piece of half-buried masonry and fell headlong — to land within three paces of two large cloven hoofs.
I looked up. The minotaur was semi-crouched on his muscular haunches, ready to jump. His bull's head was large and sat heavily on his body — what neck he had was hidden beneath taut muscle. Within his mouth two rows of fine pointed teeth were shiny with saliva, and his sharpened horns pointed forward, ready to attack. Five years eating nothing but yogurt. You might as well feed a tiger on custard creams.
'Nice minotaur,' I said soothingly, slowly reaching for my automatic which had fallen on the grass beside me, 'good minotaur.'
He took a step closer, his hoofs making deep impressions in the grass. He stared at me and breathed out heavily through his nostrils, blowing tendrils of mucus into the air. He took another step, his deep-set yellow eyes staring into mine with an expression of loathing. My hand closed around the butt of my automatic as the minotaur bent closer and put out a large clawed hand. I moved the gun slowly back towards me as the minotaur reached down and … picked up Snell's hat. He turned it over in his claws and licked the brim with a tongue the size of my forearm. I had seen enough. I levelled my automatic and pulled the trigger at the same time as the minotaur's hand caught in the toggle and activated the Eject-O-Hat. The mythological man-beast vanished with a loud detonation as my gun went off, the shot whistling harmlessly through the air.
I breathed a sigh of relief but quickly rolled aside because, with a loud whooshing noise, a packing case fell from the heavens and landed with a crash right where I had lain. The case had 'Property of Jurisfiction' stencilled on it and had split open to reveal … dictionaries.
Another case landed close by, then a third and a fourth. Before I had time to even begin to figure out what was happening, Bradshaw had reappeared.
'Why didn't you jump, you little fool?'
'My hat failed!'
'And Snell?'
'Inside.'
Bradshaw pulled on his MV mask and rushed off into the building as I took refuge from the packing cases of dictionaries which were falling with increased rapidity. Harris Tweed appeared and barked orders at the small army of Mrs Danvers that had materialised with him. They were all wearing identical black dresses high-buttoned to the collar, which only served to make their pale skin seem even whiter, their hollow eyes more sinister. They moved slowly, but purposefully, and began to stack, one by one, the dictionaries against the castle keep.
'Where's the minotaur?' asked Havisham, who suddenly appeared close by.
I told her he had ejected with Snell's fedora and she vanished without another word.
Bradshaw reappeared from the keep, dragging Snell behind him. The rubber on Akrid's MV mask had turned to blubber, his suit to soot. Bradshaw removed him from Sword of the Zenobians to the Jurisfiction sickbay just as Miss Havisham returned. We watched together as the stacked dictionaries rose around the remains of Perkins' laboratory, twenty foot thick at the base, rising to a dome like a sugarloaf over the castle keep. It might have taken a long time but there were many Mrs Danvers, they were highly organised, and they had an inexhaustible supply of dictionaries.
'Find the minotaur?' I asked Havisham.
'Long gone,' she replied. 'There will be hell to pay about this, I assure you!'
Sergeant Tozer took command and ordered me to an APC that had lost its tracks and been thrown upside down. I parked behind the wrecked carrier as Tozer and the squad jumped out to retrieve the wounded.
'But what were you really thinking about?' asked Aornis, who was beside me in the carrier, looking disdainfully at the dust and oil.
'Escape,' I said. 'I was terrified. We all were.'
'Next!' yelled Tozer. 'Stop talking to Aornis and take us to the next APC!'
I pulled away as another explosion went off. I saw a turret whirling through the air, a pair of legs dangling from beneath it.
I drove to the next APC, the shrapnel hitting our carrier almost continuously like hail on a tin roof. The survivors were firing impotently back with their rifles; it wasn't looking good. The APC was filled with the wounded and as I turned round something hit the carrier a glancing blow. It was a dud; it had struck us obliquely and bounced off — I would see the yard-long gouge in the armour plate the following day. Within a hundred yards we were in relative safety as the dust and smoke screened our retreat; pretty soon we had passed the forward command post where all the officers were shouting into their field telephones, and on to the dressing areas beyond. Even though I knew this was a dream, the fear felt as real as it had on the day, and tears of frustration welled up inside me. I thought Aornis would carry on with this memory for the return run to the barrage, but there was clearly a technique behind her barbaric game; in a blink we were back on the roof at Thornfield Hall.
Acheron carried on where he had left off; he was looking at me with a triumphant expression.
'It may come as some consolation,' he carried on, 'that I planned to bestow upon you the honour of becoming Felix9— Who are you?'
He was looking at Aornis.
'Aornis,' she said shyly.
Acheron gave a rare smile and lowered his gun.
'Aornis?' he echoed. 'Little Aornis?' She nodded and ran across to give him a hug.
'My goodness!' he said, looking her over carefully. 'How you have grown! Last time I saw you you were this high and had barely even started torturing animals. Tell me: did you follow us into the family business or did you flunk out like that loser Styx?'
'I'm a mnemonomorph!' she said proudly, eager for her sibling's approval.
