We walked into a room next door that seemed to be filled to capacity with computers and their operators.
“How many probe missions have you sent?”
“About seventy thousand,” said John Henry, who had followed us. “Most come back without recording anything, and over eight thousand never return at all. In total we have had four hundred and twenty successful missions. As you can see, getting into fiction for us is at present a somewhat haphazard affair. The Austen Rover is ready for its first trip-but by simple extrapolation of the probe figures, every journey has a one-in-eight chance of not returning, and only a one-in-one-hundred-and-sixty possibility of hitting something.”
I could see what they were up against-and why. They were hurling probes into a BookWorld that was 80 percent Nothing. The thing was, I could pretty much draw from memory a genre map of the BookWorld. With my help they might actually make it.
“This is the BookWorld as we think it exists,” explained John Henry, laying out a large sheet of paper on a desk. It was patchy in the extreme and full of errors. It was a bit like throwing Ping-Pong balls into a dark furniture store and then trying to list the contents by the noises they made.
“This will take you a long time to figure out,” I murmured.
“Time that we don’t really have, Ms. Next. Despite my position as president, even I have to concede that the amount spent will never be recouped. All funding for this project will be withdrawn in a week.”
It was the first time I’d felt any sort of relief since I arrived. The idea of Goliath’s even setting so much as a toe inside fiction filled me with utter dread. But one question still niggled at me.
“Why?”
“I’m sorry?” said John Henry.
“Why are you trying to get into fiction at all?”
“Book tourism,” he replied simply. “The Austen Rover was designed to take twelve people around the high points of Jane Austen’s work. At five hundred pounds for a twenty-minute hop around the most-loved works, we thought at the time it would be quite profitable. Mind you, that was nine years ago, when people were still reading books.”
“We thought it might reinvigorate the classics,” added Wirthlass.
“And your interest in the classics?”
It was John Henry who answered. “We feel that publishing in general and books in par tic ular are well worth hanging on to.”
“You’ll excuse me if I’m not convinced by your supposed altruism.”
“No altruism, Ms. Next. The fall in revenue of our publishing arm has been dramatic, and since we own little in the way of computer games or consoles, the low ReadRate is something that affects us financially. I think you’ll find that we’re together on this one. What we want is what you want. Even though our past associations have not been happy and I understand your distrust, Goliath in its reborn shape is not quite the all-devouring corporation that you think it is.”
“I haven’t been in the BookWorld since the days of The Eyre Affair.”
John Henry coughed politely. “You knew about the probes, Ms. Next.”
Damn.
“I have…contacts over there.”
I could tell they didn’t believe me, but that was tough. I’d seen enough.
“Looks like you’ve wasted a lot of money,” I said.
“With or without you, we’re going to test it on Friday evening,” announced Wirthlass. “I and two others have decided to risk all and take her out for a spin. We may not return, but if we do, then the data gained would be priceless!”
I admired her courage, but it didn’t matter-I wasn’t going to tell them what I knew.
“Just explain one thing,” said Wirthlass. “Is the force of gravity entirely normal in the BookWorld?”
“What about the universality of physical laws?” piped up a second technician, who’d been watching us.
“And communication between books-is such a thing possible?”
Before long there were eight people, all asking questions about the BookWorld that I could have answered with ease-had I any inclination to do so.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the questions reached a crescendo. “I can’t help you!”
They were all quiet and stared at me. To them this project was everything, and to see its cancellation without fruition was clearly a matter of supreme frustration-especially as they suspected I had the answers.
I made my way toward the exit and was joined by John Henry, who had not yet given up trying to charm me.
“Will you stay for lunch? We have the finest chefs available to make what ever you want.”
“I run a carpet shop, Mr. Goliath, and I’m late for work.”
“A carpet shop?” he echoed with incredulity. “That sells carpets?”
“All sorts of floor coverings, actually.”
“I would offer you discounted carpets for life in order for you to help us,” he said, “but from what I know of you, such a course would be unthinkable. My private Dakota is at Douglas Graviport if you want to use it to fly straight home. I ask for nothing but say only this: We are doing this for the preservation and promotion of books and reading. Try to find it in your heart to consider what we are doing here in an objective light.”
We had by now walked outside the building, and John Henry’s Bentley pulled up in front of us.
“My car is yours. Good day, Ms. Next.”
“Good day, Mr. Goliath.”
He shook my hand and then departed. I looked at the Bentley and then at the ranks of cabs a little way down the road. I shrugged and climbed in the back of the Bentley.
“Where to, madam?” asked the driver.
I thought quickly. I had my TravelBook on me and could jump to the Great Library from here-as long as I could find a quiet spot conducive to bookjumping.
“The nearest library,” I told him. “I’m late for work.”
“You’re a librarian?” he inquired politely.
“Let’s just say I’m really into books.”
21. Holmes
I don’t know what it was about traveling to and from the BookWorld that dehydrated me so much. It had gotten progressively worse, almost without my noticing, a bit like a mildly increased girth and skin that isn’t as elastic as it used to be. On the upside, however, the textual environment kept all the aches and pains at bay. I hardly noticed my bad back in the BookWorld and was never troubled by headaches.
A few minutes and several pints of rehydrating water later, I walked into the Jurisfiction offices at Norland Park. Thursday5 was waiting for me by my desk, looking decidedly pleased with herself.
“Guess what!” she enthused.
“I have no idea.”
“Go on, guess!”
“I don’t want to guess,” I told her, hoping the tedium in my voice would send out a few warning bells. It didn’t.
“No, you must guess!”
“Okay,” I sighed. “You’ve got some new beads or something.”
“Wrong,” she said, producing a paper bag with a flourish. “I got you the bacon roll you wanted!”
“I never would have guessed that,” I replied, sitting before a desk that seemed to be flooded with new memos and reports, adding, in an unthinking moment, “How are things with you?”
“I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
I rubbed my forehead as she sat down and stared at me intently, hands clasped nervously in front of her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my inquiry over her health was merely politeness. I didn’t actually want to know. Quite the reverse, in fact.