… The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind …
I glanced across at Marley on the Christmas Carol table. Through his semi-transparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim.
When the applause died down the MC announced the third nomination:
'Banquo's ghost from Macbeth. A slain friend and bloody revenge are on the menu in this Scottish play of power and obsession in the eleventh century,' he enthused. 'Is Macbeth the master of his own destiny, or the other way round? Let's have a look.'
Enter Ghost.
MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.
LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom. ’Tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH. What man dare, I dare.
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm’d rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble. Or be alive again,
And dare me to the desert with thy sword.
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence!
Exit Ghost.
'And the winner is …' announced the MC, opening the envelope, 'Count Dracula.'
The applause was deafening as the count walked up to receive his award. He shook hands with the MC and took the statuette before turning to the audience. He was white and cadaverous and I shivered involuntarily.
'First,' said the count in a soft voice with a slight lisp, 'my thanks go to Bram for his admirable reporting of my activities. I would also like to thank Lucy, Mr Harker and Van Helsing—'
'I hope he's not going to start crying like he did last year,' said a voice close to my ear. I turned to find the Cheshire Cat sitting very precariously on a seat-back. 'It's so embarrassing.'
But he did. The count was soon choking back floods of tears, thanking everyone he could think of and generally making a complete fool of himself.
'How are you enjoying the awards?' I said to the Cat, glad to see a friendly face.
'Not bad,' he replied. 'I think Orlando was a bit miffed to lose out to Puss in Boots for the "Best Talking Cat" award.'
'My money was on you.'
'Was it really?' said the Cat, smiling even more broadly. 'You are nice. Do you want some advice?'
'Indeed I do,' I replied. The Cheshire Cat had always remained totally impartial at Jurisfiction. A hundred Bellmans could come and go but the Cat would always be there – and his knowledge was vast. I leaned closer.
'Okay,' he announced grandly, 'here's the advice. Are you ready?'
'Yes.'
'Don't get off a bus while it's still moving.'
'That's very good advice,' I said slowly. 'Thank you very much.'
'Don't mention it,' said the Cat, and vanished.
'Hello, Thursday.'
'Hi, Randolph. How are things?'
'Okay,' he said slightly doubtfully. 'Have you seen Lola?'
'No.'
'Unlike her to miss a party,' he muttered. 'Do you think she's okay?'
'I think Lola can look after herself,' I told him. 'Why are you so interested?'
'I'm going to tell her that I quite like her!' he answered resolutely.
'Why stop there?'
'You mean tell her I really like her?'
'And more – but it's a good place to start.'
'Thanks. If you see her tell her I'm on the unplaced Generics table.'
I wished him good luck and he left. I got up and walked to a curtained-off area where several bookies were taking bets. I placed a hundred on Jay Gatsby to win the 'Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' award. I didn't think he would win; I just wanted Tweed to waste time trying to figure out what I was up to. I visited the Caversham Heights table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards.
'What's going on in the book?' she demanded indignantly. 'Jack tells me he's been changing a few things whilst I've been away!'
'Just a few,' I said, 'but don't worry, we wouldn't write anything embarrassing for you without consultation.'
Her eyes flicked across to Arnie, who was sharing a joke with Captain Nemo and Agatha Diesel.
'Just as well,' she replied.
The evening drew on, the celebrities announcing the nominations becoming more important as the categories became more highly regarded. 'Best Romantic Male' went to Darcy and 'Best Female in a "Coming of Age" Book' went to Scout Finch. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes to go before the prestigious 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' was due to be announced; the female version of this award had been well represented by Thomas Hardy; Bathsheba Everdene and Tess Durbeyfield both made it to the nominations only to be pipped at the post by the surprise winner, Lady Macbeth. Sylvia Plath was short-listed but was disqualified for being real.
I got up and walked to the Jurisfiction table as a drum roll announced the final category. The Bellman nodded politely to me and I looked around the room. It was time to act. UltraWord™ was not the saviour of the BookWorld – it would be the end, and I hoped that Mimi down in the footnoterphone conduits was ready.24
'And now, ladies, gentlemen and things, for the high point of the evening, the 923rd Annual BookWorld award for "Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)". To read the nominations we have none other than WordMaster Xavier Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central!'
There was loud applause which I hadn't expected – TGC wasn't that popular. I had a sudden attack of doubt. Could Deane be wrong? I thought again about Perkins, Snell and Havisham and my resolve returned. I grabbed my bag and got up. I saw Legree stiffen and rise from the Uncle Tom’s Cabin table, speaking into his cuff as he did so. I headed towards the exit with him tailing me.
'Thank you very much!' said Libris, raising his hands to quell the applause as Hamlet, Jude Fawley and Heathcliff stood close by, each wishing that Libris would hurry up so they could collect their statuette. 'I have a few words to say about the new operating system and then we can all get back to the awards.'
He took a deep breath.
