The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [518]
Emma thought about how her relationship with Admiral Lord Nelson was lampooned mercilessly in the press. “No, I think that sounds really quite romantic.”
“Right,” I said, clapping my hands, “I’ll be back at three. Don’t go out, and if anyone calls, get Hamlet or Emma to answer the door. Okay?”
“Certainly,” replied Melanie. “Don’t go out, don’t answer the door. Simple.”
“And no swinging on the curtains or lamp fixtures—they won’t stand it.”
“Are you saying I’m a bit large?”
“Not at all,” I replied hastily. “Things are just different in the real world. There is lots of fruit in the bowl and fresh bananas in the refrigerator. Okay?”
“No problemo. Have a nice day.”
I drove into town and, avoiding several newspapermen who were still eager to interview me, entered the SpecOps Building, which I noted had been freshly repainted since my last visit. It looked a bit more cheery in mauve, but not much.
“Agent Next?” said a young and extremely keen SO-14 agent in a well-starched black outfit, complete with Kevlar vest, combat boots, and highly visible weaponry.
“Yes?”
He saluted.
“My name is Major Drabb, SO-14. I understand you have been assigned to us to track down more of this pernicious Danish literature.”
He was so keen to fulfill his duties I felt chilled. To his credit he would be as enthusiastic helping flood victims; he was just following orders unquestioningly. Worse acts than destroying Danish literature had been perpetrated by men like this. Luckily, I was prepared.
“Good to see you, Major. I had a tip-off that this address might hold a few copies of the banned books.”
I passed him a scrap of paper and he read it eagerly.
“The Albert Schweitzer Memorial Library? We’ll be on it right away.”
And he saluted smartly once again, turned on his heel and was gone.
I made my way up to the LiteraTec office and found Bowden in the process of packing Karen Blixen’s various collections of stories into a cardboard box.
“Hi!” he said, tying up the box with string. “How are things with you?”
“Pretty good. I’m back at work.”
Bowden smiled, put down the scissors and string and shook my hand.
“That’s very good news indeed! Heard the latest? Daphne Farquitt has been added to the list of banned Danish writers.”
“But . . . Farquitt isn’t Danish!”
“Her father’s name was Farquittsen, so it’s Danish enough for Kaine and his idiots.”
It was an interesting development. Farquitt’s books were pretty dreadful but burning was still a step too far. Just.
“Have you found a way to get all these banned books out of England?” asked Bowden, running some tape across a box of Out of Africas. “With Farquitt’s books and all the rest of the stuff that’s coming in, I think we’ll need closer to ten trucks.”
“It’s certainly on my mind,” I replied, having not done anything about it at all.
“Excellent! We’d like to take a convoy through as soon as you say the word. Now, what do you want me to brief you on first? The latest Capulet v. Montague drive-by shooting or which authors are next up for a random dope test?”
“Neither,” I replied. “Tell me everything you know about cloned Shakespeares.”
“We’ve had to put that on low priority. It’s intriguing to be sure, but ultimately pointless from a law-and-order point of view—anyone involved in their sequencing will be too dead or too old to go to trial.”
“It’s more of a BookWorld thing,” I replied, “but important, I promise.”
“Well, in that case,” began Bowden, who knew me too well to think I’d waste his time or my own, “we have three Shakespeares on the slab at the moment, all aged between fifty and sixty—put those Hans Christian Andersen books in that box, would you? If they were cloned, it was way back in the poorly regulated days of the thirties, when there was all sorts of nonsense going on, when people thought they could engineer Olympic