I can't, though, because he's sitting on my bed.

'We need to go over the last three days,' he says. 'Valuensis, Shardybarn.

There was something they had in common.'

'Apart from blowing up?'

'Apart, as you say, from blowing up.'

129.

'They both worshipped sacred soup. Except on Valuensis.'

The Doctor's one of those people who you're never sure whether they get jokes or not. It takes him too long to smile. 'There's something. . . I remember seeing, a long time ago. Or reading. Or a piece of music.'

'This is good, we're narrowing it down.'

The Doctor stands and paces up and down the room. My cabin is only about five metres long, so it doesn't take him long. He halts and holds up a hand to the wall. 'Trix, your role in this situation is to come up with a chance remark that jogs my memory and provides the vital flash of inspiration.'

'Sorry.'

He sighs. '"Sorry" isn't going to jog very much, is it?'

'I'm not in a jogging mood.' I shrug, sitting down on the bed.

'No, no. I had hoped that by talking the problem through, I might distract myself enough. . . ' The Doctor's mouth creeps into a broad, delighted grin. He steps over to me and grips my shoulders. 'That's it! A flash flash of inspiration. . . of inspiration. . .

or a zap zap!'

Fitz had been drinking, so the fire alarm going off wasn't good news.

He stumbled out of bed, stumbled into his jeans and T-shirt, stumbled into his bedside table and stumbled into the hallway. Where was he?

He blinked. The planet Utopia. The hotel. He was here pretending to be an intergalactic property speculator while uncovering a murder mystery.

Oh, why couldn't Trix be here? It would be completely her cup of tea. And then she would have been the one woken up in the middle of the night by an ear-splitting whine.

Fitz made his way down the corridor, patting one wall with one hand. The emergency lights had come on, lending everything a sick greenish hue. Even the leaf patterns on the carpet seemed sinister.

One of the doors opened as he pa.s.sed it and two furry b.a.l.l.s flew out. 'What's going on, Fitz, darling dear?' they yelped.

Fitz mumbled something about fire alarms. His voice wasn't quite working.

'Fire! No! No!' Question Intonation whirled in mid air, then zoomed down the corridor, bobbing this way and that, desperate for a way out.

The alarm stopped. 'Not a fire,' announced a voice from behind Fitz's back.

'What?'

Dittero Shandy, in striped pyjamas, stood at the base of the stairs, ever-present clipboard in hand. 'That was an intruder alarm. The fire alarm is a semitone higher.'

'Unless it's faulty,' said Fitz.

Vors.h.a.gg emerged from its suite, one claw on its de-aggrifier, blinked as its eyes adjusted to the green semi-darkness. 'An intruder alarm?'

130.

'It came from. . . ' Dittero looked fl.u.s.tered, 'delegate Poozle's room.'

'Where's that?' said Fitz.

Question Intonation whizzed over to Fitz. He realised that the alien had a.s.sumed he had addressed the question to it. 'It's upstairs,' said the b.a.l.l.s.

'Room twenty-one.'

Fitz headed for the stairs. Dittero waited for Fitz to lead the way. Vors.h.a.gg and Question Intonation followed a cautious distance behind.

n.o.body spoke as they reached the third floor. Fitz pushed open the door leading to the corridor, then checked the numbers on each of the doors. Nineteen. Twenty.

Twenty-one.

Fitz took in a deep breath. He heard Dittero take in a deep breath behind him. He could hear the estate agent's fingers tapping upon his clipboard.

He reached out and pushed at the door. It swung open.

Fitz expected to see another figure smeared across the bed. Instead, he saw Poozle, floating above the bed, its green light illuminating the room.

'Murder!' it announced. 'Someone is tlying to kill me!'

'I don't see the point of this.'

The Doctor draws the blinds and clicks a videotape into the recorder. Some tracking appears on the television screen. He watches it for a moment, then fast-forwards.

I pull up a chair. My eyelids are tired, my nose is snuffly and my body is complaining that it's not in bed.

'A film I watched, many years ago. On its original release, I was very excited, I remember queuing. I'm not sure who was with me young girl, and a lad from the Navy, I think.'

'Fascinating.'

The Doctor grins. 'It's a cla.s.sic of the genre. It's not very good, but it's a cla.s.sic.'

'What is it?'

'We'll watch the whole thing later, there's just one bit I want to show you.'

'And then I can go to sleep?'

'You can try, but after what I'm about to show you, you might not be able to.'

The Doctor levels the remote control like a duelling pistol and hits the 'play'

b.u.t.ton. The machine whirrs.

The television shows a cheap black-and-white set, consisting of some arched doorways and a wall unit with some switches on it. Men in posing pouches with giant wings attached to their backs are having a conversation.

'Where did you find this?' I ask.

131.

'In Charlton's collection,' whispers the Doctor. 'I thought he might be the science-fiction type.' He adjusts the volume.

