The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [394]
“And this is a problem because . . . ?”
“I just want something a bit better for him,” sighed Dr. Fnorp, who clearly had the best interests of his students at heart. “He’s failed his B-grade exams twice; once more and he’ll be nothing but an incidental character with a line or two—if he’s lucky.”
“Perhaps that’s what he wants. There isn’t enough room for all characters to be A-grade.”
“That’s what’s wrong with the system,” said Fnorp bitterly. “If incidental characters had more depth, the whole of fiction would be a lot richer—I want my students to enliven even the C-grade parts.”
I got the point. Even from my relative ignorance I could see the importance of fully rounded characters—trouble was, for budgetary reasons, the Council of Genres had pursued a policy of minimum characterization requirements for Generics for more than thirty years.
“They fear rebellion,” he said quietly. “The C of G want Generics to stay stupid; an unsophisticated population is a compliant one—but it’s at the cost of the BookWorld.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Well,” sighed Fnorp, finishing his coffee, “have a word with Randolph and see what you can do—try to find out why he is being so intransigent.”
I told him I would and saw him out the door.
I found Randolph asleep back in his own bed. He was clutching his pillow. Lola had gone out early to meet some friends. A photo of her was on the bedside table next to him and he snored quietly to himself. I crept back to the door and banged on it.
“Wshenifyduh,” said a sleepy voice.
“I need to run one of the engines,” I told him, “can you give me a hand?”
There was a thump as he fell out of bed. I smiled to myself and took my coffee up to the flight deck.
Mary had told me to run the number three engine periodically and left instructions on how to do so in the form of a checklist. I didn’t know how to fly but did know a thing or two about engines—and needed an excuse to talk to Randolph. I sat in the pilot’s seat and looked along the wing to the engine. The cowlings were off and the large radial was streaked with oil and grime. It never rained here, which was just as well, although things didn’t actually age either, so it didn’t matter if it did. I consulted the checklist in front of me. The engine would have to be turned by hand to begin with and I didn’t really fancy this, so got a slightly annoyed Randolph out on the wing.
“How many times?” he asked, turning the engine by way of a crank inserted through the cowling.
“Twice should do,” I called back, and ten minutes later he returned, hot and sweaty with the exertion.
“What do we do now?” he asked, suddenly a lot more interested. Starting big radial engines was quite a boy thing, after all.
“You read it out,” I said, handing him the checklist.
“ ‘Master fuel on, ignition switches off,’ ” he read.
“Done.”
“ ‘Prop controls fully up and throttle one inch open.’ ”
I wrestled with the appropriate levers from a small nest that sprouted from the center console.
“Done. I had Dr. Fnorp round this morning.”
“ ‘Gills set to open and mixture at idle cutoff.’ What did that old fart have to say for himself?”
I set the gills and pulled back the mixture lever. “He said he thought you could do a lot better than you had been. What’s next?”
“ ‘Switch on the fuel booster pump until the warning light goes out.’ ”
“Where do you think that is?”
We found the fuel controls in an awkward position above our heads and to the rear of the flight deck. Randolph switched on the booster pumps.
“I don’t want to be a featured character,” he said. “I’ll be quite happy working as a mature elder-male mentor figure or something; there is call for one in Girls Make All the Moves.”
“Isn’t that the novel Lola will be working in?”
“Is it?” he said, feigning ignorance badly. “I had no idea.”
“Okay,” I said as the fuel pressure warning light went out, “now what?”
“ ‘Set the selector switch to the required engine and operate the priming pump until the delivery pipes are full.’ ”
I pumped slowly, the faint smell of aviation spirit