One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Between two and twenty-eight it is.”

I finished winding him but, as requested, was careful not to go beyond the red mark on the mainspring tension indicator just under his chin. Once I was done, he turned to face me, and his single expressive eyebrow quivered momentarily and then pointed to “Uncomfortable.” I knew exactly what he meant: that the winding of a manservant is a mildly embarrassing undertaking, and to preserve both employer and employee’s mutual respect, should not be commented upon again.

“That’s a very useful eyebrow.”

“It’s a standard feature of the Duplex-5s. Since we have few genuine emotions, it helps to telegraph how we think we should be feeling, given the circumstances.”

“It works for me, Mr. . . . ?”

“Sprockett,” said Sprockett. “Ready and willing to enter your employ.”

“I’m not sure I need a butler.”

“In that you would be in error, ma’am. It has been long proved that everyone needs a butler. Besides, you saved my life.”

It was complex, but I knew what he meant. Because I had saved him, he was indebted to me—and to refuse him an opportunity to reciprocate my kindness would leave him burdened by a favor unpaid. And if you had a potential life of a thousand years or more, you could be a long time fretting, and fretting increases wear on cogs. Clockwork life-forms could be annoyingly steadfast, but it was their saving grace, too.

“All right,” I agreed, “but for a trial period only.”

“Very good, ma’am. Would you care for a cocktail? I do a very good Tahiti Tingle—without the umbrella if you think they are a bit passé.”

“Not now. I’m working.”

“In Conspiracy, ma’am?”

I pointed at the book traffic that was moving constantly overhead.

“One of those came down last night, and I’m here to find out why.”

“I see,” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointer nodding toward “Worried” as he looked upwards. “I will assist in whatever capacity I can.”

We made our way toward the regional offices. Sprockett talked and thought well for an automaton, and aside from a slight limp, his empty features and a muted buzz when he moved or thought, he was reasonably lifelike. I asked him where he was from, and he told me he was from Vanity—in a pilot book for a series titled The League of Cogmen, about the many adventures that befall a series of mechanical men designed by an Edwardian inventor. Sprockett had been initially built as a butler but soon transcended his calling to become a dynamic machine of action. A mixture of The Admirable Crichton, Biggles and The 1903 Watchmaker’s Review. When unemployment beckoned, he reverted to domestic service—butlers are more sought after than are action heroes.

“What was your book like?”

“Uneven,” replied Sprockett. “A fine concept, but lacking in legs to carry it off. Sadly, I have too few emotions to be engaging as a principal character.”

“Because you were designed as a butler?”

“Not at all—because I’m only a Duplex-5. The empathy escapement was never quite perfected before we went into production. I can indicate a range of emotions through my eyebrow pointer, but that’s about it. I can recognize your sorrow and act accordingly—but I cannot feel emotions nor truly understand what ‘emotion’ or ‘feel’ actually means.”

“But surely you felt danger when you were about to be stoned and relief when rescued?”

“Yes, but only in the context that to be destroyed would deny me the opportunity to serve cocktails—and that would contravene the second law of domestic robotics.”

Sprockett told me that his books were hastily printed, had not been read once in seventeen years and now, aside from a few copies in the circulation of friends and family, were sitting unread in a cardboard box in the writer’s garage in Cirencester.

“And becoming damp, too,” he added. “Sometimes rain is blown under the garage doors. There is mold and damp seeping up the print run—look.”

He rolled up a trouser leg to reveal a green patch of patination on his otherwise shiny bronze leg. His would be a long, lingering journey to unreadfulness. He would gradually look more tarnished and increasingly lost over the years until the last copy would be destroyed and—unless picked up in another book—he’d suddenly wink out of existence.

“What’s it like living in Vanity?”

“May I be candid?”

“I’ d welcome it.”

“We tend not to use the term Vanity anymore. It sounds derogatory. We refer to it as Self-Published or Collaborative, and you’d be surprised just how much good prose is interspersed with that of an uneven nature.”