F C Hartley pushed open the swing door and approached the reception desk.
The dark haired, attractive, female receptionist looked up as he approached.
She was wearing an immaculately pressed white lab coat. She smiled at him.
"Morning sir, can I help you?"
"I've got an appointment with Professor Jarvis. F C Hartley, FC for short."
"I'll just check."
She phoned and spoke briefly into the mouthpiece.
"Professor Jarvis is expecting you. Go right up. Have you been before?"
"Yes, thank you."
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Darren reached inside his jacket and patted his shirt breast pocket. Just to check that his grandad's death certificate was still there. Gold dust. That's how death certificates were these days. The way to the creation of life. And despite modern technology, they were still printed on paper, albeit artificial paper, rather than wood-derived. The doctor had also needed his 'service charge' for writing the certificate. Everybody had to get ten per cent. Read more