'Y-es,' I said uncertainly, 'she said she would – um – see you when she gets back.'

'She did?' replied Arnold, brightening up. 'That's a good sign. Normally she calls me a loser and tells me to go rot in hell.'

'She probably won't be back for a while,' I added, trying to make up for not passing on Mary's message properly, 'maybe a year – maybe more.'

'I see,' he murmured, sighing deeply and staring off across the lake. He caught sight of Pickwick, who was attempting to out-stare a strange aquatic bird with a rounded bill.

'What's that?' he asked suddenly.

'I think it's a duck although I can't be sure – we don't have any where I come from.'

'No, the other thing.'

'A dodo.'¹

'What's the matter?' asked Arnold.

I was getting a footnoterphone signal; in the BookWorld people generally communicated like this.

'A footnoterphone call,' I replied, 'but it's not a message – it's like the wireless back home.'²

Arnold stared at me.

'You're not from around here, are you?'

'I'm from what you call the Outland³

He opened his eyes wide.

'You mean … you're real?

'I'm afraid so,' I replied, slightly bemused.

'Goodness! Is it true that Outlanders can't say "Red-Buick-Blue-Buick" many times quickly?'

'It's true. We call it a tongue-twister.'

'Fascinating!' he replied. 'There's nothing like that here, you know. I can say: "The sixth sheikh's sixth sheep's sick" over and over as many times as I want!'

And he did, three times.

'Now you try.'

I took a deep breath.

'The sixth spleeps sics sleeks sick.'

Arnold laughed like a drain. I don't think he'd come across anything quite so funny in his life. I smiled.

'Do it again!' he urged.

'No thanks.⁴ How do I stop this footnoterphone blabbering inside my skull?'

'Just think "off" very strongly.'

I did, and the footnoterphone stopped.

'Better?'

I nodded.

'You'll get the hang of it.'

He thought for a minute, looked up and down the lake in an overtly innocent manner, and then said:

'Do you want to buy some verbs? Not any of your rubbish, either. Good, strong, healthy regulars – straight from the Text Sea – I have a friend on a scrawltrawler.'

I smiled.

'I don't think so, Arnold – and I don't think you should ask me – I'm Jurisfiction.'

'Oh,' said Arnold, looking pale all of a sudden. He bit his lip and gave such an imploring look that I almost laughed.

'Don't sweat,' I told him, 'I won't report it.'

He sighed a deep sigh of relief, muttered his thanks, remounted his motorbike and drove off in a jerky fashion, narrowly missing the mail boxes at the top of the track.

The interior of the flying boat was lighter and more airy than I had imagined but it smelt a bit musty. Mary was mistaken; she had not been halfway through the craft's conversion – it was more like one tenth. The walls were half panelled with pine tongue-and-groove, and rock wool insulation stuck out untidily along with unused electrical cables. There was room for two floors within the boat's cavernous hull, the downstairs a large open-plan living room with a couple of old sofas pointing towards a television set. I tried to switch it on but it was dead – there was no TV in the BookWorld unless called for in the narrative. Much of what I could see around me was merely props, necessary for the chapter in which Jack Spratt visits the Sunderland to discuss the case. On the mantelpiece above a small wood-burning stove were pictures of Mary from her days at the police training college, and another from when she was promoted to detective sergeant.