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“The throughput is radiated across the intragenre Nothing and ends up here, where they are then transmitted into the reader’s imagination.”
I knew why it worked but not how. Indeed, I was suspicious that perhaps there wasn’t an explanation at all—or indeed any need for one. It was something we called an “abstract narrative imperative”: Th
ey work solely because it’s expedient that they do. The BookWorld is like that. Full of wholly improbable plot devices that are there to help grease the storytelling cogs.
I paused so they could both watch the proceedings for a moment. Thursday5 made no secret of her fascination, but Thursday1–4 stifled a faux yawn. Despite this, she still looked around. It was hard not to be impressed—the machines stretched off into the hazy distance almost as far as you could see. Technicians scurried like ants over the whirring machinery checking dials, oiling, venting off steam and filling out reports on clipboards. Others moved between machines with trolleys full of papers to be filed, and the air was full of the smell of hot oil and steam. Above our heads a series of clanking shafts and flapping leather belts brought power to the engines, and the combined clatter and hum in the vast chamber sounded like a cascading waterfall.
“Five hundred machines on each floor!” I shouted above the tumult. “With each one capable of handling up to fifty thousand concurrent readings. The ones in the blue overalls are the storycode technicians, known affectionately as ‘word monkeys.’ They keep the engines running smoothly, clean out the dialogue injectors and make sure there isn’t a buildup of irony on the compressors. The man dressed in the white lab coat is the ‘text collector.’ There is a reader echo that pings back to the engine to throughput the next word, so we can use that to check if the book is running true to the author’s original wishes. Any variance is termed a ‘textual anomaly’ and is caught in the waste gate of the echo skimmers, which are those large copper things on the top.”
“This is all really fascinating technological stuff,” observed Thursday1–4 drily, “but I’m waiting to see how it relates to pianos.”
“It doesn’t, O sarcastic one. It’s called education.”
“Pointless exposition, if you ask me.”
“She’s not asking you,” retorted Thursday5.
“Exactly,” I replied, “and some people enjoy the techie stuff. Follow me.”
I opened an arched oak door that led off the engine floor and into the administrative section of Text Grand Central, a labyrinth of stone corridors lit by flaming torches affixed to the walls. It was insufferably gloomy but economical—part of the unfinished Gothic Horror novel from which all of TGC was fashioned. As soon as the door closed, the noise from the main engine floor ceased abruptly.
“I was just trying to explain,” I said, “how we find out about narrative flexations. Most of the time, the anomalies are just misreads and lazy readers getting the wrong end of the stick, but we have to check everything, just in case.”
“I can get this on the Text Grand Central tour for twenty shillings and with better company,” said Thursday1–4, looking pointedly at Thursday5.
“I’m interested, ma’am.”
“Creep.”
“Slut.”
“What did you call me?”
“Hey!” I shouted. “Cut it out!”
“She started it,” said Thursday1–4.
“I don’t care who started it. You’ll both be fired if you carry on like this.”
They fell silent, and we walked along the echoing corridors, past endless oak doors, all relating to some textual activity such as word meanings, idea licensing and grammasite control.
“The problem with pianos,” I began, “is that there aren’t enough to go around. Lots of people in the BookWorld play them, they frequently appear in the narrative, and they’re often used as plot devices. Yet for an unfathomable reason that no one can fully explain, there are only fifteen to cover the entire BookWorld.”
“Fifteen?” snorted Thursday1–4, who was lagging behind in a petulant manner. “How do they manage that, then?”
“With a lot of difficulty. Have a look.”
I opened a door off the corridor. The room was much like a psychiatrist’s office, full of bookshelves and with diplomas on the wall. There were two chairs, a desk and a couch. Two men were sitting in the chairs: A beard and pipe identified the first man immediately as a psychiatrist, and the second, who seemed desperately nervous, was obviously the patient.
“So, Mr. Patient,” began the psychiatrist, “what can I do for you?”
“Well, Doc,” muttered the patient unhappily, “I keep on thinking I’m a dog.”
“I see. And how long has this been going on?”
“Since I was a puppy.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “I’m looking for the Piano Squad.”
