'Thursday Next' (№4) - Something rotten

'How are you doing?' asked Joffy, who, as well as being a minister for the GSD and several other smaller denominations, was also head of the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx.

'Fine. Isn't that Lydia Startright?'

I was pointing at a well-dressed female reporter readying herself for a broadcast.

'She's about to interview me. How do I look?'

'Very . . . ecclesiastical.'

'Good. Excuse me.'

He straightened his dog collar and walked over to join Lydia. She was standing next to her producer, a small and curiously unappealing man who was so unoriginal of thought that he still considered it cool and desirable for people in the media to wear black.

'What time is old Zvlkxy due to appear?' the producer asked Joffy.

'In about five minutes.'

'Good. Lyds, we'd better go live.'

Lydia composed herself, took one more look at her notes, awaited the count-in of the producer, gave a welcoming smile and began.

'Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is Lydia Startright for Toad News Network reporting live from Swindon. In under five minutes St Zvlkx, the obscure and sometimes controversial thirteenth-century saint, is due to be resurrected here, live on regional TV.'

She turned to indicate the weathered pieces of stone, previously ignored by thousands of shoppers but now the centre of attention.

'On this spot once stood the towering Great Cathedral of Swindon, founded by St Zvlkx in the thirteenth century. Where the wet-fish counter now stands was where St Zvlkx penned his "Book of Revealments" containing seven sets of prophecies, five of which have already come true. To help us through the quagmire of claims and counter-claims I have with me the Very Irrev. Joffy Next, head of the Church of the Global Standard Deity here in Swindon, speaker at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and something of an expert in things Zvlkxian. Hello, Joffy, welcome to the show.' 'Thank you, Lydia,' said Joffy, 'we're all big fans of yours at the GSD.'

'Thank you. So tell me, what exactly are the Revealments?'

'Well,' he began, 'details are understandably vague, but St Zvlkx wrote a number of predictions in a small book before he vanished in a "cleansing fire" in 1292. An incomplete copy of the Revealments is in the Swindon City Library, but unlike those of most of the other seers who make vague and sweeping generalisations that are open to interpretation, St Zvlkx's predictions are refreshingly specific.'

'Perhaps you could give us an example?'

'Of course. Part of Zvlkx's Revealment the First tells us that: A lowly butcher's son from the town of Ipswich will rise to be Lord Chancellor. His name shall be Tommy Wolsey, and he will be inaugurated the day before Christmas, and shall get only one present, not two, as should be his right . . .'

'That's uncannily accurate!' breathed Lydia.

'Indeed — existing letters from Cardinal Wolsey indicate most strongly that he was "vexed and annoyed" at having to make do with only one present, something he often spoke about and which might have contributed, many years later, to his failure to persuade the Pope to grant Henry VIII an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon.'

'Remarkable,' said Lydia. 'What else?'

'Well,' continued Joffy, 'Zvlkx's Revealment the Second told us that: . . . It shall be known as the "Sail of the Century" — an armada of over a hundred ships smelling of paella shall cross the Channel. Fire and wind will conspire to destroy them, England will remain free . . .'

'Not quite so good,' said Lydia.

'I agree,' replied Joffy. 'Paella wasn't invented until after the Spanish Armada. There are the odd mistakes, but even so his accuracy is astonishing. Not only do his Revealments include names and dates but also, on one occasion, a reliable phone number for a good time in Leeds. By the end of the sixteenth century St Zvlkx had been afforded that rare hallmark of unbridled Elizabethan success — the commemorative plate. By the time of his next Revealment a century and a half later his supporters and followers had dwindled to only a handful. But when it arrived, this Revealment the Third catapulted Zvlkx back into the world's headlines: . . . In 1776, a George King numbered three will lose his mind, his largest colony, and his socks. The colony will grow to be the greatest power in the world but his mind and his socks will stay lost . . .'

'And the fourth?'

'. . . a man named after a form of waterproof shoe will trounce a short Frenchman in Belgium . . .'

'Clearly Waterloo — and the fifth?'

'. . . The evil yet nattily dressed aggressors known as Nasis, fear of whom has polarised the nation, will be ejected from these islands by — and I know this sounds really weird — the colony that was mentioned in prediction three. And Denis Compton will score 3,816 runs for Middlesex in a single season . . .'

