A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (91 page)

She moved closer and narrowed her eyes. “We keep this to ourselves. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Start poking around in the workings of Jurisfiction and you may find more than you bargained for—just remember that.”

She fell silent for a few moments.

“But first, we need to get you fully licensed as a Jurisfiction agent—there's a limit to what you can do as an apprentice. Did you finish the multiple choice?”

I nodded.

“Good. Then you can do your practical exam today. I'll go and organize it while you take your Eject-O-Hat to Juris Tech.”

She melted into the air about me and I walked off down the
library corridor towards the elevators. I passed Falstaff, who invited me to dance around his maypole. I told him to sod off, of course, and pressed the elevator call button. The doors opened a minute later and I stepped in. But it wasn't empty. With me were Emperor Zhark and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

“Which floor?” asked Zhark.

“First, please.”

He pressed the button with a long and finely manicured finger and continued his conversation with Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

“. . . and that was when the rebels destroyed the third of my battle stations,” said the emperor sorrowfully. “Have you any idea how much these things cost?”

“Tch,” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, bristling her spines, “they always find some way of defeating you, don't they?”

Zhark sighed. “It's like one huge conspiracy,” he muttered. “Just when I think I have the galaxy at my mercy, some hopelessly outnumbered young hothead destroys my most insidious death machine using some hitherto-undiscovered weakness. I'm suing the manufacturer after that last debacle.”

He sighed again, sensed he was dominating the conversation and asked, “So how's the washing business?”

“Well, the price of starch is something terrible these days.”

“Oh, I know,” replied Zhark, thumbing his high collar, “look at this. My name alone strikes terror into billions, but can I get my collars done exactly how I want them?”

The elevator stopped at my floor and I stepped out.

I read myself into
Sense and Sensibility
and avoided the nursery rhyme characters who were still picketing the front door; I had Humpty's proposals in my back pocket but still hadn't given them to Libris—in truth I had only promised to do my best, but didn't particularly want to run the gauntlet again. I ran up the back stairs, nodded a greeting to Mrs. Henry Dashwood and bumped into Tweed in the lobby; he was talking to a lithe and adventurous-looking young man whose forehead was etched with an almost permanent frown.

Tweed quickly broke off when I appeared. “Ah! Thursday. Sorry to hear about Snell; he was a good man.”

“I know—thank you.”

“I've appointed the Gryphon as your new attorney,” Tweed said. “Is that all right?”

“Sounds fine.” I turned to the youth, who was pulling his hands nervously through his curly hair. “Hello! I'm Thursday Next.”

“Sorry!” mumbled Tweed. “This is Uriah Hope from
David Copperfield;
an apprentice I have been asked to train.”

“Pleased to meet you,” replied Hope in a friendly tone. “Perhaps you and I could discuss apprenticeships together sometime?”

“The pleasure's mine, Mr. Hope. I'm a big fan of your work in
Copperfield
.”

I thanked them both and left to find the JurisTech offices along Norland Park's seemingly endless corridors. I stopped at a door at random, knocked and looked in. Behind a desk was one of the many Greek heroes who could be seen wandering around the library; licensing their stories for remakes made a very reasonable living. He was on the footnoterphone.

“Okay,” he said, “I'll be down to pick up Eurydice next Friday. Anything I can do for you in return?” He raised a finger at me to wait. “Don't look back? That's all? Okay, no problem. See you then. Bye.”

He put down the horn and looked at me. “Thursday Next, isn't it?”

“Yes; do you know where the Juris Tech office is?”

“Down the corridor, first on the right.”

“Thanks.”

I made to leave but he called me back, pointing at the footnoterphone. “I've forgotten already—what was I meant not to do?”

“I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.”

I walked down the corridor, opened another door into a room that had nothing in it except a man with a frog growing out of his shiny bald head.

“Goodness!” I said. “How did that happen?”

“It all started with a pimple on my bum,” said the frog. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Professor Plum.”

“You want Juris Tech. This is Old Jokes. Try next door.”

I thanked him and knocked on the next door. There was a very singsong “Come in!” and I entered. Although I had expected to see a strange laboratory full of odd inventions, there was nothing of the sort—just a man dressed in a check suit sitting behind a desk, reading some papers. He reminded me of Uncle Mycroft—just a little more perky.

“Ah!” he said, looking up. “Miss Next. Did you bring the hat with you?”

“Yes, but how—?”

“Miss Havisham told me,” he said simply.

It seemed there weren't many people who didn't talk to Miss Havisham or who didn't have Miss Havisham talk to them.

I took out the battered Eject-O-Hat and placed it on the table. Plum picked up the broken activation handle, flicked a magnifying glass in front of his eye and stared at the frayed end minutely.
¹

“Oh!” I said. “I'm getting it again!”

“What?”

“A crossed line on my footnoterphone!”

“I can get a trace if you want—here, put this galvanized bucket on your head.”

“Not for a minute or two. I want to see how it all turns out.”

“As you wish.”

So as he examined the hat, I listened to Sofya and Vera prattle on.

“Well,” he said finally, “it looks as though it has chafed through. The Mk VII is an old design—I'm surprised to see it still in use.”

“So it was just a failure due to poor maintenance?” I asked, not without some relief.

“A failure that saved a life, yes.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my relief short-lived.

He showed me the hat. Inside an inspection cover were intricate wires and small flashing lights that looked impressive.

“Someone has wired the retextualizing inhibitor to the ISBN Code rectifiers. If the cord had been pulled, there would have been an overheat in the primary booster coils.”

