One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [110]
“What about Red Herring, ma’am?”
“I’m not sure. Is Red Herring a red herring? Or is it the fact that we’re meant to think Red Herring is a red herring that is actually the red herring?”
“Or perhaps the fact you’re meant to think Red Herring isn’t a red herring is what makes Red Herring a red herring after all.”
“We’re talking serious metaherrings here. Oh, crap, I’m lost again. Who’s talking now?”
“It’s you,” said Sprockett.
“Right.”
“Whatever is going on,” I said, “it’s big. Really big. If it’s big enough to risk killing Thursday Next, destroying a book and subverting the Men in Plaid from their usual duties of frightening the citizenry to the more specific duty of frightening individual citizens, then there is no limit to what they might do. We need to keep our eyes open at all times.”
We took a cab from Le Guin Central and, deep in thought, walked up to the house. I had my hand on the butt of my pistol, just in case. I needn’t have worried. Men in Plaid were never seen without their Buick Roadmasters, and the driveway was empty. I opened the front door and found a dozen members of the cast sitting around the kitchen table.
“Hello,” I said, somewhat surprised. “Have we got a cast meeting scheduled for this evening?”
“We have now,” replied Carmine.
My eyes flicked from face to face, and they seemed very serious. Most of the major players were there—my father, Bowden, Hades, Jack Schitt, Braxton, Rochester, Paige Turner, Joffy, Stig, Victor Analogy, my mother and even Bertha Rochester, although she had been put in a straitjacket in the event she tried to bite anyone.
“What’s going on?”
“You’ve been acting a bit irresponsibly recently,” said Carmine, “running around the BookWorld, pretending to be her. You’ve been neglecting your duties. I’ve been covering for you far more than is written in my contract, and only yesterday you were shouting at us all.”
“I’ve had things on my mind,” I replied by way of excuse, “important things.”
“So you say. To the casual outside observer, you’re simply getting delusions of adequacy. Play a strong character for too long and it tends to have an unhinging effect.”
“And today,” said Bowden in an annoying “I told you so” sort of voice, “you were threatening to tell the Outland all about the BookWorld. There’s a good reason the real Thursday never put that part of the story in her books, you know.”
“I admit I might have gone too far on that point,” I conceded, but I could see they didn’t believe me.
“None of us are happy,” said my father, “and we feel you might be leading the series into disrepute. If the book gets punished for your transgressions, then every one of us has to suffer. Punish one, punish all. You know how it works.”
I did, far too well. To keep books in line, the entire cast is often disciplined for the misdeeds of one. It generated a certain degree of conformity within the cast—and a lot of ill feeling.
“So what are you saying?” I asked.
My father nudged Bowden, who nudged Victor, who nudged Acheron Hades.
“We’re saying,” said Hades slowly, “that we might need to make some . . . changes.”
“Changes? What sorts of changes?”
“Changes in leadership.”
“You want to have me fired? You can’t do that.”
“In point of fact,” piped up Pickwick, “we can. Article 218 of the Textual Code states, ‘If the nominated leader of a book acts in an unlawful or reckless manner that might affect the smooth operation of a book, he or she can be removed by a simple show of hands.’”
There was a deathly hush as they waited to see what I would say.
“The series is operating smoothly. It will be hard to prove recklessness on my part.”
“We don’t need to,” replied Carmine. “We need only prove unlawfulness.”
“And how would you do that?”
“The Toast Marketing Board subplot. Totally illegal. You wrote out the new pages in your own handwriting.”
“Listen,” I said, changing my tone to one of conciliation, “we have an average weekly ReadRate of 3.7 at present—remaindered, out of print and, technically