'Take this to Professor Plum at JurisTech and have him look at it. I'd like to be sure.'
'But … but why am I a threat?' I asked.
'I don't know,' admitted Miss Havisham. 'You are the most junior member of Jurisflction and arguably the least threatening — you can't even bookjump without moving your lips, for goodness' sake!'
I didn't need reminding but I saw her point.
'So what happens now?' I asked at length.
'We have to assume whoever killed him might try again. You are to be on your guard. Wait— There she is!'
We had walked over a small rise and were slightly ahead of the boat. A young woman was lying on the ground in a most unladylike fashion, pointing a sniper's rifle towards the small skiff that had just come into view. I crept cautiously forward; she was so intent on her task that she didn't notice me until I was close enough to grab her. She was a slight thing and her strugglings, whilst energetic, were soon overcome. I secured her in an armlock as Havisham unloaded the rifle. Maggie and Stephen, unaware of the danger, drifted softly past on their way to Mudport.
'Where did you get this?' asked Havisham, holding up the rifle.
'I don't have to say anything,' replied the angelic-looking girl in a soft voice. 'I was only going to knock a hole in the boat, honestly I was!'
'Sure you were. You can let go, Thursday.'
I relaxed my grip and she stepped back, pulling at her clothes to straighten them after our brief tussle. I checked her for any other weapons but found nothing.
'Why should Maggie force a wedge between our happiness?' she demanded angrily. 'Everything would be so wonderful between my darling Stephen and me — why am I the victim? I, who only wanted to do good and help everyone — especially Maggie!'
'It's called "drama",' replied Havisham wearily. 'Are you going to tell us where you got the rifle or not?'
'Not. You can't stop me. Maybe they'll get away but I can be here ready and waiting on the next reading — or even the one after that! Think you have enough Jurisfiction agents to put Maggie under constant protection?'
I'm sorry you feel that way,' replied Miss Havisham, looking her squarely in the eye. 'Is that your final word?'
'It is.'
'Then you are under arrest for attempted fiction infraction, contrary to Ordinance FMB/0608999 of the Narrative Continuity Code. By the power invested in me by the Council of Genres, I sentence you to banishment outside Mill on the Floss. Move.'
Miss Havisham ordered me to cuff Lucy, and once I had, she held on to me as we jumped into the Great Library. Lucy, for an arrested ad-libber, didn't seem too put out.
'You can't imprison me,' she said as we walked along the corridor of the twenty-third floor. 'I reappear in Maggie's dream seven pages from now. If I'm not there you'll be in more trouble than you know what to do with. This could mean your job, Miss Havisham! Back to Satis House — for good.'
'Would it mean that?' I asked, suddenly wondering whether Miss Havisham wasn't exceeding her authority.
'It would mean the same as it did the last time,' replied Havisham, 'absolutely nothing.'
'Last time?' queried Lucy. 'But this is the first time I've tried something like this!'
'No,' replied Miss Havisham, 'no, it most certainly is not.'
Miss Havisham pointed out a book entitled The Curious Experience of the Patterson Family on the Island of Uffa and told me to open it. We were soon inside, on the foreshore of a Scottish island in the late spring.
'What do you mean?' asked Lucy, looking around her as her earlier confidence evaporated to be replaced by growing panic. 'What is this place?'
'It is a prison, Miss Deane.'
'A prison?' she replied. 'A prison for whom?'
'For them,' said Havisham, indicating several identically youthful and fair-complexioned Lucy Deanes, who had broken cover and were staring in our direction. Our Lucy Deane looked at us, then at her identical sisters, then back to us again.
'I'm sorry!' she said, dropping to her knees. 'Give me another chance — please!'
'Take heart from the fact that this doesn't make you a bad person,' said Miss Havisham. 'You just have a repetitive character disorder. You are a serial ad-libber and the 796th Lucy we have had to imprison here. In less civilised times you would have been reduced to text. Good day.'
