To his right, at a much larger desk, sat a tall man in a black cloak with scarlet lining. Unlike the little fellows below, his skin was very pale, and his horns were larger and seemed to have been polished to a bright sheen. He had a thin mustache on his upper lip, and a beard that came to a pronounced point at the end of his chin. It was the sort of beard worn by someone who is Up to No Good, and doesn’t care who knows it. It was a beard that conjured up images of Dastardly Schemes, of women being Tied to Train Tracks and orphans being Deprived of Their Inheritances. It was a beard that screamed “I’m a Wrong ’Un, and Make No Mistake About It.”

On the desk, close to where the bearded gentleman’s black, pointed boots were currently crossed, there was a sign that read: “A. Bodkin, Demon-in-Charge.”

Dozy noted that A. Bodkin, Demon-in-Charge, was reading a newspaper called The Infernal Times.23 The headline read:

GREAT MALEVOLENCE CONSIDERING NEXT MOVE

“Victory Will Be Ours,” says Chancellor Ozymuth. “Anyone who doubts this will be dismembered.”

A smaller substory announced:

ACTION TO BE TAKEN AGAINST MRS. ABERNATHY

“Someone has to take responsibility for failure of invasion,” says Chancellor Ozymuth, “and I’ve decided it should be her.”

This Chancellor Ozymuth seems to be getting around, thought Dozy. He might not have been the brightest of dwarfs, but he was developing the uncomfortable suspicion that all was not quite right here.

“Morning,” he said, then thought about it. “Afternoon. Er, evening?”

A. Bodkin looked to where Dozy was standing. He puffed his cheeks and blew air from his mouth in the bored, world-weary manner of middle managers everywhere whose lot in life is to be disturbed just when they’re about to reach the good bit of something, and therefore never get to experience the good bit of anything, which makes them even more bored and world-weary.

“Yes?” said A. Bodkin. “What is it?”

“Just wondering what all those blokes are doing.”

A. Bodkin lowered his newspaper.

“Blokes? Blokes? They’re not ‘blokes’: they’re highly trained demonic operatives, not just some imps-come-lately with lunch boxes and an attitude. Blokes. Tch!”

A. Bodkin returned to his newspaper, muttering about unions, and toilet breaks, and demons being lucky to have a job.

“Yes, but what are they doing?” repeated Dozy.

A. Bodkin rustled his newspaper in an I’m-very-busy-and-don’t-want-to-be-disturbed way, then, realizing that the short annoying person by his desk was not about to go away, lowered the paper again resignedly and said:

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re grinding the bones of the dead.”

“Grinding?” said Dozy.

“Yes.”

“Bones?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. They’re hardly going to grind the bones of the living, are they? That would just be messy.”