'Trix.'

'Trixie Trix, would you like to see something totally wild?'

'Totally wild, eh?' Trix finished her champagne. 'Sounds promising.'

'So you think you're helping Earth?' said the Doctor, holding open the gla.s.s double doors for Fitz, Charlton and the two security guards.

'Absolutely!

The Tomorrow Windows will deliver mankind from folly!'

Charlton placed his hands proudly in his waistcoat pockets and delivered the dopey wide-eyed-confidence expression from the brochure.

'What about free will?'

'People can still choose how to act, Doctor. They'll just. . . have a better idea of what they're doing, that's all!'

'Come on, come on come on.' Fitz could hear the edge in the Doctor's voice. He strode around the gallery, pretending to be absorbed in the paintings. 'That's not going to happen, is it? Everyone will always do the right thing, won't they?'

Charlton stroked his beard. 'What's wrong with that?'

The Doctor halted. 'Because without free will, there can be no achievements, no surprises, no responsibility. Just things turning out nice again all the time.'

'Right, now then, Doctor, consider the alternative. What if '

'The alternative, Charlton, is that whatever mistakes humanity makes, they will be their own own mistakes. Mankind will mistakes. Mankind will learn learn, and it can't do that if it can flick to the back of the book and look up the answers.'

'I wish I shared your faith, Doctor, I really do,' said Charlton as they started moving again. 'Unfortunately, experience shows a tendency for mankind not not to act in its best interests.' to act in its best interests.'

'What you're doing is. . . meddling,' breathed the Doctor. 'It's the most well-intentioned, the best possible meddling you could hope for, but it's still meddling.'

'I can't just stand by and do nothing, can I?' They reached the elevator. The doors slid open and Charlton waved for them to step inside. 'And I won't allow anyone to stop me.'

Fitz knew a threat when he heard one. 'What?'

'If you will excuse me.' Charlton paused, his gaze lingering on the Doctor.

'We can continue our chat chat later, if you like.' later, if you like.'

20.The stairwell was deserted, the chatter of the crowd m.u.f.fled by a set of fire doors. 'Go on then,' said Trix. 'Amaze me.'

Martin dug into one of his jeans pockets and retrieved a chrome bar about four inches long with a b.u.t.ton set into one side.

'A door handle? You're amazing me with a door handle.'

'Watch!' Martin held the handle out in front of him at waist height. He gripped it as though he were about to open an imaginary sliding door and pressed the b.u.t.ton on the handle with his thumb.

A vertical crack appeared in mid air to the left of the handle, extending down to the floor. The crack twinkled like a thread of silver. Martin pulled the handle sharply to the right and light streamed in through the crack as it suddenly widened to a rectangle, three feet across and six feet high. A door.

Trix was impressed. She walked around the rectangle and it narrowed until it was invisible, only to reappear when she returned to the other side. Peering into it, she could see a brightly lit chamber, with metal walls reinforced by a triangular pattern of struts.

'My pad!' Martin indicated that she should enter.

Trix looked at him. 'OK. But if you try anything, it's a knee in the groin.'

Martin stepped after her and heaved the door shut. It vanished into thin air.

'She's just popped out, with a friend,' repeated the waitress.

The Doctor handed the Waitress a folded five-pound note. 'Thanks, most helpful.'

'What friend?' shouted Fitz over the hullaballoo. The turbine hall heaved with celebrities, artists and journalists, all buzzing with antic.i.p.ation and free alcohol.

The Doctor shushed Fitz and pointed towards the stage. A hush flowed across the chamber, fragments of conversation falling away as guests cleared their throats.

Charlton mounted the podium, his chest puffed out. The man the Doctor had spoken to earlier, Ken, sat to one side, scribbling on an envelope. Behind him was a vast screen, five metres high, on which The Tomorrow Windows logo rotated in three dimensions. The logo was replaced by a close-up of Charlton's face.

'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' Charlton's cultured tones echoed through the public address system, 'and welcome to The Tomorrow Windows!'

