One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

  “What did you see?” asked Bradshaw.

  “Nothing. I must have . . . dreamt it. I’m very sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”

  He looked at me for a long while, trying to divine what, if anything, I knew. Finally he said, “You are keeping the Thursday Next series dignified, I trust?”

  “Yes, sir—even at the expense of readability.”

  “Being read isn’t everything. Some of the best people are hardly read at all. Listen,” he said thoughtfully, staring at me with his intelligent blue eyes, “would you do something for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Right then a man draped in the white linen robes of the most senior senatorial office walked briskly through the front doors of Norland Park and into the entrance hall in which we stood.

  “Oh, crap,” said Bradshaw under his breath. “Just what we need: Jobsworth.”

  If he was over here in person, it would be for a very good reason—probably about the Racy Novel peace talks.

  I thought of dropping to one knee and averting my eyes as the frog-footman had done, but for some reason I didn’t. The Thursday part of me, I suppose. Jobsworth was not alone. As well as the usual phalanx of staff, hangers-on and deputies, there was Barnes, Jobsworth’s executive assistant; Colonel Barksdale, the head of the Avoiding War Department; and Commander Herring, who was busy reading a report and hadn’t yet seen me.

  “Good morning, Bradshaw,” said Jobsworth. Bradshaw wished the senator good morning, then the same to Commander Herring and Colonel Barksdale. Barnes was too far down the pecking order to be greeted, as were all the other members of Jobsworth’s staff. The senator began to speak, then saw me. His eyes opened wide.

  “Great Panjandrum!” he said. “Thursday?”

  Bradshaw looked at me, then at the senator. I opened my mouth to reply, but Bradshaw held up a hand. In such company it was strictly speak-when-spoken-to. Protocol in the BookWorld was like grammatical rules—rigidly structured, arcane and fiercely defended by librarians wielding wooden rulers with painful accuracy.

  “No, Senator, it’s the written version.”

  “Truthfully?” asked Jobsworth. “She looks an awful lot like her.”

  “If she were the real one, do you think she would be here accompanied by that . . . that—what’s your name?”

  The frog-footman looked startled at being spoken to. “Wesley,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Right,” said Bradshaw, not really listening, “ being shown around by frog guy? If this were the one, she’d be in the office discussing the peace talks and the metaphor crisis.”

  “I’ll vouch that she’s the written one,” said Herring, who had just looked up. “Are you here on JAID business, Next?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then you can take your findings direct to Lockheed.”

  It seemed a good moment to leave, so I bobbed politely and began to withdraw.

  “Wait,” said the senator. “Bradshaw, why were you speaking to her if she’s just the copy?”

  For a fleeting moment, Bradshaw looked uncomfortable.

  “I was asking her if . . . she could ask Lorina Peabody to head up the Talking Animal Division of Jurisfiction.”

  “Who the hell’s Lorina Peabody?”

  “She’s a dodo,” I said.

  Jobsworth stared at Bradshaw suspiciously, then me. “Introduce us,” he said after a pause.

  “Very well,” said Bradshaw with a sigh. “Senior Senator Giles Jobsworth, head of Fiction and emissary to the Great Panjandrum, the written Thursday Next.”

  “Hello,” he said, shaking me by the hand and giving me the smile of somebody who was considering how best one could be exploited.

  “Honored, Senator, sir,” I replied dutifully.

  Jobsworth was perhaps sixty or sixty-five, graying at the temples and with the look of someone weighed down heavily by responsibility. He stepped forward and put a finger under my chin. I should have been more overawed in his presence, but I wasn’t. In fact, I had every reason to dislike him. When the senior senator was merely a senator, he had blocked my series from having Landen in it. He had said having no Landen was “as the author intended,” but that didn’t really help, to be honest.

  “It looks exactly like her,” he breathed.

  “Like two goddamn peas in a pod,” agreed Bradshaw’s companion.

