The Well of Lost Plots

'Proceed!'

'Wuthering Heights first-person narrative dispute,' said the lawyer, placing a sheet of paper on the table.

'Let me see,' said Kenneth slowly, studying the report. 'Mr Lockwood, Catherine Earnshaw, Heathcliff, Nelly Dean, Isabella and Catherine Linton. Are you all here?'

They nodded their heads. Heathclif looked over his sunglasses at me and winked.

'Well,' murmured Kenneth at length, 'you all believe that you should have the first-person narrative, is that it?'

'No, Your Worshipfulness,' said Nelly Dean, ''’tis the otherways. None of us want it. It's a curse to any honest Generic — and some not so honest.'

'Hold your tongue, serving girl!' yelled Heathcliff.

'Murderer!'

'Say that again!'

'You heard me!'

And they all started to yell at one another until Kenneth banged his gavel on the desk and they were all instantly quiet. The Judgement of Solomon© was the last form of arbitration; there was no appeal from here and they all knew it.

'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that … you should all have the first-person narrative.'

'What?!' yelled Mr Lockwood. 'What kind of loopy idea is that? How can we all be the first person?'

'It is fair and just,' replied Kenneth, placing his fingertips together and staring at them all serenely.

'What will we do?' asked Catherine sarcastically. 'Talk at the same time?'

'No,' replied Kenneth. 'Mr Lockwood, you will introduce the story and you, Nelly, will tell the major part of it in deep retrospection; the others will have their say in the following ratios.'

He scribbled on the back of an envelope, signed it and handed it over. They all grumbled for a bit, Nelly Dean the most.

'Mrs Dean,' said Kenneth, 'you are, for better or worse, the single linking factor for all the families. Consider yourself lucky I did not give the whole book to you. It is the Judgement of Solomon© — now go!'

And they all filed out, Nelly complaining bitterly while Heathcliff strode ahead, ignoring all the others.

'That was quite good,' I said as soon as they had left.

'Do you think so?' asked Kenneth, genuinely pleased by my praise. 'Judgementing is not for everyone but I quite like it. The trick is to be scrupulously fair and just — you could do with a few Solomon franchises in the Outland. Tell me, do you think Lola will be going to the Bookie awards next week?'

'You know Lola?'

'Let's just say I have made her acquaintance in the course of my duties.'

'I'm sure she'll be there — on the chicklit table, I should imagine. She's starring in Girls Make all the Moves.'

'Is she really?' he said slowly. 'Who's next?'

'I don't know; it depends on the choice available. Sometimes she goes through them alphabetically, other times in order of height.'

'Not Lola, next for me.'

'Sorry,' I said, flushing slightly, 'I'll go and get them.'

It was Emperor Zhark. He seemed surprised to see me and told me what a great agent Miss Havisham had been. I walked him in and he and Kenneth both started when they saw one another. They had clearly met before — but not for some time.

'Zhark!' cried Kenneth, walking around to the front of the desk and offering the emperor a Havana cigar. 'You old troublemaker! Haven't seen you for ages! What are you up to?'

'Tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy,' he replied modestly.

'Get away! Old "Sneaky Zharky" of Form 5C, St Tabularasa's — who'd have thought it?'

'It's "Emperor" Zhark now, old chum,' he said through gritted teeth.

'Glad to hear it. Whatever happened to Captain Ahab? Haven't seen him since we left school.'

'Ahab?' queried the emperor, brow furrowed.

'You remember. One leg and madder than the March Hare. Set fire to his own trousers for a bet and stocked the school pond with piranhas.'

'Oh, him,' replied Zhark. 'Last I heard he was convinced a white whale was after him — but that was years ago. We should have a reunion; one falls out of touch so easily in the BookWorld.'

'Don't I know it,' returned Kenneth sadly.

They sat in silence for a moment, recalling various school friends, I imagine.

'So, Zharky old boy, how can I help you?'

'It's the Rambosians,' he said at last. 'They just refuse to cede power to me.'

'How awkward for you. Is there any reason why they should?'

'Stability, old man, stability. The Rambosians have been responsible for numerous acts of savage satire in the Galactic Federation's daily redtop, Stars My Destination. They lampoon me constantly and the cartoons are shockingly insulting.'

'So you want to invade?'

'Of course not; that would be wasteful of resources. No, I want them to open their arms and worship me as their one true God. They will give ultimate executive power to me, and in return I will protect them with the might of the Zharkian Empire.'

'Hmm,' replied Kenneth thoughtfully, 'that wouldn't be because the planet Rambosia is composed of eighteen trillion tons of valuable A-class nutmeg, now, would it?'

'Not in the least,' replied the emperor unconvincingly.

'Very well,' said Kenneth. 'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that you make peace with the Rambosians.'

'What?!'

The emperor jumped to his feet and went as dark as a thundercloud. He wagged a finger at Kenneth.

'You'll never play golf at the Old White Male Club again,' he yelled. 'I'll have you blackballed so far out you won't be able to get your hat checked even if you come in the company of the Great Panjandrum himself!'

And so saying, he threw his cloak behind him, made a large huffing noise, turned on his heels and strode to the door.

'Well,' said Kenneth, 'tyrants are all the same — shocking temper when they don't get their own way! Who's next?'

