“From the Guiana Basin, an area of sea scattered with subterranean mountains and hills every bit as beautiful as the Andes. In a deep valley in this region I discovered an aquatic plant whose seeds, when dried and ground, make a coffee to match any that land can offer.”

  His face fell for a moment and he looked into his cup, swirling the brown liquid around.

  “As soon as this coffee is drunk, that will be the end of it. I have been moved around the Well of Lost Plots for almost a century now. I was to be in a sequel, you know—Jules Verne had written half of it when he died. The manuscript, alas, was thrown out after his death, and destroyed. I appealed to the Council of Genres against the enforced demolition order, and I—and the Nautilus of course—were reprieved.”

  He sighed. “We have survived numerous moves from book to book within the Well. Now, as you see, I am marooned here. The voltaic piles, the source of the Nautilus’s power, are almost worn out. The sodium, which I extract from seawater, is exhausted. For many years I have been the subject of a preservation order, but preservation without expenditure is worthless. The Nautilus needs only a few thousand words to be as good as new—yet I have no money, nor influence. I am only an eccentric loner awaiting a sequel that I fear will never be written.”

  “I—I wish I could do something,” I replied, “but Jurisfiction only keeps fiction in order—it does not dictate policy nor choose which books are to be written. You have, I trust, advertised yourself?”

  “For many years. Here, see for yourself.”

  He handed me a copy of The Word. The Situations Sought page took up half the newspaper and I read where Nemo pointed.

  Eccentric and autocratic sea dog (ex-Verne) requires exciting and morally superior tale to exercise knowledge of the oceans and discuss man’s place within his environment. French spoken, has own submarine. Apply: Captain Nemo, c/o Caversham Heights, Subbasement Six, WOLP.

  “Every week for over a century,” he grumbled, “but not one sensible offer.”

  I doubted that his idea of a sensible offer would be like anyone else’s—20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was a tough act to follow.

  “You have read Caversham Heights?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then you will know that the scrapping is not only inevitable, but quite necessary. When the book goes to the breakers yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The Nautilus—and I, too—will be broken down into text—and long do I wish for it!”

  He scowled at the floor and poured another cup of coffee.

  “Unless,” he added, suddenly perking up, “you thought I should have the advert in a box, with a picture? It costs extra but it might make it more eye-catching.”

  “It is worth a try, of course.”

  Nemo rose to his feet and went below without another word. I thought he might return, but after twenty minutes had elapsed I decided to go home. I was ambling back along the lakeside path when I got a call from Havisham on the footnoterphone.1

  “As always, Miss Havisham.”2

  “Perkins must be annoyed about that,” I said, thinking, what with grammasites, a Minotaur, Yahoos and a million or two rabbits, life in the bestiary must be something of a handful.3

  “I’m on my way.”

  17.

  Minotaur Trouble

  TravelBook: Standard-issue equipment to all Jurisfiction agents, the dimensionally ambivalent TravelBook contains information, tips, maps, recipes and extracts from popular or troublesome novels to enable speedier transbook travel. It also contains numerous Juris Tech gadgets for more specialized tasks such as an MV Mask, TextMarker and Eject-O-Hat. The TravelBook’s cover is read-locked to each individual operative and contains as standard an emergency alert and autodestruct mechanism.

  CAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CHESHIRE,

  Guide to the Great Library

  I READ MYSELF INTO the Well and was soon in an elevator, heading up towards the library. I had bought a copy of The Word; the front page led with “Nursery Rhyme Characters to Go on Indefinite Strike.” Farther down, the previous night’s attack on Heathcliff had been reported. It added that a terror group calling itself the Great Danes had also threatened to kill him—they wanted Hamlet to win this year’s Most Troubled Romantic Lead BookWorld Award and would do anything to achieve this. I turned to page two and found a large article extolling the virtues of Ultra Word™ with an open letter from Text Grand Central explaining how nothing would change and all jobs and privileges would be protected.

  The elevator stopped on the first floor; I quickly made my way to Sense and Sensibility and read myself in. The crowd were still outside the doors of Norland Park, this time with tents, a brass band and a metal brazier burning scrap wood. As soon as they saw me a chant went up:

  “We need a break, we need a break . . .”