'Many good words have been written about UltraWord™ and I have to tell you, they are all true. The benefits to everyone will be felt throughout the BookWorld, from the lowliest D-10 in the trashiest paperback to the finest A-1 in high literature.'
I walked to the side of the stage, towards the swing doors that led through to the hospitality lounge. Legree followed but was tripped up by Mathias' widow. She placed a hoof on his chest and held him firm while Mrs Hubbard grabbed one arm and Miss Muffet the other. It had been done so quietly no one had noticed.
'Non-fiction is gaining in popularity and this invasion into areas historically part of fiction must be cut off at the root. To this end myself and the technicians at Text Grand Central have created UltraWord™, the Book Operating System that gives us more choice, more plots, more ideas, and more ways in which to work. With these tools you and I will forge a new fiction, a fiction so varied that the readers will flock to us in droves. The future is bright – the future is UltraWord™.'
'Going somewhere, missy?' asked Heep, blocking my path.
'Get out of my way, Uriah.'
He pulled a gun from his pocket but stopped dead when a vo
ice said:
'Do you know what an eraserhead can do to an A-7 like you, Heep?'
Bradshaw emerged from behind a potted Triffid. He was carrying his trusty hunting rifle. Heep, coward that he was, dropped his pistol and started pleading for his life.
I walked through the swing doors and pulled out my mobile footnoterphone. Hospitality was deserted but I met Tweed at the entrance to the stage. I could see Libris talking and, beyond him, the audience hanging on his every word.
'Of course,' he went on, 'the new system will need new work procedures and all of you have had ample time to study our detailed seven-hundred-page prospectus; all jobs will be protected, the status of all Generics will be maintained. In a few minutes I will ask for a vote to carry the new system as required by the Council of Genres. But before I do, let us go over the main points again. Firstly, UltraWord™ will support the possibility of a "no frills" range of books with only forty-three different words, none of them longer than six letters. Designed for the hard-of-reading, these …'
I leaned forward and spoke to Tweed as Libris carried on talking to the audience.
"Is that why you invited all the C- and D-class Generics, Tweed?'
'What do you mean?'
'So you could force the vote? Your lies have greatest effect on those with little influence in the Well – give them the power to change something and they'll meekly follow you. After Libris has finished I'll give a rebuttal. When I'm done you and Libris and UltraWord™ will be history.'
Tweed stared at me as Libris went on to his third point.
'UltraWord™ is too important to be loused up by you,' said Tweed with a sneer. 'I agree there might be certain downsides but overall the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks.'
'Benefits to who, Tweed? You and Kaine?'
'Of course. And you too if only you'd stop meddling.'
'What did Kaine buy you with?'
'He didn't buy me, Next. We merged. His contacts in the Outland and my position at Jurisfiction. A fictional person in the real world and a real person in fiction. A better partnership it would be hard to imagine!'
'When they hear what I have to say,' I replied calmly, 'they'll never give you the vote.'
Tweed smiled that supercilious smile of his and stepped aside.
'You want to have your say, Thursday? Go ahead. Make a fool of yourself. But remember this: anything you say we can refute. We can modify the rules, change the facts, deny the truth, with written proof. That's the beauty of UltraWord™ – everything can be keyed in direct from Text Grand Central and, as you've so correctly gathered, everything there is controlled by Kaine, Libris and me. It's as easy to change the facts as it is to write a stub axle failure on the Bluebird – or unlock a padlock, or spill mispeling vyrus. Merely keystrokes, Next. We have the Great Library within our control – with the source text at our fingertips we can do anything. History will be good to us because we are the ones who shall write it!'
He laughed.
'You might as well try and canoe up a waterfall.'
He patted me patronisingly on the shoulder.
'But just in case you've got something up your sleeve,' he added, 'seven thousand highly trained Mrs Danvers are on call, ready to move in on my word. We can even write a rebellion if we want – the Council won't be able to tell the difference between a real one and a written one. We will have this vote, Thursday.'
'Yes, you might,' I conceded. 'All I want is for the characters to have their say with all the facts, not just yours.'
I looked at Libris on the stage.
'Point ten,' he went on as Heathcliff looked at his watch impatiently, 'all characters wherever they reside will be given four weeks' holiday a year in whichever book they choose.'
There was a roar of applause; he was offering everything they wanted to hear, buying the inhabitants of the BookWorld with hollow promises.
Tweed spoke into his mobile footnoterphone.
'Miss Next wants to have her say.'
I saw Libris touch his ear and turn round to stare at me contemptuously.
'But before the vote,' he added, 'before you say the word and we move upwards into broad sunlit pastures, I understand we have a Jurisfiction agent who wants to offer a counterpoint to my statement. This is her right. It is your right to ask for proof if you wish – and I most strongly request that you do so. Ladies and gentlemen, things – Miss Thursday Next!'
I murmured into my mobile footnoterphone.
