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Three
Helookedathisrippedsleeveandhisgrazedhandandhistorntrousers.ThenhewalkedupthestonestairsandoutoftheUndergroundstation.Nobodyaskedhimforaticketonthewayout.
"I’msorryI’mlate,"saidRichard,tonooneinparticularinthecrowdedoffice.Theclockontheofficewallsaidthatitwas10:30.Hedroppedhisbriefcaseonhischair,wipedthesweatfromhisfacewithhishandkerchief."Youwouldn’tbelievewhatitwaslikegettinghere,"hecontinued."Itwasanightmare."
Helookeddownathisdesktop.Therewassomethingmissing.Or,moreprecisely,therewaseverythingmissing."Wherearemythings?"heaskedtheroom,alittlemoreloudly."Whereismytelephone?Wherearemytrolls?"
Hecheckedthedeskdrawers.Theywereemptytoo:notevenaMarsbarwrapperoratwistedpapercliptoshowthatRichardhadeverbeenthere.Sylviawascomingtowardhim,inconversationwithtworatherheftygentlemen.Richardwalkedovertoher."Sylvia?What’sgoingon?"
"I’msorry?"saidSylvia,politely.Shepointedthedeskouttotheheftygentlemen,whoeachtookanendofit,andbegantocarryitoutoftheoffice."Carefulnow,"shetoldthem.
"Mydesk.Wherearetheytakingit?"
Sylviastaredathim,gentlypuzzled."Andyouare...?"
Idon’tneedthisshit,thoughtRichard."Richard,"hesaid,sarcastically."RichardMayhew."
