'Good evening, Miss Next.'

It was the Bradshaws; I was glad to see that they had not been swayed by convention — Mrs Bradshaw had decided to attend after all.

'Good evening, Commander, good evening, Mrs Bradshaw — nice dress you're wearing.'

'Do you think so?' asked Mrs Bradshaw slightly nervously. 'Trafford wanted me to wear something full length but I think this little Coco Chanel cocktail number is rather fetching, don't you?'

'Black suits your eyes,' I told her, and she smiled demurely.

'I've got the thing you wanted me to keep for you,' whispered Bradshaw under his breath. 'Appreciate a girl who knows how to delegate — say the word and it's yours!'

'I'm waiting for the announcement of UltraWord™,' I hissed. 'Tweed is on my back; don't let him get it no matter what!'

'Don't worry your little head about that,' he said, nodding towards Mrs Bradshaw. 'The memsahib's in the loop — she may look a delicate thing but by St George she's a fearful lass when riled.'

He gave me a wink and I moved on, heart pounding. I hoped the nervousness didn't show. Heep was on the stage but Legree had taken his place and was keeping a surreptitious eye on me from seven hundred tables away. The temporal field displacement technology worked in his favour — every table was next to every other one.

All of a sudden there was a strong smell of beer.

'Miss Next!'

'Sir John, good evening.'

Falstaff looked me up and down. I didn't wear a dress that often and I crossed my arms defensively.

'Resplendent, my dear, resplendent!' he exclaimed, pretending to be something of an expert.

'Thank you.'

Usually I avoided Falstaff, but if I was being watched it made sense to talk to as many people as possible; if Tweed and TGC thought I could throw a spanner in the works I would not help them by drawing attention to my genuine confederates.

'I know of a side room, Mistress Next, a small place of an acquainting manner — a niche d’amour. What say you and I retire to that place where you might learn how I came by the name "Falstaff".'

'Another time.'

'Really?' he asked, surprised by my — albeit accidental — acquiescence.

'No, not really, Sir John,' I said hurriedly.

'Phew!' he said, mopping his brow. 'It would not be half the sport if you were to lie with me — resistance, Mistress Next, is rich allurement indeed!'

'If resistance is all you seek,' I told him, smiling, 'then you will never have a keener woman to woo!'

'I'll drink to that!'

He laughed heartily — the word might have been coined for him.

'I have to leave you, Sir John. No more than a gallon of beer an hour, remember?'

I patted his large turn, which was as hard and unyielding as a beer barrel.

'On my word!' he replied, wiping the beer froth from his beard.

I reached the jurisfiction table. Beatrice and Benedict were arguing, as usual.

'Ah!' said Benedict as soon as I sat down. '’Tis beauty that dost oft make women proud, but God he knows Beatrice's share thereof is small!'

'How so?' replied Beatrice. 'That face of yours that hungry cannibals would not have touch'd!'

'Have either of you seen the Bellman?' I asked.

They said they hadn't and I left them to their arguing as Foyle sat down next to me. I had seen him at Norland Park from time to time. He was Jurisfiction, too.

'Hello,' he said, 'we haven't been introduced. Gully Foyle is my name, terra is my nation; deep space is my dwelling place and death's my destination — I police Science Fiction.'

I shook his hand.

'Thursday Next,' I replied. 'From Swindon. How are you liking the awards?'

'Pretty good,' he returned. 'I was disappointed that Hamlet won the "Shakespearean Character You'd Most Like to Slap" award — my money was on Othello.'

'Well,' I replied, 'Othello won "Dopiest Shakespearean Lead" and they don't like them to win more than one each.'

'Is that how it works?' he mused. 'The voting system makes no sense to me.'

'They say you'll be partnered at Jurisfiction with Emperor Zhark,' I said, more by way of conversation than anything else.

'I hope not,' replied Foyle. 'We've been trying to raise the intellectual and philosophical status of Science Fiction for some time now; people like him don't help the cause one iota.'

'Why's that?'

'Well,' said Foyle, 'how can I put it? Zhark belongs to what we describe as "Lesser Science Fiction" or "Winsome" or maybe even "Classic".'

'How about "crap"?'

'Yes, I'm afraid so.'

There was a burst of applause as the MC announced the next award.

'Ladies, gentlemen and things,' he declared, 'we had asked Dorothy to present the next award but she was, sadly, kidnapped by flying monkeys just before the show. I will therefore read the nominations myself

The MC sighed. Dorothy's absence was just the latest in a number of small problems that usually interrupted the smooth running of the show. Earlier, Rumplestiltskin had gone berserk and attacked someone who guessed his name, Mary Elliot from Persuasion had declared herself 'too unwell' to collect the 'Most Tiresome Austen Character' award, and Boo Radley couldn't be persuaded to come out of his dressing room.

'So,' continued the MC, 'the nominations for the "Best Dead Person in Fiction" award are as follows.' He looked at the back of the envelope. 'First nomination: Count Dracula.'

There was a brief burst of applause, mixed with a few jeers.

'Yes indeed,' exclaimed the MC, 'the supreme Dark Lord himself, father of an entire sub-genre. From his castle in the Carpathians he burst upon the world and darkened shadows for ever. Let's read a little bit.'

He placed a short extract under the ImaginoTransference device and I felt a cold shadow on my neck as the Dark Lord's description entered my imagination.

There was applause and the lights came up again.

'From the undead to the very dead, the second nomination is for a man who returns selflessly from the grave to warn his erstwhile business partner of the terrors which await him if he does not change his ways. All the way from A Christmas Carol — Jacob Marley!'

I glanced across at Marley on the Christmas Carol table. Through his semi-transparent form I could see Scrooge pulling a large Christmas cracker with Tiny Tim.

When the applause died down the MC announced the third nomination:

'Banquo's ghost from Macbeth. A slain friend and bloody revenge are on the menu in this Scottish play of power and obsession in the eleventh century,' he enthused. 'Is Macbeth the master of his own destiny, or the other way round? Let's have a look.'