Thunder thrashed outside. One of the windows wrenched itself open with a smash, its curtain billowing across the room.

Dittero was embarra.s.sed. 'It seems Utopia is not quite living up to its name.

I suggest we move on forthwith to the next planet on the agenda, if no one has any objectingtons?'

The delegates a.s.sented.

' Magnificent Magnificent. Now. . . ' he trailed off as he consulted his clipboard. 'Ah.

A delightful delightful property this. Left Mutter's spiral arm. Easy access to Proxima Centauri. If you'd care to follow me. . . ?' property this. Left Mutter's spiral arm. Easy access to Proxima Centauri. If you'd care to follow me. . . ?'

Dittero drew open a tele-door. A rectangle of daylight appeared in the dimly lit conference room.

The Doctor rose from his seat and, followed by Trix, still scrubbing her hair, they approached the door. Behind them stood Vors.h.a.gg, Micron's two attendants, Poozle and Question Intonation hovering not far behind.

Taking one look back at the conference room, Fitz followed Dittero through the tele-door, across countless miles of s.p.a.ce and on to Lewisham High Street.

119.

Poozle's Story Poozle's story is, I'm afraid, far too strange to relate.

120.

s.p.a.ce Astrabel poured his complementary champagne into the gla.s.s and emptied it into his mouth. Fine bubbles tickled his tongue. He raised a finger for another.

One more wouldn't kill him.

His thick, padded chair absorbed the vibrations of the interstellar shuttle.

He allowed himself to sink into its comfort and gave an involuntary sigh.

What a way to go. First cla.s.s.

The compartment lighting had been dimmed. His half-dozen fellow pa.s.sengers snored in their seats, stewardesses draping blankets over their bodies before withdrawing to their orange-lit cabin.

Astrabel couldn't sleep. He hadn't slept since his retirement party three days ago. He could feel the sag of the bags under his eyes. His chin p.r.i.c.kled with stubble. He'd have a sleep, wash and shave when they landed on Gadrahadradon, but that was still two days away.

G.o.d, he missed Zoberly. He missed her warmth. Her affection. Her astonishing b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The taste of her lips. Lips he would never taste again. Lips he had never deserved.

Guilt? That's what happens after three days without sleep, you start asking questions. Did I deserve those awards? Should I have pa.s.sed off those scientific breakthroughs as my own work? Did I do the right thing?

Astrabel examined his champagne gla.s.s and watched the bubbles form, rise and pop. Of course he had done the right thing. Those scientific breakthroughs would've happened anyway, he just made sure they happened earlier. And if people wanted to give him the credit, then he was glad to take it.

No, he had done right.

Because, if he hadn't, he wouldn't have had Zoberly and his life wouldn't have been worth living.

It wasn't guilt that was stopping him from sleeping. It was the excitement.

An excitement mixed with fear, and dread. He was about to do the last thing he would ever do.

Astrabel pressed a b.u.t.ton in his armrest and a landscape shimmered on the back of the seat in front. The brightness of the in-flight channel made his eyes wince. He'd find something to watch. Something interesting enough to stop him thinking, but not so interesting as to keep him awake.

Zap Daniel. Some rubbish sci-fi movie from centuries ago. That would do.

121.

Play movie.

Astrabel inserted the earphones and the thump-thump theme tune began.

Guitar chords chimed out. 'Zap! Zap Daniel hero of the galaxy!'

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he saw was the city of the Buzzardmen. Zap Daniel had been left for dead after his s.p.a.ceship had crashed on the ice moon Frigidarium. The Buzzardmen were beginning their ceremony of mourning, when the news came through that Zap Daniel was alive and well and heading for the imperial city of Mang.

The picture cut to Vargo, the leader of the Buzzardmen. Seated in his throne, resplendent in his codpiece, wings and Viking helmet. He slammed down his hands on the armrests and hauled himself to his feet, and bellowed, in his deep, powerful bellow, 'What do you mean, Daniel's not dead not dead?'

A memory stirred in the back of Astrabel's consciousness. A long-forgotten jigsaw piece slotted into place.

It was him. It was the same man.

Astrabel was still gripping the armrests when the stewardess approached. She looked at him, concern written across her orange-lit features, 'Excuse me, sir.

Are you all right?'

Astrabel nodded. 'Bad dream.'

'You look like you've just seen a ghost.'

'Yes,' said Astrabel. 'Yes, I think I just have.'

122.

Chapter Seven.

Mostly Worthless

'"Earth"?' Welwyn's nostrils flare in disgust. 'Not very s.p.a.cey. We'll have to change it.'

'What do you suggest?' I ask.

'Planets with Ks always do well. Vs are good, too. We want something that says, "this is a modern, up-and-coming planet. A planet that's going places".'

'How about, er. . . Kevin?'

'There's already a Kevin in the fifth galaxy. Someone sneaked ahead of us with that one, I'm afraid.' Welwyn casts an expert eye around him, squinting at the dismal concrete shopping centre and the litter-strewn street. According to the town clock it's six in the evening, but it's still clear, pale daylight. Shoppers bustle past, oblivious to our presence. They even steer their prams and tartan trolleys around us, as though avoiding an invisible obstacle.

An indiscernability field indiscernability field, it's called. It's also the reason the shoppers can't see the two floating brown t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es sorry, Question Intonation or the p.i.s.sed-off lizard, or the lava lamp with the speech impediment. Or the gold-braided cushion held by two bodybuilders, like something off So Graham Norton So Graham Norton. And there's Dittero Shandy, tapping on his clipboard. The Doctor and Fitz wander away from the group, pretending to be interested buyers.