And we vanished back to the corridors of the Great Library.
'And to think she was the most pleasant person in Floss!' I said, shaking my head sadly.
'You'll find that the most righteous characters are the first ones to go loco down here. The average life of a Lucy Deane is about a thousand readings; self-righteous indignation kicks in after that. No one could believe it when David Copperfield killed his first wife, either. Good day, Chesh.'
The Cheshire Cat had appeared on a high shelf, grinning to us, itself, and anything else in view.
'Well!' said the Cat. 'Next and Havisham! Problems with Lucy Deane?'
'The usual. Can you get the Well to send in the replacement as soon as possible?'
The Cat assured us he would as soon as possible, seemed crestfallen that I hadn't bought him any Moggilicious cat food and vanished again.
'We need to find anything unusual about Perkins' death', said Miss Havisham. 'Will you help?'
'Of course!' I enthused.
Miss Havisham smiled a rare smile.
'You remind me of myself, all those years ago, before that rat Compeyson brought my happiness to an end.'
She moved closer and narrowed her eyes.
'We keep this to ourselves. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Start poking around in the workings of Jurisfiction and you may find more than you bargained for — just remember that.'
She fell silent for a few moments.
'But first, we need to get you fully licensed as a Jurisfiction agent — there's a limit to what you can do as an apprentice. Did you finish the multiple choice?'
I nodded.
'Good. Then you can do your practical exam today. I'll go and organise it while you take your Eject-O-Hat to JurisTech.'
She melted into the air about me and I walked off down the Library corridor towards the elevators. I passed Falstaff, who invited me to 'dance around his maypole'. I told him to sod off, of course, and pressed the elevator 'call' button. The doors opened a minute later and I stepped in. But it wasn't empty. With me were Emperor Zhark and Mrs Tiggy-winkle.
'Which floor?' asked Zhark.
'First, please.'
He pressed the button with a long and finely manicured finger and continued his conversation with Mrs Tiggy-winkle.
'… and that was when the rebels destroyed the third of my battle stations,' said the emperor sorrowfully. 'Have you any idea how much these things cost?'
'Tch,' said Mrs Tiggy-winkle, bristling her spines. 'They always find some way of defeating you, don't they?'
Zhark sighed.
'It's like one huge conspiracy,' he muttered. 'Just when I think I have the Galaxy at my mercy, some hopelessly outnumbered young hothead destroys my most insidious Death Machine using some hithero undiscovered weakness. I'm suing the manufacturer after that last debacle.'
He sighed again, sensed he was dominating the conversation and asked:
'So how's the washing business?'
'Pretty good,' said Mrs Tiggy-winkle, 'but the price of starch is something terrible these days.'
'Oh, I know,' replied Zhark, thumbing his high collar, 'look at this. My name alone strikes terror into billions, but can I get my collars done exactly how I want them?'
The elevator stopped at my floor and I stepped out.
I read myself into Sense and Sensibility and avoided the nursery rhyme characters, who were still picketing the front door; I had Humpty's proposals in my back pocket but still hadn't given them to Libris — in truth I had only promised to do my best, but didn't particularly want to run the gauntlet again. I ran up the back stairs, nodded a greeting to Mrs Henry Dashwood and bumped into Tweed in th
e lobby; he was talking to a lithe and adventurous-looking young man whose forehead was etched with an almost permanent frown. He quickly broke off when I appeared.
'Ah!' said Tweed. 'Thursday. Sorry to hear about Snell; he was a good man.'
'I know — thank you.'
'I've appointed the Gryphon as your new attorney,' he said. 'Is that all right?'
'Sounds fine,' I replied, turning to the youth, who was pulling his hands nervously through his curly hair. 'Hello! I'm Thursday Next.'
'Sorry!' mumbled Harris. 'This is Uriah Hope from David Copperfield; an apprentice I have been asked to train.'
