The Well Of Lost Plots Part 43

He gave me a wink and I moved on, heart pounding. I hoped the nervousness didn't show. Heep was on the stage but Legree had taken his place and was keeping a surrept.i.tious eye on me from seven hundred tables away. The temporal field displacement technology worked in his favour every table was next to every other one.

All of a sudden there was a strong smell of beer.

'Miss Next!'

'Sir John, good evening.'

Falstaff looked me up and down. I didn't wear a dress that often and I crossed my arms defensively.

'Resplendent, my dear, resplendent!' he exclaimed, pretending to be something of an expert.

'Thank you.'

Usually I avoided Falstaff, but if I was being watched it made sense to talk to as many people as possible; if Tweed and TGC thought I could throw a spanner in the works I would not help them by drawing attention to my genuine confederates.

'I know of a side room, Mistress Next, a small place of an acquainting manner a niche d'amour niche d'amour. What say you and I retire to that place where you might learn how I came by the name "Falstaff".'

'Another time.'

'Really?' he asked, surprised by my albeit accidental acquiescence.

'No, not really, Sir John,' I said hurriedly.

'Phew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'It would not be half the sport if you were to lie with me resistance, Mistress Next, is rich allurement indeed!'

'If resistance is all you seek,' I told him, smiling, 'then you will never have a keener woman to woo!'

'I'll drink to that!'

He laughed heartily the word might have been coined for him.

'I have to leave you, Sir John. No more than a gallon of beer an hour, remember?'

I patted his large tum, which was as hard and unyielding as a beer barrel.

'On my word!' he replied, wiping the beer froth from his beard.

I reached the Jurisfiction table. Beatrice and Benedict were arguing, as usual.

'Ah!' said Benedict as soon as I sat down. ' 'Tis beauty that dost oft make women proud, but G.o.d he knows Beatrice's share thereof is small!'

'How so?' replied Beatrice. 'That face of yours that hungry cannibals would not have touch'd!'

'Have either of you seen the Bellman?' I asked.

They said they hadn't and I left them to their arguing as Foyle sat down next to me. I had seen him at Norland Park from time to time. He was Jurisfiction, too.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said, 'we haven't been introduced. Gully Foyle is my name, terra is my nation; deep s.p.a.ce is my dwelling place and death's my destination I police Science Fiction.'

I shook his hand.

'Thursday Next,' I replied. 'From Swindon. How are you liking the awards?'

'Pretty good,' he returned. 'I was disappointed that Hamlet won the "Shakespearean Character You'd Most Like to Slap" award my money was on Oth.e.l.lo.'

'Well,' I replied, 'Oth.e.l.lo won "Dopiest Shakespearean Lead" and they don't like them to win more than one each.'

'Is that how it works?' he mused. 'The voting system makes no sense to me.'

'They say you'll be partnered at Jurisfiction with Emperor Zhark,' I said, more by way of conversation than anything else.

'I hope not,' replied Foyle. 'We've been trying to raise the intellectual and philosophical status of Science Fiction for some time now; people like him don't help the cause one iota.'

'Why's that?'

'Well,' said Foyle, 'how can I put it? Zhark belongs to what we describe as "Lesser Science Fiction" or "Winsome" or maybe even "Cla.s.sic".'

'How about "c.r.a.p"?'

'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

There was a burst of applause as the MC announced the next award.

'Ladies, gentlemen and things,' he declared, 'we had asked Dorothy to present the next award but she was, sadly, kidnapped by flying monkeys just before the show. I will therefore read the nominations myself The MC sighed. Dorothy's absence was just the latest in a number of small problems that usually interrupted the smooth running of the show. Earlier, Rumplestiltskin had gone berserk and attacked someone who guessed his name, Mary Elliot from Persuasion Persuasion had declared herself 'too unwell' to collect the 'Most Tiresome Austen Character' award, and Boo Radley couldn't be persuaded to come out of his dressing room. had declared herself 'too unwell' to collect the 'Most Tiresome Austen Character' award, and Boo Radley couldn't be persuaded to come out of his dressing room.

