One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [58]
“I sneak-peeked the Outland yesterday,” I said. “I realize it was wrong. But it seemed to me that Landen was missing her, too.”
Bradshaw raised an eyebrow. “Truthfully?”
“Yes, sir.”
He took a sip of the cocktail, set it down and strode about the compartment for some minutes.
“Look here,” he said, “desperate situations call for desperate measures. I want you to talk to Landen and see if you can find out anything. Perhaps locate her in time for the peace talks.”
“Talk to Landen? How can I do that?”
“By traveling to the RealWorld.”
My heart nearly missed a beat.
“You’re joking.”
“No joke, Miss Next. In fact, I’ll tell you a joke so you’ll know the difference. How many Sigmund Freuds does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“You have? Blast. In any event, you look exactly like Thursday—the best cover in the world. And what could possibly go wrong?”
There was actually quite a lot, but before I could itemize the first sixteen, Bradshaw had moved on.
“Splendid. All transfictional travel has been strictly banned this past eighteen months, so you’ll be doing this covertly. If anyone finds out, I’ll deny everything. Most of all, you can’t tell anyone from the Council of Genres. If Jobsworth or Red Herring finds I’ve been breaking the transfictional travel embargo, they’ll want to send their own. And I can’t have that. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then that’s all agreed,” said Bradshaw, rising from his seat and handing me a signed authorization. “This will give you access to Norland Park to see Professor Plum on the pretext of adding e-book accelerators to your series. He’ll know why you’re there. I’ll also contact my deep-cover agents to offer you every assistance in the Outland. Any questions?”
I had several hundred, but didn’t know where to start. Bradshaw took my silence to mean I didn’t have any, and he shook me by the hand.
“Good to have you on board. Twelve hours in the RealWorld isn’t long, but enough to at least get an idea of what’s happened to her. I could send you out for longer, but Thursday has many enemies in the RealWorld, and they’ll be onto you pretty quick. If you die in the RealWorld, you die for real, and I’m not having that on my conscience. Shall we say tomorrow morning? Oh, and officially speaking, I was never here.”
“You were never here.”
“Good show. Appreciate a girl who knows she wasn’t somewhere. Oh, and thank your man for the Chicago Fizz, will you? But next time a little less gherkin. Cheerio.”
And without another word, he opened the outside door, a motorcycle drew alongside the train, Bradshaw hopped onto the pillion and was gone.
“Might I inquire of madam what that was all about?” asked Sprockett, who returned with a very ill-looking clown.
“A little too much gherkin in the Chicago Fizz.”
“He came all the way over here just to tell you that?”
“No—I’m going to the RealWorld to look for Thursday so we can get her to the peace talks on Friday.”
“In that case,” said Sprockett, “I’ d better lay out your things. Will madam be staying long?”
“Twelve hours.”
“I’ll pack you a toothbrush, a scrunchie and some clean socks.”
“I’ d be grateful.”
I spent the rest of the journey fretting about my trip to reality. It was only a twelve-hour trip—barely a flash in and out—but that wasn’t important. What was important was that I would meet Landen in person, and although the notion of that filled me with a tingly sensation of anticipation, his rejection of me when he found out I wasn’t his wife would be . . . well, not pleasant—for him and for me. I almost thought of not going. Bradshaw couldn’t exactly punish me for not doing something he hadn’t told me to do. But then there was the possibility that I might help to find Thursday, and that filled me with the same sense of purpose I’d felt when I lied to Lockheed and Captain Phantastic. I sighed inwardly. Life was easier when I was just a character in a book, going from Preface to Acknowledgments without a care in the world. Within another twenty minutes, the train steamed into Gaiman