One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Ah!” he replied, suddenly realizing what I was here for. “The Lola incident. I believe that Commander Herring is already up there. Can I stress at this time that we will afford Jurisfiction’s representatives all possible help and assistance?”

It was all he could say, really. No one wanted to fall afoul of Jurisfiction or the Council of Genres. This was Fiction. There were skeletons in everyone’s closet.

“It came to earth nine hours ago,” he said as we walked past two faked moon landings, three UFO abductions and a grassy knoll. “It bounced on a pamphlet regarding the notion that Diatrymas are being bred by the Goliath Corporation to keep people out of the New Forest, then landed on a book outlining the somewhat dubious circumstances surrounding the death of Lola Vavoom.”

With Sprockett following at a discreet distance, we took a shortcut through a field of crop circles, passed a laboratory covertly designing infectious diseases for population control, moved aside as a white Fiat Uno drove after a black Mercedes, then entered the subgenre of Lola Vavoom Suspicious Death. Roswell pushed open the swinging doors of a concrete multistory car park that opened directly onto the tenth floor, and standing next to a large lump of tattered wreckage the size of a truck were two men. I didn’t recognize the more disheveled of the two, but the older, wiser and clearly the boss was someone I did recognize: Regional Commander Herring of the BookWorld Policing Agency.

He was very much a hands-on type of administrator. He had no staff, carried all his notes in his head and was one of the few people who still jumped from book to book rather than taking a taxi or public transport. He was a BGH-87 character type. Male, persnickety and highly efficient, but seemingly without humor. He was about fifty and was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with an infinite quantity of pens in his top pocket and a garish tie. He wore spectacles, but only for effect. He was high up in the chain of command at the Council of Genres and had access, it was said, to Senator Jobsworth himself. He was the most powerful man I knew.

“About time,” he said when I appeared. “Places to be, people to visit—wheels within wheels.”

“Wheels within wheels,” echoed the man next to him.

“This is Martin Lockheed,” explained Herring. “You’ll answer to him, as I am a busy man. After this meeting I do not expect us to meet again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Three Men in a Boat investigation didn’t really impress,” he began.

“Yes, I’m sorry about that.”

“Apologies don’t really cut it, Next, but I am a man loyal to friends, and the real Miss Next has always intimated in the past that you may show promise one day.”

“I’m very grateful to her . . . and you,” I managed to stammer.

“So I look upon you as an investment,” replied Herring, “and a long-standing favor to a valued colleague. Which is why we are here now. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“That’s good,” said Lockheed, as if I might not have heard what Herring said. The regional commander waved a hand at the wreckage.

“Easy one for you to cut your teeth on. It has all the signs of being another unprecedented event that despite all expectations has become repeatedly unrepeatable. Don’t let me down, will you? Wrap it up nice and neat and don’t get all showy or anything. Fiction has a 99.97 percent book-safety record, and the last thing we want is the reside

nts of this fair island worried that the fabric of their world is prone to shredding itself at the drop of a participle, hmm?”

“I’ll do my very best to discover that it’s an unrepeatable accident,” I told him, “and with indecent haste.”

“Very good. Twenty-four hours should suffice, yes?”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir, and I’d like to thank you for the opportunity.”

“No need. Lockheed?”

“Yes, sir?”

Herring snapped his fingers impatiently, and the rather harassed Lockheed passed him a clipboard.

“These are the reported items of debris,” Herring said, handing the clipboard straight to me without looking at it. “Not good, having narrative falling from the skies, so let’s keep it simple, eh? Wheels within wheels, Thursday.”

“Wheels within wheels,” added Lockheed earnestly.

“Wheels within wheels, sir. Would you thank Miss Next for me when you see her?”

“When next I see her. She’s very busy.”

He then looked at Sprockett, who was standing off from the group, being unobtrusive. “Who’s that?”