'So,' continued the MC, 'the nominations for the "Best Dead Person in Fiction" award are as follows.' He looked at the back of the envelope. 'First nomination: Count Dracula.'

There was a brief burst of applause, mixed with a few jeers.

'Yes indeed,' exclaimed the MC, 'the supreme Dark Lord himself, father of an entire sub-genre. From his castle in the Carpathians he burst upon the world and darkened shadows for ever. Let's read a little bit.'

He placed a short extract under the ImaginoTransference device and I felt a cold shadow on my neck as the Dark Lord's description entered my imagination.

... There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which for the eyes earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which for the eyes were open and stony, but without the gla.s.siness of death and the cheeks had the warmth were open and stony, but without the gla.s.siness of death and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of of life through all their pallor, and the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, to find any sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, to find any sign of life, but in vain life, but in vain ... ...

There was applause and the lights came up again.

'From the undead to the very dead, the second nomination is for a man who returns selflessly from the grave to warn his erstwhile business partner of the terrors which await him if he does not change his ways. All the way from A Christmas Carol A Christmas Carol Jacob Marley!' Jacob Marley!'

... The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the ta.s.sels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his the ta.s.sels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, like a tail; and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two b.u.t.tons on Scrooge, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two b.u.t.tons on his coat behind his coat behind ... ...

I glanced across at Marley on the Christmas Carol Christmas Carol table. Through his semi-transparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim. table. Through his semi-transparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim.

When the applause died down the MC announced the third nomination: 'Banquo's ghost from Macbeth Macbeth. A slain friend and b.l.o.o.d.y revenge are on the menu in this Scottish play of power and obsession in the eleventh century,' he enthused. 'Is Macbeth the master of his own destiny, or the other way round? Let's have a look.'

Enter Ghost.

MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!

Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with.

LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom. 'Tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

MACBETH. What man dare, I dare.

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. Or be alive again be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword.

If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence!

Exit Ghost.

'And the winner is ...' announced the MC, opening the envelope, 'Count Dracula.'

The applause was deafening as the count walked up to receive his award. He shook hands with the MC and took the statuette before turning to the audience. He was white and cadaverous and I s.h.i.+vered involuntarily.

'First,' said the count in a soft voice with a slight lisp, 'my thanks go to Bram for his admirable reporting of my activities. I would also like to thank Lucy, Mr Harker and Van Helsing-'

'I hope he's not going to start crying like he did last year,' said a voice close to my ear. I turned to find the Ches.h.i.+re Cat sitting very precariously on a seat-back. 'It's so embarra.s.sing.'

But he did. The count was soon choking back floods of tears, thanking everyone he could think of and generally making a complete fool of himself.

'How are you enjoying the awards?' I said to the Cat, glad to see a friendly face.

'Not bad,' he replied. 'I think Orlando was a bit miffed to lose out to Puss in Boots for the "Best Talking Cat" award.'

'My money was on you.'

'Was it really?' said the Cat, smiling even more broadly. 'You are are nice. Do you want some advice?' nice. Do you want some advice?'

'Indeed I do,' I replied. The Ches.h.i.+re Cat had always remained totally impartial at Jurisfiction. A hundred Bellmans could come and go but the Cat would always be there and his knowledge was vast. I leaned closer.

'Okay,' he announced grandly, 'here's the advice. Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'Don't get off a bus while it's still moving.'

'That's very good advice,' I said slowly. 'Thank you very much.'

'Don't mention it,' said the Cat, and vanished.

'h.e.l.lo, Thursday.'

'Hi, Randolph. How are things?'

'Okay,' he said slightly doubtfully. 'Have you seen Lola?'

'No.'

'Unlike her to miss a party,' he muttered. 'Do you think she's okay?'

