' "We"?'

He picked up his clipboard which had beeped at him. Havisham had told me that he never actually placed any papers in the all-important clipboard — the words were beamed directly there from Text Grand Central.

'The Council of Genres has taken a personal interest in your case,' he said after reading the clipboard. 'I think they felt you were too valuable to lose through stress — an Outlander in Jurisfiction is quite a coup, as you know. You have powers of self-determination that we can only dream of. Take it in the good spirit it is meant, won't you?'

'So I don't get to take Havisham's place at Jurisfiction?'

'I'm afraid not. Perhaps when the dust has settled. Who knows? In the BookWorld, anything is possible.'

He handed me a scrap of paper.

'Report to Solomon on the twenty-sixth floor. Good luck!'

I got up, thanked the Bellman and left his office. There was silence as I walked back past the other agents, who looked at me apologetically. I had been canned through no fault of my own, and everyone knew it. I sat down at Havisham's desk and looked at all her stuff. She had been replaced by a Generic in Expectations, and although they would look almost identical, it could never be the same person. The Havisham that I knew had been lost at Pendine Sands. I sighed. Perhaps demotion was a good thing. After all, I did have a lot to learn and working with the C of G for a bit probably had its merits.

'Miss Next?'

It was Commander Bradshaw.

'Hello, sir.'

He smiled and raised his hat.

'Would you care to have tea with me on the veranda?'

'I'd be delighted.'

He smiled, took me by the arm and jumped us both into Bradshaw Hunts Big Game. I had never been to East Africa, either in our world or this, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it from the many images I had grown up with. Bradshaw's house was a low colonial building with a veranda facing the setting sun; the land around the house was wild scrub and whistling thorns, herds of wildebeest and zebra wandering across in a desultory manner, their hoofs kicking up red dust as they moved.

'Quite beautiful, wouldn't you say?'

'Extraordinary,' I replied, staring at the scenery.

'Isn't it just?' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows beauty when she sees it.'

His voice dropped a tone.

'Havisham was one of the finest,' he said. 'A little too fast for me, but a good egg in a scrap. She was very fond of you.'

'And I of her.'

'I had a look at the wreck of the Bluebird when it returned to Wemmick's Stores,' he added. 'Looked like an accident, my girl, nothing more. Mr Toad was pretty cut up about it and got into a helluva pickle for visiting the Outland without permission.'

'Did Havisham confide in you about Perkins?'

'Only that she thought he'd been murdered.'

'Had he?'

'Who knows? The office think it's Deane but we'll never know for sure until we arrest him. Have you met the memsahib? My darling, this is Thursday Next — a colleague from work.'

I looked up and jumped slightly because Mrs Bradshaw was, in fact, a gorilla. She was large and hairy and was dressed only in a floral-patterned pinafore.

'Good evening,' I said, slightly taken aback, 'a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw.'

'Good evening,' replied the gorilla politely. 'Would you like some cake with your tea? Alphonse has made an excellent lemon sponge.'

'That would be nice, thank you,' I spluttered as Mrs Bradshaw stared at me with her dark, deep-set eyes.

'Excellent!' she said. 'I'll be out in a jiffy to join you. Feet, Trafford.'

'What? Oh!' said Bradshaw, taking his boots off the chair opposite. When Mrs Bradshaw had left he turned and said to me in a very serious whisper:

'Tell me, did you notice anything odd about the menisahib?'

'Er,' I began, not wanting to hurt his feelings, 'not really.'

'Think,' he said, 'it's important. Is there anything about her that strikes you as a little out of the ordinary?'

'Well, she's only wearing a pinafore,' I managed to say.

'Does that bother you?' he asked in all seriousness. 'Whenever male visitors attend I always have her cover up. She's a fine-looking gal, wouldn't you agree? Drive any man wild, wouldn't you say?'

'Very fine,' I agreed.

He shuffled in his chair and drew closer.

'Anything else?' he said, staring at me intently. 'Anything at all. I won't be upset.'

'Well,' I began slowly, 'I couldn't help noticing that she was …'

'Yes?'

'… a gorilla.'

'Hmm,' he said, leaning back, 'our little subterfuge didn't fool you, then?'

I'm afraid not.'

'Melanie!' he shouted. 'Please come and join us.'

Mrs Bradshaw lumbered back on to the veranda and sat in one of the club armchairs, which creaked under her weight.

'She knows, Melanie.'

'Oh!' said Mrs Bradshaw, producing a fan and hiding her face. 'However did you find out?'

A servant appeared with a tray of tea, left it on the table, bowed and withdrew.

'Is it the hair?' she asked, delicately pouring the tea with her feet.

'Partly,' I admitted.

'I told you the powder wouldn't cover it up,' she said to Bradshaw in a scolding tone, 'and I'm not shaving. It makes one itch so. One lump or two?'

'One, please,' I replied, asking: 'Is it a problem?'

'It's no problem here,' said Mrs Bradshaw. 'I often feature in my husband's books and nowhere does it specify precisely that I am anything but human.'

'We've been married for over fifty years,' added Bradshaw. 'The problem is that we've had an invitation to the Bookies next week and the memsahib is a little awkward in public.'

'To hell with them all,' I replied. 'Anyone who can't accept that the woman you love is a gorilla isn't worth counting as a friend!'

'Do you know,' said Mrs Bradshaw, 'I think she's right. TrafFord?'

'Right also!' He grinned. 'Appreciate a woman who knows when to call a wife a gorilla. Hoorah! Lemon sponge, anyone?'

I took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and walked out into the lobby of the Council of Genres, clasping the orders that the Bellman had given me.

'Excuse me,' I said to the receptionist, who was busy fielding calls on a footnoterphone, I have to report to Mr Solomon.'

'Seventh door on the left,' she said without looking up. I walked down the corridor among the thronging mass of bureaucrats going briskly hither and thither clasping buff files as though their lives and existence depended on it, which they probably did.

I found the correct door. It opened on to a vast waiting room full of bored people who all clutched numbered tickets and stared vacantly at the ceiling. There was another door at the far end with a desk next to it manned by a single receptionist. He stared at my sheet when I presented it, sniffed and said:

'How did you know I was single?'

'When?'

'Just then, in your description of me.'

'I meant single as in solitary.'

'Ah. You're late. I'll wait ten minutes for you and "His Lordship" to get acquainted, then send the first lot in. Okay?'

'I guess.'

I opened the door to reveal another long room, this time with a single table at the far end of it. Sitting at the desk was an elderly bewhiskered man dressed in long robes who was dictating a letter to a stenographer. The walls of the room were covered with copies of letters from satisfied clients; he obviously took himself very seriously.

'Thank you for your letter dated the seventh of this month,' said the elderly man as I walked closer. 'I am sorry to inform you that this office no longer deals with problems arising with or appertaining to junk footnoterphones. I suggest you direct your anger towards the FNP's complaints department. Yours very cordially, Solomon. That should do it. Yes?'