“No,” I replied, “I’m here for a psychiatric evaluation at Commander Braxton Hicks’s behest.”

“Thank God for that,” he said with obvious relief. “I thought I’d have to listen to the crazy antics of some deranged operative who should have been straitjacketed long ago.”

He paused for a second. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?” “I’m afraid so.”

“Damn. I’m Dr. Newton Chumley by the way.”

“Detective Thursday Next,” I said, shaking his hand.

He placed a file in the cabinet, then took out a manila folder. It was big, and Dr. Chumley heaved it to the desk with a thump. He was a young man, probably recently graduated, but the work was already having an affect. His eyes were red, and he had a noticeable tremor.

“You have no idea what I have to go through,” he said, offering me a seat before sitting himself. “It’s intolerable, I tell you, intolerable.”

He rested his face in his hands.

“Early this morning,” he said quietly through his fingers, “I had someone who had killed a zombie with a sharpened spade.”

“That would be Spike,” I replied brightly, having joined him on a few of these expeditions myself.

“And doesn’t anything about that seem remotely unusual to you?”

I reflected for a moment. “Not really . . . Wait—”

“Yes?”

“Spike usually favors a semiauto twelve-gauge. He must have been out of cartridges and used whatever was at hand. It’s one of his many talents. Adaptability.”

“Very . . . laudable,” murmured Dr. Chumley, lapsing once more into quiet despondency.

“Actually,” I added in order to fill the silence, “technically speaking, zombies are already dead, so you can’t kill them—just disable the diseased part of the cortex that gives them locomotion and an insatiable thirst for human flesh.”

“I so didn’t want to know that,” said Chumley, staring at me, “and will now have to do my very best to forget it. But I have a feeling the thought will remain and fester in my subconscious until it bubbles to the surface as a fullyfledged neurosis a dozen years from now, when I begin to have an inexplicable aversion to buttons and hedgehogs.”

He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and then opened the bulging file, which I noted had my name on the cover. I’d forgotten how much stuff I’d done.

He indicated the closed door. “Do you know Officer Stiggins?”

“Yes, very well.”

“He uses ‘we’ when he means ‘I.’ Is that an affectation?”

“Neanderthals are hardwired Marxist,” I told him, “and have no concept of the first-person singular pronoun. He would die tomorrow without fear or worry if he felt it would better serve his community.”

“Are you saying Karl Marx was a neanderthal?”

“He was exceptionally hairy,” I said reflectively, “but no, I don’t think so.”

“You know what’s really strange?”

“You could once buy lion cubs at Harrods?” I replied helpfully. “That’s pretty strange.”

“Not as strange as this: Of everyone I’ve interviewed, Officer Stiggins is the most normal. Sensible, thoughtful and utterly without ego. That’s strange, given that he’s the only one who’s not human.”