  A tired-looking woman with an inordinate amount of children gave me a leaflet.

  “Three hundred and twenty-five years I’ve been doing this job,” she said, “without even so much as a weekend off!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We don’t want pity,” said Solomon Grundy, who, what with it being a Saturday, wasn’t looking too healthy, “we want action. Oral traditionalists should be allowed the same rights as any other fictioneers.”

  “Right,” said a young lad carrying a bucket with his head wrapped in brown paper, “no amount of money can compensate the brotherhood for the inconvenience caused by repetitive retellings. However, we would like to make the following demands: One, that all nursery rhyme characters are given immediate leave of absence for a two-week period. Two, that—”

  “Really,” I interrupted him, “you’re talking to the wrong person. I’m only an apprentice. Jurisfiction has no power to dictate policy anyway—you need to speak to the Council of Genres.”

  “The Council sent us to talk to TGC, who referred us to the Great Panjandrum,” said Humpty-Dumpty to a chorus of vigorous head-nodding, “but no one seems to know if he—or she—even exists.”

  “If you’ve never seen him, he probably doesn’t exist,” said Little Jack Horner. “Pie anyone?”

  “I’ve never seen Vincent Price,” I observed, “but I know he exists.”

  “Who?”

  “An actor,” I explained, feeling somewhat foolish. “Back home.”

  Humpty-Dumpty narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re talking complete Lear, Miss Next.”

  “King?”

  “No. Edward.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mongoose!” yelled Humpty, drawing a small revolver and throwing himself on to the ground where, unluckily for him, there just happened to be a muddy puddle.

  “You’re mistaken,” explained Grundy wearily, “it’s a guide dog. Put the gun away before you hurt yourself.”

  “A guide dog?” repeated Humpty, slowly getting to his feet. “You’re sure?”

  “Have you spoken to WordMaster Libris?” I asked. “We all know he exists.”

  “He won’t speak to us,” said Humpty-Dumpty, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. “The oral tradition is unaffected by the Ultra Word™ upgrade, so he doesn’t think we’re that important. If we don’t negotiate a few rights before the new system comes in, we won’t ever get any!”

  “Libris won’t even speak to you?” I repeated.

  “He sends us notes,” squeaked the oldest of three mice, all of whom had no tails, held a white cane in one hand and a golden retriever in the other. “He says that he is very busy but will give our concerns his ‘fullest attention.’ ”

  “What’s going on?” squeaked one of the other mice. “Is that Miss Next?”

  “It’s a brush-off,” said Grundy again. “Unless we get an answer soon, there won’t be a single nursery rhyme anywhere, either spoken or read! We’re going on a forty-eight-hour stoppage from midnight. When parents can’t remember the words to our rhymes, the fur will really fly, I can promise you that!”

  “I’m sorry,” I began again, “I have no authority—I can’t do anything—”

  “Then just take this to WordMaster Libris?”

  Humpty-Dumpty handed me a list of demands, neatly written on a page of foolscap paper. The crowd grew suddenly silent. A sea of eyes, all blinking expectantly, were directed at me.

  “I promise nothing,” I said, taking the piece of paper, “but if I see Libris, I will give this to him—okay?”

  “Thank you very much,” said Humpty. “At last someone from Jurisfiction will listen!”

  I turned away and overheard Humpty say to Grundy, “Well, I thought that went pretty well, don’t you?”

  I walked briskly up the front steps of Norland Park, where I was admitted by the same froglike footman I had seen on my first visit. I crossed the hall and entered the ballroom. Miss Havisham was at her desk with Akrid Snell, who was talking into the footnoterphone. Standing next to them was Bradshaw, who had not retired as promised, filling out a form with the Bellman, who appeared grave. The only other occupant of the room was Harris Tweed, who was reading a report. He looked up as I entered, said nothing and continued reading. Miss Havisham was studying some photographs as I approached.

  “Damn and blast!” she said, looking at one before tossing it over her shoulder and staring at the next. “Pathetic!” she muttered, looking at another. “Derisive!”

