One of Our Thursdays Is Missing

31. Biography

The Hotel Verhaegen landed on the lawn outside one of the biographical tenements. I sat for several moments in silence in the lobby. For some odd reason, my left leg wouldn’t stop shaking, and when I tried to speak, it sounded like I was hyphenated. I’d been fine on the trip down, but as soon as I started to think about the Men in Plaid who’d tried so hard to kill us, I suddenly felt all hot and fearful. I thought for a moment it might have been a virus I’d picked up from the RealWorld until I realized I was in mild shock.

I rested for ten minutes, and after downing one of Sprockett’s restoratives and writing “Very nice” in the guest book, I stepped from the Verhaegen, which lifted off behind us. The manager wasn’t going to hang around—the Pay and Display fees in Biography were ridiculous.

“Sp-Sprockett,” I said as we walked across the car park, “where d-d-did you learn to d-drive like that?”

“My cousin Malcolm, ma’am.”

“He’s a r-racing driver?”

“He’s a racing car. Is madam all right?”

“Madam is surprised she didn’t scream, vomit and then pass out. I owe you my life, Sprockett.”

“A good butler,” intoned Sprockett airily, “should save his employer’s life at least once a day, if not more than once.”

Luckily for us, the island of Biography had elected to maintain parts of the Great Library model during the remaking, so while the Geographic model gave it the appearance of a low-lying island mostly covered with well-kept gardens, exciting statuary and dignified pavilions of learning, the biographical subjects themselves lived in twenty-six large tower blocks, each designated by a single letter painted conveniently on the front. The lobby of the apartment building was roomy and bright and was connected to a game room, where D. H. Lawrence was playing H. P. Lovecraft at Ping-Pong, and also a cafeteria, where we could see Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther discussing the struggles of faith over conscience. In the lobby were eight different Lindsay Lohans, all arguing over which biographical study had been the least correct.

Even before I’d reached the front desk, I knew we were in luck. The receptionist recognized me.

“Hello again, Miss Next,” he said cheerfully. “How did the peace talks go?”

“They’re not until Friday.”

“How silly of me. You can go straight up. I’ll ring ahead to announce you.”

“Most kind,” I replied, still unsure whom Thursday had seen. “Remind me again the floor?”

“Fourth,” said the receptionist, and he turned to the telephone switchboard.

We took the brass-and-cast-iron elevator, which was of the same design as the one in the Great Library—the two buildings shared similar BookWorld architecture. Even the paint was peeling in the same places.

“How long do you think before the Men in Plaid catch up with us?” asked Sprockett as the elevator moved upwards.

“I have no idea,” I replied, opening my pistol and chambering my last cartridge, a disrupter that was nicknamed “the Cherry Fondue,” as it was always the last one in the box, and extremely nasty, “but the Hotel Verhaegen won’t give them any clues—you signed the register as ‘Mr. and Mrs. Dueffer,’ yes?”

“Y-e-es,” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointer clicking to “Apologetic.”

“Problems?”

“Indeed, ma’am. In an unthinking moment, I may have written ‘choice of oils open to improvement’ in the comments section of the visitor’s book.”

“We’ll just have to hope they’re not curious.”

I replaced the weapon in my shoulder holster, and the lift doors opened on the fourth floor. We walked out and padded noiselessly down the corridor. We walked past Lysander, Lyons, Lyndsay, Lynch and Lynam before we got to the Lyells.

“Charles Lyell, Botanist,” read the name on the first door.

“Is botany boring?” Thursday asked.

“I suspect that it isn’t, ma’am, given there is an entire island committed to little else.”

The next door was for “Sir James Lyell, Politician.”

“Boring, ma’am?” inquired Sprockett.

“Politicians’ lives are never boring,” I assured him, and we moved to the next.

“‘Sir Charles Lyell, Geologist,’” I read. “Is geology more or less boring than politics or botany?”

Sprockett’s pointer flicked to “Bingo.”

“I believe, ma’am, that as regards boring, geology is less to do with tediousness and more to do with . . . drilling.”

“Genius,” I remarked, mildly annoyed that I hadn’t thought of it myself. Sir Charles Lyell was the father of modern geology. If Thursday had come to him, she was after the finest geological advice available in the BookWorld. I knocked on the door in a state of some excitement, and when I heard a shrill “Enter,” we walked in.

The room was a spacious paneled study, the walls covered with bookcases and a large walnut desk in the center. It was not tidy; papers were strewn everywhere, and a chair was overturned. The pictures were crooked, and a plant pot lay on its side. The wall safe, usually hidden behind a painting of a rock, was open and empty.

A man of considerable presence was standing in the middle of the chaos. He had a high-domed head, white sideburns and somewhat small eyes that seemed to glisten slightly with inner thoughts of a distracting nature.

“Thursday?” he said when he saw me. “I have to confess I am not pleased.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You told me that my assignment with you would be of the utmost secrecy. Look at my study—ransacked!”

“Ah,” I said, glancing around, “I am most dreadfully sorry, Sir Charles. This was done after we came back from . . . ?”

“An afterlifetime’s work ruined,” he said in a much-aggrieved tone. “I am most displeased. Good Lord. Who is that mechanical man with the curiously emotive eyebrow?”

“My butler, Sir Charles. You have no objection?”

He stared at Sprockett curiously. “When I was alive, I pursued the advancement of scientific truth with all passion—I am afraid to say that I am at odds to explain Fiction, which often seems to have no basis in logic at all.”

