7.
The Literary Detectives
Goliath Corporation Publishes Broad
Denial
The Goliath Corporation yesterday attempted to
head off annoying and time-wasting speculation by issuing the
broadest denial to date. “Quite simply, we deny everything,” said
Mr. Toedee, the Goliath head PR operative, “including any story
that you might have heard now or in the future.” Goliath’s shock
tactics reflected the growing unease with Goliath’s
unaccountability, especially over its advanced weapons division.
“It’s very simple,” continued Mr. Toedee. “Until we have been
elevated to a Faith when everything can be denied using the
‘Goliath works in mysterious ways’ excuse, we expressly deny
possessing, or any involvement with, the Ovinator, Anti-Smite
technology, Speedgrow tomatoes or Diatrymas running wild in the New
Forest. In fact, we don’t know what any of these things are.” To
cries of “What is an Ovinator?” and “Tomatoes?” Mr. Toedee declared
the press conference over, blessed everyone and departed.
Article in The Toad on Sunday, July 3,
1988
I found Bowden fretting in the LiteraTec
office and related what had happened.
“Well, well,” he said at last, “I think old
Braxton’s got a crush.”
“Oh, stop it!”
The office we were sitting in resembled a large
library in a country house somewhere. It was two stories high, with
shelves crammed full of books covering every square inch of wall
space. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk that ran around the
wall, enabling access to the upper galleries. It was neat and
methodical—but somehow less busy than I remembered.
“Where is everyone?”
“When you were here last, we had a staff of eight.
Now it’s only Victor, me, and Malin. All the rest were reassigned
or laid off.”
“All SpecOps departments?”
Bowden laughed. “Of course not! The bullyboys at
SO-14 are alive and well and answer to Yorrick Kaine’s every order.
SO-1 hasn’t seen many cuts, either—”
“Thursday, what a delightful surprise!”
It was Victor Analogy, my old boss here at the
Swindon LiteraTecs. He was an elderly gentlemen with large
muttonchop side-burns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit and bow
tie. He had taken off his jacket due to the summer heat but still
managed to cut a very dashing figure, despite his advanced
age.
“Victor, you’re looking very well!”
“And you, dear girl. What devilry have you been up
to since last we met?”
“It’s a long story.”
“The best sort. Let me guess: inside
fiction?”
“In one.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s quite good, really. Confusing at times and
subject to moments of extreme imaginative overload, but varied, and
the weather’s generally pretty good. Can we talk safely in
here?”
Victor nodded, and we sat down. I told them about
Jurisfiction, the Council of Genres and everything else that had
happened to me during my tenure as Bellman. I even told them
loosely about my involvement in The Solution of Edwin Drood,
which amused them both no end.
“I’ve always wondered about that,” mused Victor
thoughtfully. “But you’re sure about Yorrick Kaine’s being
fictional?”
I told him that I was.
He stood up and walked to the window. “You’ll have
a hard time getting close,” said Victor thoughtfully. “Does he know
you’re back?”
“Definitely,” said Bowden.
“Then you could be threatening his position as
absolute ruler of England almost as much as President Formby is. I
should keep on your toes, my girl. Is there anything we can do to
help?”
I thought for a moment. “There is, actually. We
can’t find which book Yorrick Kaine has escaped from. He could be
using a false name, and we should contact any readers who might
recognize the Chancellor’s somewhat crazed antics from an obscure
character they might have read somewhere. We at Jurisfiction have
been going through the Great Library at our end, but we’ve still
drawn a blank—every character in fiction has been accounted
for.”
“We’ll do what we can, Thursday. When can you
rejoin us?”
“I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “I have to get
my husband back. Remember I told you he was eradicated by the
ChronoGuard?”
“Yes. Lindane, wasn’t it?”
“Landen. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably stay
inside fiction.”
We all fell silent for a moment.
“So,” I said cheerfully, “what’s been happening in
the world of the LiteraTecs?”
Victor frowned.
“We can’t hold with the book-burning lark of
Kaine’s. You heard about the order to start incinerating Danish
literature?”
I nodded.
“Kierkegaard’s works are being rounded up as we
speak. I told Braxton that if we were asked to do any of it we’d
resign.”
“Oh-ah.”
“I’m not sure I like the way you said that,” said
Bowden.
I winced. “I agreed to be the SO-14 Danish Book
Seizure Liaison Officer for Flanker—sorry. I didn’t have much of a
choice.”
“I see that as good news,” put in Bowden.