Welwyn starts making camera-shapes with his hands. He examines the Boots chemist through the lens. 'We need something that captures the ethos.

Something zeity-geisty.'

'What's so wrong with Earth?'

'Do you realise how many Earths there are? Every race, first thing they think of, name the planet after what they're standing on. It's always "Ground"

this or "Rock" that. Though I did visit a "s.h.a.gpile" once.'

It's unnerving, being back on Earth. It's so mundane, the families shopping, the school kids skulking on the benches listening to tshht-tshht on their Dis-cmans. The blue-striped plastic bags and taped-up bus shelters. The posters for The Return Of The King The Return Of The King on DVD and on DVD and Jerry Springer The Opera Jerry Springer The Opera.

I'm like a ghost that has returned to watch life going on without her. I catch s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation as people walk by. I can even hear Will Young's new single from inside Burger King.

123.

The newspaper racks are still shouting about the explosion at Tate Modern.

Some headlines are blaming Al Qaeda. Others are asking why the government didn't know about it in advance. Ironic, given what were due to be unveiled that evening. Private Eye Private Eye has a picture of Ken Livingstone, under the words has a picture of Ken Livingstone, under the words Oh my G.o.d They've killed Kenny! Oh my G.o.d They've killed Kenny!

Meanwhile the tabloids have found naked polaroids of one of the Big Big Brother Brother inmates. Some things never change. inmates. Some things never change.

It all seems so small, so provincial. A rock-pool existence, oblivious to the ocean. . . no, kill that metaphor.

I never thought I'd get homesick. I'm Trix MacMillan, I have no home, no family, no history. I'm whoever I want to be.

Dittero neared the end of his spiel. Again, Fitz had the feeling the estate agent was liable to burst into song. He'd already managed a couple of key changes.

'So there you have it. Earth. The present occupants have neglected it somewhat, so we are not expecting very much in the way of residual mineral wealth. The ozone layer has been run down and the acc.u.mulation of greenhouse gases is liable to induce some sort of climate change probably hotter, but one never knows with these things! There are also isotope brown-spots and compromised biodiversity. Nothing, of course, that Welwyn can't fix, but certainly beyond the capacity of the current inhabitants.'

The Doctor muttered to Charlton, 'Haven't I heard this somewhere before?'

Dittero raised a finger. 'Did you have a question, Doctor?'

The Doctor gave Dittero an unnervingly wide smile. 'I was just wondering.

When are the present tenants due to vacate the property?'

'Shortly.'

'Shortly? That's a bit vague, isn't it?'

Vors.h.a.gg grunted in agreement. It was disconcerting, thought Fitz, to have a seven-foot lizard standing in the middle of a busy street and for no one to notice. Then again, they probably all thought it was some reality-TV prank.

Then he remembered Tadek, from the city of the Gabaks. He hadn't been able to see the delegates either.

'How long are we looking at? Ten years? Twenty?'

'The inhabitants seem inescapably set upon the path to self-destruction,'

said Dittero. 'Though the manner in which they will achieve it still remains to be decided. There is ecological collapse, economic collapse, collapse of social order. War, of course humans have made huge advances in that field, you name it, they'll fight about it. Fossil fuel, religion, their skin pigmentation, how they share the money out. . . '

'"How trivial can you get?"' The Doctor glanced meaningfully at Charlton.

'"Disease, and starvation, the environment falling to bits. . . "' He switched his 124 attention back to Dittero. 'Your prediction, it's by no means a certainty, is it?'

'Oh, it very much is is,' said Dittero. 'In fact, it's rather a surprise they've lasted as long as they have. According to most estimates, they should have made themselves extinct forty years ago.'

'Precisely. You don't know for sure. Humans have, if nothing else, a keen sense of self-preservation. And if they don't save themselves someone else might.'

'I can't imagine who. I mean, the present occupants are a thankless bunch, aren't they? What have they achieved?'

'Loads.' Charlton faced Dittero. 'There's d.i.c.kens, right, and Newton '

'And the Golden Gate Bridge,' added Fitz. 'And St Paul's. And the Beatles, though not the solo stuff.'

'And Puccini, and Keats,' breathed the Doctor. 'Elvis. Freud. Shakespeare.'

'Marilyn Monroe,' suggested Fitz. 'Tony Hanc.o.c.k. Peter Sellers, though he went off a bit during the seventies '

'Botticelli,' said Charlton. 'Michelangelo. Monet. . . '

'And Rolf Harris!' exclaimed the Doctor. 'No other planet in the known galaxy has produced a Rolf Harris!'

'Yes. Well. It's not vastly vastly impressive, is it?' said Dittero. 'Compared to the warp-poets of Dronid, the Apostles of Grarb, or the. . . prophets of Hawalion.' impressive, is it?' said Dittero. 'Compared to the warp-poets of Dronid, the Apostles of Grarb, or the. . . prophets of Hawalion.'

The Doctor stepped aside to allow a woman laden with shopping and a pushchair to walk past. 'So why is it listed by Galactic Heritage then?'

'It's only Grade 4.'

'Grade 4?' the Doctor asked.

'Grade 1,' Charlton informed them, 'is for sites of great universal interest Teredekethon, Kandor, Anima Persis, Veln, Exxilon '

'While Grade 2 is for sites which are still significant, but '

'How many grades are there?' interrupted Fitz.

'Four,' admitted Charlton.

'So we're bottom?'