Джаспер Ффорде - One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

The officer had seen enough and brought out a report sheet to take down some details.

“Name?”

“Thursday Next.”

The officer looked at me, then at my New Agey clothes, then at Sprockett.

“Now, which one could that be? The heroine or the one who likes to hug a tree?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. I had to hope that this guard could be fooled as easily as the Elvis back in Conspiracy.

“I am she, the Thursday proper. Those that cross me come a cropper.”

“That seems likely, but before I yield, let me check your Jurisfiction shield.”

I passed it across. The officer took one look at it, put away his report sheet and told his partner that they were leaving. He smiled and handed me back my badge.

“It’s an honor, I’ll be reckoned. Sorry to have kept you for even a second.”

I signed my name in his autograph book and with growing confusion climbed back into the cab as the Jurispoetry car detached from the hull and fell away from the tanker, leaving us to continue our trip unmolested.

“You’re Thursday Next?” said the cabbie, her attitude suddenly changed. “This ride is for free, kiddo. But listen, the next time you’re in the RealWorld, can you find out why there have to be over a hundred different brands of soap? I’d really like to know.”

“Okay,” I muttered, “no problem.”

The remainder of the journey was unremarkable, except for one thing: I spent the entire trip staring at the Jurisfiction shield that had allowed me not once but twice to squeak out of trouble. It wasn’t my shield at all. It was Thursday’s. The real Thursday’s. Someone had slipped it into my pocket that morning. And the more I thought about the morning’s events, the more I realized that I might have become involved—quite against my will—with a matter of some considerable consequence.

I had the most curious dream,” mused Sprockett as soon as I had rewound him completely, “in which I was a full-hunter silent repeater. There was also this gramophone—you know, one of those windup varieties—and she was running overspeed and playing ‘Temptation Rag.’ And then there was this monkey hitting cymbals together, and I—”

He checked himself.

“I’m frightfully sorry, ma’am. My protocol gearing can become a bit gummy during deactivation. You are not offended by my drivel?”

“Not in the least. In fact, I didn’t know machines could dream.”

“I dream often,” replied the butler thoughtfully. “Mostly about being a toaster.”

“Dualit or KitchenAid?”

He seemed mildly insulted that I should have to ask.

“A Dualit four-slot, naturally . But perhaps,” he added, his eyebrow pointer clicking from “Indignant” to “Puzzled,” “I only believe I dream. Sometimes I think it is merely a construct to enable me to better understand humans.”

“Listen, I should warn you about Pickwick,” I said as we walked up the garden path.

“What is a Pickwick?”

“It’s a dodo.”

“I thought they were extinct.”

“They may yet become so. She’s trouble, so be careful.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I shall.”

I pushed open the front door and was met by the sound of laughter. Carmine was sitting at the table with Bowden Cable and Acheron Hades, two of the other costars from the series. They were all sharing a joke, or at least they were until I walked in, when everyone fell silent.

“Hello, Thursday,” said Bowden, whom I’d never really gotten along with, despite the fact that his counterpart in the RealWorld was one of Thursday’s closest friends. “We were just telling Carmine the best way to play Thursday.”

“The best way is the way I play her,” I said in a firm yet friendly manner. “Dignified.”

“Of course,” said Bowden. “Who’s your friend?”

“Sprockett,” I replied, “my butler.”

“I didn’t know you needed a butler,” said Bowden.

“Everyone needs a butler. He was going to be stoned, so I took him with me.”

“What do cog-based life-forms get stoned with?” asked Bowden in an impertinent manner. “Vegetable oil?”

“Actually, sir,” intoned Sprockett, “it’s sewing-machine lubricant for a mild tipple. Many feel that the exuberant effects of 3-in-One are worth pursuing, although I have never partaken myself. For those that have hit rock bottom, where life has become nothing more than a semiconscious slide from one partial winding to the next, it’s WD-40.”

“Oh,” said Bowden, who had been put firmly in his place by Sprockett’s forthrightness, “I see.”

“Hmm,” said Acheron, peering at Sprockett’s data plate with great interest. “Are you the Duplex-6?”

“Five, sir. The Six’s release has been delayed. A series of mainspring failures have put beta testing back several months, and now I hear the Six has pressure compensation issues on the primary ethical escapement module.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have to admit I’m not entirely sure, sir. The main problem with clockwork sentience is that we can never understand the level of our own complexity—for to do so would require an even greater level of complexity. At present we can deal with day-to-day maintenance issues, but all we can ever know for sure is that we function. We tick, therefore we are.”

Pickwick asked me how I thought we could afford such an extravagance, but the real disapproval came from Mrs. Malaprop.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sprockett,” she said coldly. “I hope you are fully aquatinted with the specific roles of mousecreeper and butler?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Malaprop,” replied Sprockett, bowing low. “And I don’t require much space—I can easily fit in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“You will knot,” replied Mrs. Malaprop with great indignation. “ I am resizing there. You may have the earring cupboard.”

“Then with your permission I shall go and repack,” announced Sprockett.

“You mean you’re leaving?” I asked.

“Repack my knee bearings,” he explained. “With grease. Knees, despite much design work, continue to be the Duplex-5’s Achilles’ heel.”

And leaving us all to muse upon his odd choice of words, he departed.

“At least try to be nice to him,” I said to Mrs. Malaprop when he had gone. “And I want you to order some oils of varying grades to make him feel welcome—and make sure all the clocks are kept wound. Cog-based life-forms take great offense at stopped clocks.”

“As madam washes,” replied Mrs. Malaprop, which was her way of telling me to get stuffed.

“If you don’t need us, we’re going to go and rehearse Acheron’s death scene on the roof of Thornfield Hall,” said Carmine.

“You’ll need to unlock Bertha,” I replied, handing her the key. “And don’t forget to put the bite mask on her.”

I watched them go with an odd feeling that I couldn’t describe. Despite my being the protagonist, most of the characters were already here when I took over, and few of them were happy with my interpretation of Thursday, even though it was the one that Thursday herself had approved. They had all preferred the sex-and-violence Thursday who’d turned a blind eye to the many scams they had had cooking. Because of this, I hadn’t really gotten on with any of them. In fact, the out-of-book relationship with the rest of the cast could best be described as barely cordial. Carmine seemed to get on with them a lot better. I shouldn’t have minded, but I did.