One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [19]
. . . and with the last few ounces of spring pressure available to him, he moved his eyebrow pointer among an array of emotions in a manner that spoke of fear, loss, betrayal and hopelessness.
“You’re the written one,” said someone at the back. “The dopey one who likes to hug a lot.”
The situation had just taken a turn for the worse. But since this was Conspiracy and facts weren’t necessarily the end of an argument, I thought I’d try a bluff. I reached into my pocket and held out my JAID shield. From a distance it might be confused with a Jurisfiction badge. I had to hope that no one would look too closely.
“Read it and weep,” I said, swallowing down my nervousness. “Make a move on me and I’ll have Jurisfiction dump forty tons of Intelligently Reasoned Argument right on your butt.”
“So you say,” said the small alien. “Elvis? Check her badge.”
The two dozen Elvises looked at one another and began to squabble as they tried to figure out which Elvis the alien was talking to, and once this was established, I had half wound the mechanical man. If it came to a fight, I wouldn’t be on my own.
“Steady on, lads,” said the Elvis after looking at my badge. “She’s not bluffing—it’s her all right.”
“I am?” I said, then quickly added, “Yes, I am. Now piss off.”
The small group hurriedly made some excuse about having to view some reverse-engineered alien technology hidden in a hangar somewhere in a desert, and within a few moments the clockwork man and I were entirely alone.
“Permission to speak, madam?” said the automaton once I had wound him sufficiently to reboot his memory and thought processes. He spoke with the rich, plummy tones of the perfect gentleman’s gentleman, but with a faint buzz—a bit like a bumblebee stuck inside a cello.
“Of course.”
“I am one of the older Duplex-5 models, so if madam would only wind me as far as twenty-eight turns, I would be most grateful. My spring will take a full thirty-two, but the last four winds have an unpredictable effect upon my central reasoning gears that render me unable to offer my best.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
“And if I might be so bold,” added the clockwork man, “I would highly recommend that you do not let me fall below two winds, as I fear I might become somewhat languorous in my movements and may stray unforgivably into short-tempered impertinence.”
“Between two and twenty-eight it is.”
I finished winding him but, as requested, was careful not to go beyond the red mark on the mainspring tension indicator just under his chin. Once I was done, he turned to face me, and his single expressive eyebrow quivered momentarily and then pointed to “Uncomfortable.” I knew exactly what he meant: that the winding of a manservant is a mildly embarrassing undertaking, and to preserve both employer and employee’s mutual respect, should not be commented upon again.
“That’s a very useful eyebrow.”
“It’s a standard feature of the Duplex-5s. Since we have few genuine emotions, it helps to telegraph how we think we should be feeling, given the circumstances.”
“It works for me, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sprockett,” said Sprockett. “Ready and willing to enter your employ.”
“I’m not sure I need a butler.”
“In that you would be in error, ma’am. It has been long proved that everyone needs a butler. Besides, you saved my life.”
It was complex, but I knew what he meant. Because I had saved him, he was indebted to me—and to refuse him an opportunity to reciprocate my kindness would leave him burdened by a favor unpaid. And if you had a potential life of a thousand years or more, you could be a long time fretting, and fretting increases wear on cogs. Clockwork life-forms could be annoyingly steadfast, but it was their saving grace, too.
“All right,” I agreed, “but for a trial period only.”
“Very good, ma’am. Would you care for a cocktail? I do a very good Tahiti Tingle—without the umbrella if you think they are a bit passé.”
“Not now. I’m working.”
“In Conspiracy, ma’am?”
I pointed at the book traffic that was