As we made our way to the Belgium section of the book, we caught a glimpse of the Roadmaster, now a tiny speck in the distance.
31.
Biography
Although Outlander authors kill, maim, disfigure and eviscerate bookpeople on a regular basis, no author has ever been held to account, although lawyers are working on a test case to deal with serial offenders. The mechanism for transfictional jurisdiction has yet to be finalized, but when it is, some authors may have cause to regret their worst excesses.
Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (16th edition)
The Hotel Verhaegen landed on the lawn outside one of the biographical tenements. I sat for several moments in silence in the lobby. For some odd reason, my left leg wouldn’t stop shaking, and when I tried to speak, it sounded like I was hyphenated. I’d been fine on the trip down, but as soon as I started to think about the Men in Plaid who’d tried so hard to kill us, I suddenly felt all hot and fearful. I thought for a moment it might have been a virus I’d picked up from the RealWorld until I realized I was in mild shock.
I rested for ten minutes, and after downing one of Sprockett’s restoratives and writing “Very nice” in the guest book, I stepped from the Verhaegen, which lifted off behind us. The manager wasn’t going to hang around—the Pay and Display fees in Biography were ridiculous.
“Sp-Sprockett,” I said as we walked across the car park, “where d-d-did you learn to d-drive like that?”
“My cousin Malcolm, ma’am.”
“He’s a r-racing driver?”
“He’s a racing car. Is madam all right?”
“Madam is surprised she didn’t scream, vomit and then pass out. I owe you my life, Sprockett.”
“A good butler,” intoned Sprockett airily, “should save his employer’s life at least once a day, if not more than once.”
Luckily for us, the island of Biography had elected to maintain parts of the Great Library model during the remaking, so while the Geographic model gave it the appearance of a low-lying island mostly covered with well-kept gardens, exciting statuary and dignified pavilions of learning, the biographical subjects themselves lived in twenty-six large tower blocks, each designated by a single letter painted conveniently on the front. The lobby of the apartment building was roomy and bright and was connected to a game room, where D. H. Lawrence was playing H. P. Lovecraft at Ping-Pong, and also a cafeteria, where we could see Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther discussing the struggles of faith over conscience. In the lobby were eight different Lindsay Lohans, all arguing over which biographical study had been the least correct.
Even before I’d reached the front desk, I knew we were in luck. The receptionist recognized me.
“Hello again, Miss Next,” he said cheerfully. “How did the peace talks go?”
“They’re not until Friday.”
“How silly of me. You can go straight up. I’ll ring ahead to announce you.”
“Most kind,” I replied, still unsure whom Thursday had seen. “Remind me again the floor?”
“Fourth,” said the receptionist, and he turned to the telephone switchboard.
We took the brass-and-cast-iron elevator, which was of the same design as the one in the Great Library—the two buildings shared similar BookWorld architecture. Even the paint was peeling in the same places.
“How long do you think before the Men in Plaid catch up with us?” asked Sprockett as the elevator moved upwards.
“I have no idea,” I replied, opening my pistol and chambering my last cartridge, a disrupter that was nicknamed “the Cherry Fondue,” as it was always the last one in the box, and extremely nasty, “but the Hotel Verhaegen won’t give them any clues—you signed the register as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Dueffer,’ yes?”
“Y-e-es,” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointer clicking to “Apologetic.”
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“Problems?”
“Indeed, ma’am. In an unthinking moment, I may have written ‘choice of oils open to improvement’ in the comments section of the visitor’s book.”
“We’ll just have to hope they’re not curious.”
I replaced the weapon in my shoulder holster, and the lift doors opened on the fourth floor. We walked out and padded noiselessly down the corridor. We walked past Lysander, Lyons, Lyndsay, Lynch and Lynam before we got to the Lyells.
“Charles Lyell, Botanist,” read the name on the first door.