It sat there languishing in its spider-like prosthesis. A mechanical chariot to carry its grotesque, bulbous frame. The Gob, the Pope of Numbers; spokesman for the Auditors in all his majesty. A gelatinous monstrosity made of muscle and fat.

Its blue cracked lips pursed to the taste of Xindii entering the Hall of Thought. A smile revealed blood-red gums and a yellow tongue.

'Lips,' It demanded. A deep bass of a voice. Articulate and smooth. Its two mute nurses rubbed a white soothing cream onto its sore lips, massaging the chapped flesh.

'Hhhmm. Good . . . good.'

Xindii and the Don approached with a feint curiosity.

'Ah, Professor . . . enough.' The nurses stepped back behind the Gob, shrouding their countenance by the Pope's horrendous appearance.

'Xindii . . . one of our souls' is missing.'

'Our?' he replied.

It smiled.

'Of course, how remiss of me to presume our rights.'

'Rights? I've yet to see a binding contract which states your claim.'

'And yet we have gathered them for millennia. Who are you to query our claim?'

Xindii leant forward a little. 'Who are you to query mine, Gob? The Probabilty Engine has eradicated pretty much every religion since the dawn of time. A handful exist. Yet you rule the roost, collecting your numbers for the greater good, the answer to everything. But for what end? What happens when the Auditors have collected all the numbers? Cucumber sandwiches? Pizza and coke?'

'We will ascend and become one universal being. Then the Construct will be at the forefront of a new beginning. We, as your shepherds will usher in a new order. One beyond the confines of flesh and appetite.'

'But, your eminence. What if I don't want to go?'

'To understand what awaits you beyond your demise is abstract. You cannot yet see the enlightenment we offer. Not until you release your number to us.'

Xindii smiled. 'You sound more like a business man than a religious figurehead.'

It stretched in its chariot. 'Everything has a price, dear Mapper. Even the human soul.'

'You disgust me.'

'We don't care.'

'What makes you think I even have the slightest inclination to help you? You are the Auditors! You could rip the world apart and put it back together again and the souls of the Construct wouldn't even know. You have harnessed dimensions and can travel along the thought processes of everyone who has ever been. Yet, you come to me to find a soul. Why?'

The Don stepped forward. 'They're scared.'

'Silence your pet, Xindii.'

'No. No. He's my dearest friend, your eminence and I take his counsel seriously. What are you scared of?'

The Pope was silent, uncomfortable.

The Don stepped in again. 'It's not that they are scared, Xindii. They are powerless. They have come to a Mapper for help. This soul is missing. It was murder through Dreamurlurgy.'

'Naturally. It is my trade. They're weary. Something stirs in the Murk. The one place they cannot see.'

'Therefore we need the man who has returned from it.'

Xindii smiled. 'Then why didn't you say, your eminence.'

'You won't find it of course!'

'Oh, what makes you so sure?'

'Because it doesn't exist, anymore.'

'How is that possible?'

The Gob laughed.

'So we bait your hook. Your curiosity is legendary Mapper. Eviscerated, atomized, depleted or deleted we know not. It no longer exists. Such power needs to be investigated.'

'So you've come to me . . .'

'Because we know you can't resist, Mapper.'

'Well I'm rather pushed for time you realise, papers to mark, tennis at three.'

'E-NOUGH! You brattle on like some deranged infant. You would do well to comply with our request.'

Xindii knelt down in front of the Pope of Numbers. 'And what would happen if I took tennis at three?'

The Gob's lips stretched across the parameters of its flaccid face with a lurid sensuality. A rhythmic rasping of its throat which belied an undertone of arousal. Its close breath carried an unusual scent! Somewhere between sour milk and ginger. Xindii feigned curiosity as he saw the remnants of its lunch stuck between two inverted molars. Whatever it was - or had been - still ebbed with a faint pulse.

'Professor . . . you search the ether looking for a betrayal of my thoughts? You will be disappointed. My mind is a closed book. This chariot and the fat that resides exists beyond the confines of this realm. A mouth, a gob, as you so profoundly put it.'

Xindii shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I would be a fool not to try,' he remarked.

'You will be paid handsomely of course. Money is no object to us. Invest it. Spend it. Do as you will. There must be accountability.'

'Why?' Xindii asked.

'Why, what?'

'Why must it be accounted? It's just a soul. Plenty others out there. Couldn't you just - I don't know - massage the figures?'

It reared in its chariot. Greased pistons cranked violently inducing a blue-steamed miasma. Turning cogs buckled under the Gob's violent outbreak releasing an influx of oil into the hot metal. The prosthesis spasmed and jolted, trying to regain a semblance of balance.

The Don sheepishly looked at Xindii and frowned.

It shook and sneezed as if being prone to an allergy.

'MASS-AGE THE FIG-URES,' it cried.

Xindii looked at the Don and tried to stifle a laugh.

'LIPS!'

The mute nurses glided round to his bidding, slavering a healthy dose of cream upon the Gob's dry lips. It squirmed in relief, savouring the moment. Groaning with a sensual relish. The steam from the chariot dissipated into a faint cloud of moisture and silence followed.

'Hard day at the office, Gob?'

A reflex of muscle and fat retched in the chariot and turned its attentions to the Professor. The Don sighed deeply, expecting a limitless tirade of clanking metal and bellowing steam.

'A darkness rises in the city and a murder most horrendous follows its wake. This is no backstreet gambling debt sated. This crime will rupture society. Shred beliefs. For centuries the Auditors have given you comfort in the knowledge that you can live beyond the dark. That when you die there is salvation. Something now stirs in the city of Testament that can destroy a soul. The soul of a man who had contributed. Laughed, loved, and hoped to the last. There must be accountability . . . Mapper? Will you help us?'