  “Perkins?” I asked, sitting down.

  “Speed-camera pictures back from the labs,” she said, handing them over. “I thought I would have topped one hundred and sixty, but look, well—it’s pitiful, that’s what it is!”

  I looked. The speed camera had caught the Higham Special but recorded only a top speed of 152.76 mph—but what was worse, it showed Mr. Toad traveling at over 180—and he had even raised his hat at the speed camera as he went past.

  “I managed a hundred and seventy when I tried it on the M4,” she said sadly. “Trouble is, I need a longer stretch of road—or sand. Well, can’t be helped now. The car has been sold. I’ll have to go cap in hand to Sir Malcolm if I want to get a shot at beating Toad.”

  “Norland Park to Perkins,” said Snell into the footnoterphone, “come in please. Over.”

  I looked at Havisham.

  “No answer for almost six hours,” she said. “Mathias isn’t answering, either—we got a Yahoo once but you might as well talk to Mrs. Bennett. What’s that?”

  “It’s a list of demands from the nurseries outside.”

  “Rabble,” replied Havisham, “all of them replaceable. How hard can it be, appearing in a series of rhyming couplets? If they don’t watch themselves, they’ll be replaced by scab Generics from the Well. It happened when the Amalgamated Union of Gateway Guardians struck in 1932. They never learn.”

  “All they want is a holiday—”

  “I shouldn’t concern yourself with nursery politics, Miss Next,” said Havisham so sharply I jumped.

  “Good work on the ProCath attack,” announced Tweed, who had walked over. “I’ve had a word with Plum over at JurisTech; he’s going to extend the footnoterphone network to cover more of Wuthering Heights—we shouldn’t have a problem with mobilefootnoterphones dropping out again.”

  “We’d better not,” replied Miss Havisham coldly. “Lose Heathcliff and the Council of Genres will have our colons for garters. Now, to work. We don’t know what to expect in the bestiary, so we have to be prepared.”

  “Like Boy Scouts?”

  “Can’t stand them, but that’s beside the point. Turn to page seven hundred eighty-nine in your TravelBook.”

  I did as she bid. This was an area of the book where the pages contained gadgets in hollowed-out recesses deeper than the book was thick. One page contained a device similar to a flare gun that had Mk IV TextMarker written on its side. Another page had a glass panel covering a handle like a fire alarm. A note painted on the glass read, IN UNPRECEDENTED EMERGENCY, BREAK GLASS. The page Havisham had indicated was neither of these; page 789 contained a brown homburg hat. Hanging from the brim was a large red toggle with In emergency pull down sharply written on it. There was also a chin strap, something I’ve never seen on a homburg before—or even a fedora or trilby, come to that.

  Havisham took the hat from my hands and gave me a brief induction course: “This is the Martin-Bacon Mk VII Eject-O-Hat, for high-speed evacuation from a book. Takes you straight out in an emergency.”

  “Where to?”

  “A little-known novel entitled The Middle of Next Week. You can make your way out to the library at leisure. But be warned: the jump can be painful, even fatal—so it should only be used as a last resort. Remember to keep the chin strap tight or it’ll take your ears off during the ejection sequence. I will say ‘Jump!’ twice—by the third I will have gone. Any questions?”

  “How does it work?”

  “I’ll rephrase that—any questions I can possibly hope to answer?”

  “Does this mean we’ll see Bradshaw without his pith helmet?”

  “Ha-ha!” laughed Bradshaw, releasing the toggle from the brim. “I have the smaller Mk XII version—it could be fitted into a beret or a veil, if we so wished.”

  I picked up the homburg from the table and put it on.

  “What are you expecting?” I asked slightly nervously, adjusting the chin strap.

  “We think the Minotaur has escaped,” Havisham answered gravely. “If it has and we meet it, just pull the cord as quick as you can—it always takes at least ten to twelve words to initiate a jump—you could be Minotaur appetizer by that time.”

  I pulled out my automatic to check it, but Bradshaw shook his head. “Your Outlander lead will not be enough.” He held up the box of cartridges he had signed for. “Boojum-tipped,” he explained, tapping the large hunting rifle he was carrying, “for total annihilation. Back to text in under a second. We call them eraserheads. Snell? Are you ready?”

