“We don’t tolerate these sort of places back home,” I murmured.

  “We encourage them here,” explained Snell. “Fiction wouldn’t be much fun without its fair share of scoundrels, and they have to live somewhere.”

  I could feel the menace as soon as we stepped from the elevator. Low mutters were exchanged amongst several hooded figures who stood close by, their faces obscured by the shadows, their hands bony and white. We walked past two large cats with eyes that seemed to dance with fire; they stared at us hungrily and licked their lips.

  “Dinner,” said one, looking us both up and down. “Shall we eat them together or one by one?”

  “One by one,” said the second cat, who was slightly bigger and a good deal more fearsome, “but we better wait until Big Martin gets here.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said the first cat, retracting his claws quickly, “so we’d better.”

  Snell had ignored the two cats completely; he glanced at his watch and said, “We’re going to the Slaughtered Lamb to visit a contact of mine. Someone has been cobbling together plot devices from half-damaged units that should have been condemned. It’s not only illegal—it’s dangerous. The last thing anyone needs is a ‘Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire?’ plot device going off an hour too early and ruining the suspense—how many stories have you read where the bomb is defused with an hour to go?”

  “Not many, I suppose.”

  “You suppose right. We’re here.”

  The gloomy interior was shabby and smelt of beer. Three ceiling fans stirred the smoke-filled atmosphere, and a band was playing a melancholy tune in one corner. The dark walls were spaced with individual booths where somberness was an abundant commodity; the bar in the center seemed to be the lightest place in the room and gathered there, like moths to a light, were an odd collection of people and creatures, all chatting and talking in low voices. The atmosphere in the room was so thick with dramatic clichés you could have cut it with a knife.

  “See over there?” said Snell, indicating two men who were deep in conversation.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Hyde talking to Blofeld. In the next booth are Von Stalhein and Wackford Squeers. The tall guy in the cloak is Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy and star of the Zharkian Empire series of SF books. The one with the spines is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle—they’ll be on a training assignment, just like us.”

  “Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is an apprentice?” I asked incredulously, staring at the large hedgehog who was holding a basket of laundry and sipping delicately at a sherry.

  “No; Zhark is the apprentice—Tiggy’s a full agent. She deals with children’s fiction, runs the Hedgepigs Society—and does our washing.”

  “Hedgepigs Society?” I echoed. “What does that do?”

  “They advance hedgehogs in all branches of literature. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was the first to get star billing and she’s used her position to further the lot of her species; she’s got references into Kipling, Carroll, Aesop and four mentions in Shakespeare. She’s also good with really stubborn stains—and never singes the cuffs.”

  “Tempest, Midsummer Night’s Dream, Macbeth,” I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. “Where’s the fourth?”

  “Henry VI, part one, act four, scene one: ‘Hedge-born Swaine.’ ”

  “I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog. Swaine can be a country lad just as easily as a pig—perhaps more so.”

  “Well,” sighed Snell, “we’ve given her the benefit of the doubt—it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in Alice. Don’t mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she’s about, either—conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of washing temperatures for woolens.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I murmured. “The bar doesn’t look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?”

  Snell sighed audibly. “They’re Triffids, Thursday. The big blobby thing practicing golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you soma tablets, don’t buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain and above all don’t look at Medusa. If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like hell. Get me a drink and I’ll see you back here in five minutes.”

  “Right.”

  He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had previously seen. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face-to-face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel—it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone:

  “What’s the problem, never seen a Thraal before?”

  I didn’t understand; it sounded like a form of Courier bold, but I wasn’t sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.

  “Hey!” it said. “I’m talking to you, two-eyes.”

  The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.

  “He says he doesn’t like you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t like you, either,” said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof, “I have the death sentence in seven genres.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I assured him, but this didn’t seem to work.

  “You’re the one who’ll be sorry!”

  “Come, come, Nigel,” said a voice I recognized. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  This wasn’t to the genetic experiment’s liking for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head—Nigel’s gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.

  “You’re quick, girlie,” said Nigel. “I respect that.”

  “She’s with me,” said the newcomer. “Let’s all just calm down.”

  I lowered my gun and replaced the safety. Nigel nodded respectfully and returned to his place at the bar with the odd-looking alien.

  “Are you all right?”

  It was Harris Tweed. He was a fellow Jurisfiction agent and Outlander, just like me. The last time I had seen him was three days ago in Lord Volescamper’s library, when we had flushed out the renegade fictioneer Yorrick Kaine after he had invoked the Questing Beast to destroy us. Tweed had been carried off by the exuberant bark of a bookhound and I had not seen him since.

  “Thanks for that, Tweed,” I said. “What did the alien thing want?”

  “He was a Thraal, Thursday—speaking in Courier bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too—he’d not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion—what are you doing alone in the twenty-second subbasement anyway?”