'Uncanny,' murmured Lydia. 'How would a thirteenth-century monk know that Compton batted for Middlesex?'

'He was, and indeed might be again, the greatest of seers,' replied Joffy.

'We know that his Revealment the Sixth was a prediction of his own second coming, but it is the sports fans of Swindon who will really be bowled over by his Revealment the Seventh.'

'Exactly so,' replied Joffy. 'According to the incomplete Codex Zvlkxus, it will be: There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of . . . There is more, but it's been lost. We can ask him about it when he reappears.'

'Fascinating stuff, Irrev. Next! Just one question. Where is he?'

I looked at my watch as Friday stood on my lap and stared that unnerving sort of two-year-old stare at the couple behind us. St Zvlkx was already three minutes late, and I saw Joffy bite his lip nervously. They had made much of the Great Man's predictions, and for him not to turn up would be just plain embarrassing — not to mention costly. Joffy had spent a great deal of Mum's savings learning Old English at the local adult education centre.

'Tell me, Irrev. Next,' continued Lydia, trying to pad out the interview, 'I understand the Toast Marketing Board has secured a sponsorship deal with St Zvlkx?'

'Indeed,' replied Joffy, 'we at the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx have secured on his behalf a very favourable deal with Toast, who wanted to have exclusive rights to his likeness and wisdom, if he has any.'

'Nevertheless, I understand the Goliath Corporation were said to be interested?'

'Not really. Goliath have been less than enthusiastic since their sportswear division paid over a quarter of a million for an exclusive sponsorship deal with St Bernadette of Lincoln. But since her return six months ago she has done nothing except brick herself up in a room and pray in silent retrospection, something that doesn't lend itself to selling running shoes. The Toast Marketing Board, on the other hand, made no such demands — they are happy just to see what Zvlkx himself would like to do for them.'

Lydia turned back to the camera.

'Astonishing. If you've just joined us this is a live telecast of the second coming of the thirteenth-century saint, Thomas Zvlkx.'

I looked at my watch again. Zvlkx was now five minutes late. Lydia carried on with her live broadcast, interviewing several other people to soak up time. The crowd grew slightly impatient and a low murmuring started to emerge from the expectant silence. Lydia had just asked a style guru about the sort of clothes they might be expecting Zvlkx to be wearing when she was interrupted by a shout. Something was happening just outside Tesco's between the child's coin-in-the-slot flying elephant ride and the letterbox. Joffy vaulted over the press enclosure and ran towards where a column of smoke was rising from a crack that had opened up in the mother-and-child parking area. The sky grew dark, birds stopped singing and shoppers coming out of the revolving doors stared in astonishment as a bolt of lightning struck the weathered stone arch and split it asunder. There was a collective cry of alarm as a wind sprang up from nowhere. Pennants advertising new Saver product lines which were hanging limply on the flagpoles came loose with a crack and a whirling mass of dust and waste paper spread across the car park, making several people cough.

Within a few moments it was all over. Sitting on the ground and dressed in a rough habit tied with a rope at the waist was a grubby man with a scraggy beard and exceptionally bad teeth. He blinked and looked curiously around at his new surroundings.

'Welcome,' said Joffy, the first on the scene, 'I represent the Idolatry Friends of St Zvlkx and offer you protection and guidance'

The thirteenth-century monk looked at him with his dark eyes, then at the crowd which had gathered closer to him, everyone talking and pointing and asking him whether they could have their pictures taken with him.

'Your accent is not bad,' replied St Zvlkx slowly. 'Is this 1988?'

'It is, sir. I've brokered a sponsorship deal for you with the Toast Marketing Board.'

'Cash?'

Joffy nodded.

'Thank ?*&ВЈ@ for that,' said Zvlkx. 'Has the ale improved Since I've been away?'

'Not much. But the choice is better.'

'Can't wait. Hubba-hubba! Who's the moppet in the tight blouse?'

'Mr Next,' interjected Lydia. who had managed to push her way to the front, 'perhaps you would be good enough to tell us what Mr Zvlkx is saying?'

'I — um — welcomed him to the twentieth century and said we had much to learn from him as regards beekeeping and the lost art of brewing mead. He — um — said just then that he is tired after his journey and wants only world peace, bridges between nations and a good home for orphans, kittens and puppies.'