The guy with giant wings on the right is a messenger. Apparently someone they thought had been killed by his rocket hitting a moon isn't dead after all, and is, in fact, heading for the Imperial city of Mang.

I glance at the Doctor. He's enraptured, his lips slightly apart. He notices I'm watching him, and indicates for me to look at the screen.

One of the guys with giant wings walks into another set. In the centre of the room is a throne, its back to the camera.

'Lord Vargo, leader of the Buzzardmen,' says the guy with wings. 'I bring great news. Zap Daniel did not die on the ice moon of Frigidarium. He is, as I speak, heading in a war rocket to the Imperial palace.'

The picture cuts to the occupant of the throne. He's a heavily built man, with puffy cheeks buried in a beard. He has an intense, angry expression and seems to be wearing some sort of Viking helmet.

He slams his hands down on the armrests and heaves himself to his feet.

'What do you mean,' he huffs, ' Daniel's not dead Daniel's not dead?'

I can't believe my eyes.

It's him. I've seen him before.

On a monitor screen on Valuensis. As a giant statue, hundreds of feet high, on Shardybarn.

It's the same man.

132.

Chapter Eight.

Autogeddon

The sheer, enveloping blackness of s.p.a.ce. A miasma of stars hangs frozen in the darkness. In the distance, a sun burns a flaming red.

Closer, there is a small, grey sphere. It approaches as all around remains motionless. The sunlight reflects off the sphere, like a polished billiard ball.

Details emerge. The sphere is covered in streaks of cloud. The smoggy grey clouds are blurred, their edges diffusing into trails. The circle of sunlight slides over the clouds as though they are as smooth as gla.s.s.

The planet grows larger. The clouds become more complex, finessed with rills and fronds. Gaps emerge. The gaps are gunmetal grey.

The grey is not uniform. The slate is engraved with an intricate pattern of lines. There are no oceans or mountains on this world. No white poles or golden atolls. No splashes of green. There is just an unending grid.

The clouds become diaphanous and whizz by like ghosts as the surface expands. The cross-weave of lines becomes more meticulous, each delineating blocks of grey, which in turn divide into smaller grids, which in turn delineate more blocks of grey.

There are smaller clouds. Thick, oily smog hangs over the cities like a polluted river. More interlaced lines have been engraved into the ground. The lines cross over each other, or twine together like multi-flex cables.

The cities are a uniform ma.s.s of squares the flat roofs of skysc.r.a.pers. Each is dotted with vents and looks like a printed circuit h.o.a.rd.

But this place is no machine. It's alive. The channels between the skysc.r.a.pers are veins, pumping the fluid into the capillaries.

There are rivers of red and white. Gleaming streams made up of a hundred cells, all flowing at the same speed. Some of the dots trickle off down small channels. Others join.

Roads. This is a world of roads.

The rivers of red are the tail lights. The rivers of white are the headlights.

The vehicles are tarnished with soot and smeared with grime. A cloud emanates from each exhaust pipe. Only their lamps break through the murk.

Not all are moving. These roads were once much wider but the edges have become dogged with stationary vehicles. They occupy the outside lanes, three 133 or four lanes thick. Like fatty deposits in veins, the roads are being gradually choked with the burnt-out carca.s.ses of cars.

There is a constant rumbling. Horns bleat across the darkness in a sombre, never-ending dirge.

Concrete pillars raise concrete overpa.s.ses and saffron lights illuminate deep, snaking tunnels. Verges are dusted with ash, acc.u.mulated from the fumes. There is shattered gla.s.s on the tarmac. No gra.s.s grows. There is only gravel.

The traffic thunders on.

This is the planet Estebol.

From the perspective of the Fabulous Micron, the delegates' speech was deep, lethargic and symptomatic of their slow thought processes. They were, the Fabulous Micron thought, inferior to the Micron race in all respects. Except one.

Within his dome, upon his cushion borne by his two attendants, the Micron was provided with a padded chair and control desk. A microphone relayed his instructions to the earpieces of his attendants. Of course, his speech had to be slowed down so that the stupid creatures could understand it, just as their protracted rumblings had to be sped up so that they were comprehensible to the superior Micron brain.

Also on his control panel were two monitor screens, each displaying the view from the cameras fitted to the front of each of his attendant's helmets.

He could observe everything that was going on. He could even look down and see his protective dome on his gold-braided cushion.

The monitors were essential, because from within the dome it was impossible to make out the outside world. Micron could see the bronzed blurs that were his two attendants, but beyond that everything was viewed through a fog. It was a myopic existence. That slow-moving grey cloud would be Dittero Shandy, and that green mist would be Vors.h.a.gg.

Micron watched Dittero, the estate agent, and waited for his conversation to be accelerated to within his hearing range. It mean that the words were out of sync with the pictures, which irritated the Micron, but couldn't be helped.

'Poozle is refusing to leave his room,' said Dittero, his face filling one monitor. The other monitor shifted to take in the conference room, before focusing on Fitz.

'Did he say what happened?'