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!'
   When our carrots had returned to being crunchy vegetables, and the last vestiges of parrotness had been removed, Havisham and I pulled off our vyrus masks and tossed them in a heap – the dictionary filters were almost worn out.
   'What happens now?' I asked.
   'It is torched,' replied Tweed, who was close by. 'It is the only way to destroy the vyrus.'
   'What about the evidence?' I asked.
   'Evidence?' echoed Tweed. 'Evidence of what?'
   'Perkins,' I replied. 'We don't know the full details of his death.'
   'I think we can safely say he was killed and eaten by the minotaur,' said Tweed pointedly. 'It's too dangerous to go back in, even if we wanted to. I'd rather torch this now than risk spreading the vyrus and having to demolish the whole book and everything in it – do you know how many creatures live in here?'
   He lit a flare.
   'You'd better stand clear.'
   The DanverClones were leaving now, vanishing with a faint pop, back to wherever they had been pulled from. Bradshaw and I withdrew as Tweed threw the flare on the pile of dictionaries. They burst into flames and were soon so hot that we had to withdraw to the gatehouse, the black smoke that billowed into the sky taking with it the remnants of the vyrus – and the evidence of Perkins' murder. Because I was sure it was murder. When we walked into the vault I had noticed that the key was missing from its hook. Someone had let the minotaur out.

18
Snell Rest in Peece and Lucy Deane

   'I didn't notice it straight away but Vernham, Nelly and Lucy all had the same surname: Deane. They weren't related. In the Outland this happens all the time but in fiction it is rare; the problem is aggressively attacked by the Echolocators (q.v.), who insist that no two people in the same book have the same name. I learned years later that Hemingway once wrote a book that was demolished because he insisted that every single one of the eight characters was named Geoff.'

THURSDAY NEXT – TheJurisfiction Chronicles


   The minotaur had given Havisham the slip and was last seen heading towards the works of Zane Grey; the semi-bovine wasn't stupid – he knew we'd have trouble finding him amongst a cattle drive. Snell lasted another three hours. He was kept in an isolation tent made of fine plastic sheeting that had been over-printed with pages from the Oxford English Dictionary. We were in the sickbay of the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group. At the first sign of any deviant mispeling, thousands of these volumes were shipped to the infected book and set up as barrages either side of the chapter. The barrage was then moved in, paragraph by paragraph, until the vyrus was forced into a single sentence, then a word, then smothered completely. Fire was not an option in a published work; they had tried it once in Samuel Pepys' Diary and burnt down half of London.
   'Does he have any family?' I asked.
   'Snell was a loner detective, Miss Next,' explained the doctor. 'Perkins was his only family.'
   'Is it safe to go up to him?'
   'Yes – but be prepared for some mispelings.'
   I sat by his bed while Havisham stood and spoke quietly with the doctor. Snell lay on his back and was breathing with small shallow gasps, the pulse on his neck racing – it wouldn't be long before the vyrus took him away and he knew it. I leaned closer and held his hand through the sheeting. His complexion was pail, his breething laboured, his skein covered in painful and unsightly green pastilles. As I wotched, his dry slips tried to foam worlds but all he could torque was ninsense.
   'Thirsty!' he squeeked. 'Wode – Cone, udder whirled – doughnut Trieste—!'
   He grisped my arm with his fungers, made one last stringled cry before feeling bakwards, his life force deported from his pathotic misspelled boddy.
   'He was a fine operative,' said Havisham as the doctor pulled the sheep over his head.
   'What will happen to the Perkins & Snell series?'
   'I'm not sure,' she replied softly. 'Demolished, saved with new Generics – I don't know.'
   'What ho!' exclaimed Bradshaw, appearing from nowhere. 'Is he—?'
   'I'm afraid so,' replied Havisham.
   'Snell was one of the best,' murmured Bradshaw sadly. 'Did he say anything before he died?'
   'Nothing coherent.'
   'Hmm. The Bellman wanted a report on his death as soon as possible. What do you think?'
   He handed Havisham a sheet of paper and she read:
   'Minotaur escapes, finds captor, eats captor, captor dies. Horse mispeled in struggle. Colleague dies attempting rescue. Minotaur escapes.'
   She turned over the piece of paper but it was blank on the other side.
   'That's it?'
   'I didn't want it to get boring,' replied Bradshaw, 'and the Bellman wanted it as simple as possible. I think he's got Libris breathing down his neck. The investigation of a Jurisfiction agent so close to the launch of UltraWord™ will make the Council of Genres jittery as hell.'
   Miss Havisham handed the report back to Bradshaw.
   'Perhaps, Commander, you should lose that report in the pending tray.'
   'This sort of stuff happens in fiction all the time,' he replied. 'Do you have any evidence that it was not accidental?'
   'The key to the padlock wasn't on its hook,' I murmured.
   'Well spotted,' replied Miss Havisham.
   'Skulduggery?' Bradshaw hissed excitedly.
   'I fervently hope not,' she returned. 'Just delay the findings for a few days – we should see if Miss Next's observational skills hold up to scrutiny.'
   'Righty-oh!' replied Bradshaw. 'I'll see what I can do!'
   And he vanished. We were left alone in the corridor, the bunk beds of the DanverClones stretching off to the distance in both directions.
   'It might be nothing, Miss Havisham, but—'
   She put her fingers to her lips. Havisham's eyes, usually resolute and fixed, had, for a brief moment, seemed troubled. I said nothing but inwardly I felt worried. Up until now I had thought Havisham feared nothing.
   She looked at her watch.
   'Go to the bun shop in Little Dorrit, would you? I'll have a doughnut and a coffee. Put it on my tab and get something for yourself.'
   'Thank you. Where shall we meet?'
   'Mill on the Floss, page five twenty-three, in twenty minutes.'
   'Assignment?'
   'Yes,' she replied, deep in thought. 'Some damn meddling fool told Lucy Deane that Stephen and not Philip will be boating with Maggie – she may try to stop them. Twenty minutes, and not the jam doughnuts, the ones with the pink icing, yes?'

