One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [31]
I passed it across. The officer took one look at it, put away his report sheet and told his partner that they were leaving. He smiled and handed me back my badge.
“It’s an honor, I’ll be reckoned. Sorry to have kept you for even a second.”
I signed my name in his autograph book and with growing confusion climbed back into the cab as the Jurispoetry car detached from the hull and fell away from the tanker, leaving us to continue our trip unmolested.
“You’re Thursday Next?” said the cabbie, her attitude suddenly changed. “This ride is for free, kiddo. But listen, the next time you’re in the RealWorld, can you find out why there have to be over a hundred different brands of soap? I’d really like to know.”
“Okay,” I muttered, “no problem.”
The remainder of the journey was unremarkable, except for one thing: I spent the entire trip staring at the Jurisfiction shield that had allowed me not once but twice to squeak out of trouble. It wasn’t my shield at all. It was Thursday’s. The real Thursday’s. Someone had slipped it into my pocket that morning. And the more I thought about the morning’s events, the more I realized that I might have become involved—quite against my will—with a matter of some considerable consequence.
9.
Home
Rumor has it that undiscovered genres were hidden among the thick vegetation and impenetrable canopy in the far north of the island. Primitive, anarchic, strange and untouched by narrative convention, they were occasionally discovered and inducted into the known BookWorld, where they started off fresh and exciting before ultimately becoming mimicked, overused, tired and then passé. BookWorld naturalists argued strongly that some genres should remain hidden in order to keep the BookWorld from homogenizing, but their voices went unheeded.
Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (3rd edition)
I had the most curious dream,” mused Sprockett as soon as I had rewound him completely, “in which I was a full-hunter silent repeater. There was also this gramophone—you know, one of those windup varieties—and she was running overspeed and playing ‘Temptation Rag.’ And then there was this monkey hitting cymbals together, and I—”
He checked himself.
“I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am. My protocol gearing can become a bit gummy during deactivation. You are not offended by my drivel?”
“Not in the least. In fact, I didn’t know machines could dream.”
“I dream often,” replied the butler thoughtfully. “Mostly about being a toaster.”
“Dualit or KitchenAid?”
He seemed mildly insulted that I should have to ask.
“A Dualit four-slot, naturally. But perhaps,” he added, his eyebrow pointer clicking from “Indignant” to “Puzzled,” “I only believe I dream. Sometimes I think it is merely a construct to enable me to better understand humans.”
“Listen, I should warn you about Pickwick,” I said as we walked up the garden path.
“What is a Pickwick?”
“It’s a dodo.”
“I thought they were extinct.”
“They may yet become so. She’s trouble, so be careful.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I shall.”
I pushed open the front door and was met by the sound of laughter. Carmine was sitting at the table with Bowden Cable and Acheron Hades, two of the other costars from the series. They were all sharing a joke, or at least they were until I walked in, when everyone fell silent.
“Hello, Thursday,” said Bowden, whom I’d never really gotten along with, despite the fact that his counterpart in the RealWorld was one of Thursday’s closest friends. “We were just telling Carmine the best way to play Thursday.”
“The best way is the way I play her,” I said in a firm yet friendly manner. “Dignified.”
“Of course,” said Bowden. “Who’s your friend?”
“Sprockett,” I replied, “my butler.”
“I didn’t know you needed a butler,” said Bowden.
“Everyone needs a butler. He was going to be stoned, so I took him with me.”
“What do cog-based life-forms get stoned with?” asked Bowden in an impertinent manner. “Vegetable oil?”
“Actually, sir,” intoned Sprockett, “it’s sewing-machine lubricant for a mild tipple. Many feel that the exuberant