He raised one arm with a theatrical flourish. 'I'm really. . . moved to see so many of you here. So many important statesmen, amba.s.sadors, artists and '

he looked over the gathered celebrities, his expression crestfallen with disappointment, '. . . opinion formers. I hope you will find this exhibition leaves you. . . reinvigorated with a new sense of purpose!'

21.The crowd applauded hesitantly.

'But I don't expect you to believe me for a minute oh no! so, here to say a few words and hopefully only a few! may I present, right, your good friend and mine, the Mayor of London. . . Mr Ken Livingstone!'

This time the applause included whoops. Ken took the podium and beamed at the audience as though they were old friends.

'Good evening, and thanks to Charlton for inviting me to speak to you, tonight. I must confess to being rather sceptical about these Tomorrow Windows and I wonder whether we have all been dragged here for the sake of a rather desperate publicity stunt. That's certainly why I'm here.'

The audience laughed in agreement.

'The Tomorrow Windows, I'm told, will allow us to see into the future. As a politician, I'll find this particularly useful, because then I'll know what I'm going to achieve before I write my manifesto. So much easier than doing it the other way round. And we will also be able to find out who wins the next General Election, though we hardly need to look into a, look into a, look into a. . . '

The Doctor frowned. Something wasn't quite right.

Ken remained on the stage, smiling at the crowd, his face perfectly motionless. He did not blink or breathe. Instead, he gave a short mechanical whirring, like a video recorder about to eject a tape, and a hairline fracture appeared down the centre of his face.

Then, with a sharp click, his head split in two, revealing a jumbled collection of wires, valves and electric circuits. All that remained of his features were two fake-looking eyeb.a.l.l.s that peered to the left and right.

In the centre of the circuits nestled a cylinder of metal. As the a.s.sembled celebrities watched in disbelieving horror, the top of the tube opened and a smaller tube emerged.

Realisation dawned for the Doctor. 'An electron bomb.'

'A what?' said Fitz.

'Ken's a bomb!' yelled the Doctor at the top of his voice. 'The Mayor of London is about to explode! Everybody get out, fast!'

The crowd did not need telling twice. The hall echoed with screams as people surged towards the exits, hurling aside the sculptures and information plaques. Somebody set off the fire alarm and a high-pitched wail added to the chaos.

The Doctor, meanwhile, forced his way through the crowd to the stage, ignoring the startled cries and questions. Fitz hauled himself up on to the stage after him and together they approached the motionless figure of Ken Livingstone. Or, at least, a figure with the body of Ken Livingstone and the head of a primed explosive.

22.'What is it?' said Fitz.

The Doctor examined the tangled cat's cradle of wires and circuits. 'An android duplicate of the former member for Brent East '

'No, Doctor,' said Fitz. 'What's an electron bomb?'

'Extraterrestrial in origin. Used in the Varlon-Hyspero wars.' The Doctor dug into one of his pockets and withdrew his sonic screwdriver. He aimed it at the top of the tube, his expression locked in concentration. 'It will destroy everything within a half-mile radius.'

'Then h.e.l.lo! shouldn't we be getting out of here?' Fitz gazed out into the hall. The last of the security guards disappeared through the main entrance, leaving the floor covered in broken gla.s.s and discarded programmes. There was no sign of that Mackerel fellow either.

'There's a chance. . . ' The Doctor activated his sonic screwdriver, and, with a whine, one of the screws holding the bomb together began to revolve. He withdrew two wires. 'Which one is it? The red or the blue?'

'You can never remember anything when it's really important.'

'The blue.' The Doctor tugged the wire free.

The top of the bomb-tube opened up to reveal, like a Russian Doll, another tube.

The Doctor sucked his teeth. 'Whoopsadaisy.'

'"Whoopsadaisy"?' said Fitz. 'You can't defuse it?'

'Oh, easily,' the Doctor said. 'In about fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, it's going to detonate in five. So we should. . . run!'

