One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Looks like you may have started something,” said the Funnster with a chuckle, climbing out of the cab and rummaging for a net and a baseball bat in the flatbed. “Wait here.”

A few moments later, we were bowling down the road

towards the local railway station, sitting in the back of the flatbed. On one side of us there was a mime who was miming a robot being trapped inside a net while actually being trapped inside a net, and on the other side of us a mature Austrian gentleman with a beard, a small hat and the look of someone who was trying to figure out what we were thinking and why we were thinking it.

After considering us for a moment, he leaned forward and said, “How many Sigmund Freuds does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “How many?”

“Penis,” said the Freud, then quickly corrected himself. “I mean father. No, wait! One. One Sigmund Freud. All it takes. Yes. Verflucht und zugenäht!” He added gloomily, “Wenn ich nur bei der Aalsektion geblieben wäre!”

16.

Commander Bradshaw

Perils for the Unwary #231: literalism. Usually a result of substandard wiring in the synonym-distribution box or a ripple in the contextual flux, the literalism can appear randomly, without warning. Example: One of the loan sharks inside Get Shorty turned out to be a three-ton great white with HERTZ SHARK RENTAL stamped on the side, and it was all the cast could do to keep a straight face and carry on as though nothing had happened. Peril Rating: medium-high. Action: walk away.

Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (5th edition)

We were dropped off at Cooper Central, thanked the Funnster and said farewell to Freud, who had become all wobbly and tearful. We bought some tickets and then gave them to the fez-wearing inspector who hailed us with the customary “Just like that” before directing us to our carriage. Within a few minutes, the train was steaming out of the station and towards Fantasy.

We weren’t the only people in the compartment eager to get out of Comedy. A small man who wore the off-duty fatigues of a foot soldier enlisted in the Clown Army was looking about anxiously and sweating. You could tell he was off-duty because he wasn’t wearing his bright red nose and his long shoes were carefully strapped to his duffel bag.

“What’s your unit?” I asked.

“Sixth Clown,” he said nervously, “Supply and Gigglistics. We deploy next week to Bawdy Romp, the buffer zone between Comedy and Racy Novel. Purely as a precaution, you understand. I’m on leave and certainly not stealing military equipment, no, ma’am.”

And he stared at his feet, leaving Sprockett and me to wonder what he was stealing and whether it was hazardous. The Clown Army’s Supply division was notoriously porous, and sneeze and itching powder often found its way into the wrong hands, such as Blyton separatists—always an angry mob.

“I hope your deployment goes well.”

“Thank you,” said the clown, staring out the window.

We sat in silence for a while.

“Ma’am?” asked Sprockett, who had been buzzing quietly to himself in the corner.

“Yes?”

“Why do you think we were attacked?”

“Because of what we know.”

“But who knows what we know? Others have to know that we know. Just us knowing it isn’t enough—unless we attacked ourselves, which isn’t likely.”

I thought carefully. There were at least half a dozen people who might have had an idea that the investigation wasn’t totally open and shut, all the way from Captain Phantastic to Pickwick /Lorina. But it was also possible we were being silenced for some other reason entirely, an accident or even a textual glitch, such as happens from time to time in the BookWorld.

“The attempt on our life might have been a lexicographical literalism,” I said. “After all, comedians often ‘kill’ their audiences or ‘die’ onstage, and the phrases ‘You’ll be the death of me’ or ‘It was so funny I could have died’ might all have colluded to cause us harm.”

I was fooling myself. Although Buick Roadmasters did exist independently of the Men in Plaid, it seemed too suspicious to ignore. Besides, running people off the road was something that occurred in Crime, where it would be unusual to drive five miles without having it happen at least twice. It was much more unlikely in Comedy. Or at least not without a punch line. But then again, maybe my “No thanks, I’ve already had one” was the punch line. Comedy was never straightforward. When all the good jokes had left, only the dubiously amusing stuff remained. Was the mimefield funny or not? To us I think not. But it might have been funny to someone.

I stared out the window, thinking about my current predicament. I had a junker on its way to the scrap yard from Vanity that someone had destroyed and then tried to cover his tracks in case of discovery. The accident had been handed to the least skilled accident investigator for a quick and easy resolution, and I had almost been murdered by the Men in Plaid. I had compounded my difficulties by lying to Lockheed, gaining intelligence from Captain Phantastic on false pretenses, and I had not only failed to deliver a legal accident report but destroyed it. If I was found out, I would be confined to my series and as likely as not lose Carmine and possibly Sprockett, too. It was a good moment to pack it all in, accept the level of my own incompetence and start concentrating on what should be my primary goal: increasing readership in the Thursday Next series. Thursday, after all, could take care of herself—she had done so on numerous occasions. If I shared my plans with Sprockett, I reasoned, it would be an affirmation of my resolve, and harder to go back on.

“Sprockett?”

He started out of standby mode with a buzz.

“A cocktail, ma’am?”