'Thursday,' she said in her most serious voice, 'listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.' She looked around the room. 'Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous – like you – are the last bastion of defence against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning you can stop asking so many questions and do as you're told – just pass this practical first time. Understand?'
'Yes, Miss Havisham.'
'That's settled, then,' she added. 'Anything else?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'What's a smoother?'
'Do you not read your TravelBook?'
'It's quite long,' I pleaded. 'I've been consulting it whenever possible but have still got no farther than the preface.'
'Well,' she began as we jumped to Wemmick's Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, 'plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can spring back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.'
'Like time,' I murmured, thinking about my father.
'If you say so,' returned Miss Havisham. 'So on Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother – a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad's Lord Jim, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown's massacre.'
'That didn't work?'
'No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose – after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.'
'So what did you do?'
'We retrospectively had the chief's son die in the massacre. It did the trick. The chief had no trouble shooting Jim after that.'
I mused about this for a moment.
'How did Jim take it?' I asked. 'The decision for him to die, I mean?'
'He was the one who asked for the plot adjustment in the first place,' murmured Havisham. 'He thought it was the only honourable thing to do – mind you, the chief's son wasn't exactly over the moon about it.'
'Ah,' I said, pondering that here in the BookWorld the pencil of life occasionally did have a rubber on the other end.
'So you'll send a cheque for a hundred pounds to the farmer, and buy his pigs for double the market rate – that way, he won't need the cash and won't want to resell Shadow to the film producer. Get it? Good afternoon, Mr Wemmick.'
We had arrived at the stores. Wemmick himself was a short man, a native of Great Expectations, aged about forty with a pockmarked face. He greeted us enthusiastically.
'Good afternoon, Miss Havisham, Miss Next – I trust all is well?'
'Quite well, Mr Wemmick. I understand you have a few canines for us?'
'Indeed,' replied the storekeeper, pointing to where two dogs were attached to a hook in the wall by their leads.
'Pug, Lady Bertram's, to be replaced, one. Shadow, sheepdog, sighted, to swap with existing dog, blind, one. Cheque for the farmer, value: one hundred pounds sterling, one. Cash to buy pigs, forty-two pounds, ten shillings and fourpence. Sign here.'
The two dogs panted and wagged their tails. The collie had his eyes bound with a bandage.
'Any questions?'
'Do we have a cover story for this cheque?' I asked.
'Use your imagination. I'm sure you'll think of something.'
'Wait a moment,' I said, alarm bells suddenly ringing, 'aren't you coming with me to supervise?'