A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (147 page)

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Authors: Jasper Fforde

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I stared at his small brown eyes. By the quality I had seen of the players outside and my knowledge of neanderthals in general, we would be in with a chance—even with me locked up in a Welsh jail.
I shook his outstretched hand. “This is the deal.”
“Then we must eat. Do you like rabbit?”
We both nodded.
“Good. This is a speciality of ours. In Neanderlese it is called
rabite'n'bitels.
”
“Sounds excellent,” replied Bowden. “What's it served with?”
“Potatoes and a . . . tangy, greeny-brown, crunchy sauce.”
I can't be sure, but I think Stig winked at me. I needn't have worried. The meal was excellent, and neanderthals are quite correct—beetles are severely underrated.
31.
Planning Meeting
Common Cormorants' Numbers Decline
A leading ornithologist claimed yesterday that bear-bird incompatibility is to blame for the cormorant decline in recent years. “We have known for many years that cormorants lay eggs in paper bags to keep the lightning out,” explained Mr. Daniel Chough, “but the reintroduction of bears to England has placed an intolerable strain on the birds' breeding habits. Even though bears and birds rarely compete for food and resources, it seems that wandering bears with buns steal the cormorants' paper bags in order, according to preliminary research, to hold the crumbs.” That the bears are of Danish origin is suspected but not yet substantiated.
Article in
Flap!
magazine, July 20, 1988
 
 
 
 
 
S
o what do you know about the Elan?” asked Bowden as we drove back into the town.
 
“Not much,” I replied, looking at the charts of Mr. Shaxspoor's teeth. Stig reckoned he had lived in the Elan for a lot longer than the others—perhaps until only a few years ago. If he had survived that long, why not some of the others? I wasn't going to raise any false hopes quite yet, but at least it seemed
possible
we could save
Hamlet
after all.
“Were you serious about not being able to think of a way in?”
“I'm afraid so. We could always pretend to be water officials from Birmingham or something.”
“Why would water officials have ten truckloads of banned Danish books?” asked Bowden, not unreasonably.
“Something to read while doing water-officially things?”
“If we don't get these books to safety, they'll be burned, Thursday—we've
got
to find a way into the Republic.”
“I'll think of something.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding calls from numerous sports reporters, eager to get a story and find out who would be playing in what position on the field. I called Aubrey and told him that he would have five new players—but I didn't tell him they'd be neanderthals. I couldn't risk the press's finding out.
By the time I returned to Mum's house, my wedding ring was firmly back on my finger again. I pushed Friday around to Landen's house and, noticing that everything seemed to be back to normal, knocked twice. There was an excited scrabble from within, and Landen opened the door.
“There you are!” he said happily. “When you hung up on me, I got kinda worried.”
“I didn't hang up, Land.”
“I was eradicated again?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“Will I be again?”
“I'm hoping not. Can I come in?”
I put Friday on the floor, and he immediately started to try to climb the stairs.
“Bedtime already, is it, young man?” asked Landen, following him as he clambered all the way up. I noticed that in the spare room there were two as-yet-unpacked stair gates, which put my mind at rest. He had bought a cot, too, and several toys.
“I bought some clothes.”
He opened the drawer. It was stuffed with all kinds of clothes for the little chap, and although some looked a bit small, I didn't say anything. We took Friday downstairs, and Landen made some supper.
“So you knew I was coming back?” I asked as he cut up some broccoli.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, “as soon as you got all that eradication nonsense sorted out. Make us a cup of tea, would you?”
I walked over to the sink and filled the kettle.
“Any closer to a plan for dealing with Kaine?” asked Landen.
“No,” I admitted, “I'm really banking on Zvlkx's Seventh Revealment coming true.”
“What I don't understand,” said Landen, chopping some carrots, “is why everyone except Formby seems to agree with everything Kaine says. Bloody sheep, the lot of them.”
“I must say I'm surprised by the lack of opposition to Kaine's plans,” I agreed, staring absently out the kitchen window. I frowned as the germ of an idea started to ferment in my mind. “Land?”
“Yuh?”
“When was the last time Formby went anywhere near Kaine?”
“Never. He avoids him like the plague. Kaine wants to meet him face-to-face, but the President won't have anything to do with him.”
“That's it!” I exclaimed, suddenly having a flash of inspiration.
“What's it?”
“Well ...”
I stopped because something at the bottom of the garden had caught my eye.
“Do you have nosy neighbors, Land?”
“Not really.”
“It's probably my stalker, then.”
“You have a stalker?”
I pointed. “Sure. Just there, in the laurels, beckoning to me.”
“Do you want me to do the strong male thing and chase him off with a stick?”
“No. I've got a better idea.”
 