'Of course!' he said. 'I should have guessed. We're in that Next woman's memories right now, aren't we?'
She nodded enthusiastically.
'Attagirl! Tell me, did she actually kill me? I'm only here as the memory of me in her mind, after all.'
'I'm afraid not,' said Aornis glumly, 'she killed you well and good.'
'By using treachery? Did I die a Hades?'
'I'm afraid not — it was a noble victory.'
'Bitch!'
'Seconded. But I'll have the revenge you deserve, dear brother, you can be sure of that.'
A family reunion like this should have been heart warming but I can't say I was moved. Still, at least it kept us away from the Crimea.
'Mother's very upset with you,' said Aornis, who had the Hades penchant for straight talking.
'Why?'
'Why do you think? You murdered Styx.'
'Styx was a fool and he brought shame on the Hades family. If Father were still alive he would have done the job himself
'Well, Mother was very upset about it and I think you should apologise.'
'Okay, next time. Wait a moment, I'm dead — I can't apologise to anyone. You apologise for me.'
'I'm a mnemonomorph, remember — and this is only me as a mindworm; a sort of satellite persona, if you like. Listen, if I knew where Thursday was, she'd be dead already. No, when I can report back to Aornis proper, this is what we'll do—'
'Psssst!' said a voice close to my ear. It was Granny Next.
'Gran!' I said. 'Am I glad to see you!'
'C'mon,' she said, 'while Aornis is distracted.'
She took my hand and led me across the roof to the window where we entered the building. But instead of the burning remains of Thornfield Hall we were on the sidelines of a croquet match. Not any croquet match: it was a World Croquet League final — a SuperHoop. I used to play croquet quite seriously until SpecOps work absorbed all my free time. The two teams were in their body armour, leaning on their willow mallets and discussing strategy during a time-out.
'Okay,' said Aubrey Jarnbe, who was wearing the captain's sweater, 'Biffo is going to take the red ball from the forty-yard line over the rhododendron bushes, past the Italian sunken garden and into a close position to hoop five. Spike, you'll take it from there and croquet their yellow — Stig will defend you. George, I want you to mark their number five. He's a Neanderthal, so you're going to have to use any tricks you can. Smudger, you're going to foul the duchess — when the vicar gives you the red card, I'm calling in Thursday. Yes?'
They all looked at me. I was in body armour too. I was a substitute. A croquet mallet was slung round my wrist with a lanyard and I was holding a helmet.
'Thursday?' repeated Aubrey. 'Are you okay? You look like you're in a dream world!'
'I'm fine,' I said slowly, 'I'll wait for your command.'
'Good.'
A horn went off, indicating the time-out was over. I looked up at the Scoreboard. Swindon was losing 12 hoops to 21.
'Gran,' I said slowly, watching the team run out to continue play, 'I don't remember this.'
'Of course not!' she said, as though I were a fool. 'This is one of mine. Aornis will never find us here.'
'Wait a moment,' I said, 'how can I be dreaming with your memories?'
'Tch, tch,' she scolded, 'so many questions! It will all be explained in due course. Now, do you want to go into some of that deep, dreamless sleep, and get some rest?'
'Oh, please!' '
'Good. Aornis will not bother you again tonight — I shall watch over you.'
She approached a burly croquet player who had only one ear. After saying a few words, she pointed at me. I looked around at the stadium. It was the Swindon croquet stadium, yet somehow different. Behind me in the dignitaries' box I was surprised to see Yorrick Kaine speaking to one of his assistants. Next to him was President Formby, who gave me a smile and a wave. I turned away, my eyes looking into the crowd and falling upon the one person that I did want to see. It was Landen, and he was bouncing a young child on his lap.
'Landen!' I shouted, but a cheer went up from the crowd and I was drowned out. But he did see me, and smiled. He held the infant's hand and made it wave too. Gran tugged my shoulder pad to get my attention.
'Gran,' I said, 'it's Lan—'
And then the mallet struck my head. Blackness and oblivion. As usual, just when I got to the good bit.
16
Captain Nemo
'Wemmick's Stores: To enable Jurisfiction agents to travel easily and undetected within fiction, Wemmick's Stores was built within the lobby of the Great Library. The stores have an almost unlimited inventory as Mr Wemmick is permitted to create whatever he needs using a small ImaginoTransference device licensed by Text Grand Central. To reduce pilfering by Jurisfiction staff, all items checked out must be checked in again whereupon they are promptly reduced to text.'
UA OF W CAT— The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)
I woke late the following morning. My bed was next to the porthole so I rolled over, doubled up a pillow and gazed out at the sun sparkling upon the surface of the lake. I could hear the gentle slap of the water against the flying boat's hull, and it gave me a sense of ease and inner peace that ten years of SpecOps' finest Stressperts couldn't bully into you.
I got up slowly and felt woozy all of a sudden. The room spun around and I felt hot. After a brief and unpleasant visit to the loo, I felt a bit better, and went downstairs.
