Sentence The Fourhundredandseventysixth 

The Archaeologists, Geologists, Campanologists and Criminologists looked on as Roxy Davidova, Leader of the Unionist Party and therefore of the Official Opposition in the Scottish Parliament, was swung out over the chasm and slowly lowered into the Dark Unknown; her ploy had worked and now she was to be the first explorer in the subterranean space which had excited so much fear, concern and speculation – newspaper articles since the emergence of a Platoon of American soldiers from the Vietnam War just last week, hot on the heels of Thomas Learmonth and Patience Scott, had theorised about UFOs and Space Invaders, Hobbits and Goblins, and even Sir Parlane MacFarlane, who had been murdered 750 years ago! “all so much piffle,” said the no-nonsense politician as she signed a last-minute autograph, without noticing that the hand which had held it out for her belonged to Deck O'Dandy, close friend and associate of Ranulph Ochan'toshan, and that the folded piece of paper was a letter of support for the old reprobate, addressed to the editor of The Scotsman demanding an investigation into the scurrilous attacks on him by the Security Services on behalf of jealous rivals who resented his popularity among the children and young people who had always been so fond of him; but the cable creaked and she dropped out of sight, her descent illuminated by the torch on her helmet and she held her breath and prayed to any of the gods who might be listening to the pounding of her heart and for the first time in her life, she had a disquieting sort of presentiment that all might not go to plan and that she might be shown up for a bogus dabster and she wondered if she was doing the right thing, right here, right now, with her life hanging by a thread as she entered what might turn out to be the jaws of Hell!