“I’m terribly sorry, Mister Dooven,” said the dog, still with a menu. “It really should have been checked for appropriately sized lumps. There’s nothing worse than pumpkin curry with too many indiscriminately-sized lumps of pumpkin.”

“Or too few.”

“Or too few, indeed, Mister Dooven, yes.”

“There ought to be a balance,” Oscar said. “Between lump size and number, and curry. Where I come from there’s a ratio.”

“I do recall this from last night, Mister Dooven.”

“It’s called the curry-lump ratio and it should never exceed four.”

“I shall jot that down immediately, Mister Dooven, and then write it out a hundred times later.”

“Two hundred.”

“Of course. My mistake. Two hundred.”

A rectified serving was brought, which Oscar also peered at it for a time.

“It’s too yellow.”

There was hesitation from both animals.

“But it’s made from pumpkin,” said the dog with the menu. “Inevitably it has a certain yellow tinge.”

“But not that yellow.”

“Is it that too yellow?”

“Look at it,” said Oscar. “It’s utterly yellow.”

It was peered at. “You know, I think you’re right. It is too yellow.”

“I’m allergic to yellow,” said Oscar. “Didn’t I tell you that last night?”

“Oh? Well, that would certainly account for the severity of your culinary seizure.” He peered up. “You got quite a lot on the ceiling.”

“Take it away,” said Oscar, “add one medium-sized lump and reduce its yellowness.”

The waiter looked at the other dog in panicked despair. “How in fluff do I manage that?”

Oscar gave him a withering look. “Don’t you know the refractive index of pumpkin curry?”

The look that was returned was blank. After this was shared between all three animals, the waiter hurried away for a third time, while the dog with the menu left to attend a patron who’d begun choking on an irregularly shaped lump.

Oscar was surprised when a cat sat down opposite.

She didn’t say anything, but looked at him with the sort of half smile that would be far more appropriate in his world than this one.

“Mister Dooven?” Her tone was soft and velvety, with a hint of ulterior motive that also didn’t belong.

Oscar stared for a moment. “I’m not doing autographs this evening.”

“I don’t want an autograph.”

“Oh.” He was disappointed, having enjoyed those demanded of him last night. Although The Daily Spoon had made him quite the hero, scribbling his name on various greasy surfaces had soon lost its appeal. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not interested in who you are, I’m interested in what you’ve done.”

“Look,” he said, wondering if this had something to do with insurance, “I didn’t ask him to set fire to his kitchen, all right? Actually, I did, but there must be some personal responsibility on his part—”

“I’m not interested in that, either.”

There was a wonderful darkness about her that hinted at a depth no one else here had. Amicability, regardless of how amicable, was ultimately one-dimensional.

Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t help winding them up.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name does not matter—”

“Too many consonants?”

“What?”

“Does your name have too many consonants.”

“Why would it have too many consonants?”

“It just sounds like the sort of thing you’d say if you were fed up trying to spell it to everyone.”

“It doesn’t have too many consonants.”

A third serving was brought. The lumps had been strained and arranged into a pile in the middle of the bowl, while something green and shaven had been sprinkled over the rest to alter its overall hue.

Oscar wasn’t interested in further games and took it without comment.

The dog hurried away before minds could be changed.

“I think I’m allergic to pumpkin,” Oscar said, through several mouthfuls. Despite his complaints, it was excellent. “My bowels have been so all over the place recently that I’m wondering if they aren’t already halfway home.”

“Yes,” said the cat, intrigue apparent. “I understand you’re from elsewhere.”

“And are you?”

“Oh, no. I am from Bisarah. I was born here.”

Oscar slurped, knowing it would not be frowned upon. “You don’t seem like you’re from Bisarah.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you’re not pandering, for a start.”

She smiled and looked away. She was dressed in thick woollen scarves, with long ear-rings that swung and make her ears droop. She was very stylish.

“Are you a journalist?” he asked. She had a certain refinement that reminded him of Vaasi-Vee. He dabbed his mouth on a corner of tablecloth that still bent.

“I am not, no.”

“Are you just tired then?”

“Why would I be tired?”

He shrugged. “It might explain why you sat down.”

There was a slight laugh and she looked away again. Although beautiful, there was something unsettling about her and he wondered whether she recognised his sarcasm.

“I am not tired, no,” she said. “But, as I mentioned, I am interested in what you have done.”

Oscar glanced at the ceiling. “I didn’t expect it to stay.”

“What?”

“You’re not referring to the ceiling?”He fell silent when her gaze scissored across him. There was assessment and calculation that did not belong.“You are not from Bisarah,” he said. “I can tell.”

Another slight smile while the look continued. “I can assure you that I am.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, surprised at his arrogance, though enjoyed it: he’d been tempered in his world and this one allowed him an attitude akin to the D’dôdô-Sette.

“I am from Bisarah, Mister Dooven, despite what you might think. Despite what you see.”

Oscar put his cutlery down. It wasn’t helping anyway. “Listen,” he said, “you can’t fool me. I’m from a world that sees right through pretence. My cynicism is a form of enlightenment—”

She took out a note book, opened it and began scribbling furiously.

What are you doing?” he said.

“Keep going.”

“What?”

“Keep going.”

