'Mass literacy,' put in Miss Havisham.
'Exactly,' replied Libris. 'Demand for written stories increased exponentially during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Ten years before Pamela was published in 1740 we had enough new ideas to last another four hundred years; by Dickens' time ideas were almost wholly recycled, something we have been doing on and off since the thirteenth century to stave off the inevitable. But by 1884, to all intents and purposes, we had depleted our stock of original ideas.'
There was muttering among the collected Jurisfiction agents.
'Flatland,' said Bradshaw after pausing for a moment's reflection. 'It was the last original idea, wasn't it?'
'Pretty much. The few leftover pieces were mopped up by the SF movement until the 1950s, but as far as pure ideas are concerned, 1884 was the end. We were expecting the worst – a meltdown of the whole BookWorld and a wholesale departure of readers. But that didn't happen. Against all expectations, recycled ideas were working.'
'But isn't it the way they are told?' asked Havisham in her not-to-be-argued-with voice. 'Surely the permutations of storytelling are endless!'
'Large perhaps, but not infinite, Miss Havisham. What I'm trying to say is that once all the permutations are used up there will be nowhere for us to go. The twentieth century has seen books being written and published at an unprecedented rate – even the introduction of the Procrastination1.3 and Writer'sBlock2.4 Outlander viruses couldn't slow the authors down. Plagiarism lawsuits are rising in the Outland; authors are beginning to write the same books. The way I see it we've got a year – possibly eighteen months – before the well of fiction runs dry.'
He paused to let this sink in.
'That's why we had to go back to the drawing board and rethink the whole situation.'
He flipped the chart again and there were audible gasps. On the chart was written '32-plot story systems'.
'As you know,' he went on, 'every Book Operating System has at its heart the basic eight-plot architecture we inherited from OralTrad. As we used to say: "No one will ever need more than eight plots." '
'Nine if you count Coming of Age,' piped up Beatrice.
'Isn't that Journey of Discovery?' said Tweed.
'What's Macbeth, then?' asked Benedict.
'Bitter Rivalry/Revenge, my dear,' answered Havisham.
'I thought it was Temptation,' mused Beatrice, who liked to contradict Benedict whenever possible.
'Please!' said the Bellman. 'We could argue these points all day. And if you let Libris finish, you can.'
The agents fell silent. I guessed this was a perennial argument.
'So the only way forward,' continued Libris, 'is to completely rebuild the operating system. If we go for a thirty-two-plot basis for our stories, there will be more ideas than you or I will know what to do with. The BookWorld won't have seen such an advance since the invention of movable type.'
'I'm always supportive of new technology, Mr Libris,' said Lady Cavendish kindly, 'but isn't the popularity of books a fair indication of how good the current system actually is?'
'It depends what you mean by "popular". Only thirty per cent of the Outland read fiction on a regular basis – with UltraWord™ we aim to change all that. But I'm running ahead of myself – an abundance of new ideas is only half the story. Let me carry on and tell you what other benefits the new system will give us.'
He flipped the chart again. This time it read: 'Enhanced Features'.
'Firstly, UltraWord™ is wholly reverse compatible with all existing novels, plays and poetry. Furthermore, new books written with this system will offer bonus features that will enhance and delight.'
'I say,' asked Bradshaw slowly, 'how do you hope to improve a book?'
'Let me give you an example,' replied Libris enthusiastically. 'In books that we know at present, dialogue has to be dedicated to the people who are talking as the reader has no idea who is speaking from the words alone. This can be tricky if we want a large scene with many people talking to one another – it's very easy to get bogged down in the "… said George", "… replied Michael", "… added Paul" and suchlike; with the UltraWord™ Enhanced Character Identification™, a reader will have no trouble placing who is speaking to whom without all those tedious dialogue markers. In addition, UltraWord™ will be bundled with PlotPotPlus™, which gives the reader a potted précis if they are lost or have put the book down unfinished for a few months or more. Other options will be ReadZip™, PageGlow™ and three music tracks.'
