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ornaments he found disturbing. And finally there were churches. Dundridge disliked churches most of all. They reminded him of death and burial, guilt and sin and the hereafter. Archaic reminders of a superstitious past. And since Dundridge lived if not for the present at least the immediate future, these memento mori held no attractions for him. They cast horrid doubts on the rational nature of existence. Not that Dundridge believed in reason. He placed his faith in science and numeration.
    Now as he drove northwards he had to admit that he was entering a world far removed from his ideal. Even the sky had changed with the landscape and the shadows of large clouds slid erratically across the fields and hills. By the time he reached South Worfordshire he was distinctly perturbed. If Worford was anything like the surrounding countryside it must be a horrid place filled with violent, irrational creatures swayed by strange emotions. It was. As he drove over the bridge that spanned the Cleene he seemed to have moved out of the twentieth century into an earlier age. The houses below the town gate were huddled together higgledy-piggledy and only their scrubbed doorsteps redeemed their squalid lack of uniformity. The gate, a great stuccoed tower with a dark narrow entrance, loomed up before him. He drove nervously through and emerged into a street lined with eighteenth-century houses. Here he felt temporarily more at home but his relief evaporated when he reached the town centre. Dark narrow alleyways, half-timbered medieval houses jutting over the pavement, cobbled streets, and shopfronts which retained the format of an earlier age. Pots and pans, spades and sickles hung outside an ironmongers. Duffel coats, corduroy trousers and breeches were displayed outside an outfitters. A mackerel gleamed on a fishmonger’s marble slab while a saddler’s was adorned with bits and bridles and leather belts. Worford was in short a perfectly normal market town but to Dundridge, accustomed to the soothing anonymity of supermarkets, there was a disturbing, archaic quality about it. He drove into the Market Square and asked the car-park attendant for the Regional Planning Office. The attendant didn’t know or if he did, Dundridge was none the wiser. The accents of Wales and England met in South Worfordshire, met and mingled incomprehensibly. Dundridge parked his car and went into a telephone kiosk. He looked in the Directory and found the Planning Office in Knacker’s Yard.
    “Where’s Knacker’s Yard?” he asked the car-park attendant.
    “Down Giblet Walk.”
    “Very informative,” said Dundridge with a shudder. “And Where’s Giblet Walk?”
    “Well now, let’s see, you can go down past the Goat and Goblet or you can take a short cut through the Shambles,” said the old man and spat into the gutter.
    Dundridge considered this unenticing alternative. “Where are the Shambles?” he asked finally.
    “Behind you,” said the attendant.
    Dundridge turned round and looked into the shadow of a narrow alley. It was cobbled and led down the hill and out of sight. He walked down it uncomfortably. Several of the houses were boarded up and one or two had actually fallen down and the alleyway had a peculiar smell that he associated with footpaths and tunnels under railway lines. Dundridge held his breath and hurried on and came out into Knacker’s Yard where a sign in front of a large red-brick building said Regional Planning Board. He opened an iron gate and went down a path to the door.
    “Planning Board’s on the second floor,” said a dentist’s assistant who emerged from a room holding a metal bowl in which a pair of false teeth rested pinkly. “You’ll be lucky if you find it open though. You looking for anyone in particular?”
    “Mr Hoskins,” said Dundridge.
    “Try the Club,” said the woman. “He’s usually there this time of day. It’s on the first floor.”
    “Thank you,” said Dundridge and went upstairs. On the