“With what?”

“With what you were saying.” She hesitated. “Actually, how do you spell that?”

“Spell what?”

“That word you said.”

“Which word?”

“The one about a form of enlightenment.”

He thought. “Cynicism?”

“That’s the one! How is it spelt?”

He stared. “With a G.”

She wrote and then stared at the result, before looking up. “A silent G?”

He sat back. “You are a journalist.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough of journalists for one book. I appreciate the features and articles, and all the nice things that The Daily Spoon’s said, but I’m really not as impressive as everyone’s making me out to be.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“It really is. You have no idea how wrong those impressions are.”

“I’m not a journalist, Mister Dooven, I promise.”

He studied her for a time. If she was from Bisarah then she was incapable of lying, but her demeanour suggested otherwise. After further dabs, he released the tablecloth. It was making things worse anyway.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s say I believe you, that you’re from here. What do you want from me?”

“To learn.”

“Learn?”

“Yes.”

“To learn what?”

She leant closer, before glancing to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. “How to be naughty.”

He felt to have been slapped and his stare solidified.

She sat back. “But not just me, you understand. A group of us.”

“A group?”

“Yes. We get together monthly. We have for years. But we need help.”

“You’re telling me.”

Her eyes widened suddenly, as though not knowing where to start. “Perhaps it would be easier to show you. Perhaps you might meet with us.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Please. And in return, we might help you.”

“How would that work?”

“We understand what you want us to do, you see. In this world. The animals in it. We understand the need to stand up and fete—”

“Fight.”

“Fight, yes, but you’re going to have considerable difficulty imparting it to everyone else.”

“What exactly are you talking about?”

“I know about the meeting, Mister Dooven. With the Echelon.”

He wasn’t surprised. It was hardly secret. There was no need for secrets here. “What’s that got to do with you?”

She thought for a moment. “You could consider our group to be translator of sorts.”

“Translator?”

“Yes. I suspect you’re going to have considerable difficulty persuading the animals of these lands to understand, let alone practice your foreign customs: those of violence and revenge and gcynicism—”I'm more the

“It’s a silent G.”

“So you’re going to need help to impart that knowledge.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it knowledge.”

“What would you call it then?”

He shrugged. “Necessity.”

“Necessity then.”

“Look,” he said, “thanks for the offer, but you’re speaking to the wrong animal. I’m not involved with that side of things. I’m more the creative side of the operation.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. In fact, I’m putting together a theatre production to help convey some of those concepts. That’s how I’m contributing. Lydia and Mironaelk are really keen for me not to be involved in any of the actual physical stuff. I did a lot of work on things early on, so I’ve been relegated to a more supportive theatrical role.”

If she was a journalist, getting this out in the public arena would certainly help his case.

She sat back and looked at him with even greater admiration.

“I’ve done my bit with all this,” he continued, while toying with a floating lump. “I’m not interested in any of the technical side of things. I’m not an educator. That’s Lydia and Mironaelk’s role. And Flumpt, for that matter—although what he has to teach anyone is beyond me. My official title in all this is Cultural and Poetic Advisor.”

“Has that got anything to do with gardening magazine subscriptions?”

“Nothing, whatsoever. I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you. It’s got nothing to do with me anymore. None of this. It’s no longer my fight. It never was. My colleagues know this. Yes, I helped out when that thing was setting fire to everything, and yes, I did something similar on a couple of previous occasions, but it’s only because I was there and not because it was expected.”

She glanced around again and leant forward. Her voice was low, which was unnecessary, considering the feeding frenzy abounding.

“That’s not what it says in The Daily Spoon.”

“I couldn’t give a resounding fluff!” Indignation surged. Having to defend himself to complete strangers was more worrying that doing so to Lydia and Mironaelk. “Look, Letherin and Kilerete will handle things. They’ll be wonderful translators: they not only understand what is required, but the best way to convey it. They’ve been dealing with this stuff ever since it started. Letherin’s already smashed up some beasts. For fluff’s sake, he saved my life.”

She’d begun scribbling again.

“What are you writing now?” he asked.

“‘Smashed up some beasts’” She frowned in thought. “What does that mean, exactly? Is it naughty?”

He sighed. “Yes. Probably. Go and ask him. Educating you lot on what is required is completely beyond me. I have no chance of success, and, frankly, neither do you.”

“Please, Mister Dooven. Meet with us.”

“No.”

Her whiskers raised. “Not even for a mug of hot-fin?”

He stared. “You know about hot-fin?”

They stayed raised.

“If you know about hot-fin,” he said, “then you’re definitely not from around here.”

“Possibly, or perhaps we’re just more educated than you realise.”

He stared again. If there really was a group keen for involvement, it would only help him stay further from its epicentre. The more animals that were involved, the less he needed to be, and he needed means to counter Lydia and Mironaelk’s demands and chastisement when they inevitably cornered him again.

“All right,” he said. “I will meet you. When and where?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “At midnight. Two-hundred and thirty six thousand, five hundred and thirty-seven, Rue d-Bisarah.”

He sagged. “You’d better write that down.”

With a smile, she did so, in gravy on the tablecloth. When she stood and left, Oscar flicked a lump at a nearby patron, before tipping his remaining curry all over the floor.