'How will the reader get these new features to work?' asked Lady Cavendish.
'There will be a preferences page inserted just after the frontispiece.'
'Touch sensitive?' I asked.
'No,' replied Libris excitedly, 'read sensitive. Words that know when they are being read. On the preferences page you can also select WordClot™, which adjusts the vocabulary to the reader – no more difficult words, or, if you like difficult words, you can increase the vocabulary complexity.'
There was silence as everyone took this in.
'But to get back to your point, Lady Cavendish, a lot of people reject fiction because they find reading tedious and slow. At present levels the fastest throughput we can manage is about six words per second. With UltraWord™ we will have the technology to quadruple the uptake – something that will be very attractive to new readers.'
'Cards on the table and all that, Libris,' said Bradshaw in a loud voice. 'Technology is all very well but unless we get it absolutely right, it could turn out to be a debacle of the highest order.'
'You didn't like the ISBN positioning system either, Commander,' replied Libris, 'yet book navigation has never been easier.'
They stared at one another until a loud belch rent the air. It was Falstaff.
'I have lived,' he said, getting to his feet with a great deal of effort, 'through much in my time; some good, some bad – I was witness to the great vowel shift, and remember fondly those better days when puns, fat people and foreigners were funny beyond all. I saw the novel rise and the epic poem fall, I remember when you could get blind drunk, eat yourself ill and still have change for a whore out of sixpence. I remember when water would kill you and spirits would save you; I remember—'
'Is there a point to all this?' asked Libris testily.
'Ah!' replied Falstaff, trying to figure out where he was going with his speech. 'Oh, yes. I was there for the much-heralded Version 4 upgrade in 1841. "Change the way we read for ever," quoth the Council of Genres. And what happened? The Deep Text Crash. Almost everything by Euripides, Aeschylus and Sophocles gone for ever – and we created grammasites.'
'It was never proven that Version 4 created the grammasites, Sir John—'
'Come, come, Libris, have you dried your brain? I was there. I saw it. I know.'
Libris put up his hands.
'I didn't come here to argue, Sir John – I just want to stick to the facts. Anyhow, UltraWord™ is incompatible with grammasites; text will be locked – they'll have nothing to feed on.'
'You hope, sir.'
'We know,' replied Libris firmly, adding more slowly: 'Listen, Version 4 was a big mistake, we freely admit that – which is why we have taken so long to design and rigorously test UltraWord™. It is no small boast that we call it the Ultimate Reading Experience.'
He paused for a moment.
'It's here to stay, ladies and gentlemen – so get used to it.'
He expected another attack from Falstaff but King Hal's old friend had sat down and was shaking his head sadly. No one else added anything.
Libris took a step back and looked at the Bellman, who tingled his bell.
'Well, thank you all for listening to WordMaster Libris' presentation, and I would like to thank him for coming here today to tell us all about it.'
He started to clap his hands and we joined in – with the notable exceptions of Falstaff and Bradshaw.
'Presentation booklets will be available shortly,' said the Bellman. 'Indi
vidual assignments will be given out in ten minutes. And remember: let's be careful out there. That's it. Session's over.'
And he tingled his bell once more.
Libris stepped down from the dais and melted away before Bradshaw had a chance to question him further. Miss Havisham rested her hand on his shoulder. Bradshaw was the only man to whom I had ever seen Miss Havisham show any friendliness at all. Born of a long working association, I think.
'I'm too long in the tooth for this game, Havisham, old girl,' he muttered.
'You and me both, Trafford. But who'd teach the young ones?'
She nodded in my direction. I hadn't been described as 'young' for over a decade.
'I'm spent, Estella,' said Bradshaw sadly. 'No more new technology for me. I'm going back to my own book for good. At least I won't have to put up with all this nonsense in Bradshaw of the Congo. Goodbye, old girl.'
'Goodbye, Commander – send my regards to Mrs Bradshaw.'
