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“I haven’t been in the BookWorld since the days of The Eyre Affair.”
John Henry coughed politely. “You knew about the probes, Ms. Next.”
Damn.
“I have…contacts over there.”
I could tell they didn’t believe me, but that was tough. I’d seen enough.
“Looks like you’ve wasted a lot of money,” I said.
“With or without you, we’re going to test it on Friday evening,” announced Wirthlass. “I and two others have decided to risk all and take her out for a spin. We may not return, but if we do, then the data gained would be priceless!”
I admired her courage, but it didn’t matter—I wasn’t going to tell them what I knew.
“Just explain one thing,” said Wirthlass. “Is the force of gravity entirely normal in the BookWorld?”
“What about the universality of physical laws?” piped up a second technician, who’d been watching us.
“And communication between books—is such a thing possible?”
Before long there were eight people, all asking questions about the BookWorld that I could have answered with ease—had I any inclination to do so.
“I’m sorry,” I said as the questions reached a crescendo. “I can’t help you!”
They were all quiet and stared at me. To them this project was everything, and to see its cancellation without fruition was clearly a matter of supreme frustration—especially as they suspected I had the answers.
I made my way toward the exit and was joined by John Henry, who had not yet given up tryin
g to charm me.
“Will you stay for lunch? We have the finest chefs available to make whatever you want.”
“I run a carpet shop, Mr. Goliath, and I’m late for work.”
“A carpet shop?” he echoed with incredulity. “That sells carpets?”
“All sorts of floor coverings, actually.”
“I would offer you discounted carpets for life in order for you to help us,” he said, “but from what I know of you, such a course would be unthinkable. My private Dakota is at Douglas Graviport if you want to use it to fly straight home. I ask for nothing but say only this: We are doing this for the preservation and promotion of books and reading. Try to find it in your heart to consider what we are doing here in an objective light.”
We had by now walked outside the building, and John Henry’s Bentley pulled up in front of us.
“My car is yours. Good day, Ms. Next.”
“Good day, Mr. Goliath.”
He shook my hand and then departed. I looked at the Bentley and then at the ranks of cabs a little way down the road. I shrugged and climbed in the back of the Bentley.
“Where to, madam?” asked the driver.
I thought quickly. I had my TravelBook on me and could jump to the Great Library from here—as long as I could find a quiet spot conducive to bookjumping.
“The nearest library,” I told him. “I’m late for work.”
“You’re a librarian?” he inquired politely.
“Let’s just say I’m really into books.”
