The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [369]
“Swap dogs,” replied the Bellman simply. “All collies look pretty much the same.”
“What about Vestigial Plot Memory?” asked Havisham. “Do we have any smoothers?”
“It’s all on the job sheet.” The Bellman tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “You do know all about smoothers, of course?”
“Of course!” I replied.
“Good. Any more questions?”
I shook my head.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the Bellman. “Just one more thing. Bradshaw is investigating the Perkins incident. Would you make sure he gets your reports as soon as possible?”
“Of course!”
“Er . . . Good.”
He made a few “must get on” noises and left.
As soon as he had gone, I said to Havisham, “Do you think I’m ready for this, ma’am?”
“Thursday,” she said in her most serious voice, “listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.” She looked around the room. “Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous—like you—are the last bastion of defense against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you can stop asking so many questions and do as you’re told—just pass this practical first time. Understand?”
“Yes, Miss Havisham.”
“That’s settled, then. Anything else?”
“Yes. What’s a smoother?”
“Do you not read your TravelBook?”
“It’s quite long,” I pleaded. “I’ve been consulting it whenever possible but still got no further than the preface.”
“Well,” she began as we jumped to Wemmick’s Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, “plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can spring back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.”
“Like time,” I murmured, thinking about my father.
“If you say so. On Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother—a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad’s Lord Jim, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown’s massacre.”
“That didn’t work?”
“No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose—after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.”
“So what did you do?”
“We retrospectively had the chief’s son die in the massacre. It did the trick. The chief had no trouble shooting Jim after that.”
I mused about this for a moment. “How did Jim take it? The decision for him to die, I mean?”
“He was the one that asked for the plot adjustment in the first place. He thought it was the only honorable thing to do—mind you, the chief’s son wasn’t exactly over the moon about it.”
“Ah,” I said, pondering that here in the BookWorld the pencil of life occasionally did have an eraser on the other end.
“So you’ll send a check for a hundred pounds to the farmer and buy his pigs for double the market rate—that way, he won’t need the cash and won’t want to resell Shadow to the film producer. Get it? Good afternoon, Mr. Wemmick.”
We had arrived at the stores. Wemmick himself was a short man, a native of Great Expectations, aged about forty with a pockmarked face. He greeted us enthusiastically.
“Good afternoon, Miss Havisham, Miss Next—I trust all is well?”
“Quite well, Mr. Wemmick. I understand you have a few canines for us?”
“Indeed,” replied the storekeeper, pointing to where two dogs were attached to a hook in the wall by their leads.
“Pug, Lady Bertram’s, to be replaced, one. Shadow, sheepdog, sighted, to swap with existing dog, blind, one. Check for the farmer, value one hundred pounds sterling, one. Cash to buy pigs, forty-two pounds, ten shillings and fourpence. Sign here.”
The two dogs panted and wagged their tails. The collie had his eyes bound with a bandage.
“Any questions?”
“Do we have a cover story for this check?” I asked.
“Use your imagination. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, alarm bells suddenly ringing, “aren