   Thirty-two minutes later I was inside Mill on the Floss, on the banks of a river next to Miss Havisham, who was observing a couple in a boat. The woman was dark skinned with a jet-black coronet of hair, was lying on a cloak with a parasol above her as a man rowed her gently downriver. He was perhaps five and twenty years old, quite striking, and with short dark hair that stood erect, not unlike a crop of corn. They were talking earnestly to one another. I passed Miss Havisham a cup of coffee and a paper bag full of doughnuts.
   'Stephen and Maggie?' I asked, indicating the couple as we walked along the path by the river.
   'Yes,' she replied. 'As you know, Lucy and Stephen are a hair's breadth from engagement. Stephen and Maggie's indiscretion in this boat causes Lucy Deane no end of distress. I told you to get the ones with pink icing.'
   She had been looking in the bag.
   'They'd run out.'
   'Ah.'
   We kept a wary eye on the couple in the boat as I tried to remember what actually happened in Mill on the Floss.
   'They agree to elope, don't they?'
   'Agree to – but don't. Stephen is being an idiot and Maggie should know better. Lucy is meant to be shopping in Lindum with her father and Aunt Tulliver but she gave them the slip an hour ago.'
   We walked on for a few more minutes. The story seemed to be following the correct path with no intervention of Lucy's we could see. Although we couldn't make out the words, the sound of Maggie and Stephen's voices carried across the water.
   Miss Havisham took a bite of her doughnut.
   'I noticed the missing key too,' she said after a pause. 'It was pushed under a workbench. It was murder. Murder … by minotaur.'
   She shivered.
   'Why didn't you tell Bradshaw?' I asked. 'Surely the murder of a Jurisfiction operative warrants an investigation?'
   She stared at me hard and then looked at the couple in the boat again.
   'You don't understand, do you? The Sword of the Zenobians is code-word-protected.'
   'Only Jurisfiction agents can get in and out,' I murmured.
   'Whoever killed Perkins and Mathias was Jurisfiction,' she went on. 'And that's what frightens me. A rogue agent.'
   We walked on in silence, digesting this fact.
   'But why would anyone want to kill Perkins and a talkiag horse?'

