“No, I’m not sure at all.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“You’re not as smart as her, are you? Of course it’s Dorset. I think I know my own name.”

“The Adrian Dorset who wrote The Murders on the Hareng Rouge?”

He looked surprised for a moment. “The worthless scribblings of a man who was fooling himself that he could write. It was following the death of Anne, but I don’t expect you’d know anything about that, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Anne was my wife,” he said. “Head of the Book Project. She was on board the Austen Rover’s inaugural journey. Thursday told me what had happened to her and what she’d done before she died. I don’t blame Thursday. Not anymore. Revenge is for losers, cash is the winning currency. I burned the book a month ago. I didn’t need it anymore. I’m over her.”

He looked down at his feet, and I suddenly felt sorry for him.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

He said very little for the rest of the journey, and I watched out the window as the English countryside zipped beneath us at breathtaking speed; we had nothing as fast as this in the BookWorld—not even in Sci-Fi, where they were a lot more conservative than they made out. As we approached Liverpool and the Tarbuck International Travelport, the traffic became more intense as other bullet gondolas joined the induction rail and clumped around for a while before moving off in separate directions. At all times the small, bullet-shaped craft, each no bigger than a bus, kept well spaced from one another, moving apart and together as congestion dictated.

The intercom buzzed, and Dorset picked it up, looked at me, then said, “Security override seventeen,” before listening for a while and then saying, “Bastards. Very well.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing to worry your sweet fictional head about.”

We glided to a halt on Platform 24 at Tarbuck International. The doors hissed open, but we didn’t move, and a few minutes later a small, meek-looking man arrived. He was wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat, and he was carrying a small briefcase. When he spoke, his voice was thin and reedy, and his nose was red from a recent cold.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Meakle,” said my captor, without getting up.

“Good afternoon,” said Meakle, who looked strikingly similar to someone who had played a bit part early on in my series. “You will release Miss Next to the custody of a federal marshal.”

He indicated several marshals who were all standing on the platform outside the bullet.

“I’m afraid not, old chap,” said Dorset or Schitt or whoever he was. “Miss Next is under arrest for crimes against humanity, which effectively trumps anything you might have in store for her.”

“You’re right and wrong,” said Mr. Meakle. “She is under arrest, but house arrest, and will remain there until the government decides the best course of action. National heroes are not treated as common prisoners, Mr. Dorset.”

“I have the authority of the police and SpecOps,” replied Dorset coolly, “an authority given to us under mandate from the minister of justice.”

The bureaucrat opened his case and took out a sheet of paper. “I repeat, Miss Next is to be taken into custody by a federal marshal. Here is an executive order signed personally by President Redmond van de Poste. Need I say more?”

Dorset took the document and stared at it minutely. I could tell from his expression that all was very much in order. He handed it back, looked at me and told me the game “was far from over.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Meakle seemed distracted, as though this were just one of many jobs he had to do in a single day. It looked, in fact, as though he worked from the bullet.

“My pleasure,” said Mr. Meakle. “Where can we drop you?”

I asked for Swindon, and he relayed the instructions through the phone.

“I know I speak for the president when we say how fortunate it is to see you back,” he added. “NSA officials and SO-5 will be briefed to protect you from Goliath. Can I schedule a meeting with the president anytime soon? We are eager to receive the secret plans as soon as we can, and we hope that the security arrangements are to your satisfaction.”

I told him I’d meet with them tomorrow. Meakle nodded solemnly and returned to his work.

I sat back in my seat and ran the events of the afternoon through my head. I had just gotten to the bit where Spike had rescued me from the Stiltonista when I began to feel very peculiar. I started to have odd thoughts, then couldn’t figure out why I’d thought of them. The world would soften around the edges, and I could feel myself almost lose consciousness. I thought for a moment I might be dying, as I could feel my conscious mind nearly close down. Before I knew it, I had closed my eyes and an overwhelming darkness stole over me. I might indeed have died, but I didn’t, and I slept quite soundly until Mr. Meakle woke me when we arrived back at Clary-LaMarr.