30
Revelations

   'Commander Bradshaw did much of the booksploring in the early years, before the outlying Rebel Book Categories were brought within the controlling sphere of the Council of Genres. Inexplicably, novels can only be visited when someone has found a way in – and a way out. Bradshaw's mapping of the known BookWorld (1927—1949) was an extraordinary feat, and until the advent of the ISBN Positioning System (1962), Bradshaw's maps were the only travel guide to fiction. Not all booksploring ends so happily. Ambrose Bierce was lost trying to access Poe. His name, along with many others, is carved on the Boojumonal, situated in the lobby of the Great Library.'

RONAN EMPYHE – A History of Gibbons


   I couldn't find the three witches, no matter how hard I looked. Their prophecies bothered me but not enough to keep me from sleeping soundly that night. It was two days later that I came home from a long day of Kenneth's judgements to find Arnie waiting for me. He and Randolph were drinking beer in the kitchen and talking about the correct time to use a long dash to designate interrupted speech.
   'You can use it any—'
   'Arnie, I owe you an apology,' I said, blushing deeply and forgetting my manners. 'You must think me the worst tease in the Well.'
   'No, that would be Lola. Forget it. Gran explained everything. How are you? Memories returned?'
   'All present and correct.'
   'Good. Dinner some time – as good friends, of course?' he added hastily.
   'I'd love to, Arnie. And thanks for being so … well, decent.'
   He smiled and looked away.
   'Beer?' said Randolph, who seemed to have recovered from his Lola-induced trauma.
   'Anything non-alcoholic?'
   He passed me a carton of orange juice and I poured myself a glass.
   'Are you going to tell her?' said Arnie.
   'Tell me what?'
   'I didn't get the Amis part,' began Randolph, 'but I've been short-listed for a minor speaking appearance in the next Wolfe.'
   'That's excellent news!' I responded happily. 'When?'
   'Some time in the next couple of years. I'm going to do some stand-in work until then; the C of G has opened up travel writing as holiday destinations for Generics. No more awayday breaks in Barsetshire – I'm to cover for Count Smorltork while he goes on holiday for two weeks in Wainwright's A Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells.'
   'Congratulations.'
   He thanked me but was still somehow distant. He stared out of the porthole at the lake, deep in thought.
   'What about you?' asked Arnie. 'What will you do? Your demotion is all over the Well!'
   'It's not a demotion,' I said. 'Well, perhaps it is.'
   'Word is that Harris Tweed is up to be the next Bellman,' murmured Arnie. 'Despite his lack of experience, Jurisfiction favours an Outlander.'
   'What's so special about Outlanders?' asked Randolph.
   'We have skills that few Generics possess.'
   'Such as?'
   I picked up the leather-bound UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that had been lying on the table and gave it to Arnie.
   'Smell anything?'
   He held it to his nose and shook his head. I took the book and sniffed at it delicately; I had expected the odour of leather but instead I could smell sweet melons – cantaloupes. I was transported back to the last time I had come across this particular scent; the odd and boxy truck in Caversham Heights. The truck without texture, the automaton driver without personality. Something clicked.
   'It was an UltraWord™ truck,' I murmured, searching through my bag for the angular and textureless bolt I had picked up after the truck had departed. I found it and sniffed at it cautiously, my mind racing as I tried to think of a connection.
   'If this is anything to go by,' said Arnie, flicking through the pages of The Little Prince, 'then the readers are in for a treat.'
   'They are indeed,' I replied as Randolph tried to open the cover – but couldn't.
   I took it from him and the book opened easily. I handed it back but the cover was still stuck fast.
   'Odd,' I said as Arnie took the book and opened it once again without any problem. 'It's Havisham's copy,' I added slowly. 'She's read it, and me, and now you.'
   'A book which only three people can read!' said Randolph scornfully. 'A bit mean, I must say!'
   'Only three readers,' I murmured, my heart going cold as I recalled the three witches' prophecy: Thrice is once and thrice is twice and thrice again– Perhaps the new operating system was not quite the egalitarian advance it claimed – if it was really the case that UltraWord™ books could only be opened three times then libraries would be a thing of the past. And the angular truck, the strange bolt? What did all that mean? I shivered. If something was so wrong with the new system that they would kill to keep it quiet, then the 'thrice read' rule was just the beginning. The orders for my transfer had come from Text Grand Central via the Bellman's clipboard. Perhaps I was being removed for a reason – who other than the grieving apprentice to ask awkward questions? If so, Havisham's accident had been nothing of the sort.
   'Problems?' asked Arnie, sensing my disquiet.
   'Could be. Miss Havisham was sure there was something wrong with UltraWord™. I think Perkins found out – and so did Snell.'
   'Did they actually say so?' asked Randolph, who had obviously been studying law as part of his upcoming Wolfe bit-part. 'Without any evidence this will be hard to prove.'
   'Perkins and Havisham told me nothing – and all I got from Snell was gobbledegook on his deathbed. He may have told me everything but it was so badly spelled I didn't understand a word.'
   'What did he say?'
   'He said: "Thirsty! Wode – Cone, udder whirled – doughnut Trieste—!" or something quite like it.'
   Arnie exchanged looks with Randolph.
   'The "Thirsty" must be "Thursday",' murmured Randolph.
   'I figured that,' I returned, 'but what about the rest?'
   'Do you suppose,' said Randolph thoughtfully, 'that if you were to recite those words near a source of mispeling they would revert back again?'
   There was one of those long pauses that always accompany an epiphanic moment.
   'It's worth a try,' I replied, thinking hard. Where would I find some mispeling vyrus without anyone asking questions?
   I got up, checked the clip of my automatic and opened my TravelBook.
   'Where are you going?' asked Arnie.
   'To visit the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group on the seventeenth floor. I think they might be able to help.'
   'Will they want to?'
   I shrugged.
   'Irrelevant. Asking wasn't part of my plan.'

