One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“I met someone who was beaten about the head boy Sir John Falstaff,” remarked Mrs. Malaprop in an attempt to show that she, too, hobnobbed with celebrities.

“I talked to someone who held Pollyanna’s hat for three whole pages,” added Carmine.

“Small fry,” remarked Pickwick, eager to outdo us all. “Sam Spade himself actually spoke to me.”

There was silence. This was impressive.

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Get that stupid bird out of my way.’”

“Well, pretend to be a soldier and elope with my w

ard,” remarked Mrs. Malaprop, her word choice rendered clean and clear by the sarcasm. “You can dine out on that one for years.”

“It’s better than your dumb Falstaff story.”

“The thing to remember,” I remarked, to stop the argument before it got to the next few stages, which were insults, crockery throwing and punches, “is that the more readers there are, the easier it becomes. If you relax, it actually becomes a great deal of fun. The words spring naturally to your lips, and you can concentrate on not just giving the best possible performance but also dealing with any readers who are having problems—or indeed any readers who are trying to cause trouble for you and change the book. You’ll be surprised by how strong the power of reader suggestion can get, and if you let readers get the upper hand, it’ll be Smilla’s Sense of Snow all over again.”

Carmine looked thoughtful. The Sea Worms incident was a sobering lesson for everyone, and something that no one wanted to repeat.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said, preparing to leave. “I have to meet with Commander Herring. Mrs. Malaprop, will you show Carmine around the series and do the introductions? Start with the Gravitube and the Diatryma. After that it’s all fairly benign.”

4.

The Red-Haired Gentleman

Despite the remaking of the BookWorld, some books remained tantalizingly out of reach. The entire Sherlock Holmes canon was the most obvious example. It was entirely possible that they didn’t know there was a BookWorld and still thought they were real. A fantastic notion, until you consider that up until 11:06 A.M. of April 12, 1948, everyone else had thought the same. Old-timers still speak of “the Great Realization” in hushed tones and refer to the glory days when the possibility of being imaginary was only for the philosophers.

Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (4th edition)

I stepped out of the front door and walked the eight blocks to the corner of Adams and Colfer. A bus arrived in a couple of minutes—they always do—and after showing my pass to the driver, who looked suspiciously like a Dr. Seuss character on furlough, I took a seat between a Viking and a nun.

“I’m on my way to a pillage,” said the Viking as he attempted to find some common ground on which to converse, “and we’re a bit lean in the ‘beating people to death with large hammers’ department. Would you like to join us?”

“That’s most kind, but it’s really not my thing.”

“Oh, go on, you might rather like it.”

“No thank you.”

“I see,” said the Viking in a huffy tone. “Please yourself, then.” And he lapsed into silence.

It was the nun’s turn to speak.

“I’m collecting,” she said with a warm smile, “for the St. Nancy’s Home for Fallen Women.”

“Fallen in what respect?”

“Fallen readership. Those poor unfortunate wretches who, through no fault of their own, now find themselves in the ignominious status of the less well read. Are you interested?”

“Not really.”

“Well,” said the nun, “how completely selfish of you. How would you like to be hardly read at all?”

“I am hardly read at all,” I told her, mustering as much dignity as I could. There was an unfair stigma attached to those characters who weren’t read, and making us into victims in need of saving didn’t really help, to be honest.

The Viking looked at me scornfully, then got up and went to the front of the bus to pretend to talk to someone. The nun joined him without another word, and I saw them glance in my direction and shake their heads sadly.