I made myself some toast as it helped the nausea, and caught sight of myself in the chrome toaster. I looked dreadful, and I was holding up the toaster and sticking my tongue out, trying to see what it looked like, when the Generics walked in.
'What on earth are you doing?' asked Ibb.
'Nothing,' I replied, hurriedly replacing the toaster. 'Off to college?'
They both nodded. I noticed that they'd not only made their own lunch but actually cleared away after them. A certain sensitivity to others is a good sign in a Generic. It shows personality.
'Do you know where Gran is?' I asked.
'She said she was off to the Medici court for a few days,' replied Obb. 'She left you that note.'
I found the note on the counter and picked it up, studying the one-word message with slight confusion.
'We'll be back at five,' announced Ibb. 'Do you need anything?'
'What? Er — no,' I said, reading Gran's note again. 'See you then.'
I ate a huge breakfast and did some more of the multiple choice test. After a half-hour battling through such questions as: Which book does Sam Wetter the boot boy reside in? and Who said: 'When she appeared it was as though spring had finally arrived after a miserable winter'? I stopped and looked at Gran's note for the tenth time. It was confusing. Written in a small and shaky hand, the note consisted of a single word: REMEMBER!
'Remember what? I muttered to myself, and went for a walk.
I strolled down to the banks of the lake, taking a path through a grove of birches that grew by the water's edge. I ducked under the low branches and followed my nose towards the odd assortment of vessels that were moored next to the old Sunderland. The first was a converted naval pinnace, her decks covered in plastic and in a constant state of renovation. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, abandoned and sunk at its moorings. As I moved to walk on there was a sudden screech of demonic laughter followed by a peal of thunder and the smell of brimstone borne on a gust of icy wind. I blinked and coughed as thick green smoke momentarily enveloped me; when it had cleared I was no longer alone. Three old hags with hooked chins and mottled complexions danced and cackled in front of me, rubbing their dirty hands and dancing in the most clumsy and uncoordinated fashion. It was the worst piece of overacting I had ever seen.
'Thrice the blinded dog shall bark,' said the first witch, producing a cauldron from the air and placing it on the path in front of me.
'Thrice and once the hedge-pig ironed,' said the second, who conjured up a fire by throwing some leaves beneath the cauldron.
'Passer-by cries, 'Tis time, 'tis time!' screeched the third, tossing something into the cauldron that started to bubble ominously.
'I really don't have time for this,' I said crossly. 'Why don't you go and bother someone else?'
'Fillet of a pickled hake,' continued the second witch, 'In the cauldron broil and bake; Lie of Stig and bark of dog, Woolly hat and bowl of fog, Fadda loch and song by Bing, Wizard's leg and Spitfire's wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble!'
'I'm sorry to interrupt,' I said, 'but I really am very busy — and none of your prophecies have come true, apart from the citizen of Swindon bit and anyone with a telephone directory could find that out. And listen, you knew I was an apprentice so I had to be taking my jurisfiction finals sooner or later!'
They stopped cackling and looked at one another. The first witch drew a large pocket watch from the folds of her tatty cloak and looked at it carefully.
'Give it ye time, imperfect waiter!' she cried. 'All hail MsNext, beware and heed the thrice-read rule!'
'All hail MsNext, I before E except after C!' cackled the second.
'All hail MsNext!' added the third, who clearly didn't want to be left out. 'Meet a king but not be one, Read a King but not—'
'SHOO!' shouted a loud voice behind me. The three witches stopped and stared at the new visitor crossly. He was an old man whose weathered face looked as though it had been gnarled by years of adventuring across the globe. He wore a blue blazer over a polo-neck Aran sweater and on his head a captain's cap sat above his lined features, a few wisps of grey hair showing from underneath the sweatband. His eyes sparkled with life and a grimace cracked his craggy features as he walked along the path towards us. It could only be Captain Nemo.
'Away with you, crones!' he cried. 'Peddle your wares elsewhere!'
He probably would have beaten them with the stout branch he was brandishing had the witches not taken fright and vanished in a thunderclap of sound, cauldron and all.
'Hah!' said Nemo, throwing the branch towards where they had been. 'Next time I will make mincemeat of you, foul dissemblers of nature, with your hail this and your hail that!'
He looked at me accusingly.
'Did you give them any money?'
'No, sir.'
'Truthfully now! Did you give them anything at all?'
'No.'
'Good,' he replied. 'Never give them any money. It only encourages them. They'll coax you in with their fancy prophecies; suggest you'll have a new car and as soon as you start thinking you might need one — BANG! — they're offering you loans and insurance and other unwanted financial services. Poor old Macbeth took it a bit too seriously — all they were trying to do was sell him a mortgage and insurance on a bigger castle. When the Birnham wood and "no woman born" stuff all came true the witches were as surprised as anyone. So never fall for their little scams — it'll drain your wallet before you know it. Who are you, anyway?'
'Thursday Next,' I said, 'I'm standing in for—'
'Ah!' he muttered thoughtfully. 'The Outlander. Tell me, how do escalators work? Do they have one long staircase that is wound up on a huge drum and then rewound every night, or are they a continuous belt that just goes round and round?'
