Part 7 (1/2)

Snell sighed again.

'They're Triffids Triffids, Thursday. The big blobby thing practising golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you Soma tablets, don't buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain, and above all don't look at Medusa don't look at Medusa. If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like h.e.l.l. Get me a drink and I'll see you back here in five minutes.'

'Right.'

He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill at ease. I made my way to the bar and ordered two drinks. On the other side of the bar a third cat had joined the two I had seen previously. The newcomer pointed to me but the others shook their heads and whispered something in his ear. I turned the other way and jumped in surprise as I came face to face with a curious creature that looked as though it had escaped from a bad science fiction novel it was all tentacles and eyes. A smile may have flicked across my face because the creature said in a harsh tone: 'What's the problem, never seen a Thraal before?'

I didn't understand; it sounded like a form of Courier Bold Courier Bold but I wasn't sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out. but I wasn't sure so said nothing, hoping to brazen it out.

'Hey!' it said. it said. 'I'm talking to you, Two-eyes.' 'I'm talking to you, Two-eyes.'

The altercation had attracted another man, who looked like the product of some bizarre genetic experiment gone hopelessly wrong.

'He says he doesn't like you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I don't like you either,' said the man in a threatening tone, adding, as if I needed proof: 'I have the death sentence in seven genres.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' I a.s.sured him, but this didn't seem to work.

'You're the one who'll be sorry!'

'Come, come, Nigel,' said a voice I recognised. 'Let me buy you a drink.'

This wasn't to the genetic experiment's liking, for he moved quickly to his weapon; there was a sudden blur of movement and in an instant I had my automatic pressed hard against his head Nigel's gun was still in his shoulder holster. The bar went quiet.

'You're quick, girlie,' said Nigel. 'I respect that.'

'She's with me,' said the newcomer. 'Let's all just calm down.'

I lowered my gun and replaced the safety catch. Nigel nodded respectfully and returned to his place at the bar with the odd-looking alien.

'Are you all right?'

It was Harris Tweed. He was a fellow Jurisfiction agent and Outlander, just like me. The last time I had seen him was three days ago in Lord Volescamper's library when we flushed out the renegade fictioneer Yorrick Kaine after he had invoked the Questing Beast to destroy us. Tweed had been carried off by the exuberant bark of a bookhound and I had not seen him since.

'Thanks for that, Tweed,' I said. 'What did the alien thing want?'

'He was a Thraal, Thursday speaking in Courier Bold Courier Bold, the traditional language of the Well. Thraals are not only all eyes and tentacles, but mostly mouth, too he'd not have harmed you. Nigel, on the other hand, has been known to go a step too far on occasion. What are you doing alone in the twenty-second sub-bas.e.m.e.nt anyway?'

'I'm not alone. Havisham's busy so Snell's showing me around.'

'Ah,' replied Tweed, looking about. 'Does this mean you're taking your entrance exams?'

'Third of the way through the written already. Did you track down Kaine?'

'No. We went all the way to London, where we lost the scent. Bookhounds don't work so well in the Outland and besides, we have to get special permission to pursue PageRunners into the real world.'

'What does the Bellman say about that?'

'He's for it, of course,' replied Tweed, 'but the launch of UltraWord has dominated the Council of Genre's discussion time. We'll get round to Kaine in due course.'

I was glad of this; Kaine wasn't only an escapee from fiction but a dangerous right-wing politician back home. I would be only too happy to see him back inside whatever book he'd escaped from permanently.

At that moment Snell returned and nodded a greeting to Tweed, who returned it politely.

'Good morning, Mr Tweed,' said Snell. 'Will you join us for a drink?'

'Sadly, I cannot,' replied Tweed. 'I'll see you tomorrow morning at roll-call, yes?'

'Odd sort of fellow,' remarked Snell as soon as Tweed had left. 'What was he doing here?'

I handed Snell his drink and we sat down in an empty booth. It was near the three cats and they stared at us hungrily while consulting a large recipe book.

'I had a bit of trouble at the bar and Tweed stepped in to help.'

'Good thing, too. Ever see one of these?'

He rolled a small globe across the table and I picked it up. It was a little like a Christmas decoration but a lot more st.u.r.dy. There was a small legend complete with a barcode and ID number printed on the side.

' Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! Suddenly, a Shot Rang Out! FAD/167945,' I read aloud. 'What does it mean?' FAD/167945,' I read aloud. 'What does it mean?'

'It's a stolen freeze-dried Plot Device. Crack it open and pow! pow! the story goes off at a tangent.' the story goes off at a tangent.'

'How do we know it's stolen?'

'It doesn't have a Council of Genres seal of approval. Without one, these things are worthless. Log it as evidence when you get back to the office.'

He took a sip of his drink, coughed and stared into the gla.s.s.

'W-what is this?'

'I'm not sure but mine is just as bad.'

'Not possible. h.e.l.lo, Emperor, have you met Thursday Next? Thursday, this is Emperor Zhark.'

There was a tall man swathed in a high-collared cloak standing next to our table. He had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a small and very precise goatee. He looked at me with cold dark eyes and raised an eyebrow imperiously.

'Greetings,' he intoned indifferently. 'You must send my regards to Miss Havisham. Snell, how is my defence looking?'

'Not too good, Your Mercilessness,' he replied. 'Annihilating all the planets in the Cygnus cl.u.s.ter might not have been a very good move.'

'It's those b.l.o.o.d.y Rambosians,' Zhark said angrily. 'They threatened my empire. If I didn't destroy entire star systems no one would have any respect for me; it's for the good of galactic peace, you know stability, and anyway, what's the point in possessing a devastatingly destructive death-ray if you can't use it?'

'Well, I should keep that to yourself. Can't you claim you were cleaning it when it went off or something?'