“Overheat? My head would have got hot?”

“More than hot. Enough energy would have been released to write about fourteen novels.”

“I'm an apprentice, Plum, tell me in simple terms.”

He looked at me seriously. “There wouldn't be much left of the hat—or the person wearing it. It happens occasionally on the Mk VII's—it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there
was
a broken cord.”

He whistled low. “Nifty piece of work, too. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

“That's very interesting,” I said slowly. “Can you give me a list of people who might have been able to do this sort of work?”

“Take a few days.”

“Worth the wait. I'll call back.”

I met up with Miss Havisham and the Bellman in the Jurisfiction offices.

The Bellman nodded a greeting and consulted his ever-present clipboard. “Looks like a dog day, ladies.”

“Thurber again?”

“No,
Mansfield Park
. Lady Bertram's pet pug has been run over and needs to be replaced.”

“Again?” replied Havisham. “That must be the sixth. I wish she'd be more careful.”

“Seventh. You can pick it up from stores.”

He turned his attention to me. “Miss Havisham says you are ready to take the practical test to bring you up from apprentice to restricted agent.”

“I'm ready,” I replied, thinking I was anything but.

“I'm sure you are,” answered the Bellman thoughtfully, “but it
is
a bit soon—if it wasn't for the shortage caused by Mrs. Nakajima's retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months. Well,” he sighed, “can't be helped. I've had a look at the duty roster and I think I've found an assignment that should test your mettle. It's an Internal Plot Adjustment order from the Council of Genres.”

Despite my natural feelings of caution, I was also, to my shame,
excited
by a practical test of my abilities. Dickens? Hardy? Perhaps even Shakespeare.

“Shadow the Sheepdog,”
announced the Bellman, “by Enid Blyton. It needs to have a happy ending.”

“Shadow . . . the Sheepdog,”
I repeated slowly, hoping my disappointment didn't show. Blyton wasn't
exactly
high literature, but on reflection, perhaps that was just as well.

“Okay,” I said more enthusiastically, “what do you want me to do?”

“Simple. As the story stands, Shadow is blinded by the barbed wire, so he can't be sold to the American film producer. Up ending because he isn't sold, down ending because he is blinded and useless. All we need to do is to have him miraculously regain his sight the next time he goes to the vet on page”—he consulted his clipboard—“two thirty-two.”

“And,” I said cautiously, not wanting the Bellman to realize how unprepared I was, “what plan are we going to use?”

“Swap dogs,” replied the Bellman simply. “All collies look pretty much the same.”

“What about Vestigial Plot Memory?” asked Havisham. “Do we have any smoothers?”

“It's all on the job sheet.” The Bellman tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “You do know all about smoothers, of course?”

“Of course!” I replied.

“Good. Any more questions?”

I shook my head.

“Excellent!” exclaimed the Bellman. “Just one more thing. Bradshaw is investigating the Perkins incident. Would you make sure he gets your reports as soon as possible?”

“Of course!”

“Er . . . Good.”

He made a few “must get on” noises and left.

As soon as he had gone, I said to Havisham, “Do you think I'm ready for this, ma'am?”

“Thursday,” she said in her most serious voice, “listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.” She looked around the room. “Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous—like you—are the last bastion of defense against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can stop asking so many questions and do as you're told—just pass this practical first time. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Havisham.”

“That's settled, then. Anything else?”

“Yes. What's a smoother?”

“Do you not read your TravelBook?”

“It's quite long,” I pleaded. “I've been consulting it whenever possible but still got no further than the preface.”

“Well,” she began as we jumped to Wemmick's Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, “plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can
spring
back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.”

“Like time,” I murmured, thinking about my father.

“If you say so. On Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother—a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad's
Lord Jim
, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown's massacre.”

“That didn't work?”

“No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose—after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.”

“So what did you do?”

“We retrospectively had the chief's son die in the massacre. It did the trick. The chief had no trouble shooting Jim after that.”

I mused about this for a moment. “How did Jim take it? The decision for him to die, I mean?”

“He was the one that asked for the plot adjustment in the first place. He thought it was the only honorable thing to do—mind you, the chief's son wasn't exactly over the moon about it.”

“Ah,” I said, pondering that here in the BookWorld the pencil of life occasionally
did
have an eraser on the other end.

“So you'll send a check for a hundred pounds to the farmer and buy his pigs for double the market rate—that way, he won't need the cash and won't want to resell Shadow to the film producer. Get it? Good afternoon, Mr. Wemmick.”

We had arrived at the stores. Wemmick himself was a short
man, a native of
Great Expectations,
aged about forty with a pockmarked face. He greeted us enthusiastically.

“Good afternoon, Miss Havisham, Miss Next—I trust all is well?”

“Quite well, Mr. Wemmick. I understand you have a few canines for us?”

“Indeed,” replied the storekeeper, pointing to where two dogs were attached to a hook in the wall by their leads.

“Pug, Lady Bertram's, to be replaced, one. Shadow, sheepdog, sighted, to swap with existing dog, blind, one. Check for the farmer, value one hundred pounds sterling, one. Cash to buy pigs, forty-two pounds, ten shillings and fourpence. Sign here.”

The two dogs panted and wagged their tails. The collie had his eyes bound with a bandage.

“Any questions?”

“Do we have a cover story for this check?” I asked.

“Use your imagination. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, alarm bells suddenly ringing, “aren't you coming with me to supervise?”