  Snell had a fedora version of the Eject-O-Hat, which suited his trench coat a bit better. He grunted but didn’t look up. This assignment was personal. Perkins was his partner—not just at Jurisfiction but in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels. If Perkins was hurt in some way, the future could be bleak. Generics could be trained to take over a vacated part, but it’s never the same.

  “Okay,” said Havisham, adjusting her own homburg, “we’re out of here. Hold on to me, Next—if we are split up, we’ll meet at the gatehouse—no one enters the castle without Bradshaw, okay?”

  Everyone agreed and Havisham mumbled to herself the code word and some of the text of The Sword of the Zenobians.

  Pretty soon Norland Park had vanished and the bright sun of Zenobia greeted us. The grass was springy underfoot and herds of unicorns grazed peacefully beside the river. Grammasites wheeled in the blue skies, riding the thermals that rose from the warm grassland.

  “Everyone here?” asked Havisham.

  Bradshaw, Snell, and I nodded our heads. We walked in silence, past the bridge, up to the old gatehouse and across the drawbridge. A dark shadow leaped from a corner of the deserted guardroom, but before Bradshaw could fire, Havisham yelled, “Wait!” and he stopped. It was a Yahoo—but he hadn’t come to throw his shit about—he was running away in terror.

  Bradshaw and Havisham exchanged nervous looks and we moved closer to where Perkins and Mathias had been doing their work. The door was broken and the hinges had vanished, replaced by two very light burn marks.

  “Hold it!” said Bradshaw, pointing at the hinges. “Did Perkins hold any vyrus on the premises?”

  For a moment I didn’t understand why Bradshaw was asking this question, but realization slowly dawned upon me. He meant the mispeling vyrus. The hinges had become singes.

  “Yes,” I replied, “a small jar—well shielded by dictionaries.”

  There was a strange and pregnant pause. The danger was real and clear, and even seasoned PROs like Bradshaw and Havisham were thinking twice about entering Perkins’s lab.

  “What do you think?” asked Bradshaw.

  “Vyrus and a Minotaur,” sighed Havisham. “We need more than the four of us.”

  “I’m going in,” said Snell, pulling the MV mask from his TravelBook. The device was made of rubber and similar to the gas respirator I had worn in the Crimea—only with a dictionary on the side where the filter would have been. It wasn’t just one dictionary, either—the Lavinia-Webster had been taped back to back with the Oxford English Dictionary.

  “Don’t forget your carrot,” said Havisham, pinning a vegetable to the front of his jacket.

  “I’ll need the rifle,” said Snell.

  “No,” replied Bradshaw, “I signed for it, so I’m keeping it.”

  “This is not the time for sticking to the rules, Bradshaw, my partner’s in there!”

  “This is exactly the time we should stick to the rules, Snell.”

  They stared at one another.

  “Then I’ll go alone,” replied Snell with finality, pulling the mask down over his face and releasing the safety on his automatic.

  Havisham caught his elbow as she rummaged in her TravelBook for her own mask. “We go together or not at all, Akrid.”

  I found the correct page for the mask, pulled it out of its slot and put it on under the Eject-O-Hat. Miss Havisham pinned a carrot to my jacket, too.

  “A carrot is the best litmus test for the mispeling vyrus,” she said, helping Bradshaw on with his mask. “As soon as the carrot comes into contact with the vyrus, it will start to mispel into parrot. You need to be out before it can talk. We have a saying: ‘When you can hear Polly, use the brolly.’ ” She tapped the toggle of the Eject-O-Hat. “Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. Bradshaw, lead the way!”

  We stepped carefully across the door with its mispeled hinges, and into the lab, which was in chaotic disorder. Mispeling was merely an annoyance to readers—but inside the BookWorld it was a menace. The mispeling was the effect of sense distortion, not the cause—once the internal meaning of a word started to break down, then the mispeling arose merely as a result of this. Unmispeling the word at TGC might work if the vyrus hadn’t taken a strong hold, but usually it was pointless; like making the beds in a burning house.