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example, you wish to see the proprietor.’
    ‘Not me! Him!’
    Pausing only to allow the interjection to die, Popplewick patiently plodded on. ‘Now the procedure is to make an appointment.’
     
    ‘We’re already expected,’ reminded the Doctor.
    ‘But the junior Mr Popplewick is not empowered to expect anyone.’
    ‘Look, old mate, you knew we were coming. Why didn’t you give him the nod?’
    ‘And upset the procedure?’ Fleetingly the bland expression showed shock. ‘The junior Mr Popplewick has his pride too.’
    The stifling tangle of red tape goaded Glitz. ‘I don’t understand any of this. Here we are, waiting to duck a terminal sandwich from the Valeyard, and this screed’s –’
    Mr Popplewick huffed at the disrespectful description!
    ‘– going on about whether we’ve got an appointment or not!’
    ‘Gently, Glitz.’
    But Glitz was launched. ‘He’ll be wanting to examine our teeth next to see how old we are!’
    ‘That only applies to horses.’
    ‘Does this geezer know that!’
    ‘Mr Popplewick.’
    ‘Yes, Doctor?’
    ‘Is there no way we can expedite the procedure?’
    ‘Expedite?’ The portly clerk pulled himself up to his full sitting height. He was tall. Surely as tall as the Doctor. ‘I am a senior clerk, sir.’ His ample chest rose and fell with outraged emotion beneath his spruce alpaca waistcoat. ‘To me the procedure is sacrosanct.’ He lifted his chin – chins
    – with pride. ‘My work is a celebration of all that is perfect.
    Why speed perfection?’
    ‘Because your proprietor wants me dead.’
    ‘Ah.’ A temporary hiatus only. ‘It seems you have found the one little weakness in our procedure, sir.’ Matter-of-factly, he adjusted his half-spectacles, pinched the bridge of his nose between plump finger and thumb... and then selected a document. ‘Would you sign this, please?’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘A consent form, sir.’ He offered his quill pen. ‘The corridors in this factory are long and dark. Should you unexpectedly die –’
    The mention of death convulsed Glitz. The harpoon clattered to the floor.
    ‘Do go on, Mr Popplewick,’ urged the Doctor.
    ‘Should you, as was afore stated, unexpectedly die, our blessed proprietor, Mr J. J. Chambers, insists that he inherits your remaining lives.’
    ‘The Valeyard must be concerned the High Council may no longer be in a position to fulfil their side of the deal.’
    ‘Don’t sign anything, Doc! You’re a dead man as soon as you put your monicker on there.’
    ‘No choice, Sabalom. We are in the Valeyard’s domain.
    He can kill me any time he likes. I’ll sign my remaining lives over to Mr J. J. Chambers.’ He accepted the proffered quill pen and wrote his signature with a flourish.
    ‘Excellent. Thank you, sir.’
    ‘Now can I see your proprietor?’
    ‘The waiting room is that way.’ Lodging the quill pen behind his left ear – as opposed to the right ear used by his junior doppelganger – Popplewick pointed to a door on the far side of the office labelled –
    WAITING ROOM
    ‘You will be summoned as soon as your signature has been verified.’
    The Doctor crossed to the door.
    ‘This is madness, Doc!’
    ‘Not if it precipitates my meeting with the Valeyard.’ He twisted the old fashioned brass handle and was projected into a most unusual waiting room...
    Mud!
    Vast stretches of it, lapped by a desultory sea and hemmed in by barren sand dunes.
    ‘This is a very odd waiting room. Where are the hopelessly out-of-date magazines?’ he quipped. Even at moments this bizarre, the Doctor’s irrepressible humour did not desert him.
    Glitz had though.
    ‘Glitz!’ he called, aware he was alone. ‘Glitz!’
    And received an answer.
    But not from the amiable rogue.
    Instead, a gloating laugh echoed through the troughs of the sandy hillocks.
    ‘Valeyard!’ The Doctor recognised the laugh. ‘What’ve you done with Glitz?’
    ‘Look to your own predicament, Doctor.’ The threat in the