'Thank you. And to you, too. Miss … I'm sorry, what was your name again?'
'Thursday Next.'
'Of course it is. Well, toodle-oo.'
And he smiled, tipped his pith helmet and was gone.
'Dear old Bradshaw.' Miss Havisham smiled. 'He's retired about twelve times a year since 1938. I expect we'll see him again next week.'
'Ah!' muttered the Bellman as he approached. 'Havisham and Next.'
He consulted his clipboard for a moment.
'You weren't in the Outland on another land speed attempt, were you?'
'Me?' replied Havisham. 'Of course not!'
'Well,' murmured the Bellman, not believing her for an instant, 'the Council of Genres have told me that any Jurisfiction staff found abusing their privileges will be dealt with severely.'
'How severely?'
'Very severely.'
'They wouldn't dare,' replied Havisham haughtily. 'Now, what have you got for us?'
'You're chairing the Wuthering Heights rage counselling session.'
'I've done my six sessions,' replied Havisham. 'It's Falstaff's turn.'
'Now that's not true, is it?' replied the Bellman, 'You're only on your third. Changing counsellors every week is not the best way to do it. Everyone has to take their turn, Miss Havisham, even you.'
She sighed. 'Very well.'
'Good. Better not keep them waiting!'
The Bellman departed rapidly before Havisham could answer. She stood silently for a moment, a bit like a volcano deciding whether to erupt or not. After a few moments her eyes flicked to mine.
'Was that a smile?' she snapped.
'No, Miss Havisham,' I replied, trying to hide my inner amusement that someone like her would try to counsel anyone about anything – especially rage.
'Please do tell me what you think is so very funny,' she demanded. 'I really am very keen to know.'
'It was a smile,' I said carefully, 'of surprise.'
'Was it now?' she replied. 'Well, before you get the mistaken belief that I am somehow concerned about the feelings of such a pathetic bunch of characters, let's make it clear that I was ordered to do this job – same as being drafted on to Heathcliff Protection Duty. I'd sooner he were dead, personally speaking – but orders are orders. Fetch me a tea and meet me at my table.'
There was a lot of excited chatter about the upgrade to UltraWord™ and I picked up snatches of conversation that ran the full gamut from condemnation to full support. Not that it mattered; Jurisfiction was only a policing agency and had little say in policy – that was all up to the higher powers at the Council of Genres. It really was like being back at SpecOps. I bumped into Vernham Deane at the refreshment table.
'Well,' said Vernham, helping himself to a pastry, 'what do you think?'
'Bradshaw and Falstaff seem a bit put out.'
'Caution is sometimes an undervalued commodity,' he said warily. 'What does Havisham think?'
'I'm really not sure.'
'Vern!' said Beatrice, who had just joined us along with Lady Cavendish. 'Which plot does Winnie-the-Pooh have?'
'Triumph of the Underdog?' he suggested.
'Told you!' said Beatrice, turning to Cavendish. '"Bear with little brain triumphs over adversity." Happy?'
'No,' she replied. 'It's Journey of Discovery all the way.'
'You think every story is Journey of Discovery!'
'It is.'
They continued to bicker as I selected a cup and saucer.
'Have you met Mrs Bradshaw yet?' asked Deane.
I told him that I hadn't.
'When you do, don't laugh or anything.'
'Why?'
'You'll see.'
I poured some tea for Miss Havisham, remembering to put the milk in first. Deane ate a canapé and asked:
'How are things with you these days? Last time we met you were having a little trouble at home.'
'I'm living in the Well,' I told him, 'as part of the Character Exchange Programme.'
'Really?' he said. 'What a lark. How's the latest Farquitt getting along?'
'Well, I think,' I told him, always sensitive to Deane's slight shame at being a one-dimensional evil squire figure, 'the working title is Shameless Love.'
'Sounds like a Farquitt.' Deane sighed. 'There'll be someone like me in it – there usually is. Probably a rustic serving girl who is ravaged by someone like me, too – and then cruelly cast out to have her baby in the poorhouse only to have her revenge ten chapters later.