  “I’m mirrored with her, Senator,” I explained. “The books were built using H-29 biographical architecture before they were moved to Nonfiction, so my looks are directly linked to hers. I age at the same rate and even grow the same scars in sympath—”

  “Fascinating. Does it have skills and an intellect to match, Commander Bradshaw?”

  “It does not—nor any dress sense. What’s your interest in an A-8 copy of Thursday Next, Senator?”

  “The interests of the council are not necessarily the interests of Jurisfiction, Bradshaw.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds. I expect this happened quite a lot. Jurisfiction was a policing agency, working under the council, who were wholly political. I can’t imagine they ever got on.

  “Sir?” said Barnes, gently coaxing the senator to stick to his schedule. “You have a meeting.”

  “Very well,” said the head of Fiction, and he strode off into the Jurisfiction offices with Herring, Barksdale and his entourage. Bradshaw stared at me for a moment, then told me I was excused. I needed no further bidding, and curtsied politely before hurrying off with the frog-footman.

  “Well, thanks for that,” said the frog-footman sarcastically. “You just ruined my six-year ‘being ignored by Commander Bradshaw’ record.”

  “He didn’t remember your name,” I said, trying to be helpful, “and was horribly insensitive when he called you ‘frog guy.’”

  “Well, okay,” said the frog-footman, “that does take the sting out a little bit. But tell me,” he said, staring at me with his large, protruding eyes and broad mouth, “why did he call me ‘frog guy’?”

  “I was up for Jurisfiction once,” I said, quickly changing the subject, “but it didn’t work out.”

  “Me, too,” sadly replied the frog-footman, whose mind didn’t seem to pause on any one subject for long. “I didn’t make it past the ‘What is your name?’ question. You?”

  “Training day. Froze when the going got tough. Nearly got my mentor killed.”

  “To fail spectacularly is a loser’s paradise,” said the frog-footman wistfully. “This way.”

  14.

  Stamped and Filed

  Distilling metaphor out of raw euphemism was wasteful and expensive, and the euphemism-producing genres on the island were always squeezing the market. Besides, the by-product of metaphor using the Cracked Euphemism Process liberates irony-238 and dangerous quantities of alliteration, which are associated with downright dangerous disposal difficulties.

  Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (9th edition)

  We walked down the seemingly endless corridors, every door placarded with the name of the department contained within. One was labeled OLD JOKES and another NOUN-TO-VERB CONVERSION UNIT. Just past the offices of the Synonym Squad and the Danvers Union headquarters was a small office simply labeled JAID.

  “Right. Well,” I said, “I’ll see myself out when I’m done.”

  “I’m afraid not,” replied the frog-footman. “I am instructed to escort you both in and out.”

  So while the frog-footman sat on a chair in the corridor opposite, I knocked on the door.

  “Commander Herring told me you would be stopping by,” said Lockheed as I entered. “Do come in. Tea?”

  “No thank you.”

  I looked around. The office was roomy, had a large window and was paneled in light pine. The pictures that decorated the walls all depicted a book disaster of some sort, mostly with Lockheed featured prominently in the foreground, grinning broadly. There was little clutter, and the single filing cabinet probably contained nothing but a kettle and some co
okies. Jurisfiction had finally managed to commit itself to a paperless office—all files were committed to the prodigious memory of Captain Phantastic, just down the hall.

  “Impressive office, eh?” said Lockheed. “We even have a window—with a view. Come and have a look.”

  I walked over to the window and looked out. All I could see was a brick wall barely six feet away.

  “Very nice,” I murmured.

  “If you lean right out with someone hanging on to your shirttails, you can almost see the sky, but not quite. Would you like to try?”

  “No thanks.”

  “So,” said Lockheed, sitting down on his swivel chair and motioning me to a seat, “something to report to Commander Herring about the accident?”

  I swallowed hard. “It was simply that,” I said, an odd leaden feeling dropping down inside me. “An accident.”

  Lockheed breathed a visible sigh of relief. “Commander Herring will be delighted. When he hears bad news, he usually likes to hit someone about the head with an iron bar, and I’m often the closest. Are you sure there is nothing to report?”

