ust like coffee.”

    “I bet youve never his before.”

    “I tle, or nearly.”

    “Just as you like,” said tilting to his?”

    “Going to meet my father.”

    “And whos he?”

    “hes a murderer.”

    “?”

    “I told you, s onig hes in here, cause hes usually all covered in blood when hes finished a job.”

    “Ah! Youre joking.”

    “I ent.”

    ttered a soft me at olidly and ate t of her sandwich.

    “Goodnig angry.”

    top- man glanced around, and Lyra set off toer croer   really intended for people of trapped underground; better to be out in to.

    On and on sreets became darker and emptier. It  even if ty sky oo tainted  to sars. Pantalaimon t t well?

    Endless streets of little identical brick bin; great gaunt factories be glocory, only distinguisside. Once sried to  a the porch was full of sleeping figures, and fled.

    “o sleep, Pan?” srudged doreet of closed and stered shops.

    “A doorway somewhere.”

    “Dont  to be seen theyre all so open.”

    “there....”

    o t. Sure enougcer, and  to look, tied up at ter, some lo s, and a tal cs , acks of great round logs, h rolls of cauchuc-covered cable.

    Lyra tiptoed up to t and peeped in at tureStory paper and smoking a pipe, able. As s up and brougtle from tove and poured some  er into a cracked mug before settling back h his paper.

    “So let us in, Pan?” s racted; , an o again; sc time as  .

    Pantalaimon uttered a  tangling ed past o snt do