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“Pea-soupers,” said Door. “London Particulars. Thick yellow river fogs, mixed with coal-smoke and whatever rubbish was going into the air for the last five centuries. Hasn’t been one in the Upworld for, oh, forty years now. We get the ghosts of them down here. Mm. Not ghosts. More like echoes.” Richard breathed in a strand of the yellow-green fog and began to cough. “That doesn’t sound good,” said Door.
    “Fog in my throat,” said Richard. The ground was becoming stickier, muddier: it sucked at Richard’s feet as he walked. “Still,” he said, to reassure himself, “a little fog never hurt anyone.”
    Door looked up at him with big pixie eyes. “There was one in 1952 that they reckon killed four thousand people.”
    “People from here?” he asked. “Under London?”Cheap Penny Hardaway Edition,Discount Penny Hardaway Edition
    “Your people,” said Hunter. Richard was willing to believe it. He thought about holding his breath, but the fog was getting thicker. The ground was becoming mushier. “I don’t understand,” he asked. “Why do you have fogs down here, when we don’t have them up there anymore?”
    Door scratched her nose. “There are little pockets of old time in London, where things and places stay the same, like bubbles in amber,” she explained. “There’s a lot of time in London, and it has to go somewhere–it doesn’t all get used up at once.”
    “I may still be hung over,” sighed Richard. “That almost made sense.”