A little group of goblins, preceded by a short, tubby human – or perhaps a tall dwarf – streams out of the asylum and marks off a plot of land next to the maze about the size of a doormat. Geometry warps – anyone in the maze will have an interesting new challenge in escaping – and the crystallised dreams and solid improbability which make up the bedrock of the lounge area expand to make a space about city block size, about half of which is a hole for setting the foundations of the proposed building. The dwarf flickers – he's not really there at all, he's halway up the wall in an elven banqueting hall converted for conferences, recording but not listening to a debate on import tarifs for crottled greeps. After all, who'd want to crottle a greep, anyway? The head goblin unfolds the plans, apparently undisturbed by the fact that the urgent floor – that for the residents who have celebrated their fifth chroniversary – is at ground level, while the next one up, for those residents with six years of seniority is at ground level, while the stories below, or the unfortunates who took longer discovering the place, are all at ground level. It simplifies stairway design. "She's got a hotel, you say?" "Yes, in Chateau d'Oex. And they're just starting up, so haven't got regular custom yet. And with the Swiss Franc going up (at least the £ound, $ollar, €uro and yen all plunging down) even the Swiss tourist office is willing to let bygones be bygones." "Another alp, do you think?" "Or a prealp to go with the ones you've got. More cows and chalets and things." "We'll get it up in time, you'll see. And furnished for the party, without any of that sissy magic."