One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [130]
They all looked at one another.
“It was little things to begin with—things that didn’t click until later. I learned from Adrian Dorset that he destroyed The Murders on the Hareng Rouge a month back, yet it was still floating around Vanity waiting to intercept Thursday. The rules state that it has to be scrapped immediately—on Red Herring’s signature.”
They all looked at Herring, who had started to go pale.
“He controls the Book Transit Authority, and also the Men in Plaid. He’s the second-in-command to the BookWorld, but he wanted more. He was after the top job and, what’s more, control of the vast stores of metaphor that are lying under Racy Novel. He knew that whoever controlled the metaphor would control Fiction.”
“But how could he control Speedy Muffler and Racy Novel?” asked Zhark.
“That’s the clever bit. He planned to invade—using an army mustered from one of the most powerful genres on the island.”
“Women’s Fiction?” said Colonel Barksdale with a smirk. “Not possible. They have neither the manpower nor the inclination.”
Emperor Zhark and Jobsworth nodded their heads vigorously; WomFic was wholly against any sort of warfare and had agreed to sanctions only as a last resort.
“Not WomFic,” I said. “A smaller subgenre with enough shock troops to take on the Fourteenth Clown and win. A genre that has for many years been the buffer zone between WomFic and Racy Novel. A genre that has successfully blended raciness and euphemism to create an empire that sells books by the billion—Daphne Farquitt. More readers than almost any other writer, and eighteen percent of total global readership.”
“They don’t have any troops,” scoffed Barksdale. “You’re mistaken.”
I chose my words carefully. Despite recent events, I’d be pushing my luck if I admitted I’d been in the RealWorld.
“Today is Daphne Farquitt Day in the Outland. As we speak, a massive readathon is in progress. At even conservative estimates, there must be upwards of two hundred million readers making their way through Farquitt’s three hundred seventy-two novels. There will be speed-reading events, trivia quizzes and read-ins. The power of the Feedback Loop will be astronomical—and easy enough to create an unstoppable army of ditzy romantic heroines and their lantern-jawed potential husband/lovers.”
“The nurses, secretaries and medical equipment you saw at Middle Station?”
“Exactly,” I replied. “Not civilians at all—but the romantically involved honored dead. The Farquitt Army was working against Racy Novel by taking a preemptive strike and eradicating any possible threat from Speedy Muffler’s allies in Comedy. With members of the peace envoy all assassinated in an apparent Muffler attack, there would be no opposition to the total and complete invasion of Racy Novel by the Farquitt Army and, with it, control of the vast stocks of metaphor beneath our feet.”
There was silence in the room. They all looked stunned. Barksdale was the first to speak.
“That explanation,” he said in admiration, “was of a complexity that would gather plaudits from even the most intractable of political thrillers. With all of us dead in an attack that could be blamed on Speedy Muffler, Red Herring would step into the top slot, direct his allies to annex Racy Novel, secure the metaphor and set himself up as supreme dictator of Fiction.”
“It’s a brilliant scheme,” murmured Zhark in admiration.
“I’ll definitely be using it on the Rambosians next week. The little devils. They love a good subjugation. Senator?”
“A plan of titanic proportions. If he weren’t going to be erased for treason, I’d offer him a job.”
Red Herring was starting to shake when he heard this. He tried to speak, but only a strangled squeak came out.
“Might I make an observation?” asked Sprockett.
“Go ahead,” replied Jobsworth, who was now in a generous mood.
“Mr. Herring is here with us now—how could he seize power if he was assassinated along with the rest of us?”
Barksdale’s and Zhark’s faces fell, and even Jobsworth’s smile dropped from his face. They looked at me.
“Simple,” I said, placing my hand on