The bidders who have assembled for the auction of the magic slippers bear little resemblance to your usual saleroom crowd. The Auctioneers have publicized the event widely and are prepared for all comers. People venture out but rarely nowadays; nevertheless, and rightly, the Auctioneers believed this prize would tempt us from our bunkers. High feelings are anticipated, and accordingly, in addition to the standard facilities provided for the comfort and security of the more notable personages, extra-large bronze cuspidors have been placed in the toilets, for the use of the physically sick, and psychiatrists of differing disciplines have been installed in strategically located neo-Gothic confessional booths, to counsel the sick at heart.
Most of us nowadays are sick.
There are no priests; the Auctioneers have drawn a line. The priests remain in other, nearby buildings, buildings with which they are familiar, hoping to deal with any psychic fallout, any insanity overspill.