The crowd suddenly parted to make way for the Mayor of Swindon. St Zvlkx knew power when he saw it and smiled a greeting to Lord Volescamper, who walked briskly up and shook the monk's grimy hand.

'Look here, welcome to the twentieth century, old salt,' said Volescamper, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. 'How are you finding it?"

'Welcome to our age,' translated Joffy, 'How are you enjoying your stay?'

'Cushty, me old cocker babe,' replied the saint simply.

'He says very well, thank you.'

'Tell the worthy saint that we have a welcome pack awaiting him in the presidential suite at the Finis Hotel. Knowing his aversion to comfort we took the liberty of removing all carpets, drapes, sheets and towels and replaced the bedclothes with hemp sacks stuffed with rocks.'

'What did the old fart say?'

'You don't want to know.'

'What about the incomplete seventh Revealment?' asked Lydia. 'Can St Zvlkx tell us anything about that?'

Joffy swiftly translated and St Zvlkx rummaged in the folds of his blanket and produced a small leather-bound book. The crowd fell silent as he licked a grubby finger, turned to the requisite page and read:

'There will be a home win on the playing fields of Swindonne in nineteen hundred and eighty-eight, and in consequence of this and only in consequence of this, a great tyrant and the company named Goliathe will fall.'

All eyes switched to Joffy, who translated. There was a sharp intake of breath and a clamour of questions.

'Mr Zvlkx,' said a reporter from The Mole, who up until that moment had been bored out of his skull, 'do you mean to say that Goliath will be lost if Swindon wins the Superhoop?'

'That is exactly what he says,' replied Joffy.

There was a further clamour of questions from the assembled journalists as I carefully tried to figure out the repercussions of this new piece of intelligence. Dad had said that a Superhoop win for Swindon would avert an armageddon and, if what Zvlkx was saying came true, a triumph on Saturday would do precisely this. The question was, how? There was no connection as far as I could see. I was still trying to think how a croquet final could unseat a near-dictator and destroy one of the most powerful multinationals on the planet when Lord Volescamper intervened and silenced the noisy crowd of newsmen with a wave of his hand.

'Mr Next, thank the gracious saint for his words. There is time enough to muse on his Revealment but right now I would like him to meet members of the Swindon Chamber of Commerce, which, I might add, is sponsored by St Biddulph'sВ® Hundreds and Thousands, the cake decoration of choice. After that we might take some tea and carrot cake. Would he be agreeable to that?'

Joffy translated every word and Zvlkx smiled happily.

'Look here, St Zvlkx,' said Volescamper as they walked towards the marquee for tea and scones, 'what was the thirteenth century like?'

'The mayor wants to know what the thirteenth century was like — and no lip, sunshine.'

'Filthy, damp, disease-ridden and pestilential.'

'He said it was like London, Your Grace.'

St Zvlkx looked at the weathered arch, the only visible evidence of his once great cathedral, and asked:

'What happened to my cathedral?'

'Burned durring the dissolution of the monasteries.'

'Got damn,' he muttered, eyebrows raised, 'should have seen that coming.'

'Duis aute dolor in fugiat nulla pariatur,' murmured Friday, pointing at St Zvlkx's retreating form, rapidly vanishing in a crowd of well-wishers and newsmen.

'I have no idea, sweetheart — but I've a feeling things are just beginning to get interesting.'

'Well,' said Lydia to the camera, 'a Revealment that could spell potential disaster for the Goliath Corporation and—'

Her producer was gesticulating wildly for her not to connect 'tyrant' with 'Kaine' live on air.

'—an as yet unnamed tyrant. This is Lydia Startright, bringing you a miraculous event live for Toad News. And now, a word from our sponsors, Goliath Pharmaceuticals, the makers of Haerrmarelief.'

12

Spike and Cindy

'Operative Spike Stoker was with SO-17, the Vampire and Werewolf disposal operation, undeniably the most lonely of the SpecOps divisions. SO-17 operatives worked in the twilight world of the semi-dead, changelings, vampires, lycanthropes and those of a generally evil disposition. Spike had been decorated more times than I had read Three Men in a Boat, but then he was the only staker in the South-west and no one in their right mind would do what he did on a SpecOps wage, except me. And only then when I was desperate for the cash.'

