The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [435]
“Not my job, Libris—my real home is in the Outland. I would applaud a BookWorld in which we had no need of a policing agency—but not one where we lose the Well of Lost Plots!”
There was a gasp from the crowd, seven million people all drawing breath at the same time.
“Under UltraWord™ there will be no need for plotsmiths, echolocators, imaginators, holesmiths, grammatacists and spellcheckers. No need for Generics to be trained because characters will be constructed with the minimum of description necessary to do the job. I’m talking about the wholesale destruction of everything that is intuitive in writing—to be replaced by the formulaic. The Well would be dismantled and run instead by a few technicians at TGC who will construct books with no input from any of you.”
“Then what will happen to us?” said a voice from the front.
“Replaced,” I said simply, “replaced by a string of nouns and verbs. No hopes, no dreams, no future. No more holidays because you won’t need or want one—you will all be reduced to nothing more than words on a page, lifeless as ink and paper.”
There was silence.
“Proof!” cried Libris. “All you have demonstrated so far is that you can spin a yarn as good as any plotsmith! Where is your proof?”
“Very well,” I said slowly. “Mrs. Bradshaw? The skylark, if you please.”
Mrs. Bradshaw produced the small cage from beneath the table and handed it up to me.
“I have seen an UltraWord™ character with my own eyes, and they are empty husks. If an old book is read in Ultra Word™, it is very good—but if it is written in Ultra Word™, it will be flat and trite, devoid of feeling—the SmileyBurger of the storytelling world. The Well may be wasteful and long-winded, but every book read in the Outland was built there—even the greats.”
I took the skylark from the cage. “This was the proof that Perkins died for.”
I placed the small songbird beneath the Imagino TransferenceDevice and the skylark’s description was transmitted into the audience.
O Lark so quick of wing,
Dive down from up on high,
Perch proud upon the post,
Melt darkness with thy cry.
Come make my spirits soar,
Dance here and hover long,
Tempt summer with your trill,
Sweet stream of endless song.
The audience reacted favorably to the words and there was a smattering of applause, despite their nervousness.
“What’s wrong with that?” insisted Libris. “UltraWord™ takes language and uses it in ways more wonderful than you can imagine!”
The Bellman looked at me. “Miss Next,” he demanded, “explain yourself.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “that wasn’t an UltraWord™ skylark. I picked it up from the library this morning.”
There was an expectant hush as Mrs. Bradshaw produced a second bird seemingly identical to the first and handed it up to me.
“This is the Ultra Word™ version. Shall we compare?”
“That’s not necessary!” said Libris quickly. “We get the point.” He turned to the Bellman. “Sir, we need a few more weeks to sort out a few minor kinks—”
“Go ahead, Thursday,” said the Bellman, “let’s see how UltraWord™ compares.”
I placed the bird in the ITD, and it transmitted the cold and clinical description into the audience.
With a short tail and large wings, a skylark is easily recognized in flight. There is a distinctive streaking pattern to the brown plumage on the breast, and a black-and-white pattern beneath the tail. Nests in hollow on ground. Can sing a bit.
“I call a vote right now!” exclaimed the Bellman, climbing onto the stage.1
I looked across at Tweed, who was tapping his mobilefootnoterphone and smiling.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.2
“Eh?” asked the Bellman.
“The vote!” I urged. “Hurry!”
“Of course,” he replied, knowing full well that Text Grand Central were not defeated until the vote had been taken. The Council of Genres weren’t involved—but would be if TGC tried to go against a BookWorld referendum. That was something they could never rewrite.
“Good!” said Tweed into his mobilefootnoterphone. “Communications have been restored.”
He smiled