“The DRESDEN RICE committee is supposed to formulate policy for dealing with, ah, PHANG syndrome as they’re calling it. From a human resources and health and safety perspective. First it was nobbled from the top down—the only person on it with OPERA CAPE clearance was yours truly, and it was over-endowed with WOMBATs.” (A WOMBAT is a Waste Of Money, Brains, And Time: the non-IT equivalent of a PEBCAK. (A PEBCAK is a Problem that Exists Between Chair And Keyboard. (You get the picture: it’s parenthesized despair all the way down.))) “So I complained to Lockhart”—Andy looks at me sharply, but Pete, bless his little cotton socks, shows no sign of awareness, being focussed entirely on fulfilling the hedonistic whims of a furry egomaniac with a brain the size of a walnut—“who said he’d investigate. Anyway, the upshot is that the DRESDEN RICE chair was replaced by someone who does indeed have OPERA CAPE clearance . . . Mhari.”

“Mhari.” Andy frowns: it was a long time ago. “Wasn’t she your—”

“Never mind that,” I say hastily, “the point is, they just handed Dracula the keys to the blood bank.”

“Why would they do that?” Pete looks up, interested, to the apparent displeasure of his lap fungus. “For that matter, who are the ‘they’ you speak of?”

“Management,” I say hastily, just as Andy says “Mahogany Row.” I send him a dark look.

“What’s Mahogany Row?” asks Pete.

“Management,” I say firmly. Andy looks as if he’s about to contradict me, then gets the message and shuts up. “So-called because back in Dansey House—which is currently a hole in the ground, thanks to the public-private partnership that’s years behind schedule on the refurbishment—the floor the executive offices were on had plush carpet and mahogany-paneled walls. Very old-school, high-end civil service.”

This is actually only about 25 percent falsehood: Mahogany Row (the office floor) did have tropical hardwood paneling, and if the bastards from Ove Arup or Foster Associates or Wimpey or whoever have vandalized it some of us will be very annoyed. But describing Mahogany Row (the people) as “management” is a bit like calling a B-52 bomber an “air freight delivery vehicle.” They manage problems, yes. The rest of the organization exists to support them, certainly. But the way they manage problems resembles normal management practice the way a B-52’s cargo of free-fall thousand-pound bombs resembles a Post Office sorting room.

Pete points a questioning index finger at the ceiling and makes a circling motion while raising an eyebrow.

“What?” asks Andy.

“You make it sound like the House of Bishops. Somewhat political and hands-off.”

“They are, usually,” I explain. If they weren’t, there’d be glowing craters all over the landscape. “But in this case it really looks like a case of hands-on management, with some deliberate meddling.”

“This Mary—”

“Mhari.”

“Mhari. What’s wrong with her? Apart from . . .”