[planet's name]

He must have seen a hundred worlds. Everywhere there were the same unpleasant peasants, with absurd accents and squat, leathery creatures that smelled of dung. Everywhere there were the same boggy hills, or frosted tundra, or rippling deserts. The desert ones were the worst. He'd be sweating away inside his costume while the locals debated the best way to put up a tent.

And not a decent drink to be had anywhere.

There was one place where he'd tried the wine Grunt wine which was like vinegar with the consistency of tar. Some days he could still feel it on his teeth. On another world the foaming mead had turned out to be squid ink and he'd been forced to vomit to get rid of the aftertaste. And after drinking the fire-water on a desert world and discovering that it had originated in the bladder of a squat, leathery creature called a Fyr, he'd sworn off anything that didn't come in a vacu-sealed carton.

Prubert needed a decent drink. For the last six months he'd been stuck inside a cramped, foul-smelling s.p.a.ceship with only his dresser, the pilot and the special-effects boy for company. His dresser had resisted his advances on day one of the mission and the atmosphere between them was now as frosted as the tundra world of Shibshed. The other two were no b.l.o.o.d.y use either.

The pilot spent all the time on the phone to his girlfriend and the special-effects boy couldn't string together a word, let alone a sentence.

What had happened to him? He'd been playing to audiences of gawping cretins for too long. At first it had been a challenge, winning over a new crowd every night, putting down the hecklers. He couldn't deny that he had enjoyed the adoration particularly when they sacrificed squat, leathery creatures in his honour. The bowing and sc.r.a.ping and averting of eyes had begun to wear a bit thin, though. And it had been rather embarra.s.sing on that planet where they had insisted on eating gravel all the time.

He was getting lazy, that's what it was. His performance had stagnated.

He'd tried approaching the role in different ways to keep himself interested, but the lines had lost their meaning. One time he'd played it camp, all hands-on-hips. Not a t.i.tter. The problem was, whatever he did, the audiences just lapped it up. It was as if they'd never seen anything so impressive before in their lives. Which was true, but he'd started taking it for granted. Particularly 183 on that world where he'd died then come back to life as an encore. That had been milking it.

Prubert sat in the sullen half-light, his feet against the vibrating hull. He'd already donned his flowing robes. They were starting to fray but no one would ever notice. On the other side of the berth, his dresser glowered at him icily from behind her Inferno magazine Inferno magazine.

He'd appeared in Inferno Inferno, back in the pre-Vargo days. They'd snapped him emerging from a premiere, all puffy-eyed and bleary with drink. Great days.

He'd even had a photo-spread, back when he was dating that famous actress.

It had had been such a long time ago, back when he was offered the meaty parts huge, weighty roles that required stagecraft and skill. And shouting.

Lots of shouting.

What next for Prubert Gastridge, though? He'd been out of circulation for half a year what would he return to? Summer season in Froom-Upon-Harpwick? Or back to the voice-over booth to extol the virtues of Megara Megara Direct Direct and and Tersuran Airfresh Tersuran Airfresh?

Prubert thumbed through his magazine. With the money he'd earned in the last six months, he could retire. Give it all up. His eyes drifted down to an article about a place called the Centre for Posterity.

The engines dropped to a rumble and the front shutters whirred open to reveal the latest world. As he hauled himself to his feet, Prubert gave it the once-over. It was another of those blue misty ones.

Prubert's throne awaited him in the teleport booth. It sorely needed a lick of paint to cover its dents and scratches. The special-effects boy had swathed it in bubble wrap and tinsel it looked shoddy, but with the right lighting, it would be indistinguishable from magic.

And there was the papier-mache mask, with its special revolving mechanism. Prubert inspected it. The parrot, or whatever it was supposed to be, had shed most of its feathers. Maybe he'd give the mask a miss this time.

The subetha-printer chattered and Prubert collected the day's orders. He ran his eyes idly down the list of things he would have to teach the natives.

All pretty straightforward stuff. Prubert preferred not to think about why why he was being asked to do this. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is merely to get the lines out and try not to b.u.mp into the scenery. he was being asked to do this. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is merely to get the lines out and try not to b.u.mp into the scenery.

'So, what's this place like?' Prubert took to his throne. Time to get into character. It was difficult to feel G.o.dlike, though, with all the teleporting.

The pilot placed his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone. 'What?'

'This place? What's it like?'

The pilot whispered into his phone, 'Sorry, gottago, loveyoulots,' then checked his instruments. 'Pretty standard. Biped, humanoid. About so high.'

184.

Prubert tried to get comfortable. He wished he could have a cushion, but the special-effects boy wouldn't permit it. Not after that time he'd stood up with it still attached to his backside. 'What's the name of this place then?'

'Oh, it's another of those really dull, unimaginative ones. . . ' said the pilot.

'One thing that might be of interest to you, though.'

'Yes?' said Prubert.

'The natives have developed a process of alcohol fermentation and distillation. Sensors indicate a large number of. . . dedicated drinking establishments.'

'At last,' breathed Prubert. 'At last!'

He was going to enjoy this one.

185.

Chapter Eleven.

Election Day

Jasmine filled the air. It was sickly sweet. Fitz walked down the avenue, the clinkle of wind chimes the only sound. Privet hedges enclosed identical detached houses with identical detached lawns. Sprinklers whirled like ballerinas. Fitz had been expecting the usual rounds of giant spider-bots and pseudo-sentient automobiles and genocidal high priests, but instead, he'd found suburbia.