   The elevator doors opened on the seventeenth floor. This held all the books whose authors began with Q, and since there weren't that many of them, the remainder of the space had been given over to the Jurisfiction Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group – if there was any live mispeling vyrus at Jurisfiction, this would be the place to find it.
   This floor of the Great Library was more dimly lit than the others, and the rows of bunk beds containing the numerous DanverClones began soon after the Quiller-Couch novels ended. The Danvers were all sitting bolt upright, their eyes following me silently as I walked slowly down the corridor. It was disquieting to be sure, but I could think of no other place to look.
   I reached the central core of the Library, a circular void surrounded by a wrought-iron rail at the centre of the four corridors. The way I had come was all Danvers, and so were two of the others. The fourth corridor was lined with packing cases of dictionaries, and beyond them was the medical area in which I had last seen Snell. I approached, my feet making no noise on the padded carpet. Perhaps Snell had known as much as Perkins? They were partners, after all. I cursed myself for not thinking of this before but felt slightly better knowing that Havisham hadn't thought of it either.
   I arrived at the small medical unit that was ready and waiting to deal with any infected person, with its shielded curtains and bandages over-printed with dictionary entries. They could soothe and contain but rarely cure – Snell was doomed as soon as he was soaked in the vyrus and he knew it.
   I opened a few drawers here and there but found nothing. Then I noticed a large pile of dictionaries stacked by themselves in a roped-off area. I walked up to them, repeating the word ambidextrous as I did so.
   'Ambidextrous … ambidextrous … ambidextrous … ambidextruos.'
   Bingo. I'd found it.
   'Miss Next?' said a voice. 'What in heaven's name are you doing here?'
   I nearly jumped out of my skin. If it had been Libris I would have been worried; but it wasn't – it was Harris Tweed.
   'You nearly scared me half to death!' I told him.
   'Sorry!' He grinned. 'What are you up to?'
   'There's something wrong with Ultra Word™,' I confided.
   Tweed looked up and down the corridor and lowered his voice.
   'I think so too,' he hissed, 'but I'm not sure what – I've a feeling that it uses a faster "memory fade" utility than Version 8.3 so the readers will want to reread the book more often. The Council of Genres is interested in upping its published ReadRates – the battle with non-fiction is hotting up; more than they care to tell us about.'
   It was the sort of thing I had suspected.
   'What have you discovered?' he asked.
   I leaned closer.
   'UltraWord™ has a "thrice only" read capability.'
   'Good Lord!' exclaimed Tweed. 'Anything else?'
   'Not yet. I was hoping to find out what Snell said before he died. It was badly mispeled but I thought perhaps I could unmispel it by repeating it close to a mispeling source.'
   'Good thought,' replied Tweed, 'but we must take care – too much exposure to this stuff and you could be permanently mispeled.'
   He donned a pair of DictoSafe gloves.
   'Sit here and repeat Snell's words,' he told me, placing a chair not a yard from the pile of dictionaries. 'I'll remove the OEDs one at a time and we'll see what happens.'
   'Wode – Cone, udder whirled – doughnut Trieste' I recited as Tweed pulled a single dictionary from the large pile that covered the vyrus.
   'Wode – Cone, ulder whirled – dougnut Trieste,' I repeated.
   'Who else knows about this?' he asked. 'If what you say is true, this knowledge is dangerous enough to have killed three times – I hate to say it but I think we have a rotten apple at Jurisfiction.'
   'I tolled no-wun at Jurizfaction,' I assured him. 'Wede – Caine, ulder whorled – dogn’ut Triuste.'
   Harris carefully removed another dictionary. I could see the faint purple glow from within the stacked books.
   'We don't know who we can trust,' he said sombrely. 'Who did you tell, precisely? It's important, I need to know.'
   He removed another dictionary.
   'Twede – Caine, ulter whorled – dogn't Truste.'
   My heart went cold. Twede. Could that be Tweed? I tried to look normal and glanced across at him, trying to figure out whether he had heard me. I had good reason to be concerned; there he was, controlling a strong source of mispeling vyrus. If he removed one too many dictionaries I could be fatally mispeled into a Thirsty Neck or something – and nobody knew I was here.
   'I cane right you a liszt if it wood yelp,' I said, trying to sound as normal as I could.
   'Why not just tell me,' he said, still smiling. 'Who was it? Some of those Generics at Caversham Heights?
   'I tolled the bell, man.'
   The smile dropped from his face.
   'Now I know you're lying.'
   We stared at one another. Tweed was no fool; he knew his cover was blown.
   'Tweed,' I said, the unmispeling now complete. 'Kaine – UltraWord – Don’t trust!'
   I jumped aside as soon as I had said it. I was only just in time – Tweed yanked out three dictionaries near the bottom and the DictoSafe partially collapsed.
   I sprawled on the ground as the heavy glow, emanating in one direction from the disrupted pile of dictionaries, instantly turned the hospital bed behind me into an hospitable ted, a furry stuffed bear who waved his paw cheerfully and told me to pop round for dinner any day of the week – and to bring a friend.
   I threw myself at Tweed, who was not as quick as I, my speech returning to normal almost immediately.
   'Snell and Perkins?!' I yelled, pinning him to the ground. 'Who else? Havisham?'
   'It's not important,' he cried as I took his gun and forced his chin into the carpet.
   'You're wrong!' I told him angrily. 'What's the problem with UltraWord™?'
   'Nothing's wrong with it,' he replied, trying to sound reasonable. 'In fact, everything's right with it! Think about it for a moment. With UltraWord™ control of the BookWorld will never have been easier. And with modern and free-thinking Outlanders like you and I, we can take fiction to new and dizzying heights!'
   I pushed my knee harder into the back of his neck and he yelped.
   'And where does Kaine come into this?'
   'UltraWord™ benefits everyone, Next. Us in here and publishers out there. It's the perfect system!'
   'Perfect? You need to resort to murder to keep it on track? How can it be perfect?'
   'Murder happens all the time in fiction – without it and the jeopardy it generates, we'd have lost a million readers long ago!'
   'She was my friend, Tweed!' I yelled. 'Not some cannon fodder for a cheap thriller!'
   'You're making a big mistake,' he replied, his face still pressed into the carpet. 'I can offer you a key position at Text Grand Central. With UltraWord™ under our control we will have the power to change anything we please within fiction. You gave Jane Eyre a happy ending – we can do the same with countless others and give the reading public what they want. We will dictate terms to that moth-eaten bunch of bureaucrats at the Council of Genres and forge a new, stronger fiction that will catapult the novel to greater heights – no longer will we be looked down upon by the academic press and marginalised by non-fiction!'
   I had heard enough.
   'You're finished, Tweed. When the Bellman hears what you've been up to—!'
   'The Bellman is a powerless fool, Next. He does what we tell him to. Release me and take your place at my side. Untold adventures and riches await you – we can even write your husband back.'
   'Not a chance. I want the real Landen or none at all.'

