Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

'Like what? A problem with the system?'

'I wish I knew,' said Miss Havisham, 'but try as I might I couldn't make the book do anything it shouldn't. In BOOK V7.2 you could force an uncommanded translation into Esperanto by subjecting the book to a high "G" manoeuvre. In BOOK V6.3 the verb "to eat" conflicted with any description of a pangolin and caused utter mayhem with the tenses. I've tried everything to get UltraWord™ to fail but it's steady as a rock.'

We walked beyond the harbour to where large pipes spewed jumbled letters back into the Text Sea amidst a strong smell of rubber. [22]

'That's where the words end up when you erase them in the Outland,' mentioned Miss Havisham as we strolled past. 'Anything the matter?'

'Junk footnoterphones again,' I muttered, trying to screen the rubbish out. 'A scam of some sort, I think. What makes you believe anything is the trouble with UltraWord™?'

'Perkins called me the night before he died. He said he had a surprising discovery but didn't want to talk over the footnoterphone.'

'Was it about UltraWord™?'

Havisham shrugged.

'To be truthful, I don't know. It's possible — but it could have been about Deane just as easily.'

The road petered out into a beach formed by shards of broken letters. This was where novels met their end. Beneath the leaden skies the books — here taking the appearance of seven-storey buildings — were cast high upon the shore, any plot devices and settings of any use torn out to be sold as salvage. The remaining hulks were then pulled to pieces by Generics working in teams with nothing more high tech than crowbars, cutting torches and chains, stripping the old novel back into words which were tipped into the sea by wheelbarrow gangs, the words dissolving back into letters, their meaning burning off into a slight bluish haze that collected at the foreshore.

We arrived at the copy of The Squire of High Potternews . It looked dark and sombre here on the shore of the Text Sea. If anyone tried to find their copy in the Outland they would have a great deal of trouble; when Text Grand Central withdraw a book, they really mean it.

The book was resting on its end and was slightly open. A large tape had been run round the outside that read: 'Jurisfiction, do not cross'.

'Looking for something?'

It was Harris Tweed and Uriah Hope; they jumped down from the book and looked at us curiously.

'Good evening, Harris,' said Miss Havisham. 'We were trying to find Deane.'

'Me too. Have a look around if you wish but I'm damned if I can find a single clue as to his whereabouts.'

'Has anyone tried to kill you recently?' I asked.

'Me?' replied Harris. 'No. Why, should they?'

I told him about the UltraWord™ connection.

'It's possible that there might be a link,' he mused, 'but I gave UltraWord™ the fullest test; it seemed to work extremely well no matter what I did! Do you have any idea what Perkins had discovered?'

'We don't know he found anything wrong at all,' said Havisham.

Harris thought for a moment.

'I think we should definitely keep this to ourselves,' he said at last, 'and take great care what we do. If Deane is about and had anything to do with Perkins' death, he might be after you or me next.'

Havisham agreed, told me to go and see Professor Plum to ascertain whether he could shed any more light on the failed Eject-O-Hat and vanished after telling me she had an urgent appointment to keep. When she had gone, Harris said to me:

'Keep an eye on the old girl, won't you?'

I promised I would and made my way back towards the elevators, deep in thought.

'Ah!' said Plum as I walked into his office. 'Miss Next — good news and bad news.'

'Better give me the bad news first.'

Plum took off his spectacles and polished them.

'The Eject-O-Hat. I've pulled the records and traced the manufacturing process all the way back to the original milliner; it seems that over a hundred people have been involved in its manufacture, modification and overhaul schedules. Fifteen years is a long service life for an Eject-O-Hat. Add the people with the know-how and we've got a short list of about six hundred.'

'A broad net.'

'I'm afraid so.'

I went to the window and looked out. Two peacocks were strutting across the lawn.

'What was the good news?'

'You know Miss Scarlett at Records?'

'Yes?'

'We're getting married on Tuesday.'

' Congratulations.'

'Thank you. Was there anything else?'

'I don't think so,' I replied, walking to the door. 'Thanks for your help, Plum.'

'My pleasure!' he replied kindly. 'Tell Miss Havisham she should get a new Eject-O-Hat — this one is quite beyond repair.'

'It wasn't Havisham's,' I told him, 'it was mine.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'You're mistaken,' he said after a pause. 'Look.'

He pulled the battered Homburg from his desk and showed me Havisham's name etched on the sweatband with a number, manufacturing details and size.

'But,' I said slowly, 'I was wearing this hat in—'

The awful truth dawned. There must have been a mix-up with the hats. They hadn't been trying to kill me that day — they had been after Miss Havisham !

'Problems?' said Plum.

'Of the worst sort,' I muttered. 'Can I use your footnoterphone?'

I didn't wait for a reply; I picked up the brass horn and asked for Miss Havisham. She wasn't in the Well, nor Great Expectations . I replaced the speaking horn and jumped to the lobby of the Great Library where the general stores were situated; if anyone knew what Havisham was up to, it would be Wemmick.

Mr Wemmick wasn't busy; he was reading a newspaper with his feet on the counter.

'Miss Next!' he said happily, getting up to shake me warmly by the hand. 'What can I do for you?'

'Miss Havisham,' I blurted out, 'do you know where she is?'

W'emmick squirmed inwardly.

'I'm not sure she'd like me to tell—'

'Wemmick!' I cried. 'Someone tried to kill Miss Havisham and they may try again!'

He looked shocked and bit his lip.

'I don't know where she is,' he said slowly, 'but I know what she's doing.'

My heart sank.

'It's another land speed attempt, isn't it?'

He nodded miserably.

'Where?'

'I don't know. She said the Higham wasn't powerful enough. She signed out for the Bluebird, a twin-engined, 2,500-horsepower brute of a car — it almost didn't fit in the storeroom.'

'Do you have any idea where she's going to drive it?'

'None at all.'

'Damn!' I yelled, slamming my hand against the counter. 'Think, Thursday, think!'

I had an idea. I grasped the footnoterphone and asked to be put through to Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows . He wasn't in but Ratty was; and after I had explained who I was and what I wanted, he gave me the information I needed. Havisham and Mr Toad were racing on Pendine Sands, in the Socialist Republic of Wales.