One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“I dream often,” replied the butler thoughtfully. “Mostly about being a toaster.”

“Dualit or KitchenAid?”

He seemed mildly insulted that I should have to ask.

“A Dualit four-slot, naturally. But perhaps,” he added, his eyebrow pointer clicking from “Indignant” to “Puzzled,” “I only believe I dream. Sometimes I think it is merely a construct to enable me to better understand humans.”

“Listen, I should warn you about Pickwick,” I said as we walked up the garden path.

“What is a Pickwick?”

“It’s a dodo.”

“I thought they were extinct.”

“They may yet become so. She’s trouble, so be careful.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I shall.”

I pushed open the front door and was met by the sound of laughter. Carmine was sitting at the table with Bowden Cable and Acheron Hades, two of the other costars from the series. They were all sharing a joke, or at least they were until I walked in, when everyone fell silent.

“Hello, Thursday,” said Bowden, whom I’d never really gotten along with, despite the fact that his counterpart in the RealWorld was one of Thursday’s closest friends. “We were just telling Carmine the best way to play Thursday.”

“The best way is the way I play her,” I said in a firm yet friendly manner. “Dignified.”

“Of course,” said Bowden. “Who’s your friend?”

“Sprockett,” I replied, “my butler.”

“I didn’t know you needed a butler,” said Bowden.

“Everyone needs a butler. He was going to be stoned, so I took him with me.”

“What do cog-based life-forms get stoned with?” asked Bowden in an impertinent manner. “Vegetable oil?”

“Actually, sir,” intoned Sprockett, “it’s sewing-machine lubricant for a mild tipple. Many feel that the exuberant effects of 3-in-One are worth pursuing, although I have never partaken myself. For those that have hit rock bottom, where life has become nothing more than a semiconscious slide from one partial winding to the next, it’s WD-40.”

“Oh,” said Bowden, who had been put firmly in his place by Sprockett’s forthrightness, “I see.”

“Hmm,” said Acheron, peering at Sprockett’s data plate with great interest. “Are you the Duplex-6?”

“Five, sir. The Six’s release has been delayed. A series of mainspring failures have put beta testing back several months, and now I hear the Six has pressure compensation issues on the primary ethical escapement module.”

“W

hat does that mean?”

“I have to admit I’m not entirely sure, sir. The main problem with clockwork sentience is that we can never understand the level of our own complexity—for to do so would require an even greater level of complexity. At present we can deal with day-to-day maintenance issues, but all we can ever know for sure is that we function. We tick, therefore we are.”

Pickwick asked me how I thought we could afford such an extravagance, but the real disapproval came from Mrs. Malaprop.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprockett,” she said coldly. “I hope you are fully aquatinted with the specific roles of mousecreeper and butler?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Malaprop,” replied Sprockett, bowing low. “And I don’t require much space—I can easily fit in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“You will knot,” replied Mrs. Malaprop with great indignation. “I am resizing there. You may have the earring cupboard.”

“Then with your permission I shall go and repack,” announced Sprockett.