'An — um — continuous belt.'
'Really?' he replied reflectively. 'I've always wondered about that. Welcome to Caversham Heights. I am Captain Nemo. I have some coffee on the stove — I wonder whether you would grant me the honour of your company?'
I thanked him and we continued to walk along the lake's edge.
'A beautiful morning, would you not agree?' he asked, sweeping a hand towards the lake and the puffy clouds.
'It usually is,' I replied.
'For a terrestrial view it is almost passable,' added Nemo quickly. 'It is nothing but a passing fancy to the beauty of the deep, but in retirement we all have to make sacrifices.'
'I have read your book many times,' I said as courteously as I could, 'and have found much pleasure in its narrative.'
'Jules Verne was not simply my author but also a good friend,' said Nemo sadly. 'I was sorrowful on his passing, an emotion I do not share with many others of my kind.'
We had arrived at Nemo's home. No longer the sleek and dangerous craft from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, the riveted iron submarine was a shabby wreck streaked with rust, a thick green line of algae growing on the glass of the two large viewing windows. She belonged to a redolent age of high-technological expectation. She was the Nautilus.
We made our way up the gangplank and Nemo helped me aboard.
'Thank you,' I said, walking down the outer casing to the small conning tower where he had set up a chair and table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bade me sit down.
'You are here, like me,' he asked, 'resting — between engagements?'
'Maternity leave — of a sort,' I explained.
'Of these matters I know nothing,' he said gravely, pouring out a cup of coffee; the porcelain was White Star Line.
I took a sip and accepted the proffered biscuit. The coffee was excellent.
'Good, is it not?' he asked, a smile upon his lips.
'Indeed!' I replied. 'Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?'
'From the Guiana Basin,' he explained, 'an area of sea scattered with subterranean mountains and hills every bit as beautiful as the Andes. In a deep valley in this region I discovered an aquatic plant whose seeds, when dried and ground, make a coffee to match any that land can offer.'
His face fell for a moment and he looked into his cup, swirling the brown liquid around.
'As soon as this coffee is drunk, that will be the end of it. I have been moved around the Well of Lost Plots for almost a century now. I was to be in a sequel, you know — Jules Verne had written half of it when he died. The manuscript, alas, was thrown out after his death, and destroyed. I appealed to the Council of Genres against the enforced demolition order, and I — and the Nautilus, of course — was reprieved.'
He sighed.
'We have survived numerous moves from book to book within the Well. Now, as you see, I am marooned here. The voltaic piles, the source of the Nautilus's power, are almost worn out. The sodium, which I extract from sea water, is exhausted. For many years I have been the subject of a preservation order, but preservation without expenditure is worthless. The Nautilus needs only a few thousand words to be as good as new — yet I have no money, nor influence. I am only an eccentric loner awaiting a sequel that I fear will never be written.'
'I … I wish I could do something,' I replied, 'but Jurisfiction only keeps fiction in order — it does not dictate policy, nor choose which books are to be written. You have, I trust, advertised yourself?'
'For many years. Here, see for yourself.'
He handed me a copy of The Word. The 'Situations Sought' page took up half the newspaper and I read where Nemo pointed it out.
Eccentric and autocratic sea dog (ex-Verne) requires exciting and morally superior tale to exercise knowledge of the oceans and discuss man's place t within his enviornment. French spoken, has own submarine. Apply: Captain Nemo, c/o Caversham Heights, sub-basement six, WOLP.'Every week for over a century,' he grumbled, 'but not one sensible offer.'
I doubted that his idea of a sensible offer would be like anyone else's — 20,000 Leagues under the Sea was a tough act to follow.
'You have read Caversham Heights'?' he asked.
I nodded.
'Then you will know that the scrapping is not only inevitable, but quite necessary. When the book goes to the breaker's yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The Nautilus, and I too, will be broken down into text — and long have I wished for it!'
He scowled at the floor and poured another cup of coffee.
'Unless,' he added, suddenly perking up, 'you thought I should have the advert in a box, with a picture? It costs extra but it might make it more eye catching.'
'It is worth a try, of course,' I replied.
Nemo rose to his feet and went below without another word. I thought he might return, but after twenty minutes had elapsed I decided to go home. I was ambling back along the lakeside path when I got a call from Havisham on the footnoterphone.[12]
'As always, Miss Havisham.'[13]
'Perkins must be annoyed about that,' I said, thinking, what with grammasites, a minotaur, Yahoos and a million or two rabbits, life in the bestiary must be something of a handful.[14]
'I'm on my way.' ,
17
Minotaur trouble
'TravelBook Standard-issue equipment to all Jurisfiction agents, the dimensionally ambivalent TravelBook contains information, tips, maps, recipes and extracts from popular or troublesome novels to enable speedier transbook travel It also contains numerous JurisTech gadgets for more specialised tasks such as an MV mask, TextMarker and Eject-O-Hat The TravelBook's cover is read-locked to each individual operative and contains as standard an emergency alert and auto-destruct mechanism '
UA OF W CAT — The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)
I read myself into the Well and was soon in an elevator, heading up towards the Library. I had bought a copy of The Word; the front page led with: 'Nursery rhyme characters to go on indefinite strike'. Farther down, the previous night's attack on Heathcliff had been reported. It added that a terror group calling itself 'The Great Danes' had also threatened to kill him — they wanted Hamlet to win this year's 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead' BookWorld award and would do anything to achieve this. I turned to page two and found a large article extolling the virtues of UltraWord™ with an open letter from Text Grand Central explaining how nothing would change and all jobs and privileges would be protected.