'Go, Mimi, go!'25
Everyone in the Starlight Room reacted slightly to the distant explosion. Tweed steadied himself and spun round to glare at me.
'What was that?'
I patted him patronisingly on the shoulder.
'It's called levelling the playing field, Harris.'
33
UltraWord™
* * *
'Storycode Engine: The name given to the ImaginoTransference machines used by Text Grand Central to throughput the books in the Great Library to the readers in the Outland. On a single machine floor at TGC there are five hundred of these cast-iron, shiny brass and polished mahogany colossi. A single engine can cope with up to a thousand simultaneous readings of the same book at up to six words per second per reader. With a hundred similar floors, TGC is able to handle fifty million different readings, although the lowest thirty floors are generally only used when a long-awaited best-seller is published. Using the UltraWord™ system, only twelve engines would be needed to handle up to one hundred million simultaneous readings at speeds of up to twenty words per second.'
XAVIER LIBRIS – UltraWord™ – the Ultimate Reading Experience
Hamlet and Jude Fawley exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders as I walked up the steps and looked out at the crowd. Heathcliff, for whom all of this was merely delaying his moment of honour, glowered at me angrily. Oddly, I didn't feel at all nervous – only a sort of numb elation. I would do some serious throwing up in the toilets later, but for now I was fine.
'Good evening,' I said to the utterly silent audience. 'No one would deny that we need more plots, but there are one or two things about UltraWord™ that you should know.'
'Grand Central?!' said Tweed uselessly into his mobile footnoter-phone. 'Tweed to Text Grand Central, come in, please!'
I didn't have long. As soon as TGC knew what had happened they could write themselves another footnoterphone link.
'First, there are no new plots. In all the testing that has been done, not one has been described or hinted at. Libris, would you care to outline a "new" plot now?'
'They won't be available until UltraWord™ is online,' he said, glaring at Tweed, who was still trying to contact Text Grand Central.
'Then they are untested. Second,' I went on, 'UltraWord™ carries a thrice-read-only feature. This means no more book lending. Libraries will close down overnight, second-hand bookshops will be a thing of the past. Words can educate and liberate – but TGC want to make them a saleable commodity and nothing more.'
The crowd started to murmur to one another. Not one of those murmurs you usually get in the BookWorld, just a descriptive term, but a real murmur – seven million people all discussing what I had just said.
'Orlick!' I heard Tweed shout. 'Get to TGC – run if you have to – and get the footnoterphone repaired!'
'This is preposterous!' yelled Libris, almost apoplectic with rage. 'Lies, damnable lies!'
'Here,' I said, tossing Deane's copy of The Little Prince on to the table right at the front. The displacement field technology worked perfectly – a single book landed on each of the hundred thousand tables.
'This is an UltraWord™ book,' I explained. 'Read the first page and pass it on. See how long it takes before you can't open it.'
'Tweed!?' yelled Libris, who was still next to me on the stage and becoming more agitated by the second. 'Do something!'
I pointed at Xavier.
'WordMaster Libris could refute my arguments with ease, simply by rewriting the facts. He
could have unblocked the book already but for one thing – all the lines are down to Text Grand Central. As soon as they are up again, each of these books will be unblocked. Perkins was murdered when he found out what they were up to. He told Snell and he was killed too. Miss Havisham didn't know but TGC suspected that she did, so she had to be silenced.'
The Bellman had risen to his feet and was walking to the front of the stage.
'Is this true?' he asked, eyes blazing.
'No, Your Bellship,' replied Libris, 'on my honour. As soon as we get back online we will refute every single claim the misinformed Miss Next has made!'
The Bellman looked at me.
'Better get a move on, young lady. You have the crowd but for how long I have no idea.'
'Third, and more importantly, all books written using the UltraWord™ system can be fixed direct from Text Grand Central – there will be no need for Jurisfiction. Everything we do can be achieved by low-skilled technicians at TGC.'
'Ah!' said Libris, interrupting. 'Now we get to your real point – fearful of your job, perhaps?'
'Not my job, Libris – my real home is in the Outland. I would applaud a BookWorld in which we had no need of a policing agency – but not one where we lose the Well of Lost Plots!'
There was a gasp from the crowd; seven million people all drawing breath at the same time.
'No need for plotsmiths, echolocators, imaginators, holesmiths, grammatacists and spellcheckers. No need for Generics to be trained because characters will be constructed with the minimum of description necessary to do the job. I'm talking about the wholesale destruction of everything that is intuitive in writing – to be replaced by the formulaic. The Well would be dismantled and run instead by a few technicians at TGC who will get UltraWord™ to write books with no input from any of you.'
'Then what will happen to us?' said a voice from the front.
'Replaced,' I said simply, 'replaced by a string of nouns and verbs. No hopes, no dreams, no future. No more holidays because you won't need or want one – you will all be reduced to nothing more than words on a page, lifeless as the ink and paper that you will become.'
The Well of Lost Plots Page 33
