The well of lost plots (43 page)

The emcee 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,” carried on the emcee, “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 emcee, “the supreme Dark Lord himself, father of an entire subgenre. From his castle in the Carpathians he embarked upon the world and darkened shadows forever. Let’s read a little bit.”

He placed a short extract under the ImaginoTransferanceDevice 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 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 at the
Christmas Carol
table. Through his semitransparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim.

When the applause died down, the emcee 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. 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 th’ 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 mock’ry, hence!

Exit Ghost.

“And the winner is,” announced the emcee, opening the envelope, “. . . Count Dracula.”

The applause was deafening as the Count walked up to receive his award. He shook hands with the emcee 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 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. 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.” 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. 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 Most 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 joined 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 had both made it to the nominations only to be pipped at the post by the surprise winner, Lady Macbeth. Sylvia Plath was shortlisted but was disqualified for being real.

I got up and walked to the Jurisfiction table as a drumroll 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 savior of the BookWorld — it would be the end, and I hoped that Mimi down in the footnoterphone conduits was ready.
¹

“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 the 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 Ultra Word™, 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’s 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.

“Nonfiction 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 Ultra Word™, 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 Ultra Word™.”

“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.

“You’d
never
kill a featured Dickens character, Mr. Bradshaw!” said Heep, attempting to call his bluff.

Bradshaw pulled back the hammer on his rifle. “Poltroon! Ever wondered what happened to Edwin Drood?”

Heep’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, and coward that he was, he dropped his pistol and started pleading for his life.

Mrs. Bradshaw tied Heep’s thumbs together and, after gagging him, hid him under the
Summer Lightning
table.

“Drood?” I asked Bradshaw with some surprise. “Was that you?”

“Not at all!” He laughed. “I only asked him if he had ever
wondered
what happened to Drood. Now get out of here, girly — there’s work to be done!”

I pushed the swing doors to the hospitality lounge and pulled out my mobilefootnoterphone. The room 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 seventeen-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 we 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.

“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 the 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 Ultra Word™ will be history.”

Tweed glared 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 Jurisfiction. 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 Ultra Word™ — 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 I. It’s as easy to change the facts as it is to write a stub axle failure on the Bluebird — or unlock a padlock, put Godot in a bag or create an outbreak of 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!”

Tweed laughed. “Battle against UltraWord™ and you might as well try and canoe up a waterfall.”

He patted me patronizingly on the shoulder. “But just in case you’ve got something up your sleeve, six thousand highly trained Mrs. Danvers are on call, ready to move in on my word. We can even write a BookWorld 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.”