The elevator stopped on the first floor; I quickly made my way to Sense and Sensibility and read myself in. The crowd was still outside the doors of Norland Park, this time with tents, a brass band and a metal brazier burning scrap wood. As soon as they saw me a chant went up:
'WE NEED A BREAK, WE NEED A BREAK …'
A tired-looking woman with an inordinate number of children gave me a leaflet.
'Three hundred and twenty-five years I've been doing this job,' she said, 'without even so much as a weekend off!'
'I'm sorry.'
'We don't want pity,' said Solomon Grundy, who, what with it being a Saturday, wasn't looking too healthy, 'we want action. Oral traditionalists should be allowed the same rights as any other fictioneers.'
'Right,' said a young lad carrying a bucket with his head wrapped in brown paper, 'no amount of money can compensate the brotherhood for the inconvenience caused by repetitive retellings. However, we would like to make the following demands. One: that all nursery rhyme characters are given immediate leave of absence for a two-week period. Two: that—'
'Really,' I interrupted him, 'you're talking to the wrong person. I'm only an apprentice. Jurisfiction has no power to dictate policy anyway — you need to speak to the Council of Genres.'
'The Council sent us to talk to TGC, who referred us to the Great Panjandrum,' said Humpty Dumpty to a chorus of vigorous head-nodding, 'but no one seems to know if he — or she -even exists.'
'If you've never seen him he probably doesn't exist,' said Little Jack Horner. 'Pie, anyone?'
'I've never seen Vincent Price,' I observed, 'but I know he exists.'
'Who?'
'An actor,' I explained, feeling somewhat foolish. 'Back home.'
Humpty Dumpty narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
'You're talking complete Lear, Miss Next.'
'King?'
'No,' he replied, 'Edward.'
'Oh.'
'MONGOOSE!' yelled Humpty, drawing a small revolver and throwing himself to the ground where, unluckily for him, there just happened to be a muddy puddle.
'You're mistaken,' explained Grundy wearily, 'it's a guide dog. Put the gun away before you hurt yourself.'
'A guide dog?' repeated Humpty, slowly getting to his feet. 'You're sure?'
'Have you spoken to WordMaster Libris?' I asked. 'We all know he exists.'
'He won't speak to us,' said Humpty Dumpty, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. 'The oral tradition is unaffected by the UltraWord™ upgrade so he doesn't think we're that important. If we don't negotiate a few rights before the new system comes in, we won't ever get any!'
'Libris won't even speak to you?' I repeated.
'He sends us notes,' squeaked the oldest of three mice, all of whom had no tails, held a white cane in one hand and a golden retriever in the other. 'He says that he is very busy but will give "our concerns his fullest attention".'
'What's going on?' squeaked one of the other mice. 'Is that Miss Next?'
'It's a brush-off,' said Grundy. 'Unless we get an answer soon there won't be a single nursery rhyme anywhere, either spoken or read! We're going on a forty-eight-hour stoppage from midnight. When parents can't remember the words to our rhymes, the fur will really fly, I can promise you that!'
'I'm sorry,' I began again, 'I have no authority — I can't do anything—'
'Then just take this to Agent Libris?'
Humpty Dumpty handed me a list of demands, neatly written on a page of foolscap paper. The crowd grew suddenly silent. A sea of eyes, all blinking expectantly, were directed at me.
'I promise nothing,' I said, taking the piece of paper, 'but if I see Libris, I will give this to him — okay?'
'Thank you very much,' said Humpty. 'At last someone from Jurisfiction will listen!'
I turned away and overheard Humpty say to Grundy: 'Well, I thought that went pretty well, didn't you?'
I walked briskly up the front steps of Norland Park, where I was admitted by the same frog-like footman I had seen on my first visit. I crossed the hall and entered the ballroom. Miss Havisham was at her desk with Akrid Snell, who was talking into the footnoterphone. Standing next to them was Bradshaw, who had not retired as promised, filling out a form with the Bellman, who appeared very grave. The only other occupant of the room was Harris Tweed, who was reading a report. He looked up as I entered, said nothing and continued reading. Miss Havisham was studying some photographs as I walked up.
'Damn and blast!' she said, looking at one before tossing it over her shoulder and staring at the next. 'Pathetic!' she muttered, looking at another. 'Derisive!'
'Perkins?' I asked, sitting down.
'Speed camera pictures back from the labs,' she said, handing them over. 'I thought I would have topped one hundred and sixty, but look — well, it's pitiful, that's what it is!'
