'Probably because spotted ones are out of fashion,' she replied with a shrug, reloading her pistol. 'What's in the bag?'

'Oh, some er shopping of Snell's.'

Miss Havisham was a bit like a strict parent, your worst teacher and a newly appointed South American dictator all rolled into one. Which wasn't to say I didn't like her or respect her it was just that I felt I was still nine whenever she spoke to me.

'So why did we sing "Jerusalem" to get rid of them?'

'As I said, those grammasites were Verbisoids,' she replied without looking up, 'and a Verbisoid, in common with many language students, hates and fears irregular verbs - irregular verbs - they much prefer consuming regular verbs with the "ed" word endings. Strong irregulars such as "to sing" with their internal vowel changes we will they much prefer consuming regular verbs with the "ed" word endings. Strong irregulars such as "to sing" with their internal vowel changes we will sing sing, we sang sang, we have sung - sung - tend to scramble their tiny minds.' tend to scramble their tiny minds.'

' Any Any irregular verb frightens them off?' I asked with interest. irregular verb frightens them off?' I asked with interest.

'Pretty much; but some irregulars are more easy to demonstrate than others we could cut cut, I suppose, or even be be, but then the proceedings change into something akin to a desperate game of charades far easier to just sing and have done with it.'

'What about if we were to go to go? I ventured, thinking practically for once. 'There can't be anything more irregular than go, went, gone go, went, gone, can there?'

'Because,' replied Miss Havisham, her patience eroding by the second, 'they might misconstrue it as walked - walked - note the "ed" ending?' note the "ed" ending?'

'Not if we ran ran," I added, not wanting to let this go, 'that's irregular, too.'

Miss Havisham stared at me icily.

'Of course we could. But ran ran might be seen in the eyes of a hungry Verbisoid to be either trotted, galloped, raced, rushed, hurried, hastened, sprinted or even departed.' might be seen in the eyes of a hungry Verbisoid to be either trotted, galloped, raced, rushed, hurried, hastened, sprinted or even departed.'

'Ah,' I said, realising that catching Miss Havisham out was about as likely as nailing Banquo's ghost to a coffee table, 'yes, it might, mightn't it?'

'Look,' said Miss Havisham, softening slightly, 'if running away killed grammasites there wouldn't be a single one left. Stick to "Jerusalem" and you won't go far wrong just don't try it with adjectivores or the parataxis; they'd probably join in and then eat you.'

The elevator stopped on the eleventh sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, the doors opened and a large Painted Jaguar got in with her son, who had a paddy-paw full of p.r.i.c.kles and was complaining bitterly that he had been tricked by a hedgehog and a tortoise, who had both escaped. The Mother Jaguar shook her head sadly, looked to heaven in exasperation and then turned to her son.

'Son, son,' she said, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'what have you been doing that you shouldn't have?'

'So,' said Miss Havisham as the elevator moved off again, 'how are you getting along in that frightful Caversham Heights Caversham Heights book?' book?'

'Well, thank you, Miss Havisham,' I muttered, 'the people in it are worried that their book will be demolished from under their feet.'

'With good reason,' replied Havisham. 'I've read it. Hundreds of books like Heights Heights are demolished every day. If you stopped to waste any sympathy, you'd go nuts so don't. It's man eat man in the Well. I'd keep yourself to yourself and don't make too many friends they have a habit of dying just when you get to like them. It always happens that way. It's a narrative thing.' are demolished every day. If you stopped to waste any sympathy, you'd go nuts so don't. It's man eat man in the Well. I'd keep yourself to yourself and don't make too many friends they have a habit of dying just when you get to like them. It always happens that way. It's a narrative thing.'

' Heights Heights isn't a bad place to live,' I ventured, hoping to elicit a bit of compa.s.sion. isn't a bad place to live,' I ventured, hoping to elicit a bit of compa.s.sion.

'Doubtless,' she murmured, staring off into the middle distance. 'I remember when I was in the Well, when they were building Great Expectations Great Expectations. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world when they told me I would be working with Charles d.i.c.kens. Top of my cla.s.s at Generic College and, without wanting to seem immodest, something of a beauty. I thought I would make an admirable young Estella both refined and beautiful, haughty and proud, yet ultimately overcoming the overbearing crabbiness of her cantankerous benefactor to find true love.'

