Page 25 of The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'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 sturdy. There was a small legend complete with a barcode and ID number printed on the side.

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

'It's a stolen freeze-dried Plot Device. Crack it open and pow! – 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 glass.

'W-what is this?'

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

'Not possible. Hello, 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 d

efence looking?'

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

'It's those bloody 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?'

'I suppose,' said Zhark grudgingly. 'Is there a head in that bag?'

'Yes,' replied Snell. 'Do you want to have a look?'

'No thanks. Special offer, yes?'

'What?'

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