   'You won't know the difference. Take my hand – I won't offer it again.'
   'No deal.'
   'Then,' he said slowly, 'it is goodbye.'
   I saw something out of the corner of my eye and moved quickly to my right. A pickaxe handle glanced off my shoulder and struck the carpet. It was Uriah Hope. No wonder Tweed hadn't seemed that worried. I rolled off Tweed and dodged Uriah's next blow, pushing myself backwards along the carpet in my haste to get away. He swung again and shattered a desk, wedging the handle in the wood and struggling with it long enough for me to get to my feet and raise my gun. I wasn't quick enough and he knocked it from my grasp; I ducked the next blow and ran back towards where Tweed was starting to get up. He hooked my ankle and I came crashing down heavily. I rolled on to my back as Uriah jumped towards me with a wild cry. I put out a foot, caught him on the chest and heaved. His momentum carried him over on to the pile of dictionaries – and the mispeling vyrus. Tweed tried to grab me but I was off and running down the corridor as the DanverClones began to stir.
   'Kill her!' screamed Tweed, and the Danvers started to move rapidly towards me. I took my TravelBook from my pocket, opened it at the right page and stopped dead, right in the middle of the corridor. I couldn't out-run them but I could out-read them. As I jumped out I could feel the bony fingers of the Danvers clutching my rapidly vanishing form.

   I jumped clean into Norland Park. Past the striking nursery characters and the frog-faced doorman to appear a little too suddenly in the Jurisfiction offices. I ran straight into the Red Queen, who collapsed and in turn knocked over Benedict and the Bellman. I quickly grabbed Benedict's pistol in case Tweed or Hope arrived ready for action and was consequently attacked from an unexpected quarter. Mistaking my intentions, the Red Queen grabbed my gun arm and twisted it around behind me while Benedict tackled me round the waist and pulled me down, yelling:
   'Gun! Protect the Bellman!'
   'Wait!' I shouted. 'There's a problem with UltraWord™!'
   'What do you mean?' demanded the Bellman when I had surrendered the gun. 'Is this some sort of joke?'
   'No joke,' I replied. 'It's Tweed—'
   'Don't listen to her!' shouted Tweed, who had just appeared. 'She is an ambitious murderer who will stop at nothing to get what she wants!'
   The Bellman looked at us both in turn.
   'You have proof of this, Harris?'
   'Oh yes.' He smiled. 'More proof than you'll ever need. Heep, bring it in.'
   Uriah Hope – or Heep as he was now – had survived the mispeling but had been changed irrevocably. While before he had been adventurous he was, thanks to the vyrus, cadaverous; thin instead of lithe, fawning instead of frowning. But that wasn't the worst of it. Tweed had planned things well – Uriah was holding the stained pillowcase that contained Snell's head. Not his own, of course – the plot device he had paid so much for in the Well.
   'We found this in Thursday's home,' announced Tweed, 'hidden in the broom cupboard. Heep, would you?'
   The thin and sallow youth, whose hair was now oily rather than curly, laid the bag on a table and lifted the head out by its hair. A gasp came from Benedict's lips and the Red Queen crossed herself.
   'Heavens above,' murmured the Bellman, 'it's Godot!'

31
Tables turned

   'Insider trading: Slang term for Internal Narrative Manipulation. Illegal since 1932 and contrary to Item B17(g) of the Narrative Continuity Code, this self-engineered plot fluctuation is so widespread within the BookWorld that it has to be dealt with on a discretionary basis to enable it to be enforced at all. Small manipulations such as dialogue violations are generally ignored, but larger unlicensed plot adjustments are aggressively investigated. The most publicised flaunting of these rules was by Heathcliff when he burned down Wuthering Heights. Fined and sentenced to 150 hours' community service within Green Eggs and Ham, Heathcliff was just one of many high-profile cases that Jurisfiction were prosecuting at that time '

UA OF W CAT – The Jurisfiction Guide to the Great Library (glossary)


