'Did you kill Perkins?' asked the Bellman and Deane nodded sullenly.
'He was going to blow the whistle on me Havisham too. Snell and Mathias just got in the way. Happiness should have been mine!' he sobbed. 'Why did the slut have to turn up with that little bastard? I should have married Miss O'Shaugnessy all I wanted was something no evil squire in Farquitt ever gets!'
'And what was that?' asked the Bellman sternly.
'A happy ending.'
'Pitiful, wouldn't you say, Tweed?'
'Pitiful, yes, sir,' he replied stonily, staring at me as I picked myself off the floor.
The Bellman tore up my termination order.
'It looks as if we have underestimated you,' said the Bellman happily. 'I knew Havisham couldn't be wrong. Tweed, I think you owe Miss Next an apology.'
'I apologise unreservedly,' said Tweed through gritted teeth.
'Good,' said the Bellman. 'Now, Thursday, what's the problem with UltraWord?'
It was a sticky moment. We had to take this higher than the Bellman. With Libris and the whole of Text Grand Central involved, there was no knowing what they would do. I remembered an error from an early UltraWord test version.
'Well,' I began, 'I think there is a flight manual conflict. If you read an UltraWord book on an airship, it can play havoc with the flight manuals.'
'That's been cured,' said the Bellman kindly, 'but thank you for being so diligent.'
'That's a relief I replied. 'May I have some leave?'
'Of course. And if you find any other irregularities in UltraWord, I want them brought to me and me alone.'
'Yes, sir. May I?'
I indicated my TravelBook.
'Of course! Very impressive job capturing Deane, don't you think, Tweed?'
'Yes,' replied Tweed grimly, 'very impressive well done, Next.'
I opened my TravelBook and read myself to Solomon's outer office. Tweed wouldn't try anything at the C of G, and the following three days were crucial. Everything I needed to say to the Bellman would have to wait until I had seven million witnesses.
32
The 923rd Annual BookWorld Awards
'The annual BookWorld Awards (or Bookies) were instigated in 1063 CE and for the first two hundred years were dominated by Aeschylus and Homer, who won most of the awards in the thirty or so categories. Following the expansion in fiction and the inclusion of the oral tradition, categories totalled two hundred by 1423. Technical awards were introduced twenty years later and included "Most-Used English Word" and the "Most Widely Mispelt Word", witch has remained a contentious subject ever since. By 1879 there were over six hundred categories but neither the length of the awards nor the vote-rigging scandal in 1964 dented the popularity of this glittering occasion it will remain one of the BookWorld's most popular fixtures for years to come.'
I stood offstage at the Starlight Room, one in a long line of equally minor celebrities, all awaiting our turn to go and read the nominations. The hospitality lounge where we had all been mustered was about the size of a football pitch, and the massed babble of excited voices sounded like rushing water. I had been trying to avoid Tweed all evening. But whenever I lost him Heep would take over. There were others about, too. Bradshaw had pointed out Orlick and Legree, two other assistants of Tweed's that he thought I should be wary of.
Of them all, Heep was the most amateur. His skills at unobserved observation were woefully inadequate.
'Well!' he said when I caught him staring at me. 'You and me both waiting for awards!' He rubbed his hands and tapped his long fingers together. 'I ask you, me all humble and you an Outlander. Thanks to you and the mispeling incident I'm up for "Most Creepy Character in a Dickens Novel". What would you be up for?'
'I'm giving one, not accepting one, Uriah and why are you following me?'
'Apologies, ma'am,' he said, squirming slightly and clasping his hands together to try to stop them moving. 'Mr Tweed asked me to keep a particular close eye on you in case of an attack, ma'am.'
'Oh yes?' I replied, unimpressed by the lame cover story. 'From whom?'
'Those who would wish you harm, of course. ProCaths, bowdlerisers even the townspeople from Shadow. It was them what tried to kill you at Solomon's, I'll be bound.'
Sadly, it was true. There had been two attempts on my life since Deane's arrest. The first had been a tiger released in Kenneth's office. I thought at first it was Big Martin catching up with me but it wasn't. Bradshaw had dealt with the creature; he sent it on a one-way trip to Zenobians. The second had been a contract killing. Fortunately for me Heep's handwriting was pretty poor and Thursby from The Maltese Falcon was shot instead. It was only because I was an Outlander that I was still alive if I'd been a Generic I could have been erased at source long ago.
'Mr Tweed said that Outlanders have to stick together,' continued Heep, 'and look after each other. Outlanders have a duty'
'This is all really very sweet of him,' I interrupted, 'but I can look after myself. Good luck with your award; I'm sure you'll win.'
'Thank you!' he said, fidgeting for a moment before moving off a little way and continuing to stare at me in an unsubtle manner.
I was summoned towards the stage, where I could see the master of ceremonies winding up the previous award. He reminded me of Adrian Lush all smiles, insincerity and bouffant hair.
'So,' he continued, ' "teleportation" a clear winner for the "Most Implausible Premise in an SF Novel" which was hard luck on "And they lived happily after" which won last year. If I could thank all the nominees and especially Ginger Hebblethwaite for presenting it.'
There was applause and a freckled youth in a flying jacket waved to the crowd and winked at me as he trotted offstage.
The MC took a deep breath and consulted his list. Unlike awards at home there was no TV coverage as no one in the BookWorld had a TV. You didn't need one. The Generics who had remained in the books as a skeleton staff to keep the stories in order were kept up to date with a live footnoterphone link from the Starlight Room. With all the usual characters away at the awards, fiction wasn't quite so good, but no one generally noticed. This was often the reason why people in the Outland argued over the quality of a recommended book. They had read it during the Bookies.
'The next award, ladies, gentlemen and er things, is to be given by the newest Jurisfiction agent to join the ranks of the BookWorld's own policing agency. Fresh from a glittering career in the Outland and engineer of the improved ending to Jane Eyre, may I present Thursday Next!'
There was applause and I walked on, smiling dutifully. I air-kissed the MC and looked out into the auditorium.
It was vast. Really vast. The Starlight Room was the largest single function room ever described in any book. A lit candelabrum graced each of the hundred thousand tables, and as I looked into the room all I could see was a never-ending field of white lights, flickering in the distance like stars. Seven million characters were here tonight, but by using a very convenient temporal field displacement technology borrowed from the boys in the SF genre, everyone in the room had a table right next to the stage and could hear and see us with no problems at all.
'Good evening,' I said, staring out at the sea of faces, 'I am here to read the nominations and announce the winner of the "Best Chapter Opening in the English Language" category.'
I started to feel hot under the lights. I composed myself and read the back of the envelope.
'The nominations are: The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe, Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, and A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.'