I looked. The speed camera had caught the Higham Special but recorded only a top speed of 152.76 mph. But what was worse, it showed Mr Toad travelling at over a hundred and eighty — and he had even raised his hat at the speed camera as he went past.
'I managed a hundred and seventy when I tried it on the M4,' she said sadly. 'Trouble is, I need a longer stretch of road — or sand. Well, can't be helped now. The car has been sold. I'll have to go cap in hand to Sir Malcolm if I want to get a shot at beating Toad.'
'Norland Park to Perkins,' said Snell into the footnoterphone, 'come in, please. Over.'
I looked at Havisham.
'No answer for almost six hours,' she said. 'Mathias isn't answering either — we got a Yahoo once but you might as well talk to Mrs Bennett. What's that?'
'It's a list of demands from the nurseries outside.'
'Rabble,' replied Havisham, 'all of them replaceable. How hard can it be, appearing in a series of rhyming couplets? If they don't watch themselves they'll be replaced by scab Generics from the Well. It happened when the Amalgamated Union of Gateway Guardians struck in 1932. They never learn.'
'All they want is a holiday—'
'I shouldn't concern yourself with nursery politics, Miss Next,' said Havisham, so sharply I jumped.
'Good work on the ProCath attack,' announced Tweed, who had walked over. 'I've had a word with Plum over at JurisTech; he's going to extend the footnoterphone network to cover more of Wuthering Heights — we shouldn't have a problem with mobilefootnoterphones dropping out again.'
'We'd better not,' replied MissHavisham coldly. 'Lose Heathcliff and the Council of Genres will have our colons for garters. Now, to work. We don't know what to expect as regards the minotaur, so we have to be prepared.'
'Like boy scouts?'
'Can't stand them, but that's beside the point. Turn to page seven eighty-nine in your TravelBook.'
I did as she bade. This was in an area of the book where the pages contained gadgets in hollowed-out recesses deeper than the book was thick. One page contained a device similar to a flare gun which had 'Mk IV TextMarker' written on its side. Another page had a glass panel covering a handle like a fire alarm. A note painted on the glass read: 'IN UNPRECEDENTED EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS'. The page Havisham had indicated was neither of these; page 789 contained a brown Homburg hat. Hanging from the brim was a large red toggle with 'In emergency pull down sharply' written on it. There was also a chin strap, something I've never seen on a Homburg before — or even a fedora or trilby, come to that.
Havisham took the hat from my hands and gave me a brief induction course.
'This is the Martin-Bacon Mk VII Eject-O-Hat,' she explained, for high-speed evacuation from a book. Takes you straight out in an emergency.'
'Where to?'
'A little-known novel entitled The Middle of Next Week. You can make your way out to the Library at leisure. But be warned: the jump can be painful, even fatal — so it should only be used as a last resort. Remember to keep the chin strap tight or it'll take your ears off during the ejection sequence. I will say "JUMP!" twice — by the third I will have gone. Any questions?'
'How does it work?'
'I'll rephrase that — any questions I can possibly hope to answer?'
'Does this mean we'll see Bradshaw without his pith helmet?'
'Ha-ha!' Bradshaw laughed, releasing the toggle from the brim. 'I have the smaller Mk XII version — it could be fitted into a beret or a veil, if we so wished.'
I picked up the Homburg from the table and put it on.
'What are you expecting?' I asked slightly nervously, adjusting the chin strap.
'We think the minotaur has escaped,' she answered gravely. 'If it has and we meet it, just pull the cord as quickly as you can. It always takes at least ten to twelve words to initiate a standard jump — you could be minotaur appetiser by that time.'
I pulled out my automatic to check it but Bradshaw shook his head.
'Your Outlander lead will not be enough.'
He held up the box of cartridges he had signed for.
'Boojum-tipped,' he explained, tapping the large hunting rifle he was carrying, 'for total annihilation. Back to text in under a second. We call them Eraserheads. Snell? Are you ready?'
Snell had a fedora version of the Eject-O-Hat which suited his trenchcoat a bit better. He grunted but didn't look up. This assignment was personal. Perkins was his partner—not just at jurisfiction but in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels. If Perkins was hurt in some way, the future could be bleak. Generics could be trained to take over a vacated part, but it's never the same.
'Okay,' said Havisham, adjusting her own Homburg, 'we're out of here. Hold on to me, Next. If we are split up we'll meet at the gatehouse — no one enters the castle without Bradshaw, okay?'
Everyone agreed and Havisham mumbled to herself the code word and some of the text of Sword of the Zenobians.
Pretty soon Norland Park had vanished and the bright sun of Zenobia greeted us. The grass was springy under foot and herds of unicorns grazed peacefully beside the river. Grammasites wheeled in the blue skies, riding the thermals that rose from the warm grassland.
'Everyone here?' asked Havisham.
Bradshaw, Snell and I nodded our heads. We walked in silence, past the bridge, up to the old gatehouse and across the drawbridge. A dark shadow leaped from a corner of the deserted guardroom but before Bradshaw could fire Havisham yelled 'Wait!' and he stopped. It was a Yahoo — but he hadn't come to throw his shit about, he was running away in terror.