'Pleased to meet you,' replied Hope in a friendly tone. 'Perhaps you and I could discuss apprenticeships together some time?'
'The pleasure's mine, Mr Hope. I'm a big fan of your work in Copperfield.'
I thanked them both and left to find the JurisTech offices along Norland Park's seemingly endless corridors. I stopped at a door at random, knocked and looked in. Behind a desk was one of the many Greek heroes who could be seen wandering around the Library; licensing their stories for remakes made a very reasonable living. He was on the footnoterphone.
'Okay,' he said, 'I'll be down to pick up Eurydice next Friday. Anything I can do for you in return?'
He raised a finger signalling for me to wait.
'Don't look back? That's all? Okay, no problem. See you then. 'Bye.'
He put down the horn and looked at me.
'Thursday Next, isn't it?'
'Yes; do you know where the JurisTech office is?'
'Down the corridor, first on the right.'
'Thanks.'
I made to leave but he called me back, pointing at the footnoterphone.
'I've forgotten already — what was I meant not to do?'
I'm sorry,' I said, 'I wasn't listening.'
I walked down the corridor and opened another door into a room that had nothing in it except a man with a frog growing out of his shiny bald head.
'Goodness!' I said. 'How did that happen?'
'It all started with a pimple on my bum,' said the frog. 'Can I help you?'
I'm looking for Professor Plum.'
'You want JurisTech. This is Old Jokes. Try next door.'
I thanked him and knocked on the next door. I heard a very sing-song 'Come in!' and entered. Although I had expected to see a strange laboratory full of odd inventions, there was nothing of the sort — just a man dressed in a check suit sitting behind a desk, reading some papers. He reminded me of Uncle Mycroft — just a little more perky.
'Ah!' he said, looking up. 'Miss Next. Did you bring the hat with you?'
'Yes,' I replied, 'but how—?'
'Miss Havisham told me,' he said simply.
It seemed there weren't many people who didn't talk to Miss Havisham or who didn't have Miss Havisham talk to them.
I took out the battered Eject-O-Hat and placed it on the table. Plum picked up the broken activation handle, nicked a magnifying glass in front of his eye and stared at the frayed end minutely.[15]
'Oh!' I said. 'I'm getting it again!'
'What?'
'A crossed line on my footnoterphone!'
'I can get a trace if you want — here, put this galvanised bucket on your head.'
'Not for a minute or two,' I told him, 'I want to see how it all turns out.'
'As you wish.'
So as he examined the hat I listened to Sofya and Vera prattle on.
'Well,' he said finally, 'it looks as though it has chafed through. The Mk IV is an old design — I'm surprised to see it still in use.'
'So it was just a failure due to poor maintenance?' I asked, not without some relief.
'A failure that saved a life, yes.'
'What do you mean?' I asked, my relief short lived.
He showed me the hat. Inside an inspection cover were intricate wires and small flashing lights that looked impressive.
'Someone has wired the retextualising inhibitor to the ISBN code rectifiers. If the cord had been pulled, there would have been an overheat in the primary booster coils.'
'Overheat?' I asked. 'My head would have got hot?'
'More than hot. Enough energy would have been released to write about fourteen novels.'
'I'm an apprentice, Plum, tell me in simple terms.'
He looked at me seriously.
'There wouldn't be much left of the hat — or the person wearing it. It happens occasionally on the Mk IVs — it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there was a broken cord.'
He whistled softly.
'Nifty piece of work, too. Someone who knew what they were doing.'
'That's very interesting,' I said slowly. 'Can you give me a list of people who might have been able to do this sort of work?'
'Take a few days.'
'Worth the wait. I'll call back.'
I met up with Miss Havisham and the Bellman in the Jurisfiction offices. The Bellman nodded a greeting and consulted his ever-present clipboard.
'Looks like a dog day, ladies.'
'Thurber again?'
'No, Mansfield Park. Lady Bertram's pet pug has been run over and needs to be replaced.'