   Heep grasped me painfully by the arm and twisted it around, pushing me into a bookcase as he did so.
   'I be ever so humbly sorry about this, Miss Next,' he whined, the mispeling having gone deeper than his skin and rotted his very soul. 'Imagine me, an A-7 arresting a pretty Outlander such as yourself!'
   His breath smelt rotten; I breathed through my mouth to avoid gagging. He reached for my TravelBook and took the opportunity to slide his hand across my breast; I struggled harder – but to no avail.
   'That head's not mine!' I shouted, realising how stupid it sounded straight away.
   'That is one thing we are certain of,' replied Tweed quietly. 'Why did you kill him?'
   'I didn't. It's Snell's,' I said somewhat uselessly. 'He bought it for use in his next book and asked me to keep it for him.'
   'Snell insider-trading? Any other ills you'd like to heap on the dead? I don't think that's very likely – and how did it turn out to be Godot's? Coincidence?'
   'I'm being framed,' I replied. 'UltraWord™ is—'
   I stopped. I had been told many times by my SpecOps instructors that the biggest mistake anyone can make in a high-stress situation is to act too fast and say too much before thinking. I needed time – a commodity that was fast becoming a rarity.
   'We have evidence of her involvement in at least three other murders, Mr Bellman,' said Tweed.
   The Bellman turned abruptly to face him as I was relieved of my TravelBook and handcuffed to three anvils to stop me jumping out.
   'Havisham?' he asked with a tremor in his voice.
   'We believe so,' replied Tweed.
   'They're fooling you, Mr Bellman, sir,' I said, trying to sound as normal as I could. 'Something is rotten in the state of the BookWorld.'
   'That something is you, Next,' spat Tweed. 'Four Jurisfiction agents dead in the line of duty – and Deane nowhere to be found. I can't believe it – you'd kill your own mentor?'
   'Steady, Tweed,' said the Bellman, drawing up a chair and looking at me sadly. 'Havisham vouched for her and that counts for something.'
   'Then let me educate you, Mr Bellman,' said Tweed, sitting on the corner of a table. 'I've been making a few enquiries. Even discounting Godot, there is more than enough evidence of Next's perfidy.'
   'Evidence?' I scoffed. 'Such as what?'
   'Does the code word sapphire mean anything to you?'
   'Of course.'
   'Only eight Jurisfiction agents had access to The Sword of the Zenobians,' said Tweed, 'and four of them are dead.'
   'It's hardly a smoking gun, now, is it?'
   'Not on its own,' replied Tweed carefully, 'but when we add other facts it starts to make sense. Bradshaw and Havisham eject from Zenobians leaving you alone with Snell – they arrive a few minutes later and he is mortally mispeled. Very neat, very clever.'
   'Why?' I asked. 'Why would I kill Miss Havisham? Why would I want to kill any of these people?'
   'You killed Havisham because she knew you cheated at your Jurisfiction multiple choice exam. Do you know how we know?'
   'Surprise me.'
   'Question fifty: Who wrote: “Toad of Toad Hall‘?:
   'A.A. Milne.' I replied.
   'Correct,' returned Tweed, 'but no one ever gets that. No one. Not even Miss Havisham. Not once in the last fifty years. They all say Kenneth Grahame. Swear blind on it, in fact. You've been using Jurisfiction as a springboard to feed your own burning ambition. It is a dangerous thing to possess. Ambition will sustain for a while – and then it kills indiscriminately.'
   'What ambition? All I want to do is to have my child and go home.'
   'The Bellman's job,' announced Tweed, as if producing a hidden tramp. 'You knew he was retiring, didn't you?'
   'Everyone does.'
   'As an Outlander you have seniority, but only after Bradshaw, Havisham, Perkins, Deane – and me. Bradshaw has been the Bellman already so that rules him out – were you going to kill me next?'
   'I have no ambition to be the Bellman and didn't kill Miss Havisham,' I muttered, trying to think of a plan of action.
   'Macbeth denied his ambition too,' said Tweed, leaning closer.
   'What's Macbeth got to do with it?'
   'Perhaps you don't know it but the three witches have to log all their prophecies. They don't like to do it, but they have to – no paperwork, no licence to read chicken entrails. Simple as that.'
   He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
   'The day after you arrived they filed a report for a prophecy given to one "Thursday Next". It says: "Prophecy one: You shall be a citizen of Swindon. Prophecy two: You shall be a full member of Jurisfiction. Prophecy three: Thou shalt be Bellman thereafter" '
   He placed the paper on the table and slid it across to me.
   'Do you deny this?'
   'No,' I said glumly.
   'We call it Macbeth’s syndrome,' said the Bellman sadly. 'An insane desire to fulfil your own prophecies. It's nearly always fatal. Sadly, not only for the sufferer. Were you going to kill me or could you have waited long enough for me to resign?'
   'I'm not a Macbeth sufferer, Mr Bellman, and even if I am, shouldn't even the smallest error in UltraWord™ be looked at?'
   'There aren't any errors,' put in Tweed. 'UltraWord™ is the finest piece of technology we have ever devised – foolproof, stable and totally without error. Tell me the problem – I'm sure there is a satisfactory explanation.'
   I stopped. I knew the Bellman was still an honest man. Should I tell him about the thrice read problem and risk Tweed covering his tracks even more? On reflection, probably not. The more I dug, the more would be found against me. I needed breathing space – I needed to escape.
   'What's to become of me?'
   'Permanent expulsion from the BookWorld,' replied Tweed. 'We don't have enough evidence to convict but we do have enough to have you banned from fiction for ever. There is no appeals procedure. I only have to ratify it with the Bellman.'
   'Well,' said the Bellman, tingling his bell sadly, 'I must concur with Tweed's recommendation. Search her for any BookWorld accessories before we send her back.'
   'You're making a mistake, Mr Bellman,' I said angrily, 'a very—'
   'Oooh!' said Heep, who had been rummaging in my pockets and trying to feel my breasts again. 'Look what I've found!'
   It was the Suddenly a Shot Rang Out plot device Snell had given me at the Slaughtered Lamb
   'A plot device, Miss Next?' said Tweed, taking the small glass globe from Heep. 'Do you have any paperwork for this?'
   'No. It's evidence. I just forgot to sign it in.'
   'Carriage of all Narrative Turning Devices is strictly illegal. Are you a dealer? Who's your source? Peddle this sort of garbage in teenage fiction?'
   'Blow it out of your arse, Tweed.'
   'What did you say?'
   'You heard me.'

  He went crimson and might have hit me, but all I wanted was for him to move close enough for me to kick him – or his hand, at least.
   'You piece of crap,' he sneered, 'I've known you were no good from the moment I saw you. Think you're something special, Miss SpecOps Outlander supremo?'
   'At least I don't work for the Skyrail, Tweed. Inside fiction you're a big cheese but out in the real world you're less than a nobody!'
   It had the desired effect. He took a step closer and I kicked out, connected with his hand and the small glass globe went sailing into the air, high above our heads. Heep, coward that he was, dived for cover, but Tweed and the Red Queen, wary of a Narrative Turning Device going off in a confined area, tried to catch it. They might have been successful but as it was they collided with a grunt and the small glass globe fell to the floor and shattered as they looked on helplessly.
   Suddenly, a shot rang out. I didn't see where it came from but felt its full effect; the bullet hit the chain that was holding me to the anvils, shattering it neatly. I didn't pause for breath; I was off and running towards the door. I didn't know where I was heading; without my TravelBook I was trapped and Sense and Sensibility was not that big. Tweed and Heep were soon on their feet only to hit the floor again as a second volley followed the first. I ducked through the door and came upon … Vernham Deane, pistol in hand. Heep and Tweed returned fire as Deane holstered his pistol and took both my hands.
   'Hold tight,' he said, 'and empty your mind. We're going to go abstract.'
   I cleared my mind as much as I could and—[23]
 