“You can have them searching in places they won’t find any Danish
books. Just be careful. Flanker has been suspicious ever since we
said we were too busy to find out who was planning to smuggle
copies of The Concept of Dread to Wales for
safekeeping.”
Bowden laughed and lowered his voice. “It wasn’t an
excuse,” he chuckled. “We actually were too busy—gathering
copies of banned books ready for transportation to Wales!”
Victor grimaced. “I really don’t want to hear this,
Bowden. If you get caught, we’ll all be for the high jump!”
“Some things are worth going to jail for, Victor,”
replied Bowden in an even tone. “As LiteraTecs we swore to uphold
and defend the written word—not indulge a crazed politician’s worst
paranoic fantasies.”
“Just be careful.”
“Of course,” replied Bowden. “It might come to
nothing if we can’t find a way to get the books out of England—the
Welsh border shouldn’t be a problem since Wales aligned itself with
Denmark. I don’t suppose you have any ideas how to get across the
English border post?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “How many copies of
banned books do you want to smuggle anyway?”
“About four truckloads.”
I whistled. Things—like cheese, for instance—were
usually smuggled in to England. I didn’t know how I’d get
banned books out.
“I’ll give it a shot. What else is going on?”
“Usual stuff,” replied Bowden. “Faked Milton,
Jonson, Swift . . . Montague and Capulet street gangs . . . someone
discovered a first draft of The Mill on the Floss entitled
The Sploshing of the Weirs. Also, the Daphne Farquitt
Specialist Bookshop went up in smoke.”
“Insurance scam?”
“No—probably anti-Farquitt protesters again.”
Farquitt had penned her first bodice-ripping novel
in 1932 and had been writing pretty much the same one over and over
again ever since. Loved by many and hated by a vitriolic minority,
Farquitt was England’s leading romantic novelist.
“There’s also been a huge increase in the use of
performance-enhancing drugs by novelists,” added Victor. “Last
year’s Booker speedwriting winner was stripped of his award when he
tested positive for Cartlandromin. And only last week Handley Paige
narrowly missed a two-year writing ban for failing a random dope
test.”
“Sometimes I wonder if we don’t have too many
rules,” murmured Victor pensively, and we all three stood in
silence, nodding thoughtfully for a moment.
Bowden broke the silence. He produced a piece of
stained paper wrapped in a cellophane evidence bag and passed it
across to me. “What do you make of this?”
I read it, not recognizing the words but
recognizing the style. It was a sonnet by Shakespeare—and a pretty
good one, too.
“Shakespeare, but it’s not Elizabethan—the mention
of Howdy Doody would seem to indicate that—but it feels like
his. What did the Verse Meter Analyzer say about it?”
“Ninety-one percent probability of Will as the
author,” replied Victor.
“Where did you get it?”
“Off the body of a down-and-out by the name of
Shaxtper killed on Tuesday evening. We think someone has been
cloning Shakespeares.”
“Cloning Shakespeares? Are you sure? Couldn’t it
just be a ChronoGuard ‘temporal kidnap’ sort of thing?”
“No. Blood analysis tells us they were all
vaccinated at birth against rubella, mumps and so forth.”
“Wait—you’ve got more than one?”
“Three,” said Bowden. “There’s been something of a
spate recently.”
“When can you come back to work, Thursday?” asked
Victor solemnly. “As you can see, we need you.”
I paused for a moment. “I’m going to need a week to
get my life into gear first, sir. There are a few pressing matters
that I have to attend to.”
“What, may I ask,” said Victor, “is more important
than Montague and Capulet street gangs, cloned Shakespeares,
smuggling Kierkegaard out of the country and authors using banned
substances?”
“Finding reliable child care.”
“Goodness!” said Victor. “Congratulations! You must
bring the little squawker in sometime. Mustn’t she, Bowden?”
“Absolutely.”
“Bit of a problem, that,” murmured Victor. “Can’t
have you dashing around the place only to have to get home at five
to make junior’s tea. Perhaps we’d better handle all this on our
own.”
“No,” I said with an assertiveness that made them
both jump. “No, I’m coming back to work. I just need to sort a few
things out. Does SpecOps have a nursery?”
“No.”
“Ah. Well, I suspect I shall think of something. If
I get my husband back, there won’t be a problem. I’ll call you
tomorrow.”
There was a pause.
“Well, we have to respect that, I suppose,” said
Victor solemnly. “We’re just glad that you’re back. Aren’t we,
Bowden?”
“Yes,” replied my ex-partner, “very glad
indeed.”