'So ... what happened?'

'I wasn't tall enough.'

'Tall enough? For a book? Isn't that like having the wrong hair colour for the wireless?'

'They gave the part to a little strumpet who was on salvage from a demolished Thackeray. Little cow. It's no wonder I treat her so rotten the part should have been mine!'

She fell into silence.

'Let me get this straight,' said the Painted Jaguar, who was having a bit of trouble telling the difference between a hedgehog and a tortoise, 'if it's slow-and-solid I drop him in the water and then scoop him out of his sh.e.l.l-'

'Son, son!' said his mother, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'now attend to me and remember what I say. A hedgehog curls himself up into a ball and his p.r.i.c.kles stick out every way-'

'Did you get the Jurisfiction exam papers I sent you?' asked Miss Havisham. 'I've got your practical booked for the day after tomorrow.'

'Oh!' I said.

'Problems?' she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

'No, ma'am, I just feel a bit unprepared I think I might make a pig's ear of it.'

'I disagree,' she replied, staring at the floor indicator. 'I know know you'll make a pig's ear of it. But wheels within wheels. All I ask is you don't make a fool of yourself or lose your life now that you'll make a pig's ear of it. But wheels within wheels. All I ask is you don't make a fool of yourself or lose your life now that would would be awkward.' be awkward.'

'So,' said the Painted Jaguar, rubbing his head, 'if it can roll itself into a ball it must be a tortoise and-'

'AHHH!' cried the Mother Jaguar, lashing her tail angrily. ' Completely Completely wrong. Miss Havisham, what am I to do with this boy?' wrong. Miss Havisham, what am I to do with this boy?'

'I have no idea,' she replied. 'All men are dolts, from where I'm standing.'

The Painted Jaguar looked crestfallen and stared at the floor.

'Can I make a suggestion?' I asked.

'Anything!' replied the Mother Jaguar.

'If you make a rhyme out of it he might might be able to remember.' be able to remember.'

The Mother Jaguar sighed.

'It won't help. Yesterday he forgot he was a Painted Jaguar. He makes my spots ache, really he does.'

'How about this?' I said, making up a rhyme on the spot: 'Can't curl, but can swim Slow-Solid, that's him!

Curls up, but can't swim Stickly-p.r.i.c.kly, that's him!'

The Mother Jaguar stopped lashing her tail and asked me to write it down. She was still trying to get her son to remember it when the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and we got out.

'I thought we were going to the Jurisfiction offices?' I said as we walked along the corridors of the Great Library, the wooden shelves groaning under the weight of the collected imaginative outpourings of nearly two millennia.

'The next roll-call is tomorrow,' she replied, stopping at a shelf and dropping the grammasites' waistcoats into a heap before picking out a roughly bound ma.n.u.script, 'and I told Perkins you'd help him feed the minotaur.'

'You did?' I asked, slightly apprehensively.

'Of course. Fictionalzoology is a fascinating subject and, believe me, it's an area about which you should know more.'

She handed me the book which, I noticed, was hand-written.

'It's codeword protected,' announced Havisham, 'mumble Sapphire Sapphire before you read yourself in.' before you read yourself in.'

She gathered up the waistcoats again.

'I'll pick you up in about an hour. Perkins will be waiting for you on the other side. Please pay attention and don't let him talk you into looking after any rabbits. Don't forget the pa.s.sword you'll not get in or out without it.'

'Sapphire,' I repeated.

'Very good,' she said, and vanished.

I placed the book on one of the reading desks and sat down. The marble busts of writers that dotted the Library seemed to glare at me and I was just about to start reading when I noticed, high up on the shelf opposite, an ethereal form that was coalescing, wraith-like, in front of my eyes. At home this might be considered a matter of great pith and moment, but here it was merely the Cheshire Cat making one of his celebrated appearances.

'h.e.l.lo!' he said as soon as his mouth had appeared. 'How are you getting along?'

The Cheshire Cat was the librarian and the first person I had met in the BookWorld. With a penchant for non sequiturs and obtuse comments, it was hard not to like him.