30 Revelations

'Commander Bradshaw did much of the booksploring in the early years, before the outlying Rebel Book Categories were brought within the controlling sphere of the Council of Genres. Inexplicably, novels can only be visited when someone has found a way in — and a way out. Bradshaw's mapping of the known BookWorld (1927—1949) was an extraordinary feat, and until the advent of the ISBN Positioning System (1962), Bradshaw's maps were the only travel guide to fiction. Not all booksploring ends so happily. Ambrose Bierce was lost trying to access Poe. His name, along with many others, is carved on the Boojumonal, situated in the lobby of the Great Library.'

RONAN EMPYHE — A History of Gibbons

I couldn't find the three witches, no matter how hard I looked. Their prophecies bothered me but not enough to keep me from sleeping soundly that night. It was two days later that I came home from a long day of Kenneth's judgements to find Arnie waiting for me. He and Randolph were drinking beer in the kitchen and talking about the correct time to use a long dash to designate interrupted speech.

'You can use it any—'

'Arnie, I owe you an apology,' I said, blushing deeply and forgetting my manners. 'You must think me the worst tease in the Well.'

'No, that would be Lola. Forget it. Gran explained everything. How are you? Memories returned?'

'All present and correct.'

'Good. Dinner some time — as good friends, of course?' he added hastily.

'I'd love to, Arnie. And thanks for being so … well, decent.'

He smiled and looked away.

'Beer?' said Randolph, who seemed to have recovered from his Lola-induced trauma.

'Anything non-alcoholic?'

He passed me a carton of orange juice and I poured myself a glass.

'Are you going to tell her?' said Arnie.

'Tell me what?'

'I didn't get the Amis part,' began Randolph, 'but I've been short-listed for a minor speaking appearance in the next Wolfe.'

'That's excellent news!' I responded happily. 'When?'

'Some time in the next couple of years. I'm going to do some stand-in work until then; the C of G has opened up travel writing as holiday destinations for Generics. No more awayday breaks in Barsetshire — I'm to cover for Count Smorltork while he goes on holiday for two weeks in Wainwright's A Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells.'

'Congratulations.'

He thanked me but was still somehow distant. He stared out of the porthole at the lake, deep in thought.

'What about you?' asked Arnie. 'What will you do? Your demotion is all over the Well!'

'It's not a demotion,' I said. 'Well, perhaps it is.'

'Word is that Harris Tweed is up to be the next Bellman,' murmured Arnie. 'Despite his lack of experience, Jurisfiction favours an Outlander.'

'What's so special about Outlanders?' asked Randolph.

'We have skills that few Generics possess.'

'Such as?'

I picked up the leather-bound UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that had been lying on the table and gave it to Arnie.

'Smell anything?'

He held it to his nose and shook his head. I took the book and sniffed at it delicately; I had expected the odour of leather but instead I could smell sweet melons — cantaloupes. I was transported back to the last time I had come across this particular scent; the odd and boxy truck in Caversham Heights. The truck without texture, the automaton driver without personality. Something clicked.

'It was an UltraWord™ truck,' I murmured, searching through my bag for the angular and textureless bolt I had picked up after the truck had departed. I found it and sniffed at it cautiously, my mind racing as I tried to think of a connection.

'If this is anything to go by,' said Arnie, flicking through the pages of The Little Prince, 'then the readers are in for a treat.'

'They are indeed,' I replied as Randolph tried to open the cover — but couldn't.

I took it from him and the book opened easily. I handed it back but the cover was still stuck fast.

'Odd,' I said as Arnie took the book and opened it once again without any problem. 'It's Havisham's copy,' I added slowly. 'She's read it, and me, and now you.'

'A book which only three people can read!' said Randolph scornfully. 'A bit mean, I must say!'

'Only three readers,' I murmured, my heart going cold as I recalled the three witches' prophecy: Thrice is once and thrice is twice and thrice again— Perhaps the new operating system was not quite the egalitarian advance it claimed — if it was really the case that UltraWord™ books could only be opened three times then libraries would be a thing of the past. And the angular truck, the strange bolt? What did all that mean? I shivered. If something was so wrong with the new system that they would kill to keep it quiet, then the 'thrice read' rule was just the beginning. The orders for my transfer had come from Text Grand Central via the Bellman's clipboard. Perhaps I was being removed for a reason — who other than the grieving apprentice to ask awkward questions? If so, Havisham's accident had been nothing of the sort.

'Problems?' asked Arnie, sensing my disquiet.

'Could be. Miss Havisham was sure there was something wrong with UltraWord™. I think Perkins found out — and so did Snell.'

'Did they actually say so?' asked Randolph, who had obviously been studying law as part of his upcoming Wolfe bit-part. 'Without any evidence this will be hard to prove.'

'Perkins and Havisham told me nothing — and all I got from Snell was gobbledegook on his deathbed. He may have told me everything but it was so badly spelled I didn't understand a word.'

'What did he say?'

'He said: "Thirsty! Wode — Cone, udder whirled — doughnut Trieste—!" or something quite like it.'

Arnie exchanged looks with Randolph.

'The "Thirsty" must be "Thursday",' murmured Randolph.

'I figured that,' I returned, 'but what about the rest?'

'Do you suppose,' said Randolph thoughtfully, 'that if you were to recite those words near a source of mispeling they would revert back again?'

There was one of those long pauses that always accompany an epiphanic moment.

'It's worth a try,' I replied, thinking hard. Where would I find some mispeling vyrus without anyone asking questions?

I got up, checked the clip of my automatic and opened my TravelBook.

'Where are you going?' asked Arnie.

'To visit the Anti-mispeling Fast Response Group on the seventeenth floor. I think they might be able to help.'

'Will they want to?'

I shrugged.

'Irrelevant. Asking wasn't part of my plan.'