The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Where’s the marshmallow?”

Pickwick stared at both my hands, then at me, then at Tuesday. She blinked twice and scratched the side of her head with her claw.

“Hm,” I said, “she doesn’t seem much different to me.”

“I admit it’s not a blazing success,” agreed Tuesday, “but I think the problem lies in Pickwick. Because her intelligence is on a par with a dishwasher’s, making her brain a hundred the times the size creates no appreciable difference. D’you think I should have made it a thousand times smarter than it was?”

“I think you should leave her alone. Having almost no brain doesn’t seem to have stopped her enjoying a long and successful life.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Tuesday, switching off the machine.

“How’s the keynote speech for MadCon on Thursday?”

“Going pretty well,” she replied, patting a pile of much-corrected papers that were lying on the desk next to her. “I’m just not sure whether I should open directly with my algorithm that can predict the movement of hyperactive cats, discuss the possibilities of Encephalovision Entertainment System— where we beam the thoughts of vain idiots straight into the nation’s homes— or go straight to the Madeupion Field Theory, by which I hope to power up the Anti-Smite Shields.”

I thought for a moment. Although I didn’t have a clue how her ideas worked, I knew what they did—kind of—and could understand their importance.

“The work on predicting the chaotic was your breakout paper,” I said, “so you should allude to that, I think. I’m not sure about the Anti-Smite device. After all, we’ve yet to see it work. What about your pioneering work on finding a way by which people can tickle themselves? That was pretty groundbreaking.”

“You’re right,” she said, “it still needs work, but once self-tickling is possible, the home-entertainment and psychotherapy industries can take a running jump. I’ve already had a call from Cosmos Pictures asking if I wouldn’t consider dropping the research in exchange for a signed picture of Buck Stallion and a walk-on part in Bonzo—the Movie.”

“Meeting Bonzo could be cool,” I said, as the long-running TV series was very much a cultural icon, “but to be honest, being asked to do the keynote speech at MadCon is probably more about saying a few jokes and getting the delegates in a good mood than delivering a doctoral thesis.”

“You’re right. I could do the joke about the three paradigm shifts at the races. That always brings the house down. Will Dad come?”

“He won’t miss it for the world, although one of us should stay back to keep an eye on Jenny.”

“The Wingco can look after her,” replied Tuesday. “They get on very well together. You know how he likes to talk about the power of the imagination and how it has the potential to make things real.”

“Only too well,” I replied. “Dinner at seven, Sweetpea.”

8.

Monday: Friday

The danger from Asteroid HR-6984 was first noted in 1855, when calculations showed this to be the same asteroid that was observed in both 1793 and 1731 and was missing the earth by the astronomical equivalent of a coat of paint every sixty-two years. Observations during the last flyby in 1979 proved what scientists had already feared: that the Isle of Wight–size lump of debris was traveling at over forty-two thousand miles per hour and would one day strike earth. The question of whether it would or not in 2041 was calculated by the International Asteroid Risk Likelihood Calculation Committee to be “around 34 percent.”

Dr. S. A. Orbiter, The Earthcrossers

"I spoke to Braxton Hicks today,” I said as Friday and I went into the dining room to set the table. “He tells me his daughter, Imogen, is looking for a ‘steady hand on the tiller.’ I said I’d mention it to you.”

“I don’t need my mother to set me up on dates,” he retorted.

“Besides, Mimi is totally bonkers. She surfed on the roof of a speeding car between junctions thirteen and fourteen of the M4. How insane do you have to be to do something like that? If she’d slipped, she’d have killed herself instantly.”

“You need a careful driver and soft-soled shoes,” I replied thoughtfully.

Friday looked at me with horror. “You didn’t?”

“I did. The flush of youth.”

“Does Dad know about this?”

“I think he was driving.”

“For God’s sake, Mother,” he said in an exasperated tone, “is there nothing dumb, daft or dangerous that you haven’t tried at some point?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ve never tried oysters. They can be quite dangerous.’