THURSDAY NEXT — My Life in SpecOps

I pushed Friday back towards my car, deep in thought. The stakes had just been raised and any chance that I might somehow influence the outcome of the Superhoop were suddenly made that much more impossible. With Goliath and Kaine both having a vested interest in making sure the Swindon Mallets lost, chances of our victory had dropped from 'highly unlikely' to 'nigh impossible'.

'It explains,' said a voice, 'why Goliath are changing to a faith-based corporate management system.'

I turned to find my stalker, Millon de Floss, walking close behind me. It must have been important for him to contravene the blanket restraining order. I stopped for a moment.

'Why do you think that?'

'Once they are a religion they won't be a company named Goliathe, as stated in Zvlkx's prophecy,' observed Millon, 'and they can avoid the Revealment coming true. Sister Bettina, their own corporate precog, must have foreseen something like this and alerted them.'

'Does that mean,' I asked slowly, 'that they're taking St Zvlkx seriously?'

'He's too accurate not to be, Miss Next, however unlikely it may seem. Now that they know the complete seventh Revealment, they'll try and do anything to stop Swindon winning — and continue with the religion thing as a back-up just in case.'

It made sense — sort of. Dad must have known this or something very like it. None of it boded very well, but my father had said the likelihood of this armageddon was only 22 per cent, so the answer must be somewhere.

'I'm going to visit Goliathopohs this afternoon,' I said thoughtfully. 'Have you found out anything about Kaine?'

Millon rummaged in his pocket for a notepad, found it and flicked through the pages, which seemed to be full of numbers.

'It's here somewhere,' he said apologetically. 'I like to collect vacumn-cleaner serial numbers and was investigating a rare Hoover XB-23E when I got the call. Here it is. This Kaine fellow is a conspiracist's delight. He arrived on the scene five years ago with no past, no parents, nothing. His national insurance number was only given to him in 1982, and it seems the only jobs he has ever held was with his publishing company and then as MP.'

'Not a lot to go on, then.'

'Not yet, but I'll keep on digging. You might be interested to know that he has been seen on several occasions with Lola Vavoom.'

'Who hasn't?'

'Agreed. You wanted to know about Mr Schitt-Hawse? He heads the Goliath tech division.'

'You sure?'

Millon looked dubious for a moment.

'In the conspiracy industry the word "sure" has a certain plasticity about it, but yes. We have a mole at Goliathopolis. Admittedly they only serve in the canteen, but you'd be surprised the sensitive information that one can overhear giving out shortbread fingers. Apparently Schitt-Hawse has been engaged in something called "The Ovitron Project". We're not sure but it might be a development of your uncle's ovinator. Could it be something along the lines of The Midwich Cuckoos?'

'I sincerely hope not.'

I made a few notes, thanked Millon for his time and continued heading back to my car, my head full of potential futures, ovinators and Kaine.

Ten minutes later we were in my Speedster, heading north towards Cricklade. My father had told me that Cindy would fail to kill me three times before she died herself, but there was a chance the future didn't have to turn out that way — after all, I had once been shot dead by a SpecOps marksman in an alternative future, and I was still very much alive.

I hadn't seen Spike for over two years but had been gratified to learn he had moved out of his dingy apartment to a new address in Cricklade. I soon found his street — it was a newly built estate of Cotswold stone which shone a warm glow of ochre in the sunlight. As we drove slowly down the road checking door numbers, Friday helpfully pointed out things of interest.

'Ipsum,' he said, pointing at a car.

I was hoping that Spike wasn't there so I could speak to Cindy on her own, but I was out of luck. I parked behind his SpecOps black-and-white and climbed out. Spike himself was sitting in a deckchair on the front lawn, and my heart fell when I saw that not only had he married Cindy but they had also had a child -a girl of about one was sitting on the grass next to him playing under a parasol. I cursed inwardly as Friday hid behind my leg. I was going to have to make Cindy play ball — the alternative wouldn't be good for her and would be worse for Spike and their daughter.

'Yo!' yelled Spike, telling the person on the other end of the phone to hold it one moment and getting up to give me a hug. 'How you doing, Next?'

'I'm good, Spike. You?'

He spread his arms, indicating the trappings of middle England suburbia. The UPVC double glazing, the well-kept lawn, the drive, the wrought-iron sunrise gate.

'Look at all this, sister! Isn't it the best?'