   'How odd!' said Tweed, walking to the place where he had last seen Thursday. He knew she couldn't jump without her book but something was wrong. She had vanished – not with the fade out of a standard bookjump, but an instantaneous departure.
   Heep and the Bellman joined him, Keep with a bookhound on a leash which sniffed the ground and whimpered and yelped noisily, chops slobbering.
   'No scent?' said the Bellman in a puzzled tone. 'No destination signature? Harris, what's going on?'
   'I don't know, sir. With your permission I'd like to set up textual sieves on every floor of the Great Library. Heep will be your personal bodyguard from now on; Next is quite clearly insane and will try to kill you – I have no doubt about that. Do I have your permission to apply for an "Extremely Prejudicial Termination" order from the Council of Genres?'
   'No, that is one step I am not prepared to take. Order the death of an Outlander? Not I.'
   Tweed made to move off but the Bellman called him back.
   'Tweed,' he began, 'Thursday said there was a problem with Ultra Word™; do you think we should contact Text Grand Central and delay its release?'
   'You mean you take all this seriously, sir?' exclaimed Tweed in a shocked tone. 'Excuse me for being so blunt but Next is a murderer and a liar – how many more people does she have to kill before she is stopped?'
   'UltraWord™ is bigger than all of us,' said the Bellman slowly. 'Even if sheisa murderer, she still may have found something wrong. I cannot afford to take any risks over the new upgrade.'
   'Well, we can delay,' said Tweed slowly, 'but that would take the inauguration of the new operating system out of your term as Bellman. If you think that is the best course of action, perhaps we should take it. But whichever Bellman signs Ultra Word™ into law might be looked on favourably by history, do you not think?'
   The Bellman rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
   'What more tests could we do?' he asked at length.
   Tweed smiled. 'I'm not sure, sir. We fixed the flight manual conflict and debugged AutoPageTurnDeluxe™. The raciness overheat problem has been fixed and the Esperanto translation module is now working a hundred per cent. All these faults have been dealt with openly and transparently. We need to upgrade and upgrade now – the popularity of non-fiction is creeping up and we have to be vigilant.'
   Heep ran up and whispered in Tweed's ear.
   'That was our intelligence sources, sir. It seems that Next has been suffering from a mnemonomorph recently.'
   'Great Scott!' gasped the Bellman. 'She might not even know she has done it!'
   'It would explain that convincing act,' added Tweed. 'A woman with no memory of her evil has no guilt. Now, do I have your permission to apply for an "Extremely Prejudicial Termination" order?'
   'Yes.' The Bellman sighed, taking a seat 'Yes, you better had and Ultra Word™ is to go ahead, as planned. We have dithered enough.'
 
   We jumped back into the Jurisfiction offices. Tweed and Heep were alone with the Bellman, overseeing a document that I found out later was my termination warrant. I had Deane's gun pointed – at Deane; he had his hands up. Heep and Tweed exchanged nervous glances.
   'I've brought you Deane, Bellman,' I announced. 'I had no other way of proving my innocence. Vern, tell them what you told me.'
   'Go to hell!'
   I whacked him hard on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol and he fell to the ground, momentarily stunned. Blood welled up in his hairline and I winced; luckily, no one saw me.
   'That's for Miss Havisham,' I told him.
   'Miss Havisham?' echoed the Bellman.
   'Oh yes,' I replied. 'Bastard.'
   Deane touched the back of his head and looked at his hand.
   'Bitch!' he muttered. 'I'd have killed you, too!'
   He turned and leaped at me with surprising speed, grasping me by the throat before I could stop him, and we both crashed to the floor, knocking over a table as we went. It was an impressive charade.
   'The little slut serving wench deserved to die!' he screamed. 'How dare she spoil the happy life that could have been mine!'
   I couldn't breathe and started to black out. I had wanted it to look realistic – and so, I suppose, did he.
   Tweed placed a gun under Deane's chin and forced him off. He spat in my face as I lay there, trying to get my breath back. Deane was then set upon by Heep, who took an unhealthy delight in beating him despite the fact that he apologised in a supercilious manner every time he struck him.
   'Stop!' yelled the Bellman. 'Calm down, all of you!'
   They propped the now bleeding Deane in a chair and Heep bound his hands.
   'Did you kill Perkins?' asked the Bellman and Deane nodded sullenly.
   'He was going to blow the whistle on me – Havisham too. Snell and Mathias just got in the way. Happiness should have been mine!' he sobbed. 'Why did the slut have to turn up with that little bastard? I should have married Miss O'Shaugnessy – all I wanted was something no evil squire in Farquitt ever gets—!'
   'And what was that?' asked the Bellman sternly.
   'A happy ending.'
   'Pitiful, wouldn't you say, Tweed?'
   'Pitiful, yes, sir,' he replied stonily, staring at me as I picked myself off the floor.
   The Bellman tore up my termination order.
   'It looks as if we have underestimated you,' said the Bellman happily. 'I knew Havisham couldn't be wrong. Tweed, I think you owe Miss Next an apology.'
   'I apologise unreservedly,' said Tweed through gritted teeth.
   'Good,' said the Bellman. 'Now, Thursday, what's the problem with UltraWord™?'
   It was a sticky moment. We had to take this higher than the Bellman. With Libris and the whole of Text Grand Central involved, there was no knowing what they would do. I remembered an error from an early UltraWord™ test version.
   'Well,' I began, 'I think there is a flight manual conflict. If you read an UltraWord™ book on an airship, it can play havoc with the flight manuals.'
   'That's been cured,' said the Bellman kindly, 'but thank you for being so diligent.'
   'That's a relief I replied. 'May I have some leave?'
   'Of course. And if you find any other irregularities in UltraWord™, I want them brought to me and me alone.'
   'Yes, sir. May I?'
   I indicated my TravelBook.
   'Of course! Very impressive job capturing Deane, don't you think, Tweed?'
   'Yes,' replied Tweed grimly, 'very impressive – well done, Next.'
   I opened my TravelBook and read myself to Solomon's outer office. Tweed wouldn't try anything at the C of G, and the following three days were crucial. Everything I needed to say to the Bellman would have to wait until I had seven million witnesses.

32
The 923rd Annual BookWorld Awards

   'The annual BookWorld Awards (or Bookies) were instigated in 1063 CE and for the first two hundred years were dominated by Aeschylus and Homer, who won most of the awards in the thirty or so categories. Following the expansion in fiction and the inclusion of the oral tradition, categories totalled two hundred by 1423. Technical awards were introduced twenty years later and included "Most-Used English Word" and the "Most Widely Mispelt Word", witch has remained a contentious subject ever since. By 1879 there were over six hundred categories but neither the length of the awards nor the vote-rigging scandal in 1964 dented the popularity of this glittering occasion – it will remain one of the BookWorld's most popular fixtures for years to come.'

