The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [331]
“A hundred!” he exclaimed bitterly as I drew closer. “Is that the best you can offer?”
The Action Sequence trader he was talking to shrugged. “We don’t get much call for lion attacks these days.”
“But it’s terrifying, man, terrifying!” exclaimed Bradshaw. “Real hot-breath-down-the-back-of-your-neck stuff. Brighten up contemporary romantic fiction no end, I should wager—make a change from parties and frocks, what?”
“A hundred and twenty, then. Take it or leave it.”
“Bloodsucker!” mumbled Bradshaw, taking the money and handing over a small glass globe with the lion attack, I presumed, safely freeze-dried within. He turned away from the trader and caught me looking at him. He quickly hid the cash and raised his pith helmet politely.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning,” I replied.
He waved a finger at me. “It’s Havisham’s apprentice, isn’t it? What was your name again?”
“Thursday Next.”
“Is it, by gum! Well, I never.”
He was, I noticed, a good foot taller than the last time we had met. He now almost came up to my shoulder.
“You’re much—” I began, then checked myself.
“Taller?” he guessed. “Quite correct, girlie. Appreciate a woman who isn’t trammeled by the conventions of good manners. Melanie—that’s the wife, you know—she’s pretty rude, too. ‘Trafford,’ she says—that’s my name, Trafford—‘Trafford,’ she said, ‘you are a worthless heap of elephant dung.’ Well, this was from out the blue—I had just returned home after a harrowing adventure in Central Africa where I was captured and nearly roasted on a spit. The sacred emerald of the Umpopo had been stolen by two Swedish prospectors and—”
“Commander Bradshaw,” I interrupted, desperate to stop him from recounting one of his highly unlikely and overtly jingoistic adventures, “have you seen Miss Havisham this morning?”
“Quite right to interrupt me,” he said cheerfully, “appreciate a woman who knows when to subtly tell a boring old fart to button his lip. You and Mrs. Bradshaw have a lot in common. You must meet up someday.”
We walked down the busy corridor.2
I tapped my ears.
“Problems?” inquired Bradshaw.
“Yes, I’ve got two gossiping Russians inside my head again.”
“Crossed line? Infernal contraptions. Have a word with Plum at JurisTech if it persists. I say,” he went on, lowering his voice and looking round furtively, “you won’t tell anyone about that lion-attack sale, will you? If the story gets around that old Bradshaw is cashing in his Action Sequences, I’ll never hear the last of it.”
“I won’t say a word,” I assured him as we avoided a trader trying to sell us surplus B-3 Darcy clones, “but do many people try and sell off parts of their own books?”
“Oh, yes. But only if they are out of print and can spare it. Trouble is, I’m a bit strapped for the old moola. What with the BookWorld Awards coming up and Mrs. Bradshaw a bit shy in public, I thought a new dress might be just the ticket—and the cost of clothes are pretty steep down here, y’know.”
“It’s the same in the Outland.”
“Is it, by George?” he guffawed. “The Well always reminds me of the market in Nairobi; how about you?”
“There seems to be an awful lot of bureaucracy. I would have thought a fiction factory would be, by definition, a lot more free and relaxed.”
“If you think this is bad, you ought to visit nonfiction. Over there, the rules governing the correct use of a semicolon alone run to several volumes. Anything devised by man has bureaucracy, corruption and error hardwired at inception, m’girl. I’m surprised you hadn’t figured that out yet. What do you think of the Well?”
“I’m still a bit new to it.”
“Really? Let me help you out.”
He stopped and looked around for a moment, then pointed out a man in his