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'Okay,' he said slightly doubtfully. 'Have you seen Lola?'
'No.'
'Unlike her to miss a party,' he muttered. 'Do you think she's okay?'
'I think Lola can look after herself,' I told him. 'Why are you so interested?'
'I'm going to tell her that I quite like her!' he answered resolutely.
'Why stop there?'
'You mean tell her I really like her?'
'And more – but it's a good place to start.'
'Thanks. If you see her tell her I'm on the unplaced Generics table.'
I wished him good luck and he left. I got up and walked to a curtained-off area where several bookies were taking bets. I placed a hundred on Jay Gatsby to win the 'Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' award. I didn't think he would win; I just wanted Tweed to waste time trying to figure out what I was up to. I visited the Caversham Heights table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards.
'What's going on in the book?' she demanded indignantly. 'Jack tells me he's been changing a few things whilst I've been away!'
'Just a few,' I said, 'but don't worry, we wouldn't write anything embarrassing for you without consultation.'
Her eyes flicked across to Arnie, who was sharing a joke with Captain Nemo and Agatha Diesel.
'Just as well,' she replied.
The evening drew on, the celebrities announcing the nominations becoming more important as the categories became more highly regarded. 'Best Romantic Male' went to Darcy and 'Best Female in a "Coming of Age" Book' went to Scout Finch. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes to go before the prestigious 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' was due to be announced; the female version of this award had been well represented by Thomas Hardy; Bathsheba Everdene and Tess Durbeyfield both made it to the nominations only to be pipped at the post by the surprise winner, Lady Macbeth. Sylvia Plath was short-listed but was disqualified for being real.
I got up and walked to the Jurisfiction table as a drum roll announced the final category. The Bellman nodded politely to me and I looked around the room. It was time to act. UltraWord™ was not the saviour of the BookWorld – it would be the end, and I hoped that Mimi down in the footnoterphone conduits was ready.24
'And now, ladies, gentlemen and things, for the high point of the evening, the 923rd Annual BookWorld award for "Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)". To read the nominations we have none other than WordMaster Xavier Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central!'
There was loud applause which I hadn't expected – TGC wasn't that popular. I had a sudden attack of doubt. Could Deane be wrong? I thought again about Perkins, Snell and Havisham and my resolve returned. I grabbed my bag and got up. I saw Legree stiffen and rise from the Uncle Tom’s Cabin table, speaking into his cuff as he did so. I headed towards the exit with him tailing me.
'Thank you very much!' said Libris, raising his hands to quell the applause as Hamlet, Jude Fawley and Heathcliff stood close by, each wishing that Libris would hurry up so they could collect their statuette. 'I have a few words to say about the new operating system and then we can all get back to the awards.'
He took a deep breath.
'Many good words have been written about UltraWord™ and I have to tell you, they are all true. The benefits to everyone will be felt throughout the BookWorld, from the lowliest D-10 in the trashiest paperback to the finest A-1 in high literature.'
I walked to the side of the stage, towards the swing doors that led through to the hospitality lounge. Legree followed but was tripped up by Mathias' widow. She placed a hoof on his chest and held him firm while Mrs Hubbard grabbed one arm and Miss Muffet the other. It had been done so quietly no one had noticed.
'Non-fiction is gaining in popularity and this invasion into areas historically part of fiction must be cut off at the root. To this end myself and the technicians at Text Grand Central have created UltraWord™, the Book Operating System that gives us more choice, more plots, more ideas, and more ways in which to work. With these tools you and I will forge a new fiction, a fiction so varied that the readers will flock to us in droves. The future is bright – the future is UltraWord™.'
'Going somewhere, missy?' asked Heep, blocking my path.
'Get out of my way, Uriah.'
He pulled a gun from his pocket but stopped dead when a vo
ice said:
'Do you know what an eraserhead can do to an A-7 like you, Heep?'
Bradshaw emerged from behind a potted Triffid. He was carrying his trusty hunting rifle. Heep, coward that he was, dropped his pistol and started pleading for his life.
I walked through the swing doors and pulled out my mobile footnoterphone. Hospitality was deserted but I met Tweed at the entrance to the stage. I could see Libris talking and, beyond him, the audience hanging on his every word.
