Suddenly, the scent of dry centuries and dusty skin filled Lancaster’s nose, tickling like the whiskers of a cat with boundary issues. He sniffled and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping it twice across his nostrils. The room was still as a tomb.

Until Johnson leaned over to his ear and said, “Now, I must warn you not to… overreact to the situation.” His whisper was sharp and crisp.

“What situation?” asked Lancaster, his glasses tipping down his nose.

Johnson opened his mouth to answer, and froze, gaping like a seal waiting for a fish. The boardroom doors were opening. Professor Hancock entered, pushing ahead of him a black leather chair, holding…

Lancaster gasped and coughed. In the chair was tied a mummy in an 18th century headmaster’s uniform. Lancaster could only gape as he was wheeled to the head of the board room table, being systematically greeted by all the members as he passed.

“I wouldn’t stare, mate,” said Johnson finally, right next to his ear. “He has veto power.”