  “I’m not alone. Havisham’s busy so Snell’s showing me around.”

  “Ah,” replied Tweed, looking about, “does this mean you’re taking your entrance exams?”

  “Third of the way through the written already. Did you track down Kaine?”

  “No. We went all the way to London, where we lost the scent. Bookhounds don’t work so well in the Outland, and besides—we have to get special permission to pursue PageRunners into the real world.”

  “What does the Bellman say about that?”

  “He’s for it, of course,” replied Tweed, “but the launch of Ultra Word™ has dominated the Council of Genres’ discussion time. We’ll get round to Kaine in due course.”

  I was glad of this; Kaine wasn’t only an escapee from fiction but a dangerous right-wing politician back home. I would be only too happy to see him back inside whatever book he’d escaped from—permanently.

  At that moment Snell returned and nodded a greeting to Tweed, who returned it politely.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tweed,” said Snell, “will you join us for a drink?”

  “Sadly, I cannot,” replied Tweed. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at roll call, yes?”

  “Odd sort of fellow,” remarked Snell as soon as Tweed had left. “What was he doing here?”

  I handed Snell his drink and we sat down in an empty booth. It was near the three cats and they stared at us hungrily while consulting a large recipe book.

  “I had a bit of trouble at the bar and Tweed stepped in to help.”

  “Good thing, too. Ever see one of these?”

  He rolled a small globe across the table and I picked it up. It was a little like a Christmas decoration but a lot more sturdy. A small legend complete with a bar code and ID number was printed on the side.

  “ ‘Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! FAD/167945,’ ” I read aloud. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a stolen freeze-dried plot device. Crack it open and pow!—the story goes off at a tangent.”

  “How do we know it’s stolen?”

  “It doesn’t have a Council of Genres seal of approval. Without one, these things are worthless. Log it as evidence when you get back to the office.”

  He took a sip of his drink, coughed and stared into the glass. “W-what is this?”

  “I’m not sure but mine is just as bad.”

  “Not possible. Hello, Emperor, have you met Thursday Next? Thursday, this is Emperor Zhark.”

  A tall man swathed in a high-collared cloak was standing next to our table. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and precise goatee. He looked at me with cold, dark eyes and raised an eyebrow imperiously.

  “Greetings,” he intoned indifferently. “You must send my regards to Miss Havisham. Snell, how is my defense looking?”

  “Not too good, Your Mercilessness,” he replied. “Annihilating all the planets in the Cygnus cluster might not have been a very good move.”

  “It’s those bloody Rambosians,” Zhark said angrily. “They threatened my empire. If I didn’t destroy entire star systems, no one would have any respect for me; it’s for the good of galactic peace, you know—stability, and anyway, what’s the point in possessing a devastatingly destructive death ray if you can’t use it?”

  “Well, I should keep that to yourself. Can’t you claim you were cleaning it when it went off or something?”

  “I suppose,” said Zhark grudgingly. “Is there a head in that bag?”

  “Yes, do you want to have a look?”

  “No, thanks. Special offer, yes?”

  “What?”

  “Special offer. You know, clearance sale. How much did you pay for it?”

  “Only a . . . hundred,” Snell said, glancing at me. “Less than that, actually.”

  “You were done.” Zhark laughed. “They’re forty a half dozen at CrimeScene, Inc.—with double stamps, too.”

  Snell’s face flushed with anger and he jumped up.

  “The little scumbag!” he spat. “I’ll have him in a bag when I see him again!” He turned to me. “Will you be all right getting out on your own?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good,” he replied through gritted teeth. “See you later!”

  “Hold it!” I said, but it was too late. He had vanished.

  “Problems?” asked Zhark.

  “No,” I replied slowly, holding up the dirty pillowcase, “he just forgot his head—and careful, Emperor, there’s a Triffid creeping up behind you.”

  Zhark turned to face the Triffid, who stopped, thought better of an attack and rejoined his friends, who were cooling their roots at the bar.

  Zhark departed and I looked around. At the next table a fourth cat had joined the other three. It was bigger than the others and considerably more battle-scarred—it had only one eye and both ears had large bites taken out of them. They all licked their lips as the newest cat said in a low voice, “Shall we eat her?”

  “Not yet,” replied the first cat, “we’re waiting for Big Martin.”

