He raised a finger signalling for me to wait.

'Don't look back? That's all? Okay, no problem. See you then. 'Bye.'

He put down the horn and looked at me.

'Thursday Next, isn't it?'

'Yes; do you know where the JurisTech office is?'

'Down the corridor, first on the right.'

'Thanks.'

I made to leave but he called me back, pointing at the footnoterphone.

'I've forgotten already — what was I meant not to do?'

I'm sorry,' I said, 'I wasn't listening.'

I walked down the corridor and opened another door into a room that had nothing in it except a man with a frog growing out of his shiny bald head.

'Goodness!' I said. 'How did that happen?'

'It all started with a pimple on my bum,' said the frog. 'Can I help you?'

I'm looking for Professor Plum.'

'You want JurisTech. This is Old Jokes. Try next door.'

I thanked him and knocked on the next door. I heard a very sing-song 'Come in!' and entered. Although I had expected to see a strange laboratory full of odd inventions, there was nothing of the sort — just a man dressed in a check suit sitting behind a desk, reading some papers. He reminded me of Uncle Mycroft — just a little more perky.

'Ah!' he said, looking up. 'Miss Next. Did you bring the hat with you?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'but how—?'

'Miss Havisham told me,' he said simply.

It seemed there weren't many people who didn't talk to Miss Havisham or who didn't have Miss Havisham talk to them.

I took out the battered Eject-O-Hat and placed it on the table. Plum picked up the broken activation handle, nicked a magnifying glass in front of his eye and stared at the frayed end minutely.[15]

'Oh!' I said. 'I'm getting it again!'

'What?'

'A crossed line on my footnoterphone!'

'I can get a trace if you want — here, put this galvanised bucket on your head.'

'Not for a minute or two,' I told him, 'I want to see how it all turns out.'

'As you wish.'

So as he examined the hat I listened to Sofya and Vera prattle on.

'Well,' he said finally, 'it looks as though it has chafed through. The Mk IV is an old design — I'm surprised to see it still in use.'

'So it was just a failure due to poor maintenance?' I asked, not without some relief.

'A failure that saved a life, yes.'

'What do you mean?' I asked, my relief short lived.

He showed me the hat. Inside an inspection cover were intricate wires and small flashing lights that looked impressive.

'Someone has wired the retextualising inhibitor to the ISBN code rectifiers. If the cord had been pulled, there would have been an overheat in the primary booster coils.'

'Overheat?' I asked. 'My head would have got hot?'

'More than hot. Enough energy would have been released to write about fourteen novels.'

'I'm an apprentice, Plum, tell me in simple terms.'

He looked at me seriously.

'There wouldn't be much left of the hat — or the person wearing it. It happens occasionally on the Mk IVs — it would have been seen as an accident. Good thing there was a broken cord.'

He whistled softly.

'Nifty piece of work, too. Someone who knew what they were doing.'

'That's very interesting,' I said slowly. 'Can you give me a list of people who might have been able to do this sort of work?'

'Take a few days.'

'Worth the wait. I'll call back.'

I met up with Miss Havisham and the Bellman in the Jurisfiction offices. The Bellman nodded a greeting and consulted his ever-present clipboard.

'Looks like a dog day, ladies.'

'Thurber again?'

'No, Mansfield Park. Lady Bertram's pet pug has been run over and needs to be replaced.'

'Again?' replied Havisham. 'That must be the sixth. I wish she'd be more careful.'

'Seventh. You can pick it up from stores.'

He turned his attention to me.

'Miss Havisham says you are ready to take the practical test to bring you up from apprentice to restricted agent.'

'I'm ready,' I replied, thinking I was anything but.

'I'm sure you are,' answered the Bellman thoughtfully, 'but it is a bit soon — if it weren't for the shortage caused by Mrs Nakajima's retirement, I think you would remain as an apprentice for a few more months. Well,' he sighed, 'can't be helped. I've had a look at the duty roster and I think I've found an assignment that should test your mettle. It's an Internal Plot Adjustment order from the Council of Genres.'

Despite my natural feelings of caution, I was also, to my shame, excited by a practical test of my abilities. Dickens? Hardy? Perhaps even Shakespeare.

'Shadow the Sheepdog,' announced the Bellman, 'by Enid Blyton. It needs to have a happy ending.'

'Shadow … the Sheepdog,' I repeated slowly, hoping my disappointment didn't show. 'Okay. What do you want me to do?'

'Simple. As it stands, Shadow is blinded by the barbed wire, so he can't be sold to the American film producer. Up ending because he isn't sold, down ending because he is blinded and useless. All we need to do is to have him miraculously regain his sight the next time he goes to the vet on page …' He consulted his clipboard. '… two thirty-two.'

'And,' I said cautiously, not wanting the Bellman to realise how unprepared I was, 'what plan are we going to use?'

'Swap dogs,' replied the Bellman simply. 'All collies look pretty much the same.'

'What about Vestigial Plot Memory?' asked Havisham. 'Do we have any smoothers?'

'It's all on the job sheet,' returned the Bellman, tearing off a sheet of paper and handing it to me. 'You do know all about smoothers, of course?'

'Of course!' I replied.

'Good. Any more questions?'

I shook my head.

'Excellent!' exclaimed the Bellman. 'Just one more thing. Bradshaw is investigating the Perkins incident. Would you make sure he gets your reports as soon as possible?'

'Of course!'

'Er … good.'

He made a few 'must get on' noises and left.

As soon as he had gone I said to Havisham:

'Do you think I'm ready for this, ma'am?'

'Thursday,' she said in her most serious voice, 'listen to me. Jurisfiction has need of agents who can be trusted to do the right thing.' She looked around the room. 'Sometimes it is difficult to know whom we can trust. Sometimes the sickeningly self-righteous — like you — are the last bastion of defence against those who would mean the BookWorld harm.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning you can stop asking so many questions and do as you're told — just pass this practical first time. Understand?'

'Yes, Miss Havisham.'

'That's settled, then,' she added. 'Anything else?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'What's a smoother?'

'Do you not read your TravelBook?'

'It's quite long,' I pleaded. 'I've been consulting it whenever possible but have still got no farther than the preface.'

'Well,' she began as we jumped to Wemmick's Stores in the lobby of the Great Library, 'plots have a sort of inbuilt memory. They can spring back to how they originally ran with surprising ease.'

'Like time,' I murmured, thinking about my father.

'If you say so,' returned Miss Havisham. 'So on Internal Plot Adjustment duties we often have to have a smoother — a secondary device that reinforces the primary plot swing. We changed the end of Conrad's Lord Jim, you know. Originally, he runs away. A bit weak. We thought it would be better if Jim delivered himself to Chief Doramin as he had pledged following Brown's massacre.'

'That didn't work?'

'No. The chief kept on forgiving him. We tried everything. Insulting the chief, tweaking his nose — after the forty-third attempt we were getting desperate; Bradshaw was almost pulling his hair out.'