'I think Lola can look after herself,' I told him. 'Why are you so interested?'

'I'm going to tell her that I quite like her!' he answered resolutely.

'Why stop there?'

'You mean tell her I really really like her?' like her?'

'And more but it's a good place to start.'

'Thanks. If you see her tell her I'm on the unplaced Generics table.'

I wished him good luck and he left. I got up and walked to a curtained-off area where several bookies were taking bets. I placed a hundred on Jay Gatsby to win the 'Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' award. I didn't think he would win; I just wanted Tweed to waste time trying to figure out what I was up to. I visited the Caversham Heights Caversham Heights table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards. table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards.

'What's going on in the book?' she demanded indignantly. 'Jack tells me he's been changing a few things whilst I've been away!'

'Just a few,' I said, 'but don't worry, we wouldn't write anything embarra.s.sing for you without consultation.'

Her eyes flicked across to Arnie, who was sharing a joke with Captain Nemo and Agatha Diesel.

'Just as well,' she replied.

The evening drew on, the celebrities announcing the nominations becoming more important as the categories became more highly regarded. 'Best Romantic Male' went to Darcy and 'Best Female in a "Coming of Age" Book' went to Scout Finch. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes to go before the prestigious 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' was due to be announced; the female version of this award had been well represented by Thomas Hardy; Bathsheba Everdene and Tess Durbeyfield both made it to the nominations only to be pipped at the post by the surprise winner, Lady Macbeth. Sylvia Plath was short-listed but was disqualified for being real.

I got up and walked to the Jurisfiction table as a drum roll announced the final category. The Bellman nodded politely to me and I looked around the room. It was time to act. UltraWord was not the saviour of the BookWorld it would be the end, and I hoped that Mimi down in the footnoterphone conduits was ready. 24 'And now, ladies, gentlemen and things, for the high point of the evening, the 923rd Annual BookWorld award for "Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)". To read the nominations we have none other than WordMaster Xavier Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central!'

There was loud applause which I hadn't expected TGC wasn't that popular. I had a sudden attack of doubt. Could Deane be wrong? I thought again about Perkins, Snell and Havisham and my resolve returned. I grabbed my bag and got up. I saw Legree stiffen and rise from the Uncle Tom's Cabin Uncle Tom's Cabin table, speaking into his cuff as he did so. I headed towards the exit with him tailing me. table, speaking into his cuff as he did so. I headed towards the exit with him tailing me.

'Thank you very much!' said Libris, raising his hands to quell the applause as Hamlet, Jude Fawley and Heathcliff stood close by, each wis.h.i.+ng that Libris would hurry up so they could collect their statuette. 'I have a few words to say about the new operating system and then we can all get back to the awards.'

He took a deep breath.

'Many good words have been written about UltraWord and I have to tell you, they are all true. The benefits to everyone will be felt throughout the BookWorld, from the lowliest D-10 in the tras.h.i.+est paperback to the finest A-1 in high literature.'

I walked to the side of the stage, towards the swing doors that led through to the hospitality lounge.

Legree followed but was tripped up by Mathias' widow. She placed a hoof on his chest and held him firm while Mrs Hubbard grabbed one arm and Miss m.u.f.fet the other. It had been done so quietly no one had noticed.

'Non-fiction is gaining in popularity and this invasion into areas historically part of fiction must be cut off at the root. To this end myself and the technicians at Text Grand Central have created UltraWord, the Book Operating System that gives us more choice, more plots, more ideas, and more ways in which to work. With these tools you and I will forge a new fiction, a fiction so varied that the readers will flock to us in droves. The future is bright the future is UltraWord.'

'Going somewhere, missy?' asked Heep, blocking my path.

'Get out of my way, Uriah.'

He pulled a gun from his pocket but stopped dead when a voice said: 'Do you know what an eraserhead eraserhead can do to an A-7 like you, Heep?' can do to an A-7 like you, Heep?'