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the effusions of that crackpot from the Gloomberg Mountains. Nightingale, of all people! Although I wasn’t too well acquainted with his work, I knew enough to know that his scientific view of the world was far removed from my own poetic conception of it.
    ‘Only superficially,’ I replied coolly, anxious to get out fast before natural courtesy prompted me to let the gnome foist one of Nightingale’s unreadable tomes on me.
    ‘Superficiality implies a lack of profundity,’ he rejoined. ‘Perhaps you’d be interested in a secondary work devoted to Nightingale’s scientific research into Zamonian labyrinthology? It’s a fascinating treatise by Dr Ostafan Kolibri, one of his most gifted pupils. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it sheds considerable light on the decipherment of labyrinths in general.’
    ‘I’m not particularly interested in labyrinths, to be honest,’ I said, backing away. ‘I fear I’m in the wrong shop.’
    ‘Oh, aren’t you interested in the sciences? You’re looking for belleslettres? Escapist literature for refugees from reality? You’re looking for novels ? Then you have indeed come to the wrong address. I sell non-fiction only.’ There was no hostility or arrogance in his tone. He sounded politely informative, nothing more.
    I grasped the door handle. ‘Please forgive me,’ I said stupidly, turning it. ‘I’m new in this city.’
    ‘You come from Lindworm Castle?’
    I stopped short. One of the invariable constants in the life of a dinosaur that walks on two legs is that everyone can tell his birthplace at a glance. I had yet to discover whether this was an advantage or a disadvantage.
    ‘I suppose that’s obvious,’ I retorted.
    ‘Please forgive my somewhat derogatory generalisation on the subject of fiction. I had to devise a few stock remarks designed to shake off the tourists who keep barging in and asking for signed first editions of the Prince Sangfroid novels. Although this is a purely non-fiction establishment, I myself have devoured many a novel from Lindworm Castle.’ The dwarfish figure bent over a book-laden table and lit a candle. ‘And please forgive the subdued lighting. I think better in the dark.’
    The ignited wick shed a dramatic light on the little creature’s face. The flame danced nervously at first, then steadied and became less bright. The proprietor was a Nocturnomath - that I could tell without ever having seen one before. The shape of his cranium was unmistakable, as I knew from various encyclopaedias, and indicated that he possessed at least three brains. I now realised that the mysterious clicks emanated from his skull. A Nocturnomath’s thought processes are audible.
    ‘My name is Ahmed ben Kibitzer.’ The Nocturnomath extended a bunch of twiglike fingers. I shook them gingerly.
    ‘I’m Optimus Yarnspinner,’ I said.
    ‘Have you published anything?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘In that case you’ll forgive me for not having read anything of yours.’
    I laughed stiffly, feeling an utter fool. I was a literary nobody.
    ‘But, as I said, I’ve devoted a substantial proportion of my life to Lindwormian literature. My doctoral dissertation was an analysis of the effect of the poikilothermic circulation of dinosaurian authors on their stylistic concinnity.’
    ‘Really?’ I said, as if I knew what he was talking about. ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’
    ‘That a cold-blooded circulation can be quite compatible with stylistic harmony and elegance. Lindworms are born writers, I can prove it scientifically.’
    ‘That’s very flattering.’

    ‘In fact,’ the gnome went on, ‘I’m of the opinion that, from the purely organic point of view, your species is positively made for writing. Your long lifespan is an important aid to mature craftsmanship and your three claw-tipped fingers are ideal for gripping pen and pencil. As for your thick saurian hide, it’s the finest protection against poor reviews.’ He tittered.