The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [368]
“Ah!” he said, looking up. “Miss Next. Did you bring the hat with you?”
“Yes, but how—?”
“Miss Havisham told me,” he said simply.
It seemed there weren’t many people who didn’t talk to Miss Havisham or who didn’t have Miss Havisham talk to them.
I took out the battered Eject-O-Hat and placed it on the table. Plum picked up the broken activation handle, flicked a magnifying glass in front of his eye and stared at the frayed end minutely.1
“Oh!” I said. “I’m getting it again!”
“What?”
“A crossed line on my footnoterphone!”
“I can get a trace if you want—here, put this galvanized bucket on your head.”
“Not for a minute or two. I want to see how it all turns out.”
“As you wish.”
So as he examined the hat, I listened to Sofya and Vera prattle on.
“Well,” he said finally, “it looks as though it has chafed through. The Mk VII is an old design—I’m surprised to see it still in use.”
“So it was just a failure due to poor maintenance?” I asked, not without some relief.
“A failure that saved a life, yes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my relief short-lived.
He showed me the hat. Inside an inspection cover were intricate wires and small flashing lights that looked impressive.
“Someone has wired the retextualizing inhibitor to the ISBN Code rectifiers. If the cord had been pulled, there would have been an overheat in the primary booster coils.”
“Overheat? My head would have got hot?”
“More than hot. Enough energy would have been released to write about fourteen novels.”
“I’m an apprentice, Plum, tell me in simple terms.”
He looked at me seriously. “There wouldn’t be much left of the hat—or the person wearing it. It happens occasionally on the Mk VII’s—it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there was a broken cord.”
He whistled low. “Nifty piece of work, too. Someone who knew what they were doing.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said slowly. “Can you give me a list of people who might have been able to do this sort of work?”
“Take a few days.”
“Worth the wait. I’ll call back.”
I met up with Miss Havisham and the Bellman in the Jurisfiction offices.
The Bellman nodded a greeting and consulted his ever-present clipboard. “Looks like a dog day, ladies.”
“Thurber again?”
“No, Mansfield Park. Lady Bertram’s pet pug has been run over and needs to be replaced.”
“Again?” replied Havisham. “That must be the sixth. I wish she’d be more careful.”
“Seventh. You can pick it up from stores.”
He turned his attention to me. “Miss Havisham says you are ready to take the practical test to bring you up from apprentice to restricted agent.”
“I’m ready,” I replied, thinking I was anything but.
“I’m sure you are,” answered the Bellman thoughtfully, “but it is a bit soon—if it wasn’t for the shortage caused by Mrs. Nakajima’s retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months. Well,” he sighed, “can’t be helped. I’ve had a look at the duty roster and I think I’ve found an assignment that should test your mettle. It’s an Internal Plot Adjustment order from the Council of Genres.”
Despite my natural feelings of caution, I was also, to my shame, excited by a practical test of my abilities. Dickens? Hardy? Perhaps even Shakespeare.
“Shadow the Sheepdog,” announced the Bellman, “by Enid Blyton. It needs to have a happy ending.”
“Shadow . . . the Sheepdog,” I repeated slowly, hoping my disappointment didn’t show. Blyton wasn’t exactly high literature, but on reflection, perhaps that was just as well.
“Okay,” I said more enthusiastically, “what do you want me to do?”
“Simple. As the story stands, Shadow is blinded by the barbed wire, so he can’t be sold to the American film producer. Up ending because he isn’t sold, down ending because he is blinded and useless. All we need to do is to have him miraculously regain his sight the next time he goes to the vet on page”—he consulted his clipboard—“two thirty-two.”
“And,” I said