The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [254]
“Just give the title of the book, page, character, and if you really want to be specific, line and word.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that.”
I pulled out the plug and heard a voice say: “Operator services. Can I help you?”
“Oh! yes—er, book-to-book, please.” I thought of a novel I had been reading recently and chose a page and line at random. “It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, page 156, line four.”
“Trying to connect you. Thank you for using FNP Communications.”
There were a few clicking noises and I heard a man’s voice saying: “. . . and our hearts, though stout and brave, still like muffled . . .”
The operator came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, we had a crossed line. You are through now, caller. Thank you for using FNP Communications.”
Now all I could hear was the low murmur of conversation above the sound of engines of a ship. At a loss to know what to say I just gabbled: “Antonio?”
There was the sound of a confused voice, and I hurriedly replaced the plug.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” said Havisham kindly, putting her report down. “Paperwork! My goodness. Come along, we’ve got to visit Wemmick in the stores. I like him, so you’ll like him. I won’t expect you to do much on this first assignment—just stay close to me and observe. Finished your tea? We’re off!”
I hadn’t, of course, but Miss Havisham grabbed my elbow and before I knew it we were back in the huge entrance lobby near the Boojumorial. Our footsteps rang out on the polished floor as we crossed to one side of the vestibule, where a small counter not more than six feet wide was set into the deep red marble wall. A battered notice told us to take a number and we would be called.
“Rank must have its privileges!” cried Miss Havisham gaily as she walked to the front of the queue. A few of the Jurisfiction agents looked up, but most were too busy swotting up on their passnotes, cramming for their impending destinations.
Harris Tweed was in front of us, kitting up for his trip into The Lost World. On the counter before him there was a complete safari suit, knapsack, binoculars and revolver.
“—and one Rigby .416 sporting rifle, plus sixty rounds of ammunition.”
The storekeeper laid a mahogany rifle box on the counter and shook his head sadly.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer an M-16? A charging stegosaurus can take some stopping, I’ll be bound.”
“An M-16 would be sure to raise suspicions, Mr. Wemmick. Besides, I’m a bit of a traditionalist at heart.”
Mr. Wemmick sighed, shook his head and handed the clipboard to Tweed for him to sign. Harris grunted his thanks to Mr. Wemmick, signed the top copy, had the docket stamped and returned to him before he gathered up his possessions, nodded respectfully at Miss Havisham, ignored me and then murmured, “. . . long, dark, wood-paneled corridor lined with bookshelves . . .” before vanishing.
“Good day, Miss Havisham!” said Mr. Wemmick politely as soon as we stepped up. “And how are we this day?”
“In health, I think, Mr. Wemmick. Is Mr. Jaggers quite well?”
“Quite well to my way of thinking, I should say, Miss Havisham, quite well.”
“This is Miss Next, Mr. Wemmick. She has joined us recently.”
“Delighted!” remarked Mr. Wemmick, who looked every bit the way he was described in Great Expectations. That is to say, he was short, had a slightly pockmarked face, and had been that way for about forty years.
“Where are you two bound?”
“Home!” said Miss Havisham, laying the docket on the counter.
Mr. Wemmick picked up the piece of paper and looked at it for a moment before disappearing into the storeroom and rummaging noisily.
“The stores are indispensable for our purposes, Thursday. Wemmick quite literally writes his own inventory. It all has to be signed for and returned, of course, but there is very little that he doesn’t have. Isn’t that so, Mr. Wemmick?”
“Exactly so!” came a voice from behind a large pile of Turkish costumes and a realistic rubber bison.
“By the way, can you swim?” asked Miss Havisham.
“Yes.”
Mr. Wemmick returned with a small pile of items.
“Life vests—life preserving,