  I wondered for a moment whether to report the epizeuxis worm, scrubbed ISBN and the Vanity roots of The Murders on the Hareng Rouge. Not necessarily because it was the right thing to do, but simply to watch the eye-popping effect it might have on Lockheed.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Unprecedented and unrepeatable?”

  “Exactly so.”

  I felt the curious leaden feeling again. I didn’t know what it was; I patted my chest and cleared my throat.

  “Little cog, big machine,” said Lockheed as he filled out a form for me to sign. “We are here to facilitate, not to pontificate. If we can sew this whole incident shut, the sooner we can get on with our lives and maintain our unimpeachable hundred percent dealt-with rate. Wheels within wheels, Thursday.”

  “Wheels within wheels, sir.”

  “Did you find out what the book was, by the way?”

  “Not a clue,” I lied. “I didn’t find a single ISBN, so I thought ‘Why bother?’ and decided to simply give up.”

  I didn’t know why I was suddenly being sarcastic. It might have been something to do with the odd leaden feeling inside. Lockheed, however, missed the sarcasm completely. Most D-3s did.

  “Splendid!” he said. “I can see that you and Commander Herring will be getting on very well. You can expect a few more incidents heading your way with this kind of flagrant level of inspired disinterest. Sign here . . . and here.”

  He handed the form over, and I paused, then signed on the dotted line. This isn’t what Thursday would have done, but then I wasn’t Thursday.

  “Excellent,” he said, rising from his seat. “I’ll take this along to Captain Phantastic for memorizing.”

  “Why don’t I take it?” I suggested. The odd leaden feeling in me had released a sense of purpose, but of what I was not sure. “You can stay here and have some tea and cookies or something.”

  I nodded my head in the direction of the filing cabinet.

  “Goodness me, that is so very kind,” replied Lockheed, condemning the lost souls in the unknown book to eternal anonymity with a ridiculously large rubber stamp before handing me the form. “Fourth door on the left.”

  “Right you are.”

  I opened the door, thanked him again and found the frog-footman waiting for me in the corridor. I told him I had some filing to do, and he led me past the doors marked PIANO DIVISION, ITALICS, and PEBBLES (MISCELLANEOUS) before we got to a door marked RECORDS. The frog-footman told me he’d wait for me there, and I stepped inside.

  The room was small and shabby and had a half dozen people waiting to be seen, so I sat on a chair to wait my turn.

  “Thursday Next,” I said to the gloomy-looking individual sitting next to me, who was reading a paper and appeared to have a toad actually growing out of the top of his head. The pink skin of his balding pate seemed to merge with the brownygreen of the toad. “The copy,” I added, before he asked. But the man ignored me. The toad growing out of his head, however, was more polite.

  “Ah,” said the toad. “A good copy?”

  “I do okay.”

  “Humph,” said the toad before adding, “Tell me, do I look stupid with a human growing out of my bottom?”

  “Not at all,” I replied politely. “In fact, I think it’s rather fetching.”

  “Do you really?” said the toad with a smile.

  “Who are you talking to?” asked the man, looking up from his paper.

  “The toad.”

  The man looked around. “What toad?”

  “What did the man just say?” asked the toad.

  “I like your books,” said the woman on the other side of me. “When are we going to see some more?”

  “Five is all you’ll get,” I said, happy to get away from the man-toad. “What are you seeing Captain Phantastic for?”

  “I’m head of the Metaphor Allocation Committee,” she explained. “Once we move to the Metaphor Credit Trading System, those books with excess metaphor will be able to trade it on the floor of the Narrative Device Exchange. Naturally, more complex figurative devices such as hypothetical futures and analogy and simile trust funds will have to be regulated; we can’t have hyperbole ending up as overvalued as it was—the bottom dropped out of the litotes market, which, as anyone will tell you, was most undesirable.”

  “Most undesirable,” I remarked, having not understood a word. “And how will Captain Phantastic help with all this?”

  She shrugged. “I just want to run the idea past him. There might be a historical precedent that could suggest collateralized metaphor obligations might be a bad idea. Even so,” she added, “we might do it anyway—just for kicks and giggles. Excuse me.”