“Hello, Millon. How's the stalking going? I brought you a cup of tea and a bun.”
“Pretty well,” he said, marking down in his notebook the time I had stopped to talk to him and budging aside to make room for me in the laurel bush. “How are things with you?”
“They're mostly good. What were you waving at me for?”
“Ah!” he said. “We were going to run a feature about thirteenth-century seers in
Conspiracy Theorist
magazine, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think it's odd that no fewer than twenty-eight Dark Ages saints have chosen this year for their second coming?”
“I'd not really given it that much thought.”
“O-kay. Do you not also find it strange that of these twenty-eight supposed seers, only two of them—St. Zvlkx and Sister Bettina of Stroud—have actually made any prophecies that have come remotely true?”
“What are you saying?”
“That St. Zvlkx might not be a thirteenth-century saint at all, but some sort of time-traveling criminal. He takes an illicit journey to the Dark Ages, writes up what he can remember of history and then, at the appropriate time, he is catapulted forward to see his last revealment come true.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the ChronoGuard gets wind of what he's up to, he's never been born—literally. Why risk nonexistence for at most a few years' fame as a washed-up visitor from the thirteenth century with a host of unpleasant skin complaints?”
Millon shrugged. “I don't know. I thought you might be able to help
me.
” He lapsed into silence.
“Tell me, Millon—is there any connection between Kaine and the Ovinator?”
“Of course! You should read
Conspiracy Theorist
magazine more often. Although most of our links between secret technology and those in power are about as tenuous as mist, this one really is concrete: his personal assistant, Stricknene, used to work with Schitt-Hawse at the Goliath tech division. If Goliath has an Ovinator, then Kaine might very well have one, too. Do you know what it does, then?”
I laughed. This was
exactly
the news I wanted to hear.
“You'll see. Tell me,” I added, my hopes rising by the second, “what do you know about the old Goliath BioEngineering labs?”
“Hoooh!” he said, making a noise like any enthusiast invited to comment on his particular field of interest. “Now you're talking! The old Goliath BioE is still standing in what we call Area 21—the empty quarter in Mid-Wales, the Elan.”
“Empty metaphorically or empty literally?”
“Empty as in no one goes there except water officials—and we have wholly uncorroborated evidence that we peddle as fact that an unspecified number of officials have vanished without a trace. In any event, it's all off-limits to everyone, surrounded by an electrified fence.”
“To keep people out?”
“No,” said Millon slowly, “to keep whatever genetic experiments Goliath was working on
in.
The whole of Area 21 is infested with chimeras. I've got files and files of dubious stories about people breaking in, allegedly never to be seen again. What's your interest in the Elan BioE plant anyway?”
“Illegal genetic experiments on humans undertaken covertly by an apparently innocent multinational.”
Millon nearly passed out with the conspiracy overload. When he had recovered, he asked how he could help.
“I need you to find any pictures, plans, layout drawings—anything that might be of use for a visit.”
Millon opened his eyes wide and scribbled in his notepad. “You're going to go into Area 21?”
“No,” I replied, “we both are. Tomorrow. Leaving here at seven in the morning,
sharp.
Can you find what I asked for?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I can get you your information, Miss Next,” he said slowly and with a gleam in his eye, “but it will cost. Let me be your official biographer.”
I put out a hand and he shook it gratefully. “Deal.”
I walked back inside to find Landen talking to a man dressed in slightly punky clothes, with brightly colored spectacle frames, bleached-blond hair and an infinitesimally small goatee firmly planted just under his lower lip.
“Darling,” Landen said, grasping the hand that I had just rested on his shoulder, “this is my very good friend Handley Paige.”
I shook Paige's hand. He seemed pretty much the same as any other SF writers I had ever met. Slightly geeky, but pleasant enough.
“You write the Emperor Zhark books,” I observed.
He winced slightly. “No one ever talks about the decent stuff I write,” he moaned. “They just ask me for more and more Zhark stuff. I did it as a joke—a pastiche of bad science fiction—and blow me down if it isn't the most popular thing I've ever done.”
I remembered what Emperor Zhark had told me. “You're going to kill him off, aren't you?”
Handley started. “How did you know that?”
“She works for SO-27,” explained Landen. “They know
everything.
”
“I thought you guys were more hooked on the classics?”
“We deal with all genres,” I explained. “For reasons that I can't reveal, I advise you to maroon Zhark on an uninhabited planet rather than expose him to the humiliation of a public execution.”
Handley laughed. “You talk about him as if he were a real person!”
“She takes her work very seriously, Handley,” said Landen without the glimmer of a smile. “I'd advise you to consider very seriously anything she happens to say. Wheels within wheels, Handley.”
But Handley was adamant. “I'm going to kill him off so utterly and completely that no one will ever ask me for another Zhark novel again. Thanks for lending me the book, Land. I'll see myself out.”
“Is Handley in danger?” asked Landen as soon as he had gone.
“Quite possibly. I'm not sure the Zharkian death-ray works in the real world, and I'd hate for Handley to be the one who finds out.”
“This is a BookWorld thing, isn't it? Let's just change the subject. What did your stalker want?”
I smiled. “You know, Landen, things are beginning to look up. I must call Bowden.”
I quickly dialed his number.
“Bowd? It's Thursday. I've figured out how we're going to get across the border. Set everything up for tomorrow morning. We'll muster at Leigh Delamare at eight. . . . I can't tell you. . . . Stig and Millon. . . . See you there. Bye.”
I called Stig and told him the same, then kissed Landen and asked him if he'd mind feeding Friday on his own. He didn't, of course, and I dashed off to speak to Mycroft.
 
I was back in time to help Landen scrub the food off Friday, read the boy a story and put him to bed. It wasn't late, but we went to bed ourselves. Tonight there was no shyness or confusion, and we undressed quickly. He pushed me backwards onto the bed and with his fingertips—
“Wait!” I cried out.
“What?”
“I can't concentrate with all those people!”
Landen looked around the empty bedroom. “What people?”
“Those people,” I repeated, waving a hand in the general direction of everywhere, “the ones
reading
us.”
Landen stared at me and raised an eyebrow. I felt stupid, then relaxed and gave out a nervous giggle.
“Sorry. I've been living inside fiction for too long; sometimes I get this weird feeling that you, me and everything else are just . . . well, characters in a book or something.”
“Plainly, that is ridiculous.”
“I know, I know. I'm sorry. Where were we?”
“Just here.”
32.
Area 21: The Elan
Freedom of Act a Step Closer, Announces Mr.
Open government came one step closer yesterday with the announcement that Mr. would lend his weight to the Freedom of Act. The act, which aims to bring once top- information from into the hands of the, was hailed as a “great leap forward” by Mr., the Department of 's senior. The chief opponent to the draft bill, Mr., gave his assurance that “as long as my name is, I won't allow this to be passed.”
Article in
The
, July, 19

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