'Well, I don't know—'
'It's not fair, you know,' he said, his mood changing. 'Why should I be condemned, reading after reading, to drink myself to a sad and lonely death eight pages before the end?'
'Because you're the bad guy and they always get their comeuppance in Farquitt novels?'
'It's still not fair.' He scowled. 'I've applied for an Internal Plot Adjustment countless times but they keep turning me down. You wouldn't have a word with Miss Havisham, would you? She's on the Council of Genres Plot Adjustment subcommittee, I'm told.'
'Would that be appropriate?' I asked. 'Me talking to her, I mean? Shouldn't you go through the usual channels?'
'Not really,' he retorted, 'but I'm willing to try anything. Speak to her, won't you?'
I told him I would try but decided on the face of it that I probably wouldn't. Deane seemed pleasant enough at Jurisfiction but in The Squire of High Potternews he was a monster; dying sad, lonely and forgotten was probably just right for him – in narrative terms, anyway.
I gave the tea to Miss Havisham, who broke off talking to Perkins abruptly as I approached. She gave me a grimace and vanished. I followed her to the second floor of the Great Library, where I found her in the Brontë section already with a copy of Wuthering Heights in her hand. I knew that she probably did have a soft spot for Heathcliff – but I imagined it was only the treacherous marsh below Penistone Crag.
'Did you meet the three witches, by the way?' she asked.
'Yes,' I replied. 'They told me—'
'Ignore everything they say. Look at the trouble they got Macbeth into.'
'But they said—'
'I don't want to hear it. Claptrap and mumbo-jumbo. They are troublemakers and nothing more. Understand?'
'Sure.'
'Don't say "sure" – it's so slovenly! What's wrong with: "Yes, Miss Havisham"?'
'Yes, Miss Havisham.'
'Better, I suppose. Come, we are Brontë bound!'
And we read ourselves into the pages of Wuthering Heights.
12
Wuthering Heights
* * *
'Wuthering Heights was the only novel written by Emily Brontë, which some say is just as well, and others, a crying shame. Quite what she would have written had she lived longer is a matter of some conjecture; given Emily's strong-willed and passionate character, probably more of the same. But one thing is certain; whatever feelings are aroused in the reader by Heights, whether sadness for the ill-matched lovers, irritability at Catherine's petulant ways or even pro
found rage at how stupid Heathcliff's victims can act as they meekly line up to be abused, one thing is for sure: the evocation of a wild and windswept place that so well reflects the destructive passion of the two central characters is captured here brilliantly – and some would say, it has not been surpassed.'
MILLON DE FLOSS –
Wuthering Heights: Masterpiece or Turgid Rubbish?
It was snowing when we arrived and the wind whipped the flakes into something akin to a large cloud of excitable winter midges. The house was a lot smaller than I imagined but no less shabby, even under the softening cloak of snow; the shutters hung askew and only the faintest glimmer of light showed from within. It was clear we were visiting the house not in the good days of old Mr Earnshaw but in the tenure of Mr Heathcliff, whose barbaric hold over the house seemed to be reflected in the dour and windswept abode that we approached.
Our feet crunched on the fresh snow as we arrived at the front door and rapped upon the gnarled wood. It was answered, after a very long pause, by an old and sinewy man – who looked at us both in turn with a sour expression before recognition dawned across his tired features and he launched into an excited gabble:
'It's bonny behaviour, lurking amang t' fields, after twelve o' t' night, wi' that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think I'm blind; but I'm noan: nowt ut t' soart! – I seed young Linton boath coming and going, and I seed YAH, yah gooid-fur-nowt, slatternly witch! nip up and bolt into th' house, t' minute yah heard t' maister's horse-fit clatter up t' road!'
'Never mind all that!' exclaimed Miss Havisham, to whom patience was an alien concept. 'Let us in, Joseph, or you'll be feeling my boot upon your trousers!'