I passed the VIP car park, where a row of expensive automobiles was on display, and showed my SpecOps pass to the bored security guard. I entered the stadium and walked up one of the public-access tunnels to the terraces and from there looked down upon the green. From this distance the hoops were almost invisible, but their positions were marked by large white circles painted on the turf. The ten-yard lines crossed the green from side to side, and the “natural hazards”—the Italian Sunken Garden, rhododendron bushes and herbaceous flower beds—stood out from within their positions on the green itself. Each “obstruction” was scrupulously constructed to World Croquet League specifications. The height of the rhododendrons was carefully measured before each game, the herbaceous border stocked with identical shrubs, the sunken garden with its lilies and lead fountain of Minerva was the same on every green the world over, from Dallas to Poona, Nairobi to Reykjavik.

Below me I could see the Swindon Mallets indulging in a tough training session. Roger Kapok was amongst them, barking orders as his team ran backwards and forwards, whirling their mallets dangerously close to one another. Four-ball croquet could be a dangerous sport, and close-quarters stickwork that managed not to involve severe physical injury was considered a skill unique to the Croquet League.

I ran down the steps between the tiered seating, which was nearly my undoing; halfway down I slipped on some carelessly deposited banana skins and if it hadn’t have been for some deft footwork I might have plunged headfirst onto the concrete steps. I muttered a curse under my breath, glared at one of the grounds-men and stepped out onto the green.

“So,” I heard Kapok say as I drew closer, “we’ve got the big match on Saturday, and I don’t want anyone thinking that we will automatically win just because St. Zvlkx said so. Brother Thomas of York predicted a twenty-point victory for the Battersea Chargers last week, and they were beaten hollow, so stay on your toes. I won’t have the team relying on destiny to win this match—we do it on teamwork, application and tactics.” There was a grunting and nodding of heads from the assembled team, and Kapok continued. “Swindon has never won a SuperHoop, so I want this to be our first. Biffo, Smudger and Aubrey will lead the offensive as usual, and I don’t want anyone tumbling into the sunken garden like at last Tuesday’s practice. The hazards are there to lose opponents’ balls on a clean and legal roquet, and I don’t want them used for any other purpose.”

Roger Kapok was a big man with closely cropped hair and a badly broken nose, which he wore with pride. He had taken a croquet ball in the face five years ago, before helmets and body armor were compulsory. At thirty-five he had reached the upper age limit for pro croquet and had been with Swindon for over ten years. He and the rest of the team were local legends and hadn’t needed to buy a drink in Swindon’s pubs for as long as anyone could remember—but outside Swindon they were barely known at all.

“Thursday Next,” I said, walking closer and introducing myself, “SpecOps. Can I have a word?”

“Sure. Take five, guys.”

I shook Roger’s hand, and we walked off towards the herbaceous border, which was aligned on the forty-yard line, just next to the garden roller, which, due to a horrific accident at the Pan-Pacific Cup last year, was now padded.

“I’m a big fan, Miss Next,” said Roger, smiling broadly to reveal several missing teeth. “Your work on Jane Eyre was astounding. I love Charlotte Brontë’s novels. Don’t you think the Ginerva Fanshawe character from Villette and Blanche Ingram from Jane Eyre are sort of similar?”

I had noticed of course, because they actually were the same person, but I didn’t think Kapok or anyone else out should know about the economics of the BookWorld.

“Really?” I said. “I’d not noticed. I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Kapok. Has anyone tried to dissuade you from playing this Saturday?”

“No. And you probably just heard me telling the team to ignore the Seventh Revealment. We aim to win for our own sakes and that of Swindon. And we will win, you have my word on that!”

He smiled that dazzling reconstructed Roger Kapok smile that I had seen so many times on billboards throughout Swindon, advertising everything from toothpaste to floor paint. His confidence was infectious, and suddenly our chances of beating the Reading Whackers seemed to move from “totally impossible” to “deeply improbable.”

“And what about you?” I asked, remembering my father’s warning that he would be the first one Goliath would try to nobble.

“What about me?”

“Would you stay with the team no matter what?”

“Of course!” he replied. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away from leading the Mallets to victory.”

“Promise?”

“On my honor. The code of the Kapoks is at stake. Only death will keep me off the green on Saturday.”

“You should be on your guard, Mr. Kapok,” I murmured. “Goliath will try anything to make sure Reading wins the SuperHoop.”

“I can look after myself.”

“I don’t doubt it, but you should be on your guard.”

I paused as a sudden childish urge came over me. “Would you mind . . . if I had a whack?”

I pointed at his mallet, and he dropped a blue ball to the ground.

“Did you used to play?”

“For my university.”

