The Well of Lost Plots

'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 hithero 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?'

'Pretty good,' said Mrs Tiggy-winkle, 'but 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. He quickly broke off when I appeared.

'Ah!' said Tweed. 'Thursday. Sorry to hear about Snell; he was a good man.'

'I know — thank you.'

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

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

'Sorry!' mumbled Harris. '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 some time?'

'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 signalling for 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 JurisTech 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 said, 'I wasn't listening.'

I walked down the corridor and 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 JurisTech. This is Old Jokes. Try next door.'

I thanked him and knocked on the next door. I heard a very sing-song 'Come in!' and 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,' I replied, '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, nicked a magnifying glass in front of his eye and stared at the frayed end minutely.[15]

'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 galvanised bucket on your head.'

'Not for a minute or two,' I told him, '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 IV 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 retextualising inhibitor to the ISBN code rectifiers. If the cord had been pulled, there would have been an overheat in the primary booster coils.'

'Overheat?' I asked. '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 IVs — it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there was a broken cord.'

He whistled softly.

'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 weren'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. 'Okay. What do you want me to do?'

15

'Sofya! Where were you? I have been calling for ever! Tell me, the Karenins — they divorced?'

'No! Maybe if they had been divorced, events would have been different. I remember her attending the theatre in Petersburg. What a disaster!'

'Why? Whatever happened? Did she make a fool of herself?'

'Yes, by appearing in the first place! How could she? Madame Kartasova, who was in the adjacent box with that fat bald husband of hers, made a scene: she said something aloud, something insulting, and left the theatre. We all saw it happen. Anna tried to ignore everything but she must have known …'

'Why didn't they push for a divorce, the foolish pair!'

'Vronsky wanted her to but she kept putting it off. They moved to Moscow, but she was never happy. Vronsky spent his time involved in politics and she was convinced that he was with other women. A jealous, fallen disgrace of a woman she was. Then, at Znamanka station she could take it no longer — she flung herself upon the rails and was crushed by the 20.02 to Obiralovka!'

'No!'

'Yes, but don't tell a soul — it is a secret between you and me! Come — for dinner on Tuesday — we are having turnip à l’orange. I have a simply adorable new cook. Adieu, my good friend, adieu!'