“Some enjoy it precisely for that reason.”

“You may be right. Can he tidy?”

“We can both tidy, Sir Charles.”

And we started to pick up the papers.

“It is most unfortunate,” remarked Sir Charles, “after we had done all that work together. Most unfortunate.”

I suddenly felt worried. “Our work together?”

“The report!” he muttered. “All the maps, notes, core samples, graphs, analysis—stolen!”

“Sir Charles,” I said, “this might seem an odd request, but can you go over what was in the report?”

“Again?”

“Again.”

He blinked owlishly at me. “Over tea, Miss Next. First we must . . . tidy.”

“Sir Charles,” I said in a more emphatic tone, “you must tell me what was in the report, and now!”

He frowned at me. “As you wish. All that metaphor—”

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. With a tremendous crash, the door was pushed off its hinges, and two Men in Plaid entered. From door to death was scarcely less than fifteen seconds, and much happened. Sprockett was between us and the MiP, and he valiantly made a lunge for the intruders. The first Plaid was quicker and before we knew it had popped Sprockett’s inspection panel and pressed his emergency spring release. In an instant the butler fell lifeless. Before Sprockett hit the floor, the Plaid had advanced, knocked my pistol from my grasp and pushed me sideways. As I lay sprawling, the second Man in Plaid picked up Sir Charles and threw him bodily out the window, while the first Plaid moved towards me, his expressionless eyes boring into mine like a pair of gimlets. We’d just killed six of their compatriots; I didn’t think there was much room for negotiation.

I quickly scrambled across the floor and was grabbed by my foot. I wriggled out of my boot, and it was this, I think, that saved us. The Man in Plaid was put off balance and gave me the split second I needed to find my pistol. Without hesitation I turned and fired. There was a whompa noise, and the air wobbled as the Cherry Fondue hit home. With an agonizing scream of pain, the Man in Plaid exploded into not graphemes but the infinitely more painful words, many of which embedded themselves into the woodwork like shards of glass. The blast caught the second Man in Plaid and cut him in two. He fell to the floor with a heavy thump, the lower half of him spilling cogs, springs and brass actuating rods onto the floor.

“You’re robotic?” I said, moving closer. The Man in Plaid was moving his arms in a feeble manner, and his eyes followed me as I approached. He was still functioning, but it was clear he was damaged well beyond economic repair. He looked as though he was out of warranty, too.

“You are impressive, Miss Next,” he managed to say. “A worthy adversary.”

“Who sent you?”

“I don’t answer questions. I ask them.”

I noticed I was shaking. I retrieved my boot and walked to the broken window. Lying on the grass four stories below was Sir Charles. The heavy impact had caused the binding matrix of his body to become fused to the ground, and he was beginning to merge with the lawn. I could see several people staring up and pointing, first at me and then at the remains of Sir Charles. We didn’t have long before someone called Jurisfaction. Lyell could be rewritten, but these things take time and money, and Biography’s budget was tighter than ours.

Sprockett was lying flat on his face in an undignified manner, and I quickly rewound him. As soon as his gyros, thought cogs and speech diaphragm were back to speed, he sat up.

“I’ve had the most peculiar dream,” he told me, his eyebrow clicking through each emotion in turn and then back again, “about being caught by my mother oiling a Mark III Ford Capri in an ‘inappropriate’ manner.”

“I didn’t know you had a mother.”

“I don’t—that’s what was so peculiar.”

“See what you can get out of him,” I said, pointing to the damaged Man in Plaid. “I’m going to have a look around.”

I didn’t waste any time and hunted through the remains of Lyell’s study to see what—if anything—had been left behind. The short answer was not much, until I went through the wastepaper basket and came across a pencil sketch of Racy Novel with WomFic on one side and Dogma on the other. A rough outline of the geology had been sketched in, and for the most part the strata were more or less identical beneath all the genres, except for a shaded patch the shape of a tailless salmon that seemed to be mostly beneath Racy Novel. I returned to where Sprockett had been talking with the badly damaged Plaid.

“He’s a Duplex-6,” said Sprockett with a sense of deep respect. “I was wondering why they managed to stay on our tail so easily during the Oversize Books section.”

“Who is he working for?”

“He won’t tell us, but it’s of no matter—the Duplex automaton’s memories are recorded on punched tape. We can have it read.”

“So remove his tape and let’s get out of here.”

In reply the Duplex-6 took a large brass key from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the socket in the base of his neck. We could see he was almost run down, and before we could stop him, he had started to turn the key.

“Good Lord,” said Sprockett. “The Duplex-6 has a self-wind capability.”

Sprockett tried to stop the damaged Man in Plaid from winding himself up, but the 6’s superior strength was too much, and we watched with increased hopelessness as the Plaid’s tension indicator neared the red line.

“We’re leaving,” said Sprockett, and without waiting for a reply he took me by the hand and we ran to the bathroom window and out the fire escape at the back of the building.

We were two flights down when the Duplex-6’s mainspring finally ruptured in an almighty outburst of stored mechanical energy. There was a loud twuuung noise, and the shattered remains of the Man in Plaid erupted out the windows of Lyell’s apartment. We were showered with minute cogs, sprockets, bevel gears, and dogs, chains, pushrods and actuators.

“A self-winding capability,” said Sprockett, who was obviously deeply impressed. “I wonder if they would retrofit that feature for us Duplex-5s?”