“Impossible! We may need to refer to them at any moment. There’s a case now which is interesting Us all--a Mrs. Ollerby. Worcestershire by extraction--dying of an internal hereditary complaint. At any moment, We may wish to refer to her dossier, and how _can_ We if Our basement is given up to people over whom We exercise no departmental control? This war has been made excuse for slackness in every direction.” “Indeed!” said Death. “You surprise me. I thought nothing made any difference to the N.C.D.” “A few years ago I should have concurred,” Civil Death replied. “But since this--this recent outbreak of unregulated mortality there has been a distinct lack of respect towards certain aspects of Our administration. The attitude is bound to reflect itself in the office. The official is, in a large measure, what the public makes him. Of course, it is only temporary reaction, but the merest outsider would notice what I mean. Perhaps _you_ would like to see for yourself?” Civil Death bowed towards St. Peter, who feared that he might be taking up his time. “Not in the least. If I am not the servant of the public, what am I?” Civil Death said, and preceded them to the landing. “Now, this--” he ushered them into an immense but badly lighted office--“is our International Mortuary Department--the I.M.D. as we call it. It works with the Check and Audit. I should be sorry to say offhand how many billion sterling it represents, invested in the funeral ceremonies of all the races of mankind.” He stopped behind a very bald-headed clerk at a desk. “And yet We take cognizance of the minutest detail, do not We?” he went on. “What have We here, for example?” “Funeral expenses of the late Mr. John Shenks Tanner,” the clerk stepped aside from the red-ruled book. “Cut down by the executors on account of the War from £173:19:1 to £47:18:4. A sad falling off, if I may say so, Your Majesty.” “And what was the attitude of the survivors?” Civil Death asked. “Very casual. It was a motor-hearse funeral.” “A pernicious example, spreading, I fear, even in the lowest classes,” his superior muttered. “Haste, lack of respect for the Dread Summons, carelessness in the Subsequent Disposition of the Corpse and----” “But as regards people’s real feelings?” St. Peter demanded of the clerk. “That isn’t within the terms of our reference, Sir,” was the answer. “But we _do_ know that as often as not, they don’t even buy black-edged announcement-cards nowadays.” “Good Heavens!” said Civil Death swellingly. “No cards! I must look into this myself. Forgive me, St. Peter, but we Servants of Humanity, as you know, are not our own masters. No cards, indeed!” He waved them off with an official hand, and immersed himself in the ledger. “Oh, come along,” Death whispered to St. Peter. “This is a blessed relief!”