'Ipsum,' said Friday, pointing at a plant pot.

'Cute kid. Go on in. I'll be with you in a moment.'

I walked into the house and found Cindy in the kitchen. She had a pinny on and her hair tied up.

'Hello,' I said, trying to sound as normal as possible, 'you must be Cindy.'

She looked me straight in the eye. She didn't look like a professional assassin who had killed sixty-seven times — sixty-eight if she did Samuel Pring — yet the really good ones never do.

'Well, well, Thursday Next,' she said slowly, crouching down to pull some damp clothes out of the washing machine and tweaking Friday's ear. 'Spike holds you in very high regard.'

'Then you know why I'm here?'

She put down the washing, picked up a Fisher-Price Webster that was threatening to trip someone up, and passed it to Friday, who sat down to scrutinise it carefully.

'I can guess. Handsome lad. How old is he?'

'He was two last month. And I'd like to thank you for missing yesterday.'

She gave a wan smile and walked out of the back door. I caught up with her as she started to hang the washing on the line.

'Is it Kaine trying to have me killed?'

'I always respect client confidentiality,' she said quietly, 'and I can't miss for ever.'

'Then stop it right now,' I said. 'Why do you even need to do it at all?'

She pegged a blue Babygro on the line.

'Two reasons: first, I'm not going to give up work just because I'm married with a kid, and second, I always complete a contract, no matter what. When I don't deliver the goods the clients want refunds. And the Windowmaker doesn't do refunds.'

'Yes.' I replied, 'I was curious about that. Why the Window-maker?'

She glared at me coldly.

'The printers made a mistake on the notepaper and it would have cost too much to redo. Don't laugh.'

She hung up a pillowcase.

'I'll contract you out, Miss Next, but I won't try today — which gives you some time to get yourself together and leave town for good. Somewhere where I can't find you. And hide well — I'm very good at what I do.'

She glanced towards the kitchen. I hung a large SO-17 T-shirt on the line.

'He doesn't know, does he?' I said.

'Spike is a fine man,' replied Cindy, just a little slow on the uptake. You're not going to tell him and he's never going to know. Grab the other end of that sheet, will you?'

I took the end of a dry sheet and we folded it together.

'I'm not going anywhere, Cindy,' I told her, 'and I'll protect myself in any way I can.'

We stared at one another for a moment. It seemed like such a waste.

'Retire!'

'Never!'

'Why?'

'Because I like it and I'm good at it — would you like some tea, Thursday?'

Spike had entered the garden carrying the baby.

'So, how are my two favourite ladies?'

'Thursday was helping me with the washing, Spikey,' said Cindy, her hard-as-nails professionalism replaced by a silly sort of girlie ditsiness. 'I'll put the kettle on — two sugars, Thursday?'

'One.'

She skipped into the house.

'What do you think?' asked Spike in a low tone. 'Isn't she just the cutest thing ever?'

He was like a fifteen-year-old in love for the first time.

'She's lovely, Spike, you're a lucky man.'

'This is Betty,' said Spike, waving the tiny arm of the infant with his huge hand. 'One year old. You were right about being honest with Cindy — she didn't mind me doing all that vampire sh— I mean stuff. In fact I think she's kinda proud.'

'You're a lucky man,' I repeated, wondering just how I was going to avoid making him a widower and the gurgling child motherless.

We walked back into the house, where Cindy was busying herself in the kitchen.

'Where have you been?' asked Spike, depositing Betty next to Friday. They looked at one another suspiciously. 'Prison?'

'No. Somewhere weird. Somewhere other.'

'Will you be returning there?' asked Cindy innocently.

'She's only just got back!' exclaimed Spike. 'We don't want to be shot of her quite yet.'

'Shot of her — of course not,' replied Cindy, placing a mug of tea on the table. 'Have a seat. There are Hobnobs in that novelty dodo biscuit tin over there.'

'Thank you. So,' I continued, 'how's the vampire business?'

'So-so. Been quiet recently. Werewolves the same. I dealt with a few zombies in the city centre the other night but Supreme Evil Being containment work has almost completely dried up. There's been a report of a few ghouls, bogeys and phantoms in Winchester but it's not really my area of expertise. There's talk of disbanding the division and then taking me on freelance when they need something done.'

'Is that bad?'