  While we’d been talking, Captain Phantastic had been dealing with each inquiry at lightning speed. This wasn’t surprising, as the Records Office relied on nothing as mundane as magnetic storage, paper filing or even a linked alien supermind. It had in its possession instead a single elephant with a prodigiously large memory. It was efficient and simple, and it required only buns, hay and peanuts to operate.

  When it was my turn, I walked nervously into his office.

  “Hello,” said the elephant in a nasally, trumpety, blocked-nose sort of voice. I noticed he was dressed in an unusual three piece pin-striped suit, unusual in that not only did it have a watch fob the size of a saucepan in the waistcoat pocket, but the pinstripes were running horizontally.

  “So how can I help?”

  “Jurisfiction Accident Investigation Department,” I said, holding up my shield. I paused as a sudden thought struck me. Not about elephants, or even of a toad with a man growing out of its bottom, or of the volatile metaphor market. I suddenly thought about lying. Of subterfuge. It was wrong, but in a right kind of way, because I had finally figured out what the leaden feeling was. It was a deficiency of Right Thing to Do—and I needed to remedy the shortfall, and fast.

  “We’re investigating a crashed book out in Conspiracy,” I said, tearing up the accident report behind my back, “and we need some background information on The Murders on the Hareng Rouge by Adrian Dorset.”

  “Of course,” trumpeted the elephant. “Take a seat, Miss . . . ?”

  “Next. Thursday Next. But I’m not—”

  “It’s all right,” he said, “I know. I know everything. More even than the Cheshire Cat. And that’s saying something. I’m Captain Phantastic, by the way, but you can call me ‘the Captain.’ You and I haven’t met, but the real Thursday and I go back a ways—even partnered together during the whole sorry issue surrounding The Cat in the Hat III—Revenge of the Things. Did you hear about it?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

  “No matter.” And he sniffed at me delicately for a moment with his trunk.

  “Do you have a chicken living in your house?”

  “A dodo.”

  “Would that be Lorina?”


  “We call her Pickwick these days, but yes.”

  “Tell her that Captain Phantastic is still waiting for that date she promised.”

  I wasn’t aware that Pickwick dated elephants—or anyone, come to that.

  “Did she promise you recently?”

  “Eighty-six years, three months, and two days ago. Would you like me to relate the conversation? I can do it word for word.”

  “No thanks. I’ll give her the message.”

  The Captain leaned back on his chair and closed his eyes.

  “Now, The Murders on the Hareng Rouge. I try to read most books, but for obvious reasons those in Vanity I delegate. So many books, so little time. Listen, you don’t have a bun on you, do you? Raisins or otherwise, I’m not fussy.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Shame. Okay, well, there’s not much to tell, really. The Murders on the Hareng Rouge was a junker on its way to be scrapped.”

  I wasn’t expecting this. “I’m sorry?”

  “It was a stinker. One of the very worst books ever written. Self-published by one Adrian H. Dorset, who as far as we know has not written anything else. He printed two copies and spiral bound them in his local print shop. Semiautobiographical, it was the story of a man coming to terms with the death of his wife and how he then immersed himself in work to try to take revenge on the person he thought responsible. Flat, trite and uninspiring. The author burned it as a form of catharsis. By rigid convention, the version here in the BookWorld has to be scrapped before sundown. Did it hurt anyone?”

  “Only the people in it.”

  “It should have been empty,” said the elephant. “Scrapped books always have the occupants reallocated before the book is torn apart.”

  “We found the remains of someone.”

  “How much?”

  “A thumb.”

  The elephant shrugged. “A hitchhiker, perhaps? Or reformed graphemes?”

  “We thought the same.”

  “In any event,” concluded Phantastic, “that’s all I have.”

  “You’re sure it was a junker?” I asked, trying to figure out why anyone would risk almost certain erasure by deleting the ISBN and then using demolition-grade epizeuxis to destroy an unreadable book from Vanity that was destined to be scrapped anyway.