Mort

'This bit.'

Cutwell shuddered. 'It's very impressive,' he said, when he could trust himself to speak. 'You don't think it's perhaps a bit mature, though?'

'It's queenly.'

'Yes, but perhaps it won't allow you to move very fast?'

'I have no intention of running. There must be dignity.' Once again the set of her jaw traced the line of her descent all the way to her conquering ancestor, who preferred to move very fast at all times and knew as much about dignity as could be carried on the point of a sharp spear.

Cutwell spread his hands.

'All right,' he said. 'Fine. We all do what we can. I just hope Mort has come up with some ideas.'

'It's hard to have confidence in a ghost,' said Keli. 'He walks through walls!'

'I've been thinking about that,' said Cutwell. 'It's a puzzle, isn't it? He walks through things only if he doesn't know he's doing it. I think it's an industrial disease.'

'What?'

'I was nearly sure last night. He's becoming real.'

'But we're all real! At least, you are, and I suppose I am.'

'But he's becoming more real. Extremely real. Nearly as real as Death, and you don't get much realler. Not much realler at all.'

'Are you sure?' said Albert, suspiciously.

'Of course,' said Ysabell. 'Work it out yourself if you like.'

Albert looked back at the big book, his face a portrait of uncertainty.

'Well, they could be about right,' he conceded with bad grace, and copied out the two names on a scrap of paper. There's one way to find out, anyway.'

He pulled open the top drawer of Death's desk and extracted a big iron keyring. There was only one key on it.

WHAT HAPPENS NOW? said Mort.

'We've got to fetch the lifetimers,' said Albert. 'You have to come with me.'

'Mort!' hissed Ysabell.

'What?'

'What you just said —' She lapsed into silence, and then added, 'Oh, nothing. It just sounded . . . odd.'

'I only asked what happens now,' said Mort.

'Yes, but — oh, never mind:'

Albert brushed past them and sidled out into the hallway like a two-legged spider until he reached the door that was always kept locked. The key fitted perfectly. The door swung open. There wasn't so much as a squeak from its hinges, just a swish of deeper silence.

And the roar of sand.

Mort and Ysabell stood in the doorway, transfixed, as Albert stamped off between the aisles of glass. The sound didn't just enter the body via the ears, it came up through the legs and down through the skull and filled up the brain until all that it could think of was the rushing, hissing grey noise, the sound of millions of lives being lived. And rushing towards their inevitable destination.