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the right place?’
    ‘Perfectly.’ He pounded on the bell. Repeatedly.
    The moon-shaped face of Mr Popplewick was slowly lifted. ‘Yes?’
    ‘We’ve come to see the proprietor.’
    ‘Do you have an appointment, sir? Mr Chambers only sees people by appointment. Most particular about appointments is our Mr Chambers.’ The precise, clipped consonants complemented the pendantic tenor of the information.
    ‘Yeah, but we don’t want to jump the queue,’ said Glitz piously. ‘We’ll come back when he’s not busy –’
    ‘I think you’ll find we’re expected,’ the Doctor cut in.
    ‘And your name, sir?’
    ‘I’m known as the Doctor. And this is –’
    ‘Anonymous! I’m travelling incognito –’
    ‘– is Mr Sabalom Glitz.’
    Lodging the quill pen behind his right ear, Popplewick consulted the appointments diary, running a stubby forefinger down a list of names.
    Glitz inched closer to the Doctor – and to a vantage point from which to look over the list: you never knew what tickles you might chance on by reading someone else’s correspondence! ‘If this Valeyard wants you dead,’ he muttered in a low voice. ‘He’s got a rum way of going about it.’
    ‘I told you. It’s called humiliation.’ A loud, impatient sigh for the pedantic clerk’s benefit. ‘Can you hurry? We haven’t got all day.’
    ‘There are procedures to follow, sir. Necessary routines to be completed.’ The search stopped: doing two things at once – talking and reading – were not attributes to which Popplewick aspired. ‘Even when I have found your name, there are many forms to be inscribed before you may move on to the next stage of processing.’
    Processing! The prospect sent shivers along Glitz’s spine: isn’t that what they did to ersatz cheese!
    Popplewick sniffed. ‘Processing is very important in this establishment.’
    He eyed the Doctor with distaste: the yellow and black striped trousers, the patchwork coat, tartan waistcoat and pea-green watch chain filled him with disgust. But devotion to duty dictated he must act with civility. ‘I’m sure even you can understand that such things cannot be rushed... sir.’ He could not resist spitting out the obligatory polite form of address.
     
    The Doctor’s attention had strayed. Faintly discernible in the flickering flame was another door bearing a notice –
    ENTRANCE BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always been a bit of an iconoclast by nature.’ The reply was cover to enable him to reach the door.
    Popplewick had detected this. ‘You cannot go in there, sir!’ he said, alarmed. ‘Not without an appointment!’
    Too late.
    The door creaked open.
    And so did the Doctor’s jaw...
    In amazement...
     
    9

A Sticky End
    Another Mr Popplewick sat inside.
    In an identical office.
    At an identical desk. Except that his seniority was reflected in petty embellishments: two spluttering candles instead of one; a branched hatstand for his raglan coat; engraved lettering on the tome-like ledger.
    And this Mr Popplewick reflected the similarity.
    Same frock-coat, winged collar, and cravat as the other Mr Popplewick. The sole difference was in the spectacles perched on his nose. They were half-frame, enabling him to blink over the top of them at the newcomers.
    ‘Ah, Doctor.’ His mariner, too, was slightly more friendly: though still weighted by the dogma of bureaucracy.
    ‘At least you’re expecting us.’
    ‘We all are.’
    ‘Your lookalike outside wasn’t,’ volunteered Glitz.
    ‘He is the exception. As a very junior clerk, Mr Popplewick is not permitted to expect anyone, sir.’
    ‘Hey, Doc,’ Glitz nudged the Doctor familiarly. ‘What’s he talking about?’
    ‘I think it’s called bureaucracy.’
    ‘I prefer to call it order, sir. And the holy writ of order is procedure. I’m sure you agree.’ The mellifluous tones, so reminiscent of his junior, were directed at the rough and ready Glitz.
    ‘Oh, yeah, of course.’
    ‘For