'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'I was attacked by grammasites, threatened by Big Martin's friends and a Thraal.

I've got two Generics billeted with me, the characters in Caversham Heights Caversham Heights think I can save their book and right now I have to give the minotaur his breakfast.' think I can save their book and right now I have to give the minotaur his breakfast.'

'Nothing remarkable there there. Anything else?'

'How long have you got?' 9 I tapped my ears.

'Problems?'

'I can hear two Russians gossiping, right here inside my head.'

'Probably a crossed footnoterphone line,' replied the Cat. He jumped down, pressed his soft head against mine and listened intently.

'Can you hear them?' I asked after a bit.

'Not at all,' replied the Cat, 'but you do have very very warm ears. Do you like Chinese food?' warm ears. Do you like Chinese food?'

'Yes, please,' I replied; I hadn't eaten for a while.

'Me too,' mused the Cat. 'Shame there isn't any. What's in the bag?'

'Something of Snell's.'

'Ah. What do you think of this UltraWord lark?'

'I'm really not sure,' I replied, truthfully enough, 'how about you?'

'How about me what?'

'What do you think of the new operating system?'

'When it comes in I shall give it my fullest attention,' he said ambiguously, adding: 'It's a laugh, isn't it?'

'What is?'

'That noise you make at the back of your throat when you hear something funny. Let me know if you need anything. 'Bye.'

And he very slowly faded out, from the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose. His grin, as usual, stayed for some time after the rest of him had gone.

I turned back to the book, murmured 'sapphire' and read the first paragraph aloud.

7.

Feeding the minotaur 'Name: Perkins David "Pinky".

Operator's number: AGD136-323.

Address: c/o Perkins & Snell Detective Series Induction date: September 1957 ' Notes: Notes: Perkins joined the service and has shown exemplary conduct throughout his service career. After signing up for a twenty-year tour of duty, he extended that to another tour in 1977. After five years heading the mispeling Protection Squad, he was transferred to grammasite inspection & eradication, and in 1983 took over leadership of the grammasite research facility.' Perkins joined the service and has shown exemplary conduct throughout his service career. After signing up for a twenty-year tour of duty, he extended that to another tour in 1977. After five years heading the mispeling Protection Squad, he was transferred to grammasite inspection & eradication, and in 1983 took over leadership of the grammasite research facility.'

Entry from Jurisfiction Service Record (abridged) I found myself in a large meadow next to a babbling brook; willows and larches hung over the crystal-clear waters while mature oaks punctuated the land. It was warm and dry and quite delightful like a perfect summer's day in England, in fact and I suddenly felt quite homesick.

'I used to look at the view a lot,' said a voice close at hand. 'Don't seem to have the time, these days.'

I turned to see a tall man leaning against a silver birch, holding a copy of the Jurisfiction trade paper, Movable Type Movable Type. I recognised him although we had never been introduced. It was Perkins, who partnered Snell at Jurisfiction, much as they did in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said, proffering a hand and smiling broadly, 'put it there. Perkins is the name. Akrid tells me you sorted Hopkins out good and proper.'

'Thank you,' I replied. 'Akrid's very kind but it isn't over yet.'

He cast an arm towards the horizon.

'What do you think?'

I looked at the view. High snow-capped mountains rose in the distance above a green and verdant plain.

At the foot of the hills were forests, and a large river wended its way through the valley.

'Beautiful.'

'We requisitioned it from the fantasy division of the Well of Lost Plots. It's a complete world in itself, written for a sword and sorcery novel ent.i.tled The Sword of the Zen.o.bians The Sword of the Zen.o.bians. Beyond the mountains are icy wastes, deep fjords and relics of long-forgotten civilisations, castles, that sort of stuff. It was auctioned off when the book was abandoned. There were no characters or events written in, which was a shame considering the work he did on the world itself, this might have been a bestseller. Still, the Outland's loss is our gain. We use it to keep grammasites and other weird beasts who for one reason or another can't live safely within their own books.'

'Sanctuary?'

'Yes and also for study and containment hence the pa.s.sword.'

'There seem to be an awful lot of rabbits,' I observed, looking around.