'Not really. I can charge what I want with vampires on the prowl, but in slack times I'd be a bit stuffed — wouldn't want to send Cindy out to work full time, now, would I?'

He laughed and Cindy laughed with him, handing Betty a rusk. She gave it an almighty toothless bite and then looked puzzled when there was no effect. Friday took it away from her and showed how it was done.

'So what are you up to at present?' asked Spike.

'Not much. I just dropped in before I go off up to Goliathopolis — my husband still isn't back.'

'Did you hear about Zvlkx's Revealment?'

'I was there.'

'Then Goliath will want all the forgiveness they can get — you won't find a better time for forcing them to bring him back.'

We chatted for ten minutes or more until it was time for me to leave. I didn't manage to speak to Cindy on her own again, but I had said what I wanted to say — I just hoped she would take notice, but somehow I doubted it.

'If I ever have any freelance jobs to do, will you join me?' asked Spike as he was seeing me out of the door, Friday having eaten nearly all the rusks.

I thought of my overdraft.

'Please.'

'Good,' replied Spike, 'I'll be in touch.'

I drove down to the M4 to Saknussum International, where I had to run to catch the Gravitube to the James Tarbuck Graviport in Liverpool. Friday and I had a brief lunch before hopping on the shuttle to Goliathopolis. Goliath had taken my husband from me, and they could bring him back. And when you have a grievance with a company, you go straight to the top.

14

The Goliath Apologarium™

DANISH CAR 'A DEATHTRAP' CLAIMS KAINIAN MINISTER

Robert Edsel, the Kainian minister of road safety, hit out at Danish car manufacturer Volvo yesterday, claiming the boxy and unsightly vehicles previously considered one of the safest cars on the market to be die complete reverse — a deathtrap for anyone stupid enough to buy one. 'The Volvo fared very poorly in the rocket-propelled grenade test,' claimed Mr Edsel in a press release yesterday, 'and owners and their children risk permanent spinal injury when dropped in the car from heights as low as sixty feet.' Mr Edsel continued to pour scorn on the pride of the Danish motoring industry by revealing that the Volvo's air filters offered 'scant protection' against pyroclastic flows, poisonous fumes and other forms of common volcanic phenomena. 'I would very much recommend that anyone thinking of buying this poor Danish product should think again,' said Mr Edsel. When the Danish foreign minister pointed out that Volvos were, in fact, Swedish, Mr Edsel accused the Danes of once again attempting to blame their neighbours for their own manufacturing weaknesses.

Article in The Toad on Sunday. 16 July, 1988

The Isle of Man had been an independent corporate state within England since it was appropriated for the greater fiscal good in 1963. The surrounding Irish Sea was heavily mined to deter unwanted visitors and the skies above protected by the most technologically advanced anti-aircraft system known to man. It had hospitals and schools, a university, its own fusion reactor and also, leading from Douglas to Kennedy Graviport in New York, the world's only privately run Gravitube. The island was home to almost 200,000 people who did nothing but support, or support the support of, the one enterprise that dominated the small island: the Goliath Corporation.

The old Manx town of Laxey was renamed Goliathopolis and was now the Hong Kong of the British archipelago, a forest of glassy towers striding up the hillside towards Snaefell. The largest of these skyscrapers rose higher even than the mountain peak behind it and could be seen glinting in the sunlight all the way from Blackpool, weather permitting. In this building was housed the inner sanctum of the whole vast multinational, the cream of Goliath's corporate engineers. An employee could spend a lifetime on the island and never even get past the front desk. And it was on the ground floor of this building, right at the heart of the corporation, that I found the Goliath apologarium.

I joined a small queue in front of a modern glass-topped table where two smiling Goliath employees were giving out questionnaires and numbered tickets.

'Hello!' said one of the clerks, a youngish girl with a lopsided smile. 'Welcome to the Goliath Corporation's Apology Emporium. Sorry you had to wait. How can we help you?'

'The Goliath Corporation murdered my husband.'

'How simply dreadful!' she responded in a lame and insincere display of sympathy. 'I'm so sorry to hear that. Goliath, as part of their move to a faith-based corporate management system, are committed to reversing all the unpleasant matters we may previously have been engaged in. You need to fill in this form, and this form — and section D of this one — and then take a seat. We'll get one of our highly trained apologists to see you just as soon as they can.'