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“You heard her,” said Hemi. “Double-check! Chop-chop!” The bureaucrat ghost looked sourly at him but, obviously deciding it was the easiest way of getting rid of them, rose and wafted to a back office, miming wait and mouthing something.

“He says new paperwork gets here from the Thanatopian office every couple of months,” said Hemi.

“Couple of months?” said Deeba. “If I’m right, Unstible might have…moved to Thanatopia in the last few weeks.”

Hemi sighed, then looked craftily around, and spoke quietly. “Well, it’s your money. I suppose we could log into the database on the afternet if you really want. That’d be more recent. You know what red tape’s like. This lot’re still happier dealing in hard copy and its ghost. I bet they only use that thing for playing Minesweeper and bog all else.” He nodded at the computer and its riffling halo of older computer ghosts. “Tell me if he’s coming,” he said, and grabbed the keyboard. Hemi found the officer’s password on a ghostly piece of paper stuck to the side of the monitor.

“Does the afternet connect to…what was it they called it in UnLondon…the undernet?” Deeba said.

“Yeah. And both of them to your internet. But not many people can make the connections work. Ah, here we go.”

Deeba saw the fat ghost closing drawers in the other room.

“Quick,” she whispered.

“Alright,” he said, “so if I just…click here, and feed in a few…there we go. We’re in. Now.” He looked at her sideways and shook his head as he typed. “‘Benjamin Hue Unstible,’” he said, and hit return.

The screen went blank, then whirred, then flashed up a single entry.

BENJAMIN HUE UNSTIBLE.

THANATOPIAN CITIZENSHIP GRANTED. New immigrant.

CAUSE OF IMMIGRATION: smoke inhalation/poisoning.

There was a very long silence.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” said Hemi.

“I was right,” Deeba said, and clenched her fists.

“Unstible died weeks ago,” said Hemi. “Killed by…the Smog?”

“So…could it be his ghost, handing out unbrellas?” Deeba said. “It doesn’t look anything like any of you lot…”

“No,” said Hemi. “If he were a ghost he’d be listed as having moved to Wraithtown. Unstible’s passed over completely. Whatever that thing is, whatever it looks like, whatever it’s doing…it’s not Benjamin Unstible.”

45

Nasty Rain

Hey! the ghost mouthed, seeing them on the computer. It scattered the ghost-papers it held, and floated towards them shaking its fist.

“Print it!” said Deeba. Hemi stabbed at the buttons. “Quick!”

The chubby ghost reached for the paper as it emerged, but Hemi snatched it and gave it to Deeba. The ghost banged on the keyboard and the screen went blank. What you doing? he bellowed silently as Deeba and Hemi ran.

The paper was hard to read. The typeface was surrounded by whorls of ghost-print, a flickering of all the fonts once used on official forms. And the paper had obviously been recycled. Its previous forms—scribbled messages and newspaper pages—floated around it.

But through all the spectral interference, Unstible’s name and the details of his “immigration to Thanatopia”—his death—could be made out.

“That proves it,” said Hemi, pausing in the building’s entrance. Deeba folded the printout carefully into her pack.

“I told you,” she said.

“Alright, alright,” said Hemi, shoving her towards the door as behind them a crowd of irate bureaucrat ghosts appeared.

When they emerged, the UnSun had dawned. Deeba stared at the strange, familiar shape.

“We got to tell Brokkenbroll,” said Deeba urgently. “And the Propheseers.”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Hemi. He looked behind him nervously as they walked through Wraithtown. “‘We’? This is your thing. I’m sorry, but I did what you paid for. Good luck, I’m gone.”

“Wait, what?” Deeba stopped and stared at him. “You can’t. You’re joking. It isn’t Unstible who’s doing things. Don’t you see? Something’s really wrong. I need to get to the Pons Absconditus. Can you help?”

“Its touchdown’s nowhere near here,” Hemi said. “You could get a bus but…” He seemed to sniff the air. “It’s a Rogueday. I don’t know how often they run