  'I think Mathias just got in the way.'
   'And Perkins?'
   'Not just Perkins. Whoever killed him tried to get someone else that day.'
   I thought for a moment and a sudden chill came over me.
   'My Eject-O-Hat. It failed.'
   Miss Havisham produced the Homburg from a carrier bag, slightly squashed from where several Mrs Danvers had trodden on it. The frayed cord looking as though it might have been cut.
   '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 the 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 stop 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.
   'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham, Miss Next – I trust all is well?'
   'Quite well, Mr Wemmick. I understand you have a few canines for us?'
   'Indeed,' replied the storekeeper, pointing to where two dogs were attached to a hook in the wall by their leads.
   'Pug, Lady Bertram's, to be replaced, one. Shadow, sheepdog, sighted, to swap with existing dog, blind, one. Cheque for the farmer, value: one hundred pounds sterling, one. Cash to buy pigs, forty-two pounds, ten shillings and fourpence. Sign here.'
   The two dogs panted and wagged their tails. The collie had his eyes bound with a bandage.
   'Any questions?'
   'Do we have a cover story for this cheque?' I asked.
   'Use your imagination. I'm sure you'll think of something.'
   'Wait a moment,' I said, alarm bells suddenly ringing, 'aren't you coming with me to supervise?'
   'Not at all!' Havisham grinned with a strange look in her eye. 'Assessed work has to be done solo; I'll mark you on your report and the successful – or not – realigned story within the book. This is so simple even you can't mess it up.'
   'Couldn't I do Lady Bertram's pug?' I asked, trying to make it sound like something hard and of great consequence.
   'Out of the question! Besides, I don't do'children's books any more – not after the incident with Larry the Lamb. But since Shadow is out of print no one will notice if you make a pig's ear of it. Remember that Jurisfiction is an honourable establishment and you should reflect that in your bearing and countenance. Be resolute in your work and fair and just. Destroy grammasites with extreme prejudice – and shun any men with amorous intentions.'
   She thought for a moment.
   'Or any intentions, come to that. Have you got your TravelBook to enable you to jump back?'
   I patted my breast pocket where the slim volume was kept and she was gone, only to return a few moments later to swap dogs and vanish again. I was just about to jump to the second floor when a voice made me turn.
   'Hello!' he said. 'All well?'
   It was the Cheshire Cat. He was sitting on top of the Boojumorial, grinning fit to burst.
   'I'm just about to do my practical.'
   'Excellent!' said the Cat. 'Whereabouts?'
   'Shadow the Sheepdog.'
   'Enid Blyton, 1950, Collins, two fifty-six pages, illustrated,' muttered the Cat, to whom every book in the Library was a revered friend. 'Apart from the D-words in it, for Blyton it's not too bad at all – a product of its time, one might argue. What are you going to do with it?'
   'Happier ending,' I explained. 'I have to swap dogs.'
   'Ah!' said the Cat, wrinkling his whiskers and grinning some more. 'Just like the job we did on Gipson's Old Yeller last year.'
   'Old Yetter?' I repeated incredulously. 'The new ending is the happy one?!'
   'You should have read it before we changed it. Sad wasn't the word. Children were going into traumatic shock it was so depressing.'
   And he blew his nose so violently he vanished with a faint pop.
   I waited for a moment in case he reappeared and, when he didn't, read my way diligently to the second floor of the Library and picked Shadow the Sheepdog off the shelf. I paused. I was nervous and my palms had started to sweat. I scolded myself. How hard could a plot readjustment in an Enid Blyton be? I took a deep breath and, notwithstanding the simplistic nature of the novel, opened the slim volume with an air of serious trepidation – as though it were War and Peace.