I made my way forward, where I was met by Sprockett, who beckoned me into a laundry cupboard.
“I took the opportunity to go through the mysterious passenger’s belongings, ma’am.”
“And?”
“I came across some shoulder pads, knee pads, a chest protector and a gallon of fire retardant.”
“What?”
“Shoulder pads—”
“I heard. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“All of it. From beginning to end. We reach Fanny Hill in half an hour, and the peace talks begin as soon as we are escorted to Pornucopia. It’s time to go over what we’ve found. I feel the answer is staring me in the face.”
“Shouldn’t we gather all the suspects in the bar?” asked Sprockett, who was fast becoming infected by the Metaphoric Queen’s capacity for narrative formulaicism.
“No. And another thing—”
I was interrupted by a cry from outside, and the engine went to slow ahead. We stepped out of the laundry cupboard to see several crewmen run past, and we followed them to the upper rear deck, from where we could see across the top of the sternwheel. Behind us in midstream was a figure in one of the riverboat’s four-man tenders. The man was rowing in a measured pace away from the boat, and given our forward speed, the distance between the two craft was rapidly increasing.
“Who is it?” asked Herring.
“It looks like the mysterious passenger from Cabin Twelve,” replied Drake, who had a small telescope, as befits an adventurer. “He’s even taken his luggage with him.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” asked Jobsworth, who had just arrived.
Herring explained, and Jobsworth looked at us all in turn. “Let me see.”
He peered through the telescope for a moment. “He’s taken his luggage with him.”
“That’s what I said,” remarked Drake.
“Mr. Herring,” said Jobsworth, “what’s going on here?”
“I’ve no idea, Senator.”
“Advice?”
“Um . . . carry on?”
“Sounds good to me. Captain?”
“Sir?”
“Carry on.”
But the captain, long a riverman, knew more of the perils that can be found on the Metaphoric.
“We can’t leave him out here, sir. The forests are full of Sirens eager to . . . well, how can I put it? He’ll be captured and made to . . . Listen, he’ll be killed.”
“Will it be quick?”
“No—it will be long and very drawn out. He might enjoy it to begin with, but he will eventually be discarded, a shriveled husk of a man devoid of any clothes, humanity or moisture.”
But the senator was made of sterner stuff.
“This mission is too important to delay, Captain. The mysterious passenger formerly of Cabin Twelve will have to remain exactly that. In every campaign there are always casualties. Full ahead.”
“Yes, sir.”
And they all walked away. The engines ran up to full speed again, and after a few more minutes the small boat was lost to view behind an overhanging tree on a bend in the river.
“I guess that’s what mysterious passengers do,” said Drake with a shrug. “Be mysterious. Drink?”
“I’ll see you down there,” I replied. “I must admonish this bar steward for the lamentable lack of quality in his Tahiti Tingle.”
Drake nodded and moved off, and Sprockett and I sat on the curved bench on the upper rear deck to discuss recent events. From the epizeuxis to the mimefield to the Men in Plaid to Sir Charles Lyell and the bed-sitting room.
“What had Thursday discovered that was so devastating to the peace process?” asked Sprockett.
“I don’t know. I wish to Panjandrum I were more like her.”
I took the sketch I had found in Sir Charles’s office out of my pocket. It was a map of Racy Novel with WomFic to one side and Dogma on the other. There was a shaded patch the shape of a tailless salmon that was mostly beneath Racy Novel.
As I stared at the picture, I felt a sudden flush of new intelligence, as though a jigsaw had been thrown into the air and landed fully completed. Everything that had happened to me over the past few days had been inexorably pointing me in one direction. But up until now I’d been too slow or stupid to be able to sift the relevant facts from the herrings.
“By all the spell checkers of Isugfsf,” I said, pointing at Lyell’s sketch. “It’s metaphor. A trillion tons of the stuff waiting to be mined, lying beneath our feet!”
“Yes?” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointing at “Doubtful.”
“That’s what Lyell and Thursday had discovered,” I said excitedly. “It’s as Drake said: ‘Whoever controls the supply of metaphor controls Fiction.’”
“If so,” said Sprockett carefully, “Racy Novel would be sending more metaphor downriver than anyone else. And they’re not.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Maybe Speedy Muffler isn’t bad at all. Perhaps he’s defending the metaphor against greedy genres intent on mining it to exhaustion. Metaphor should be controlled—a glut on the market would make Fiction overtly highbrow, painfully ambiguous and potentially unreadable. The new star on the horizon would be the elephant in the room that might lead the BookWorld into a long winter’s night.”
“That would be frightful,” replied Sprockett, recoiling in terror as the overmetaphorication hit him like a hammer. “But how does that explain the Fourteenth Clown’s destruction? Or even who’s responsible for all this?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but Senator Jobsworth needs to hear about it.”
I jumped up and ran down the companionway to the captain’s cabin, nearly colliding with Red Herring on the way.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m just going to find a doughnut—do you want one?”
“No thank you, sir.”
I found Senator Jobsworth discussing the talks with Emperor Zhark and Colonel Barksdale.
“Have you seen Herring?” asked Jobsworth. “He should really be going through the final details with us.”
“He went to get a doughnut.”
“He did? Leave us now. We’re very busy.”
“I have important information. I think I know why Thursday was assassinated.”
Jobsworth stared at me. “Thursday’s dead?”
“Well, no, because her imagination is still alive. It was an assassination attempt—in a crummy book written by Adrian Dorset.”
“Adrian Dorset?”
“Jack Schitt, if you must. It was the epizeuxis that got her. And Mediocre.”
“Who’s Mediocre?”
“Gatsby.”
“He’s anything but mediocre, my girl.”
And both he and Zhark laughed in a patronizing sort of way.
“Seriously,” I said hotly, “Thursday was attacked, and the reason—”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fascinating,” said Jobsworth, “but it’s going to have to wait. We enter the subgenre Racy Classics in five minutes and meet with the other delegates in forty-five. We have much work to do. If you really want to be helpful, make me a cup of tea or go find Herring.”
“But—”
“GO!”
I mumbled an apology and backed out the door, cursing my own weakness.
“That could have gone better,” said Sprockett. “I’ll try to find Herring for you.”
And with a mild buzz, he disappeared. I walked down to the lower deck feeling hot and frustrated. I didn’t like to be talked to that way, but this could indeed wait. I’d leave it until Jobsworth had a quieter moment and then tell him—or perhaps speak to Speedy Muffler’s people in private and see if my suspicions were correct. Perhaps it was better not to talk to Jobsworth.