'Really?' he replied reflectively. 'I've always wondered about that. Welcome to Caversham Heights. I am Captain Nemo. I have some coffee on the stove — I wonder whether you would grant me the honour of your company?'

I thanked him and we continued to walk along the lake's edge.

'A beautiful morning, would you not agree?' he asked, sweeping a hand towards the lake and the puffy clouds.

'It usually is,' I replied.

'For a terrestrial view it is almost passable,' added Nemo quickly. 'It is nothing but a passing fancy to the beauty of the deep, but in retirement we all have to make sacrifices.'

'I have read your book many times,' I said as courteously as I could, 'and have found much pleasure in its narrative.'

'Jules Verne was not simply my author but also a good friend,' said Nemo sadly. 'I was sorrowful on his passing, an emotion I do not share with many others of my kind.'

We had arrived at Nemo's home. No longer the sleek and dangerous craft from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, the riveted iron submarine was a shabby wreck streaked with rust, a thick green line of algae growing on the glass of the two large viewing windows. She belonged to a redolent age of high-technological expectation. She was the Nautilus.

We made our way up the gangplank and Nemo helped me aboard.

'Thank you,' I said, walking down the outer casing to the small conning tower where he had set up a chair and table upon which stood a glass hookah. He pulled up another folding chair and bade me sit down.

'You are here, like me,' he asked, 'resting — between engagements?'

'Maternity leave — of a sort,' I explained.

'Of these matters I know nothing,' he said gravely, pouring out a cup of coffee; the porcelain was White Star Line.

I took a sip and accepted the proffered biscuit. The coffee was excellent.

'Good, is it not?' he asked, a smile upon his lips.

'Indeed!' I replied. 'Better than I have ever tasted. What is it?'

'From the Guiana Basin,' he explained, 'an area of sea scattered with subterranean mountains and hills every bit as beautiful as the Andes. In a deep valley in this region I discovered an aquatic plant whose seeds, when dried and ground, make a coffee to match any that land can offer.'

His face fell for a moment and he looked into his cup, swirling the brown liquid around.

'As soon as this coffee is drunk, that will be the end of it. I have been moved around the Well of Lost Plots for almost a century now. I was to be in a sequel, you know — Jules Verne had written half of it when he died. The manuscript, alas, was thrown out after his death, and destroyed. I appealed to the Council of Genres against the enforced demolition order, and I — and the Nautilus, of course — was reprieved.'

He sighed.

'We have survived numerous moves from book to book within the Well. Now, as you see, I am marooned here. The voltaic piles, the source of the Nautilus's power, are almost worn out. The sodium, which I extract from sea water, is exhausted. For many years I have been the subject of a preservation order, but preservation without expenditure is worthless. The Nautilus needs only a few thousand words to be as good as new — yet I have no money, nor influence. I am only an eccentric loner awaiting a sequel that I fear will never be written.'

'I … I wish I could do something,' I replied, 'but Jurisfiction only keeps fiction in order — it does not dictate policy, nor choose which books are to be written. You have, I trust, advertised yourself?'

'For many years. Here, see for yourself.'

He handed me a copy of The Word. The 'Situations Sought' page took up half the newspaper and I read where Nemo pointed it out.

'Every week for over a century,' he grumbled, 'but not one sensible offer.'

I doubted that his idea of a sensible offer would be like anyone else's — 20,000 Leagues under the Sea was a tough act to follow.

'You have read Caversham Heights'?' he asked.

I nodded.

'Then you will know that the scrapping is not only inevitable, but quite necessary. When the book goes to the breaker's yard, I will not apply for a transfer. The Nautilus, and I too, will be broken down into text — and long have I wished for it!'

He scowled at the floor and poured another cup of coffee.

'Unless,' he added, suddenly perking up, 'you thought I should have the advert in a box, with a picture? It costs extra but it might make it more eye catching.'

'It is worth a try, of course,' I replied.

Nemo rose to his feet and went below without another word. I thought he might return, but after twenty minutes had elapsed I decided to go home. I was ambling back along the lakeside path when I got a call from Havisham on the footnoterphone.[12]

'As always, Miss Havisham.'[13]

'Perkins must be annoyed about that,' I said, thinking, what with grammasites, a minotaur, Yahoos and a million or two rabbits, life in the bestiary must be something of a handful.[14]

'I'm on my way.' ,

I read myself into the Well and was soon in an elevator, heading up towards the Library. I had bought a copy of The Word; the front page led with: 'Nursery rhyme characters to go on indefinite strike'. Farther down, the previous night's attack on Heathcliff had been reported. It added that a terror group calling itself 'The Great Danes' had also threatened to kill him — they wanted Hamlet to win this year's 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead' BookWorld award and would do anything to achieve this. I turned to page two and found a large article extolling the virtues of UltraWord™ with an open letter from Text Grand Central explaining how nothing would change and all jobs and privileges would be protected.

The elevator stopped on the first floor; I quickly made my way to Sense and Sensibility and read myself in. The crowd was still outside the doors of Norland Park, this time with tents, a brass band and a metal brazier burning scrap wood. As soon as they saw me a chant went up:

'WE NEED A BREAK, WE NEED A BREAK …'

A tired-looking woman with an inordinate number of children gave me a leaflet.

'Three hundred and twenty-five years I've been doing this job,' she said, 'without even so much as a weekend off!'

'I'm sorry.'

'We don't want pity,' said Solomon Grundy, who, what with it being a Saturday, wasn't looking too healthy, 'we want action. Oral traditionalists should be allowed the same rights as any other fictioneers.'

'Right,' said a young lad carrying a bucket with his head wrapped in brown paper, 'no amount of money can compensate the brotherhood for the inconvenience caused by repetitive retellings. However, we would like to make the following demands. One: that all nursery rhyme characters are given immediate leave of absence for a two-week period. Two: that—'