‘Really?’
‘No, not really at all. My little joke. Are you ready?’
Polly smiled. ‘Ready.’
Mycroft pressed the large green button and there was a low hum from the book. The streetlights flickered and dimmed outside as the machine drew a huge quantity of power to convert the bookworm’s binametric information. As they both watched, a thin shaft of light appeared in the workshop, as though a door had been opened from a winter’s day into summer. Dust glistened in the beam of light, which gradually grew broader until it was large enough to enter.
‘All you have to do is step through!’ yelled Mycroft above the noise of the machine. ‘To open the door requires a lot of power; you have to hurry!’
The high voltage was making the air heavy; metallic objects close by were starting to dance and crackle with static.
Polly stepped closer to the door and smiled nervously at her husband. The shimmering expanse of white light rippled as she put her hand up to touch it. She took a deep breath and stepped through the portal. There was a bright flash and a burst of heavy electrical discharge; two small balls of highly charged gas plasma formed spontaneously near the machine and barrelled out in two directions; Mycroft had to duck as one sailed past him and burst harmlessly on the Rolls-Royce; the other exploded on the Olfactograph and started a small fire. Just as quickly the light and sound died away, the doorway closed and the streetlights outside flickered up to full brightness again.
On the other side of the Prose Portal, Polly stood on the grassy bank of a large lake where the water gently lapped against the shore. The sun was shining brightly and small puffy clouds floated lazily across the azure sky. Along the edges of the bay she could see thousands upon thousands of vibrant yellow daffodils, all growing in the dappled shade of a birch grove. A breeze, carrying with it the sweet scent of summer, caused the flowers to flutter and dance. All about her a feeling of peace and tranquillity ruled. The world she stood in now was unsullied by man’s evil or malice. Here, indeed, was paradise.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she said at last, her thoughts finally giving birth to her words. ‘The flowers, the colours, the scent—it’s like breathing champagne!’
‘You like it, madam?’
A man aged about eighty was facing her. He was dressed in a black cloak and wore a half-smile upon his weathered features. He gazed across at the flowers.
‘I often come here,’ he said. ‘Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance.’
‘You’re very lucky,’ said Polly. ‘We have to rely on
‘It’s a quiz show. You know. On the telly.’
‘Telly?’
‘Yes, it’s like the movies but with commercials.’
He frowned at her without comprehension and looked at the lake again.
‘I often come here,’ he said again. ‘Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance.’
‘You said that already.’
The old man looked as though he were awakening from a deep sleep.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘My husband sent me. My name is Polly Next.’
‘I come here when in vacant or pensive mood, you know.’
He waved a hand in the direction of the flowers.
‘The daffodils, you understand.’
Polly looked across at the bright yellow flowers, which rustled back at her in the warm breeze.
‘I wish my memory was this good,’ she murmured.
The figure in black smiled at her.
‘The inward eye is all I have left,’ he said wistfully, the smile leaving his stern features. ‘Everything that I once was is now here; my life is contained in my works. A life in volumes of words; it is poetic.’
He sighed deeply and added: ‘But solitude isn’t always blissful, you know.’
He stared into the middle distance, the sun sparkling on the waters of the lake.
‘How long since I died?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Over a hundred and fifty years.’
‘Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?’
‘It’s a little early to tell.’
Wordsworth frowned as the sun went in.
‘Hello,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t remember writing that—‘
Polly looked. A large and very dark rain-cloud had blotted out the sun.
‘What do you—?’ she began, but when she looked around Wordsworth had gone. The sky grew darker and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. A strong wind sprang up and the lake seemed to freeze over and lose all depth as the daffodils stopped moving and became a solid mass of yellow and green. She cried out in fear as the sky and the lake met; the daffodils, trees and clouds returning to their place in the poem, individual words, sounds, squiggles on paper with no meanings other than those with which our own imagination can clothe them. She let out one last terrified scream as the darkness swept on and the poem closed on top of her.
12. SpecOps 27: The Literary Detectives
‘… This morning Thursday Next joined the LiteraTec office in place of Crometty. I cannot help thinking that she is particularly unsuited to this area of work and I have my doubts as to whether she is as sane as she thinks she is. She has many demons, old and new, and I wonder whether Swindon is quite the right place to try and exorcise them…’
The Swindon SpecOps headquarters were shared with the local police; the typically brusque and no- nonsense Germanic design had been built during the Occupation as a law court. It was big, too, which was just as well. The way into the building was protected by metal detectors, and once I had shown my ID I walked into the large entrance hall. Officers and civilians with identity tags walked briskly amid the loud hubbub of the station. I was jostled once or twice in the throng and made a few greetings to old faces before fighting my way to the front desk. When I got there, I found a man in a white baggy shirt and breeches remonstrating with the sergeant. The officer just stared at him. He’d heard it all before.
‘Name?’ asked the desk sergeant wearily.
‘John Milton.’
‘
John Milton sighed. ‘Four hundred and ninety-six.’
The sergeant made a note in his book.