Bradshaw and Havisham exchanged nervous looks and we moved closer to where Perkins and Mathias had been doing their work. The door was broken and the hinges had vanished, replaced by two very light burn marks.
'Hold it!' said Bradshaw, pointing at the hinges. 'Did Perkins hold any vyrus on the premises?'
For a moment I didn't understand why Bradshaw was asking this question, but realisation slowly dawned upon me. He meant the mispeling vyrus. The hinges had become singes. The vyrus was a lot more powerful than I had supposed. Mispeled speech was only the start of it.
'Yes,' I replied, 'a small jar — well shielded by dictionaries.'
There was a strange and pregnant pause. The danger was real and very clear, and even seasoned PROs like Bradshaw and Havisham were thinking twice about entering Perkins' lab.
'What do you think?' asked Bradshaw.
'Vyrus and a minotaur,' Havisham sighed. 'We need more than the four of us.'
'I'm going in,' said Snell, pulling a respirator from his TravelBook. The mask was made of rubber and similar to the ones at home — only with a dictionary where the filter would have been. It wasn't just one dictionary, either — the Lavina-Webster had been taped back to back with the Oxford English Dictionary.
Don't forget your carrot,' said Havisham, pinning a vegetable to the front of his jacket.
'I'll need the rifle,' said Snell.
No,' replied Bradshaw, 'I signed for it, so I'm keeping it.'
'This is not the time for sticking to the rules, Bradshaw — my partner's in there!'
'This is exactly the time we should stick to the rules, Snell.'
They stared at one another.
'Then I'll go alone,' replied Snell with finality, pulling the mask down over his face and releasing the safety catch on his automatic. Havisham caught his elbow as she rummaged in her TravelBook for her own mask. 'We go together or not at all, Akrid.'
I found the correct page for the mask, pulled it out of its slot and put it on under the Eject-O-Hat. Miss Havisham pinned a carrot to my jacket, too.
'A carrot is the best litmus test for the mispeling vyrus,' she said, helping Bradshaw on with his mask. 'As soon as the carrot comes into contact with the vyrus, it will start to mispel into parrot. You need to be out before it can talk. We have a saying: "When you can hear Polly, use the brolly."'
She tapped the toggle of the Eject-O-Hat. X
'Understand?'
I nodded.
'Good. Bradshaw, lead the way!'
We stepped carefully across the door with its mispeled hinges and into the lab, which was in a state of chaotic disorder. Mispeling was merely an annoyance to readers in the real world — but inside fiction it was a menace. The mispeling was the effect of sense distortion, not the cause — once the internal meaning of a word started to break down then the mispeling arose as a consequence of this. Unmispeling the word at TGC might work if the vyrus hadn't taken a strong hold but usually it was pointless; like making the beds in a burning house.
The interior of the laboratory was heavily disrupted. On the far wall the shelves were filled with a noisy company of feather-bound rooks; we stepped forward on to the fattened tarpit only to see that the imposing table in the centre of the room was now an enormous label. The glass apparatus had become grass asparagus, and worst of all, Mathias the talking horse was simply a large model house — like a doll's house but much more detailed. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot. Already it was starting to change colour — I could see tinges of red, yellow and blue.
'Careful,' said Snell, 'look!'
On the floor next to more shards of broken grass was a small layer of the same purple mist I had seen the last time I was here. The area of the floor touched by the vyrus was constantly changing meaning, texture, colour and appearance.
'Where was the minotaur kept?' asked Havisham, her carrot beginning to sprout a small beak.
I pointed the way and Bradshaw took the lead. I pulled out my gun, despite Bradshaw's assurances that it was a waste of time, and he gently pushed open the door to the vault beneath the old hall. Snell snapped on a torch and flicked the beam into the chamber. The door to the minotaur's cage was open but of the beast there was no sign. I wish I could have said the same for Perkins. He — or what was left of him — was lying on the stone floor. The minotaur had devoured him up to his chest. His spine had been picked clean and the lower part of a leg had been thrown to one side. I choked at the sight and felt a knot rise in my throat. Bradshaw cursed and turned to cover the doorway. Snell dropped to his knees to close Perkins' eyes, which were staring off into space, a look of fear still etched upon his features. Miss Havisham laid a hand on Snell's shoulder.
'I'm so sorry, Akrid. Perkins was a good man.'
'I can't believe he would have been so stupid,' muttered Snell angrily.
'We should be leaving,' said Bradshaw. 'Now we know there is definitely a minotaur loose, we must come back better armed and with more agents!'
Snell got up. Behind his MV mask I could see tears in his eyes. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot, which had started to sprout feathers. A proper clean-up gang would be needed. Snell placed his jacket over Perkins and joined us as Bradshaw led the way out.
'Back to Norland, yes?'
'I've hunted minotaur before,' said Bradshaw, his instincts alerted. 'Tsaritsyn, 1944. They never stray far from the kill.'