CMDR TRAFFORD BRADSHAW, CBE – Bradshaw’s Guide to the BookWorld


   I stood offstage at the Starlight Room, one in a long line of equally minor celebrities, all awaiting our turn to go and read the nominations. The hospitality lounge where we had all been mustered was about the size of a football pitch, and the massed babble of excited voices sounded like rushing water. I had been trying to avoid Tweed all evening. But whenever I lost him Heep would take over. There were others about, too. Bradshaw had pointed out Orlick and Legree, two other assistants of Tweed's that he thought I should be wary of.
   Of them all, Heep was the most amateur. His skills at unobserved observation were woefully inadequate.
   'Well!' he said when I caught him staring at me. 'You and me both waiting for awards!' He rubbed his hands and tapped his long fingers together. 'I ask you, me all humble and you an Outlander. Thanks to you and the mispeling incident I'm up for "Most Creepy Character in a Dickens Novel". What would you be up for?'
   'I'm giving one, not accepting one, Uriah – and why are you following me?'
   'Apologies, ma'am,' he said, squirming slightly and clasping his hands together to try to stop them moving. 'Mr Tweed asked me to keep a particular close eye on you in case of an attack, ma'am.'
   'Oh yes?' I replied, unimpressed by the lame cover story. 'From whom?'
   'Those who would wish you harm, of course. ProCaths, bowdlerisers – even the townspeople from Shadow. It was them what tried to kill you at Solomon's, I'll be bound.'
   Sadly, it was true. There had been two attempts on my life since Deane's arrest. The first had been a tiger released in Kenneth's office. I thought at first it was Big Martin catching up with me – but it wasn't. Bradshaw had dealt with the creature; he sent it on a one-way trip to Zenobians. The second had been a contract killing. Fortunately for me Heep's handwriting was pretty poor and Thursby from The Maltese Falcon was shot instead. It was only because I was an Outlander that I was still alive – if I'd been a Generic I could have been erased at source long ago.
   'Mr Tweed said that Outlanders have to stick together,' continued Heep, 'and look after each other. Outlanders have a duty—'
   'This is all really very sweet of him,' I interrupted, 'but I can look after myself. Good luck with your award; I'm sure you'll win.'
   'Thank you!' he said, fidgeting for a moment before moving off a little way and continuing to stare at me in an unsubtle manner.
   I was summoned towards the stage, where I could see the master of ceremonies winding up the previous award. He reminded me of Adrian Lush – all smiles, insincerity and bouffant hair.
   'So,' he continued, ' "teleportation" a clear winner for the "Most Implausible Premise in an SF Novel" which was hard luck on "And they lived happily after" which won last year. If I could thank all the nominees and especially Ginger Hebblethwaite for presenting it.'
   There was applause and a freckled youth in a flying jacket waved to the crowd and winked at me as he trotted offstage.
   The MC took a deep breath and consulted his list. Unlike awards at home there was no TV coverage as no one in the BookWorld had a TV. You didn't need one. The Generics who had remained in the books as a skeleton staff to keep the stories in order were kept up to date with a live footnoterphone link from the Starlight Room. With all the usual characters away at the awards, fiction wasn't quite so good, but no one generally noticed. This was often the reason why people in the Outland argued over the quality of a recommended book. They had read it during the Bookies.
   'The next award, ladies, gentlemen and – er – things, is to be given by the newest Jurisfiction agent to join the ranks of the BookWorld's own policing agency. Fresh from a glittering career in the Outland and engineer of the improved ending to Jane Eyre, may I present – Thursday Next—!'
   There was applause and I walked on, smiling dutifully. I air-kissed the MC and looked out into the auditorium.
   It was vast. Really vast. The Starlight Room was the largest single function room ever described in any book. A lit candelabrum graced each of the hundred thousand tables, and as I looked into the room all I could see was a never-ending field of white lights, flickering in the distance like stars. Seven million characters were here tonight, but by using a very convenient temporal field displacement technology borrowed from the boys in the SF genre, everyone in the room had a table right next to the stage and could hear and see us with no problems at all.
   'Good evening,' I said, staring out at the sea of faces, 'I am here to read the nominations and announce the winner of the "Best Chapter Opening in the English Language" category.'
   I started to feel hot under the lights. I composed myself and read the back of the envelope.
   'The nominations are: The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe, Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, and A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.'
   I waited until the applause had stopped and then opened the envelope.
   'And the winner is …' I announced. '… Brideshead Revisited!'
   There was thunderous applause and I smiled dutifully as the MC bent closer to the microphone.
   'Wonderful!' he said enthusiastically as the applause subsided. 'Let's hear the winning paragraph, shall we?'
   He placed the short section of writing into the ImaginoTransference device that had been installed on the stage. But this wasn't a recording ITRD like the ones they used to create books in the Well it was a transmitter. The words of Waugh's story were read by the machine and projected directly into the audience's imagination.

   'I have been here before,' I said; I had been there before; first with Sebastian more than twenty years ago on a cloudless day in June, when the ditches were creamy with meadowsweet and the air heavy with the scents of summer; it was a day of peculiar splendour, and although I had been there so often, in so many moods, it was to that first visit that my heart returned on this, my latest …

   There was more applause from the guests, and when finally it stopped the MC announced:
   'Mr Waugh can't be with us tonight so I would like to ask Sebastian to accept the award on his behalf.'
   There was a drum roll and a brief alarum of music as Sebastian walked from his table up the steps to the podium, and after kissing me on the cheek he shook the MC warmly by the hand.
   'Goodness!' he said, taking a swig from the glass he had brought with him. 'It's a great honour to accept the award on behalf of Mr Waugh. I know he would want me to thank Charles, from whose mouth all the words spring, and also Lord Marchmain for his excellent death scene, my mother, of course, and Julia, Cords—'
   'What about me?' said a small voice from the Brideshead table.
   'I was getting to you, Aloysius.'
   He cleared his throat and took another swig.
   'Of course, I would also like to say that we in Brideshead could not have done it all on our own. I'd like to thank all the other characters in previous works who have done so much to lay the groundwork. I'd particularly like to mention Captain Grimes, Margot Metroland, and Lord Copper. In addition …'
   He droned on like this for almost twenty minutes, thanking everyone he could think of before finally taking the 'Bookie' statuette and returning to his table. I was thanked by the MC and walked off the stage feeling really quite relieved, the voice of the MC echoing behind me:
   'And for the next category, "Most Incomprehensible Plot in Any Genre", we are very pleased to welcome someone who has kindly taken a few hours' leave of his gruelling schedule of sadistic galactic domination. Ladies, gentlemen and things, His Supreme Holiness Emperor Zhark—!'
   'You're on,' I whispered to the emperor, who was trying to calm his nerves with a quick cigarette in the wings.
   'How do I look?' he asked. 'Enough to strike terror into the hearts of millions of merciless life forms?'
   'Terrifying,' I told him. 'Have you got the envelope?'
   He patted his thick black cloak until he found it and held it up, gave a wan smile, took a deep breath and strode purposefully on to the stage to screams of terror and boos.

