'Tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy,' he replied modestly.

'Get away! Old "Sneaky Zharky" of Form 5C, St Tabularasa's — who'd have thought it?'

'It's "Emperor" Zhark now, old chum,' he said through gritted teeth.

'Glad to hear it. Whatever happened to Captain Ahab? Haven't seen him since we left school.'

'Ahab?' queried the emperor, brow furrowed.

'You remember. One leg and madder than the March Hare. Set fire to his own trousers for a bet and stocked the school pond with piranhas.'

'Oh, him,' replied Zhark. 'Last I heard he was convinced a white whale was after him — but that was years ago. We should have a reunion; one falls out of touch so easily in the BookWorld.'

'Don't I know it,' returned Kenneth sadly.

They sat in silence for a moment, recalling various school friends, I imagine.

'So, Zharky old boy, how can I help you?'

'It's the Rambosians,' he said at last. 'They just refuse to cede power to me.'

'How awkward for you. Is there any reason why they should?'

'Stability, old man, stability. The Rambosians have been responsible for numerous acts of savage satire in the Galactic Federation's daily redtop, Stars My Destination. They lampoon me constantly and the cartoons are shockingly insulting.'

'So you want to invade?'

'Of course not; that would be wasteful of resources. No, I want them to open their arms and worship me as their one true God. They will give ultimate executive power to me, and in return I will protect them with the might of the Zharkian Empire.'

'Hmm,' replied Kenneth thoughtfully, 'that wouldn't be because the planet Rambosia is composed of eighteen trillion tons of valuable A-class nutmeg, now, would it?'

'Not in the least,' replied the emperor unconvincingly.

'Very well,' said Kenneth. 'It is the Judgement of Solomon© that you make peace with the Rambosians.'

'What?!'

The emperor jumped to his feet and went as dark as a thundercloud. He wagged a finger at Kenneth.

'You'll never play golf at the Old White Male Club again,' he yelled. 'I'll have you blackballed so far out you won't be able to get your hat checked even if you come in the company of the Great Panjandrum himself!'

And so saying, he threw his cloak behind him, made a large huffing noise, turned on his heels and strode to the door.

'Well,' said Kenneth, 'tyrants are all the same — shocking temper when they don't get their own way! Who's next?'

I couldn't find the three witches, no matter how hard I looked. Their prophecies bothered me but not enough to keep me from sleeping soundly that night. It was two days later that I came home from a long day of Kenneth's judgements to find Arnie waiting for me. He and Randolph were drinking beer in the kitchen and talking about the correct time to use a long dash to designate interrupted speech.

'You can use it any—'

'Arnie, I owe you an apology,' I said, blushing deeply and forgetting my manners. 'You must think me the worst tease in the Well.'

'No, that would be Lola. Forget it. Gran explained everything. How are you? Memories returned?'

'All present and correct.'

'Good. Dinner some time — as good friends, of course?' he added hastily.

'I'd love to, Arnie. And thanks for being so … well, decent.'

He smiled and looked away.

'Beer?' said Randolph, who seemed to have recovered from his Lola-induced trauma.

'Anything non-alcoholic?'

He passed me a carton of orange juice and I poured myself a glass.

'Are you going to tell her?' said Arnie.

'Tell me what?'

'I didn't get the Amis part,' began Randolph, 'but I've been short-listed for a minor speaking appearance in the next Wolfe.'

'That's excellent news!' I responded happily. 'When?'

'Some time in the next couple of years. I'm going to do some stand-in work until then; the C of G has opened up travel writing as holiday destinations for Generics. No more awayday breaks in Barsetshire — I'm to cover for Count Smorltork while he goes on holiday for two weeks in Wainwright's A Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells.'

'Congratulations.'

He thanked me but was still somehow distant. He stared out of the porthole at the lake, deep in thought.

'What about you?' asked Arnie. 'What will you do? Your demotion is all over the Well!'

'It's not a demotion,' I said. 'Well, perhaps it is.'

'Word is that Harris Tweed is up to be the next Bellman,' murmured Arnie. 'Despite his lack of experience, Jurisfiction favours an Outlander.'

'What's so special about Outlanders?' asked Randolph.

'We have skills that few Generics possess.'

'Such as?'

I picked up the leather-bound UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that had been lying on the table and gave it to Arnie.

'Smell anything?'

He held it to his nose and shook his head. I took the book and sniffed at it delicately; I had expected the odour of leather but instead I could smell sweet melons — cantaloupes. I was transported back to the last time I had come across this particular scent; the odd and boxy truck in Caversham Heights. The truck without texture, the automaton driver without personality. Something clicked.

'It was an UltraWord™ truck,' I murmured, searching through my bag for the angular and textureless bolt I had picked up after the truck had departed. I found it and sniffed at it cautiously, my mind racing as I tried to think of a connection.

'If this is anything to go by,' said Arnie, flicking through the pages of The Little Prince, 'then the readers are in for a treat.'

'They are indeed,' I replied as Randolph tried to open the cover — but couldn't.

I took it from him and the book opened easily. I handed it back but the cover was still stuck fast.

'Odd,' I said as Arnie took the book and opened it once again without any problem. 'It's Havisham's copy,' I added slowly. 'She's read it, and me, and now you.'

'A book which only three people can read!' said Randolph scornfully. 'A bit mean, I must say!'

'Only three readers,' I murmured, my heart going cold as I recalled the three witches' prophecy: Thrice is once and thrice is twice and thrice again— Perhaps the new operating system was not quite the egalitarian advance it claimed — if it was really the case that UltraWord™ books could only be opened three times then libraries would be a thing of the past. And the angular truck, the strange bolt? What did all that mean? I shivered. If something was so wrong with the new system that they would kill to keep it quiet, then the 'thrice read' rule was just the beginning. The orders for my transfer had come from Text Grand Central via the Bellman's clipboard. Perhaps I was being removed for a reason — who other than the grieving apprentice to ask awkward questions? If so, Havisham's accident had been nothing of the sort.

'Problems?' asked Arnie, sensing my disquiet.