'Bradshaw—!' urged Miss Havisham, but the commander wasn't the sort to take orders from another, not even someone as forthright as Havisham.
'I don't get it,' murmured Snell, stopping for a moment and staring at the chaos within the laboratory and the small glob of purple mist on the floor. 'There just isn't enough vyrus here to cause the problems we've seen.'
'What are you saying?' I asked.
Bradshaw looked carefully out of the open door, indicated all was clear and beckoned for us to leave.
'There might be some more vyrus around,' continued Snell. 'What's in this cupboard?'
He strode towards a small wooden cabinet that had telephone directory pages pasted all over it.
'Wait!' said Bradshaw, striding from the other side of the room. 'Let me.'
He grasped the handle as a thought struck me. They weren't telephone directory pages, they were from a dictionary. The door was shielded.
I shouted but it was too late. Bradshaw opened the cupboard and was bathed in a faint purple light. The cabinet contained two dozen or so broken jars, all of which leaked the pestilential vyrus.
'Ahh!' he cried, staggering backwards and dropping his gum as the carrot transformed into a very loud parrot. Bradshaw, his actions instinctive after years of training, pulled the cord on his Eject-O-Hat and vanished with a loud bang.
The room mutated as the mispelmg got a hold. The floor buckled and softened into flour, the walls changed into balls. I looked across at Havisham. Her carrot was a parrot, too — it had hopped to her other shoulder and was looking at me with its head cocked to one side.
'GO, GO!' she yelled at me, pulling the cord on her hat and vanishing like Bradshaw before her. I grasped the handle on mine and pulled — but it came off in my hand. I threw it to the ground where it became a candle.
'Hear,' said Snell, removing his own Eject-O-Hat, 'use myne.'
'Bat the vyruz!'
'Hange the vyruz, Neckts — jist go!'
He did not look at me again. He just walked towards the cupboard with the broken jars and slowly closed the door, his hands melting into glands as he touched the raw power of the vyrus. I ran outside, casting off the now useless hat and attempting to clip on the chin strap of Snell's. It wasn't easy. I caught my foot on a piece of half-buried masonry and fell headlong — to land within three paces of two large cloven hoofs.
I looked up. The minotaur was semi-crouched on his muscular haunches, ready to jump. His bull's head was large and sat heavily on his body — what neck he had was hidden beneath taut muscle. Within his mouth two rows of fine pointed teeth were shiny with saliva, and his sharpened horns pointed forward, ready to attack. Five years eating nothing but yogurt. You might as well feed a tiger on custard creams.
'Nice minotaur,' I said soothingly, slowly reaching for my automatic which had fallen on the grass beside me, 'good minotaur.'
He took a step closer, his hoofs making deep impressions in the grass. He stared at me and breathed out heavily through his nostrils, blowing tendrils of mucus into the air. He took another step, his deep-set yellow eyes staring into mine with an expression of loathing. My hand closed around the butt of my automatic as the minotaur bent closer and put out a large clawed hand. I moved the gun slowly back towards me as the minotaur reached down and … picked up Snell's hat. He turned it over in his claws and licked the brim with a tongue the size of my forearm. I had seen enough. I levelled my automatic and pulled the trigger at the same time as the minotaur's hand caught in the toggle and activated the Eject-O-Hat. The mythological man-beast vanished with a loud detonation as my gun went off, the shot whistling harmlessly through the air.
I breathed a sigh of relief but quickly rolled aside because, with a loud whooshing noise, a packing case fell from the heavens and landed with a crash right where I had lain. The case had 'Property of Jurisfiction' stencilled on it and had split open to reveal … dictionaries.
Another case landed close by, then a third and a fourth. Before I had time to even begin to figure out what was happening, Bradshaw had reappeared.
'Why didn't you jump, you little fool?'
'My hat failed!'
'And Snell?'
'Inside.'
Bradshaw pulled on his MV mask and rushed off into the building as I took refuge from the packing cases of dictionaries which were falling with increased rapidity. Harris Tweed appeared and barked orders at the small army of Mrs Danvers that had materialised with him. They were all wearing identical black dresses high-buttoned to the collar, which only served to make their pale skin seem even whiter, their hollow eyes more sinister. They moved slowly, but purposefully, and began to stack, one by one, the dictionaries against the castle keep.
'Where's the minotaur?' asked Havisham, who suddenly appeared close by.
I told her he had ejected with Snell's fedora and she vanished without another word.
Bradshaw reappeared from the keep, dragging Snell behind him. The rubber on Akrid's MV mask had turned to blubber, his suit to soot. Bradshaw removed him from Sword of the Zenobians to the Jurisfiction sickbay just as Miss Havisham returned. We watched together as the stacked dictionaries rose around the remains of Perkins' laboratory, twenty foot thick at the base, rising to a dome like a sugarloaf over the castle keep. It might have taken a long time but there were many Mrs Danvers, they were highly organised, and they had an inexhaustible supply of dictionaries.
'Find the minotaur?' I asked Havisham.
'Long gone,' she replied. 'There will be hell to pay about this, I assure you!'