Fitz jumped off the stage, half tumbling to the ground, a pain shooting through his ankle, and sprinted for the main exit. As he reached the door, he doubled up for breath.

'Come on!' The Doctor grasped Fitz by the shoulders and heaved him out of the building and into the sudden coolness of the evening. The embankment was deserted, the crowd having made their way across the bridge to St Paul's.

Fitz looked at the Doctor, the Doctor looked at Fitz, and they raced for the bridge. Fitz lurched up the first ramp, dragging himself along by the handrails.

The Doctor was ahead of him now, waving him on Finding himself on the bridge, Fitz took a lungful of air, and staggered towards the familiar shape of the cathedral.

And, as he collapsed on the concrete steps, there was a blast of oven-hot air and an ear-shattering burst of thunder. The ground thudded and shook beneath his feet.

Fitz looked back. A cloud of dust had enveloped Tate Modem, expanding outwards like a rolling waterfall. Slowly, inexorably, the tower toppled forward, the brickwork fragmenting from the bottom up, smashing through the 23 Millennium Bridge and sending a series of girders and struts crashing into the Thames.

And where Tate Modern had stood there was now nothing but smoke and rubble.

24.

Chapter Two.

Two-Dimensional Villains

Huw Edwards clears his throat and finds his place on the autocue. 'And more on the destruction of Tate Modern. No terrorist groups have claimed responsibility. the destruction of Tate Modern. No terrorist groups have claimed responsibility.

Due to a last-minute evacuation of the building, there appear to have been no casualties. A government ' casualties. A government '

A blue menu bar appears at the bottom of the screen, and '3' is selected.

A reporter stands in front of a tape cordon, microphone in hand. Behind him, fire workers clamber over the rubble, their torches flaring through the dust. ' fire workers clamber over the rubble, their torches flaring through the dust. '

back to the studio, John.'

John Suchet turns back to the camera, pauses, then moves on. 'And now other developments. Ken Livingstone, believed to have been a casualty of the Tate Modern attack, has been found alive and unharmed in the London Mayor's office in developments. Ken Livingstone, believed to have been a casualty of the Tate Modern attack, has been found alive and unharmed in the London Mayor's office in City Hall. Police believe he was locked ' City Hall. Police believe he was locked '

John Suchet shrinks to a small, white dot.

'I can't believe you get cable,' said Trix, returning the remote control to the coffee table. She stretched back on the sofa, shifting magazines.

Martin stopped shoving T-shirts into his linen basket and looked up at Trix.

'That's satellite. I only get the free channels, I don't bother with the others.

Waste of money.'

It was a typical student flat. Heaps of books, thumbed novels and academic journals lined the shelves. A few pot plants withered on the mantelpiece beside a smouldering joss stick. Blu-tac stains dotted the bulging wallpaper. Trix recognised the usual student posters a seven-p.r.o.nged leaf, Eric Cartman saying 'Respect My Authoritaaah', polarised Beatles and that one of the London Underground map with the names changed. In fact, the only thing out of the ordinary was the view from the window a blue galaxy of untwinkling stars.

When Trix had stepped through the 'tele-door', she'd expected to find herself on a sophisticated s.p.a.cecraft. Instead, she'd emerged into a corridor where Martin was fumbling with a Yale lock. After much apologising, Martin had forced the door open, dislodging a pile of pizza delivery leaflets.

'I mean, here were are,' Trix drew up her feet beneath her, 'however many light years from Earth '

25.'Oh right! Wow, yeah.' Martin cleared a s.p.a.ce on the table, shifting various remote controls, coasters and a Radio Times. 'It comes through some sort of tachyon-ether relay. I would explain it, but I don't understand it, it's all very. . .

s.p.a.cey. Would tea be OK?'

'Tea would be OK.'

Martin disappeared into the kitchen. Trix could hear the rattle of cutlery.

'Aldebaran Instant? Or Metalupitan Grey?'

'Whatever. So this is where you live?'

Martin leaned against the door jamb, tea-towelling two Simpson Simpson mugs. mugs.