“Roger!” called one of the players from behind us. He excused himself, and I squared up to the ball. I hadn’t played for years, but only through a lack of spare time. It was a fast and furious game, quite unlike its ancient predecessor, although the natural hazards such as rhododendrons and other garden architecture had remained from when it was simply a polite garden sport. I rolled the ball with my foot to plant it firmly on the grass. My old croquet coach had been an ex-league player named Alf Widdershaine, who always told me that concentration made the finest croquet players—and Alf should know, as he had been a pro for the Slough Bombers and retired with 7,892 career hoops, a record yet to be beaten. I looked down the green at the forty-yard right-back hoop. From here it was no bigger than my fingertip. Alf had hooped from up to fifty yards away, but my personal best was only twenty. I concentrated as my fingers clasped the leather grip, and then I raised the mallet and followed through with a hard swing. There was a satisfying crack, and the ball hurtled off in a smooth arc—straight into the rhododendrons. Blast. If this had been a match, I would have lost the ball until the next third. I turned around to see if anyone had been watching, but fortunately no one had. Instead an altercation seemed to be going on between the team members. I dropped the mallet and hurried up.

“You can’t leave!” cried Aubrey Jambe, hoop defense. “What about the SuperHoop?”

“You’ll do fine without me,” implored Kapok, “really you will!”

He was standing with two men in suits who didn’t appear as though they were in the sports business. I showed them my ID.

“Thursday Next, SpecOps. What’s going on?”

The two men looked at one another, but it was the tall one who spoke.

“We’re scouts for the Gloucester Meteors, and we think Mr. Kapok would like to come play for us.”

“Less than a week before a SuperHoop?”

“I’m due for a change, Miss Next,” said Kapok, glancing about nervously. “I think that Biffo would lead the team far better than me. Don’t you think so, Biffo?”

“What about all that ‘wild horses’ and ‘code of the Kapoks’ stuff ?” I demanded. “You promised!”

“I need to spend more time with my family,” muttered Kapok, shrugging his shoulders and clearly not keen to remain in the stadium one second longer than he had to. “You’ll be fine—hasn’t St. Zvlkx predicted it?”

“Seers aren’t always a hundred percent accurate—you said so yourself!” I retorted. “Who are you two really?”

“Leave us out of it,” said the tall suited man. “All we did was make an offer—Mr. Kapok decides if he stays or goes.”

Kapok and the two men turned to leave.

“Kapok, for God’s sake!” yelled Biffo. “The Whackers will knock the stuffing out of the team if you’re not here to lead us!”

But Kapok continued walking; his former teammates looked on in disgust and grumbled and swore for a while before the Mallets’ manager, a reedy-looking character with a thin mustache and a pale complexion, walked on the green and asked what was going on.

“Ah!” he said when he heard the news. “I’m very sorry to hear that, but since you are all present, I think it’s probably the right time to announce that I’m retiring on grounds of ill health.”

“When?”

“Right now,” said the manager, and ran off. Goliath was working overtime this morning.

“Well,” said Aubrey as soon as he had gone, “what now?”

“Listen,” I said, “I can’t tell you why, but it is historically imperative that we win this SuperHoop. You will win this match because you have to. It’s that simple. Can you captain?” I asked, turning to a burly croquet player named Biffo. I had seen him do “blind passes” across the rhododendron bushes with uncanny accuracy, and his classic “pegging out” shot from the sixty-yard line during the league game against Southampton was undeniably one of the Top Ten Great Croquet Moments of history. Of course, that was over ten years ago and before a bad tackle had twisted his knee. These days he played defense, guarding the hoops against opposition strikers.

“Not me,” he replied with a resigned air.

“Smudger?”

Smudger played attack and had made midair roquets something of a trademark. His celebrated double hoop in the Swindon-Gloucester playoff of 1978 was still talked about, even if it hadn’t won us the match.

“Nope,” he answered.

“Anyone?”

“I’ll captain, Miss Next.”

It was Aubrey Jambe. He had been captain once before until a media-led campaign had had him ousted following allegations about him and a chimp.

“Good.”

“But we’ll need a new manager,” said Aubrey slowly, “and since you seem to be so passionate about it, I think you’d better take it on.”

Before I knew what I was saying, I had agreed, which went down pretty well with the players. Morale of a sort had returned. I took Aubrey by the arm, and we walked into the middle of the green for our first strategy meeting.

“Okay,” I said, “tell me truthfully, Jambe, what are our chances?”

“Borderline impossible,” answered Aubrey candidly. “We had to sell our best player to Glasgow to be able to meet the changes that the World Croquet League insisted we do to the green. Then our top defender, Laura de Rematte, won a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa on one of those junk-mail prize-draw things. With Kapok gone, we’re down to ten players, no reserve, and lost the best striker. Biffo, Smudger, Snake, George and Johnno are all good players, but the rest are second-raters.”

“So what do we need to win?”

“If all the players on the Reading team were to die overnight and be replaced by unfit nine-year-olds, then we might be in with a chance.”

“Too difficult and probably illegal. What else?”

Aubrey stared at me glumly. “Five quality players and we might have a chance.”

It was a tall order. If they could get to Kapok, they could offer “inducements” to any other player who might want to join us.

“Okay,” I said, “leave it to me.”

“You have a plan?”

“Of course,” I lied, feeling the managerial mantle falling about my shoulders. “Your new players are as good as signed. Besides,” I added, with a certain amount of faux conviction, “we’ve got a revealment to protect.”