I climbed out and succumbed to a search. He soon found the box the Lady of Shalott had given me.
“Well, lookee here, what have we got? Is this metaphor or is it not?”
“Not one but other, I must confess, the situation’s now a mess.”
He opened the box and stared. It wasn’t metaphor, but contraband nonetheless.
“You’re in big trouble smuggling this junk. What else you got? Let’s pop the trunk.”
We did, and there was Sprockett. The officer stared at him for a moment.
“I’m sure you can explain away why a dead butler’s in your trunk today?”
“He’s a clockwork butler, Duplex-5, and even paused he’s still alive.”
The officer had seen enough and brought out a report sheet to take down some details.
“Name?”
“Thursday Next.”
The officer looked at me, then at my New Agey clothes, then at Sprockett.
“Now, which one could that be? The heroine or the one who likes to hug a tree?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. I had to hope that this guard could be fooled as easily as the Elvis back in Conspiracy.
“I am she, the Thursday proper. Those that cross me come a cropper.”
“That seems likely, but before I yield, let me check your Jurisfiction shield.”
I passed it across. The officer took one look at it, put away his report sheet and told his partner that they were leaving. He smiled and handed me back my badge.
“It’s an honor, I’ll be reckoned. Sorry to have kept you for even a second.”
I signed my name in his autograph book and with growing confusion climbed back into the cab as the Jurispoetry car detached from the hull and fell away from the tanker, leaving us to continue our trip unmolested.
“You’re Thursday Next?” said the cabbie, her attitude suddenly changed. “This ride is for free, kiddo. But listen, the next time you’re in the RealWorld, can you find out why there have to be over a hundred different brands of soap? I’d really like to know.”
“Okay,” I muttered, “no problem.”
The remainder of the journey was unremarkable, except for one thing: I spent the entire trip staring at the Jurisfiction shield that had allowed me not once but twice to squeak out of trouble. It wasn’t my shield at all. It was Thursday’s. The real Thursday’s. Someone had slipped it into my pocket that morning. And the more I thought about the morning’s events, the more I realized that I might have become involved—quite against my will—with a matter of some considerable consequence.
9.
Home
Rumor has it that undiscovered genres were hidden among the thick vegetation and impenetrable canopy in the far north of the island. Primitive, anarchic, strange and untouched by narrative convention, they were occasionally discovered and inducted into the known BookWorld, where they started off fresh and exciting before ultimately becoming mimicked, overused, tired and then passé. BookWorld naturalists argued strongly that some genres should remain hidden in order to keep the BookWorld from homogenizing, but their voices went unheeded.
Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (3rd edition)
I had the most curious dream,” mused Sprockett as soon as I had rewound him completely, “in which I was a full-hunter silent repeater. There was also this gramophone—you know, one of those windup varieties—and she was running overspeed and playing ‘Temptation Rag.’ And then there was this monkey hitting cymbals together, and I—”
He checked himself.
“I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am. My protocol gearing can become a bit gummy during deactivation. You are not offended by my drivel?”
“Not in the least. In fact, I didn’t know machines could dream.”