A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (89 page)

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 Imagino TransferenceDevice licensed by Text Grand Central. To reduce pilfering by Jurisfiction staff, all items checked out must be checked in again, where they are promptly reduced to text.

CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE
,
Guide to the Great Library

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 themselves. 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 made some more toast and continued with the multiple-choice test. After a half hour battling through such questions as
Which book does Sam Weller the Bootboy 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 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 conservation. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, abandoned and sunk at its moorings. As I walked on, a sudden screech of demonic laughter was 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 hedgepig ironed,”
said the second, who conjured up a fire by throwing some leaves beneath the cauldron.

“Passerby 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 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, beware the thrice-read rule!”

“All hail MsNext! Exempted from
I
before
E
except after
C
rule Reigate is!”
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 visit one—”

“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 gray 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 would probably 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,
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 Birnam 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'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 that. Welcome to
Caversham Heights
. I am Captain Nemo. I have some
coffee on the stove—I wonder whether you would do me the honor 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.”

“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 a table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bid me sit down.

“You are here, like me,” he asked, “resting—between engagements?”

“Maternity leave—of a sort.”

“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! Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?”

“From the Guiana Basin, 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—were 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 seawater, 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.

Eccentric and autocratic sea dog (ex-Verne) requires exciting and morally superior tale to exercise knowledge of the oceans and discuss man's place within his environment. French spoken, has own submarine. Apply: Captain Nemo, c/o
Caversham Heights,
Subbasement 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 breakers yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The
Nautilus
—and I, too—will be broken down into text—and long do I wish 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.”

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.
¹

“As always, Miss Havisham.”
²

“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.
³

“I'm on my way.”

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 Juris Tech gadgets for more specialized 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 autodestruct mechanism.

CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE
,
Guide to the Great Library

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 Ultra Word™ 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 were 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 amount 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. Edward.”

“Oh.”

“Mongoose!”
yelled Humpty, drawing a small revolver and throwing himself on 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 Ultra Word™ 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 again. “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 WordMaster 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, don't you?”

I walked briskly up the front steps of Norland Park, where I was admitted by the same froglike 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 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 approached.

“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 traveling at
over
180—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 Miss Havisham coldly. “Lose Heathcliff and the Council of Genres will have our colons for garters. Now, to work. We don't know what to expect in the bestiary, so we have to be prepared.”

“Like Boy Scouts?”

“Can't stand them, but that's beside the point. Turn to page seven hundred eighty-nine in your TravelBook.”

I did as she bid. This was 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 that 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, 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!” laughed Bradshaw, 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,” Havisham answered gravely. “If it has and we meet it, just pull the cord as quick as you can—it always takes at least ten to twelve words to initiate a jump—you could be Minotaur appetizer 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 trench coat 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
The Sword of the Zenobians.

Pretty soon Norland Park had vanished and the bright sun of Zenobia greeted us. The grass was springy underfoot 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 realization slowly dawned upon me. He meant the mispeling vyrus. The hinges had become
singes
.

“Yes,” I replied, “a small jar—well shielded by dictionaries.”

There was a strange and pregnant pause. The danger was real and clear, and even seasoned PROs like Bradshaw and Havisham were thinking twice about entering Perkins's lab.

“What do you think?” asked Bradshaw.

“Vyrus
and
a Minotaur,” sighed Havisham. “We need more than the four of us.”

“I'm going in,” said Snell, pulling the MV mask from his TravelBook. The device was made of rubber and similar to the gas
respirator I had worn in the Crimea—only with a dictionary on the side where the filter would have been. It wasn't just one dictionary, either—the
Lavinia-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.”