  I re-entered the Starlight Room as the 'Most Incomprehensible Plot' was awarded for the fifth year running to The Magus. I glanced at my watch. There was an hour to go until the last and most prestigious award was due to be announced – the 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)'. It was a hot contest and the odds had been fluctuating all day. Heathcliff was the clear favourite at 7-2. He had won it seventy-six times in a row and, ever conscious of someone trying to steal his thunder, he had been altering his words and actions subtly to keep the crown firmly on his head, something the opposition had also been attempting. Jude Fawley had been trying to spike his own plot to add drama and even Hamlet was not averse to a subtle amount of plot-shifting; he had hammed up his madness so much he had to be sent on a cruise to calm him down.
   I passed a table populated entirely by rabbits.
   'Waiter!' called one of them, thumping his rear paw to get attention. 'More dandelion leaves for table eight, if you please, sir!'
   'Good evening, Miss Next.'
   It was the Bradshaws; I was glad to see that they had not been swayed by convention – Mrs Bradshaw had decided to attend after all.
   'Good evening, Commander, good evening, Mrs Bradshaw – nice dress you're wearing.'
   'Do you think so?' asked Mrs Bradshaw slightly nervously. 'Trafford wanted me to wear something full length but I think this little Coco Chanel cocktail number is rather fetching, don't you?'
   'Black suits your eyes,' I told her, and she smiled demurely.
   'I've got the thing you wanted me to keep for you,' whispered Bradshaw under his breath. 'Appreciate a girl who knows how to delegate – say the word and it's yours!'
   'I'm waiting for the announcement of UltraWord™,' I hissed. 'Tweed is on my back; don't let him get it no matter what!'
   'Don't worry your little head about that,' he said, nodding towards Mrs Bradshaw. 'The memsahib's in the loop – she may look a delicate thing but by St George she's a fearful lass when riled.'
   He gave me a wink and I moved on, heart pounding. I hoped the nervousness didn't show. Heep was on the stage but Legree had taken his place and was keeping a surreptitious eye on me from seven hundred tables away. The temporal field displacement technology worked in his favour – every table was next to every other one.
   All of a sudden there was a strong smell of beer.
   'Miss Next!'
   'Sir John, good evening.'
   Falstaff looked me up and down. I didn't wear a dress that often and I crossed my arms defensively.
   'Resplendent, my dear, resplendent!' he exclaimed, pretending to be something of an expert.
   'Thank you.'
   Usually I avoided Falstaff, but if I was being watched it made sense to talk to as many people as possible; if Tweed and TGC thought I could throw a spanner in the works I would not help them by drawing attention to my genuine confederates.
   'I know of a side room, Mistress Next, a small place of an acquainting manner – a niche d’amour. What say you and I retire to that place where you might learn how I came by the name "Falstaff".'
   'Another time.'
   'Really?' he asked, surprised by my – albeit accidental – acquiescence.
   'No, not really, Sir John,' I said hurriedly.
   'Phew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'It would not be half the sport if you were to lie with me – resistance, Mistress Next, is rich allurement indeed!'
   'If resistance is all you seek,' I told him, smiling, 'then you will never have a keener woman to woo!'
   'I'll drink to that!'
   He laughed heartily – the word might have been coined for him.
   'I have to leave you, Sir John. No more than a gallon of beer an hour, remember?'
   I patted his large turn, which was as hard and unyielding as a beer barrel.
   'On my word!' he replied, wiping the beer froth from his beard.
   I reached the jurisfiction table. Beatrice and Benedict were arguing, as usual.
   'Ah!' said Benedict as soon as I sat down. '’Tis beauty that dost oft make women proud, but God he knows Beatrice's share thereof is small!'
   'How so?' replied Beatrice. 'That face of yours that hungry cannibals would not have touch'd!'
   'Have either of you seen the Bellman?' I asked.
   They said they hadn't and I left them to their arguing as Foyle sat down next to me. I had seen him at Norland Park from time to time. He was Jurisfiction, too.
   'Hello,' he said, 'we haven't been introduced. Gully Foyle is my name, terra is my nation; deep space is my dwelling place and death's my destination – I police Science Fiction.'
   I shook his hand.
   'Thursday Next,' I replied. 'From Swindon. How are you liking the awards?'
   'Pretty good,' he returned. 'I was disappointed that Hamlet won the "Shakespearean Character You'd Most Like to Slap" award – my money was on Othello.'
   'Well,' I replied, 'Othello won "Dopiest Shakespearean Lead" and they don't like them to win more than one each.'
   'Is that how it works?' he mused. 'The voting system makes no sense to me.'
   'They say you'll be partnered at Jurisfiction with Emperor Zhark,' I said, more by way of conversation than anything else.
   'I hope not,' replied Foyle. 'We've been trying to raise the intellectual and philosophical status of Science Fiction for some time now; people like him don't help the cause one iota.'
   'Why's that?'
   'Well,' said Foyle, 'how can I put it? Zhark belongs to what we describe as "Lesser Science Fiction" or "Winsome" or maybe even "Classic".'
   'How about "crap"?'
   'Yes, I'm afraid so.'
   There was a burst of applause as the MC announced the next award.
   'Ladies, gentlemen and things,' he declared, 'we had asked Dorothy to present the next award but she was, sadly, kidnapped by flying monkeys just before the show. I will therefore read the nominations myself
   The MC sighed. Dorothy's absence was just the latest in a number of small problems that usually interrupted the smooth running of the show. Earlier, Rumplestiltskin had gone berserk and attacked someone who guessed his name, Mary Elliot from Persuasion had declared herself 'too unwell' to collect the 'Most Tiresome Austen Character' award, and Boo Radley couldn't be persuaded to come out of his dressing room.
   'So,' continued the MC, 'the nominations for the "Best Dead Person in Fiction" award are as follows.' He looked at the back of the envelope. 'First nomination: Count Dracula.'
   There was a brief burst of applause, mixed with a few jeers.
   'Yes indeed,' exclaimed the MC, 'the supreme Dark Lord himself, father of an entire sub-genre. From his castle in the Carpathians he burst upon the world and darkened shadows for ever. Let's read a little bit.'
   He placed a short extract under the ImaginoTransference device and I felt a cold shadow on my neck as the Dark Lord's description entered my imagination.

   … There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which – for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death – and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, to find any sign of life, but in vain …

   There was applause and the lights came up again.
   'From the undead to the very dead, the second nomination is for a man who returns selflessly from the grave to warn his erstwhile business partner of the terrors which await him if he does not change his ways. All the way from A Christmas Carol – Jacob Marley!'

   … 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 voice 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 Jurisflction. 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 Ultra Word™ 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.'
   There was silence.
   'Proof!' cried Libris. 'All you have demonstrated so far is that you can spin a yarn as well as any plotsmith! Where is your proof?'
   'Very well,' I said slowly. 'Mrs Bradshaw? The skylark, if you please.'
   Mrs Bradshaw produced the small cage from beneath the table and handed it up to me.
   'I have seen an UltraWord™ character with my own eyes and they are empty husks; if an old book is read in UltraWord™ it is very good – but if it is written in UltraWord™ it will be flat and trite, devoid of feeling, the SmileyBurger of the storytelling world. The Well may be wasteful and long winded, but every book read in the Outland was built there – even the greats.'
   I took the skylark from the cage.
   'This was the proof that Perkins died for.
   I placed the small songbird beneath the ImaginoTransference device and the skylark's description was transmitted to the audience.

 
Oh Lark so quick of wing,
Dive down from up on high,
Perch proud upon the post
Melt darkness with thy cry.
 
 
Come make my spirits soar,
Dance here and hover long,
Tempt summer with your trill,
Sweet stream of endless song.
 

   The audience reacted favourably to the words and there was a smattering of applause, despite their nervousness.
   'What's wrong with that?' insisted Libris. 'UltraWord™ takes language and uses it in ways more wonderful than you can imagine!'
   The Bellman looked at me.
   'Miss Next,' he demanded, 'explain yourself
   'Well,' I said slowly, 'that wasn’t an UltraWord™ skylark. I picked it up from the Library this morning.'
   There was an expectant hush as Mrs Bradshaw produced a second bird seemingly identical to the first and handed it up to me.
   'This is the UltraWord™ version. Shall we compare?'
   'That's not necessary!' said Libris quickly. 'We get the point.' He turned to the Bellman. 'Sir, we need a few more weeks to sort out a few minor kinks—'
   'Go ahead, Thursday,' said the Bellman. 'Let's see how UltraWord™ compares.'
   I placed the bird in the ITRD and it transmitted the cold and clinical description to the audience.

   With a short tail and large wings with pale trailing edges, a skylark is easily recognised inflight. There is a very distinctive streaking pattern to the brown plumage on the breast, and a black-and-white pattern beneath the tail. Nests in hollow on ground. Can sing a bit.

   'I call a vote right now!' exclaimed the Bellman, climbing on to the stage.[26]
   I looked across at Tweed, who was tapping his mobile footnoterphone and smiling.
   'What's the problem?' I asked.[27]
   'Eh?' asked the Bellman.
   'The vote!' I urged. 'Hurry!'
   'Of course,' he replied, knowing full well that Text Grand Central were not defeated until the vote had been taken. The Council of Genres wasn't involved – but would be if TGC tried to go against a BookWorld referendum. That was something they could never rewrite.
   'Good!' said Tweed into his mobile footnoterphone. 'Communications have been restored.'
   He smiled at me and signalled to Libris, who calmed dramatically as only the supremely confident can do.
   'Very well,' said Libris slowly. 'The Bellman has called for a vote and, as the rules state, I am allowed to answer any criticism laid before me.'
   'A rebuttal of a rebuttal?' I cried. 'The rules don't state that!'
   'But they do!' said Libris kindly. 'Perhaps you'd like to look at the BookWorld constitution?'
   He pulled the slim volume from his coat and I could smell the cantaloupes from where I stood. It would say whatever they wanted it to say. Libris walked over to us and said to the Bellman in a quiet voice:
   'We can do this the easy way or the hard way. We make the rules, we can change the rules, we can modify the rules. We can do anything we want. You are due to step down. Go with me on this one and you can have an easy retirement. Go against me and I'll crush you.'
   Libris turned to me.
   'What do you care? No one in the Outland will notice the difference. You'll have a week to pack up and move out – you have my word on that.' ,
   The Bellman glared at Libris.
   'How much did they pay you?'
   'They didn't need to. Money doesn't mean anything down here. No, it's the technology that I really love. It's too perfect to be sidelined by people like you. I get a hundred per cent control. Everything will go through TGC. No more Well of Lost Plots, no more Generics, no more Council, no more strikes by disgruntled nurseries. Design and marketing must be brought together for efficiency reasons. But do you know the best bit? No more authors. No more missed deadlines. No more variable-quality second books – each one in the series will be the same as the next. When a publisher needs a best-seller all they need do is contact our sole representative in the Outland!'
   'Yorrick Kaine,' I murmured.
   'Indeed. Do you know how much money is lost through people lending their books? The advertising revenue and product placement deals made possible by UltraWord™ are worth billions. Books will have links to related products and services on every page. It's all for the best, Thursday, artistically and financially. In fact, as a first step, we will merge the two words for ever. How does "fartinancially" sound to you?'
   Incredibly, it was worse than I thought. It was as if the paint factories had decided to deal direct with the art galleries.
   'But the books!' I cried. 'They'll be terrible!'
   'Within a few years no one will notice,' replied Libris. 'Mr Bellman, do you go with us on this or not?'
   'I would sooner die!' he exclaimed, trembling with rage.
   'As you wish,' replied Libris.
   There was a short crackling noise and I saw the Bellman stiffen slightly.
   'Now,' said Libris, 'let's finish this all up. Bellman, would you refute Miss Next's points one by one?'
   'I should be delighted,' he said slowly and without emotion. I turned to him in shock, and could see how his features were less defined than before – like an out-of-focus photograph. The smell of melons once more drifted across the stage.
   'Friends!' began the Bellman. 'Miss Next is entirely mistaken …'
   I turned to Libris and he smiled triumphantly. I reached into my bag for my gun but it had been changed to marmalade.
   'Tch, tch,' said Libris in a whisper. 'That's a BookWorld gun and now under our control. What a shame you lost your Outlander Browning in the struggle with Tweed!'
   I had only one card left. I pulled out my TravelBook and opened it, flicking past the TextMarker and Eject-O-Hat and on towards the glass panel covering a red-painted handle. A note painted on the glass read: IN UNPRECEDENTED EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS. If this wasn't an unprecedented emergency, I didn't know what was. I smashed the glass, grabbed the handle and pulled it down with all my strength.