'And the winner is …' announced the MC, opening the envelope, 'Count Dracula.'

The applause was deafening as the count walked up to receive his award. He shook hands with the MC and took the statuette before turning to the audience. He was white and cadaverous and I shivered involuntarily.

'First,' said the count in a soft voice with a slight lisp, 'my thanks go to Bram for his admirable reporting of my activities. I would also like to thank Lucy, Mr Harker and Van Helsing—'

'I hope he's not going to start crying like he did last year,' said a voice close to my ear. I turned to find the Cheshire Cat sitting very precariously on a seat-back. 'It's so embarrassing.'

But he did. The count was soon choking back floods of tears, thanking everyone he could think of and generally making a complete fool of himself.

'How are you enjoying the awards?' I said to the Cat, glad to see a friendly face.

'Not bad,' he replied. 'I think Orlando was a bit miffed to lose out to Puss in Boots for the "Best Talking Cat" award.'

'My money was on you.'

'Was it really?' said the Cat, smiling even more broadly. 'You are nice. Do you want some advice?'

'Indeed I do,' I replied. The Cheshire Cat had always remained totally impartial at Jurisfiction. A hundred Bellmans could come and go but the Cat would always be there — and his knowledge was vast. I leaned closer.

'Okay,' he announced grandly, 'here's the advice. Are you ready?'

'Yes.'

'Don't get off a bus while it's still moving.'

'That's very good advice,' I said slowly. 'Thank you very much.'

'Don't mention it,' said the Cat, and vanished.

'Hello, Thursday.'

'Hi, Randolph. How are things?'

'Okay,' he said slightly doubtfully. 'Have you seen Lola?'

'No.'

'Unlike her to miss a party,' he muttered. 'Do you think she's okay?'

'I think Lola can look after herself,' I told him. 'Why are you so interested?'

'I'm going to tell her that I quite like her!' he answered resolutely.

'Why stop there?'

'You mean tell her I really like her?'

'And more — but it's a good place to start.'

'Thanks. If you see her tell her I'm on the unplaced Generics table.'

I wished him good luck and he left. I got up and walked to a curtained-off area where several bookies were taking bets. I placed a hundred on Jay Gatsby to win the 'Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' award. I didn't think he would win; I just wanted Tweed to waste time trying to figure out what I was up to. I visited the Caversham Heights table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards.

'What's going on in the book?' she demanded indignantly. 'Jack tells me he's been changing a few things whilst I've been away!'

'Just a few,' I said, 'but don't worry, we wouldn't write anything embarrassing for you without consultation.'

Her eyes flicked across to Arnie, who was sharing a joke with Captain Nemo and Agatha Diesel.

'Just as well,' she replied.

The evening drew on, the celebrities announcing the nominations becoming more important as the categories became more highly regarded. 'Best Romantic Male' went to Darcy and 'Best Female in a "Coming of Age" Book' went to Scout Finch. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes to go before the prestigious 'Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)' was due to be announced; the female version of this award had been well represented by Thomas Hardy; Bathsheba Everdene and Tess Durbeyfield both made it to the nominations only to be pipped at the post by the surprise winner, Lady Macbeth. Sylvia Plath was short-listed but was disqualified for being real.

I got up and walked to the Jurisfiction table as a drum roll announced the final category. The Bellman nodded politely to me and I looked around the room. It was time to act. UltraWord™ was not the saviour of the BookWorld — it would be the end, and I hoped that Mimi down in the footnoterphone conduits was ready.[24]

'And now, ladies, gentlemen and things, for the high point of the evening, the 923rd Annual BookWorld award for "Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male)". To read the nominations we have none other than WordMaster Xavier Libris, all the way from Text Grand Central!'

There was loud applause which I hadn't expected — TGC wasn't that popular. I had a sudden attack of doubt. Could Deane be wrong? I thought again about Perkins, Snell and Havisham and my resolve returned. I grabbed my bag and got up. I saw Legree stiffen and rise from the Uncle Tom’s Cabin table, speaking into his cuff as he did so. I headed towards the exit with him tailing me.

'Thank you very much!' said Libris, raising his hands to quell the applause as Hamlet, Jude Fawley and Heathcliff stood close by, each wishing that Libris would hurry up so they could collect their statuette. 'I have a few words to say about the new operating system and then we can all get back to the awards.'

He took a deep breath.

'Many good words have been written about UltraWord™ and I have to tell you, they are all true. The benefits to everyone will be felt throughout the BookWorld, from the lowliest D-10 in the trashiest paperback to the finest A-1 in high literature.'

I walked to the side of the stage, towards the swing doors that led through to the hospitality lounge. Legree followed but was tripped up by Mathias' widow. She placed a hoof on his chest and held him firm while Mrs Hubbard grabbed one arm and Miss Muffet the other. It had been done so quietly no one had noticed.

'Non-fiction is gaining in popularity and this invasion into areas historically part of fiction must be cut off at the root. To this end myself and the technicians at Text Grand Central have created UltraWord™, the Book Operating System that gives us more choice, more plots, more ideas, and more ways in which to work. With these tools you and I will forge a new fiction, a fiction so varied that the readers will flock to us in droves. The future is bright — the future is UltraWord™.'

'Going somewhere, missy?' asked Heep, blocking my path.

'Get out of my way, Uriah.'

He pulled a gun from his pocket but stopped dead when a voice said:

'Do you know what an eraserhead can do to an A-7 like you, Heep?'

Bradshaw emerged from behind a potted Triffid. He was carrying his trusty hunting rifle. Heep, coward that he was, dropped his pistol and started pleading for his life.

I walked through the swing doors and pulled out my mobile footnoterphone. Hospitality was deserted but I met Tweed at the entrance to the stage. I could see Libris talking and, beyond him, the audience hanging on his every word.

'Of course,' he went on, 'the new system will need new work procedures and all of you have had ample time to study our detailed seven-hundred-page prospectus; all jobs will be protected, the status of all Generics will be maintained. In a few minutes I will ask for a vote to carry the new system as required by the Council of Genres. But before I do, let us go over the main points again. Firstly, UltraWord™ will support the possibility of a "no frills" range of books with only forty-three different words, none of them longer than six letters. Designed for the hard-of-reading, these …'

I leaned forward and spoke to Tweed as Libris carried on talking to the audience.

"Is that why you invited all the C— and D-class Generics, Tweed?'

'What do you mean?'

'So you could force the vote? Your lies have greatest effect on those with little influence in the Well — give them the power to change something and they'll meekly follow you. After Libris has finished I'll give a rebuttal. When I'm done you and Libris and UltraWord™ will be history.'