  They returned to their drinks but never took their eyes off me. I could imagine how a mouse felt. After ten minutes I decided that I was not going to be intimidated by outsize house pets and got up to leave, taking Snell’s head with me. The cats got up and followed me out, down the dingy corridor. Here the shops sold weapons, dastardly plans for world domination and fresh ideas for murder, revenge, extortion and other general mayhem. Generics, I noticed, could be trained in the dark art of being an accomplished evildoer as easily as any other profession. The cats yowled excitedly and I quickened my step only to stumble into a clearing amidst the shantytown of wooden buildings. The reason for the clearing was obvious. Sitting atop an old packing case was another cat. But this one was different. No oversize house cat, this beast was four times the size of a tiger and it stared at me with ill-disguised malevolence. Its claws were extended and fangs at the ready, glistening slightly with hungry anticipation. I stopped and looked behind me to where the four other cats had lined up and were staring at me expectantly, tails gently lashing the air. A quick glance around the corridor proved that there was no one near who might offer me any assistance; indeed, most of the bystanders seemed to be getting ready for something of a show.

  I pulled out my automatic as one of the cats bounded up to the newcomer and said, “Can we eat her now, please?”

  The large cat placed one of its claws in the packing case and drew it through the wood like a razor-sharp chisel cutting through soft clay; it stared at me with huge green eyes and said in a deep, rumbling voice:

  “Shouldn’t we wait until Big Martin gets here?”

  “Yes,” sighed the smaller cat with a strong air of disappointment, “perhaps we should.”

  Suddenly, the big cat pricked up his ears and jumped from his box into the shadows; I pointed my gun but it wasn’t attacking—the overgrown tiger was departing in a panic. The other cats quickly left the scene and pretty soon the bystanders had gone, too. Within a few moments I was completely alone in the corridor, with nothing to keep me company but the rapid thumping of my own heart, and a head in a bag.

  6.

  Night of the Grammasites

  Grammasite: Generic term for a parasitic life-form that lives inside books and feeds on grammar. Technically known as Gerunds or Ingers, they were an early attempt to transform nouns (which were plentiful) into verbs (which at the time were not) by simply attaching an ing. A dismal failure at verb resource management, they escaped from captivity and now roam freely in the subbasements. Although they are thankfully quite rare in the library itself, isolated pockets of grammasites are still found from time to time and dealt with mercilessly.

  CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,

  Guide to the Great Library

  I TURNED AND WALKED quickly towards the elevators, a strong feeling of impending oddness raising the hair on the back of my neck. I pressed the call button but nothing happened. I quickly dashed across the corridor and tried the second bank of elevators, but with no more success. I was just thinking of running to the stairwell when I heard a noise. It was a distant, low moan that was quite unlike any other sort of low moan that I had ever heard, nor would ever want to hear again. I put down the head in a bag as my palms grew sweaty, and although I told myself I was calm, I pressed the call button several more times and reached for my automatic as a shape hove into view from the depths of the corridor. It was flying close to the bookshelves and was something like a bat, something like a lizard and something like a vulture. It was covered in patchy gray fur and wearing stripy socks and a brightly colored waistcoat of questionable taste. I had seen this sort of thing before; it was a grammasite, and although dissimilar to the adjectivore I had seen in Great Expectations, I imagined it could do just as much harm—it was little wonder that the residents of the Well had locked themselves away. The grammasite swept past in a flash without noticing me and was soon gone with a rumble like distant artillery. I relaxed slightly, expecting to see the Well spring back into life, but nothing stirred. Far away in the distance, beyond the Slaughtered Lamb, an excited burble reached my straining ears. I pressed the call button again as the noise grew louder and a slight breeze drafted against my face, like the oily zephyr that precedes an underground train. I shuddered. Where I came from, a Browning automatic spoke volumes, but how it would work on a grammar-sucking parasite, I had no idea—and I didn’t think this would be a good time to find out. I was preparing myself to run when there was a melodious bing, the call button light came on and one of the elevator pointers started to move slowly towards my floor. I ran across and leaned with my back against the doors, releasing the safety on my automatic as the wind and noise increased. By the time the elevator was four floors away, the first grammasites had arrived. They looked around the corridor as they flew, sniffing at books with their long snouts and giving off excited squeaks. This was the advance guard. A few seconds later the main flock arrived with a deafening roar. One or two of them poked at books until they fell off the shelves, while other grammasites fell upon the unfinished manuscripts with an excited cry. There was a scuffle as a character burst from a page, only to be impaled by a grammasite, who reduced the unfortunate wretch to a few explanatory phrases, which were then eaten by scavengers waiting on the sidelines. I had seen enough. I opened fire and got three of them straightaway, who were devoured in turn by the same scavengers—clearly there was little honor or sense of loss amongst grammasites; their compatriots merely shuffled into the gaps left by their fallen comrades. I picked off two who were scrabbling at the bookcases attempting to dislodge more books and then turned away to reload. As I did, another eerie silence filled the corridor. I released the slide on my automatic and looked up. About a hundred or so grammasites were staring at me with their small black eyes, and it wasn’t a look that I’d describe as anywhere near friendly. I sighed. What a way to go. I could see my headstone now: