One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“With a few telltale descriptions of a sexual nature to point the finger toward Speedy Muffler.”

“So it would appear. Blast!”

Emperor Zhark had been examining the device carefully.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“No blue wire. There’s usually a choice of wires to cut, and by long convention it’s always the blue one. Without that there’s no way we can know how to defuse it.”

I glanced at the timing device, which also by long convention was prominently featured—and had two and a half minutes to go.

“Can we throw it overboard?” asked Jobsworth.

?

?Not unless you want to see the entire Metaphoric River vanish in under a second.”

“We could abandon the steamer.”

“It’ll be a tight fit in the one tender remaining—and those high privet hedges along the riverbank won’t make for an easy escape.”

“I’ll take it in a boat with me.”

It was Drake Foden, adventurer.

“I don’t want any arguments,” he said. “This is my function. I’m the fodder.”

“I told you he was,” said Barksdale, jabbing Jobsworth on the shoulder with his index finger.

There was no time to do anything else, and at a single word from the captain the second tender was lowered over the side and the riveted box placed inside. Drake turned to me and took my hands in his.

“Good-bye, Thursday. I’m sorry we didn’t get to sleep together and perhaps have a few jokes and get into a couple of scrapes and thus make this farewell more poignant and mournful, which it isn’t.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’ll always regret not knowing you at all or even liking you very much. Perhaps next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“I know that. Drake?”

“Yes?”

“You have something stuck in your teeth.”

“Here?”

“Other side.”

“Thanks.”

And without another word, Drake clambered aboard, cast off the mooring and began to row quickly away from the steamer.

“Hey!” I yelled across the water. “Aren’t you glad it wasn’t a poison dart in your—”

But I didn’t get a chance to say any more. Drake, the tender and the iron box suddenly imploded with a sound like a cough going backwards, accompanied by a swift rush of air that sucked in to fill the void and made our ears pop. I’d never seen text destroyed so rapidly—even an eraserhead takes a half second to work.

“Slow ahead,” ordered Jobsworth, “and wire the delegation that we have been ‘unavoidably delayed.’”

He turned to me.