The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [316]
“Thanks for that, Tweed,” I said. “What did the alien thing want?”
“He was a Thraal, Thursday—speaking in Courier bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too—he’d not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion—what are you doing alone in the twenty-second subbasement anyway?”
“I’m not alone. Havisham’s busy so Snell’s showing me around.”
“Ah,” replied Tweed, looking about, “does this mean you’re taking your entrance exams?”
“Third of the way through the written already. Did you track down Kaine?”
“No. We went all the way to London, where we lost the scent. Bookhounds don’t work so well in the Outland, and besides—we have to get special permission to pursue PageRunners into the real world.”
“What does the Bellman say about that?”
“He’s for it, of course,” replied Tweed, “but the launch of Ultra Word™ has dominated the Council of Genres’ discussion time. We’ll get round to Kaine in due course.”
I was glad of this; Kaine wasn’t only an escapee from fiction but a dangerous right-wing politician back home. I would be only too happy to see him back inside whatever book he’d escaped from—permanently.
At that moment Snell returned and nodded a greeting to Tweed, who returned it politely.
“Good morning, Mr. Tweed,” said Snell, “will you join us for a drink?”
“Sadly, I cannot,” replied Tweed. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at roll call, yes?”
“Odd sort of fellow,” remarked Snell as soon as Tweed had left. “What was he doing here?”
I handed Snell his drink and we sat down in an empty booth. It was near the three cats and they stared at us hungrily while consulting a large recipe book.
“I had a bit of trouble at the bar and Tweed stepped in to help.”
“Good thing, too. Ever see one of these?”
He rolled a small globe across the table and I picked it up. It was a little like a Christmas decoration but a lot more sturdy. A small legend complete with a bar code and ID number was printed on the side.
“ ‘Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! FAD/167945,’ ” I read aloud. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a stolen freeze-dried plot device. Crack it open and pow!—the story goes off at a tangent.”
“How do we know it’s stolen?”
“It doesn’t have a Council of Genres seal of approval. Without one, these things are worthless. Log it as evidence when you get back to the office.”
He took a sip of his drink, coughed and stared into the glass. “W-what is this?”
“I’m not sure but mine is just as bad.”
“Not possible. Hello, Emperor, have you met Thursday Next? Thursday, this is Emperor Zhark.”
A tall man swathed in a high-collared cloak was standing next to our table. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and precise goatee. He looked at me with cold, dark eyes and raised an eyebrow imperiously.
“Greetings,” he intoned indifferently. “You must send my regards to Miss Havisham. Snell, how is my defense looking?”
“Not too good, Your Mercilessness,” he replied. “Annihilating all the planets in the Cygnus cluster might not have been a very good move.”
“It’s those bloody Rambosians,” Zhark said angrily. “They threatened my empire. If I didn’t destroy entire star systems, no one would have any respect for me; it’s for the good of galactic peace, you know—stability, and anyway, what’s the point in possessing a devastatingly destructive death ray if you can’t use it?”
“Well, I should keep that to yourself. Can’t you claim you were cleaning it when it went off or something?”
“I suppose,” said Zhark grudgingly. “Is there a head in that bag?”
“Yes, do you want to have a look?”
“No, thanks. Special offer, yes?”
“What?”
“Special offer. You know, clearance sale. How much did you pay for it?”
“Only a . . . hundred,” Snell said, glancing at me. “Less than that, actually.”
“You were done.” Zhark laughed. “They’re forty a half dozen at CrimeScene, Inc.—with double