'Again?' replied Havisham. 'That must be the sixth. I wish she'd be more careful.'
'Seventh. You can pick it up from stores.'
He turned his attention to me.
'Miss Havisham says you are ready to take the practical test to bring you up from apprentice to restricted agent.'
'I'm ready,' I replied, thinking I was anything but.
'I'm sure you are,' answered the Bellman thoughtfully, 'but it is a bit soon — if it weren't for the shortage caused by Mrs Nakajima's retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months. Well,' he sighed, 'can't be helped. I've had a look at the duty roster and I think I've found an assignment that should test your mettle. It's an Internal Plot Adjustment order from the Council of Genres.'
Despite my natural feelings of caution, I was also, to my shame, excited by a practical test of my abilities. Dickens? Hardy? Perhaps even Shakespeare.
'Shadow the Sheepdog,' announced the Bellman, 'by Enid Blyton. It needs to have a happy ending.'
'Shadow … the Sheepdog,' I repeated slowly, hoping my disappointment didn't show. 'Okay. What do you want me to do?'
'Simple. As it stands, Shadow is blinded by the barbed wire, so he can't be sold to the American film producer. Up ending because he isn't sold, down ending because he is blinded and useless. All we need to do is to have him miraculously regain his sight the next time he goes to the vet on page …' He consulted his clipboard. '… two thirty-two.'
'And,' I said cautiously, not wanting the Bellman to realise how unprepared I was, 'what plan are we going to use?'
'Swap dogs,' replied the Bellman simply. 'All collies look pretty much the same.'
'What about Vestigial Plot Memory?' asked Havisham. 'Do we have any smoothers?'
'It's all on the job sheet,' returned the Bellman, tearing off a sheet of paper and handing it to me. 'You do know all about smoothers, of course?'
'Of course!' I replied.
'Good. Any more questions?'
I shook my head.
'Excellent!' exclaimed the Bellman. 'Just one more thing. Bradshaw is investigating the Perkins incident. Would you make sure he gets your reports as soon as possible?'
'Of course!'
'Er … good.'
He made a few 'must get on' noises and left.
As soon as he had gone I said to Havisham:
'Do you think I'm ready for this, ma'am?'
'Thursday,' she said in her most serious voice, 'listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.' She looked around the room. 'Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous — like you — are the last bastion of defence against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning you can s
top asking so many questions and do as you're told — just pass this practical first time. Understand?'
'Yes, Miss Havisham.'
'That's settled, then,' she added. 'Anything else?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'What's a smoother?'
'Do you not read your TravelBook?'
'It's quite long,' I pleaded. 'I've been consulting it whenever possible but have still got no farther than the preface.'
'Well,' she began as we jumped to Wemmick's Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, 'plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can spring back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.'
'Like time,' I murmured, thinking about my father.
'If you say so,' returned Miss Havisham. 'So on Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother — a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad's Lord Jim, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown's massacre.'
'That didn't work?'
'No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose — after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.'
'So what did you do?'
'We retrospectively had the chief's son die in the massacre. It did the trick. The chief had no trouble shooting Jim after that.'
I mused about this for a moment.
'How did Jim take it?' I asked. 'The decision for him to die, I mean?'
'He was the one who asked for the plot adjustment in the first place,' murmured Havisham. 'He thought it was the only honourable thing to do — mind you, the chief's son wasn't exactly over the moon about it.'
'Ah,' I said, pondering that here in the BookWorld the pencil of life occasionally did have a rubber on the other end.
'So you'll send a cheque for a hundred pounds to the farmer, and buy his pigs for double the market rate — that way, he won't need the cash and won't want to resell Shadow to the film producer. Get it? Good afternoon, Mr Wemmick.'
We had arrived at the stores. Wemmick himself was a short man, a native of Great Expectations, aged about forty with a pockmarked face. He greeted us enthusiastically.
The Well of Lost Plots n-3 Page 18