There was no sign of Dittero.

The road climbed the prow of a hill, affording Fitz a view over the neighbourhood. Identical houses stretched in every direction along perpendicular avenues. Fitz boggled. Imagine coming home drunk, you'd never find the right house.

Fitz searched for some sort of landmark. And he found it, so far away that it wobbled in the haze. Some sort of tower, as high as a skysc.r.a.per but tapering to a point. It would be something to head for, at least.

It was then Fitz noticed there was something very wrong with the sky.

The Doctor frowned through the binoculars. 'Now that is worrying.'

Charlton joined the Doctor on the summit of the knoll and followed his gaze. He didn't need the binoculars.

A vast pale moon loomed overhead. Charlton could make out every detail.

A thousand craters pockmarked its surface, each surrounded by an icing-sugar impact-spray. Along the fault lines of the crust rose veinlike ridges. Oddly, the moon wasn't spherical. It was more like a thrown-together ball of clay.

The air was so clear the moon seemed no more distant than the town houses across the street. Only the fact that it was faint in the azure sky made Charlton realise how far away it must be, and how huge it must be.

'Worrying?' said Trix, arriving with three icy drinks. She had to pick her way through the other people who had gathered on the embankment to watch the procession.

The Doctor squinted for a few more seconds, then took his drink and slurped the straw. 'Given the likely ma.s.s ma.s.s of that moon, and the gravity of this planet,' of that moon, and the gravity of this planet,'

he jumped up and down, 'it's too close for comfort.'

186.

Charlton's attention returned to the carnival. Red, white and silver bunting fluttered from street lamps. People jostled together on the pavements cheer-ing, their faces trouble-free. Others hung out of windows or perched on balconies. Vendors wended through the crowd handing out burgers. The air sizzled.

The houses of the town were squashed together, with narrow timber facades and washboard-shuttered windows. Many were double galleries, like wedding cakes. Each had been painted a different pastel colour.

'Of course,' said the Doctor, half-shouting over the bustle and the oompah, 'I'm not sure it is a moon at all. More probably a minor planet.'

Trix handed Charlton his drink while making a, 'just ignore him' face. Charlton sipped his drink. It tasted of raspberries and fizzed.

'I wouldn't be surprised if there was some disruption to sea levels,' said the Doctor, peering through the binoculars. 'Something that size is bound to have a tidal influence.' The large, sweaty woman at his side tapped him on the elbow. He returned her binoculars with a grin. 'Thanks.'

'They're for looking at the procession,' the woman told him.

'Oh. Thanks.'

'Why don't you enjoy yourself?' said Trix. 'Everyone seems to be having a good time.'

A brisk snare-drum roll announced the arrival of a bra.s.s band, flanked by girls in diaphanous b.u.t.terfly skirts and shimmering head-dresses. Behind them marched a group of boys in striped blazers and boaters carrying placards. Each placard had the same image, the face of a chubby-faced man wearing a benevolent grin. Below each grin were the words, Vote Winkitt The Vote Winkitt The Voice Of Experience Voice Of Experience.

'We're not here to have a good time,' said the Doctor. 'We're here to save the world.'

'Maybe it doesn't need saving?' said Trix.

'Maybe they don't realise they need saving?'

With a trill of flutes, another band materialised.

Majorettes in furry Sergeant Pepper uniforms twirled batons and goose-stepped. Behind the majorettes came a parade of cheerleaders, shaking shivering pom-poms that reminded Charlton of Question Intonation. The cheerleaders elicited hearty shouts of approval and a flurry of flag waving.

They were followed by another troupe of men with banners, this time featuring a smooth-faced young man with Golden Age of Cinema looks. Beneath him were the words Vote Pewt Sweep In A New Broom Vote Pewt Sweep In A New Broom.

Despite himself, Charlton began to shake his waist in time to the music. He received encouraging glances from the people around him, families with perfect teeth and glistening complexions. Someone handed him a glossy leaflet.

187.

Winkitt The People's President.

'What d'you think this is all in aid of?' said Trix.

The Doctor handed her a leaflet. It featured another photo of the Matinee Idol, with the words, ' Pewt He's One Of Us Pewt He's One Of Us'. 'I think,' he said, 'this is a. . .

party political broadcast.'

Gasping for breath, Prubert Gastridge joined them on the mound, and collapsed on to his backside.

The Doctor sat beside him, Charlton and Trix joining him on the other side.

'Is there anything you recognise? Anything at all?' the Doctor asked.

Prubert looked around through squinted eyes. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Except that.' He pointed to the moon.

'That was here a thousand years ago?'

'Not so big then,' said Prubert between gasps. 'They called it the "pirate moon". All this was sea.'

'Which meme did you introduce?' The Doctor offered Prubert one of the raspberry drinks. 'Can you remember?'

'Democracy,' said Prubert.

'Well, they all seem quite happy,' said Trix. 'Maybe it wasn't so bad.

'You think?'

'They're not trying to blow themselves up, are they? You're sure it was this planet you came to, and not somewhere else?'

By way of an answer, Prubert pointed.

A large carnival float turned the corner to join the procession. It consisted of a figure upon a throne the size of a house. The figure swayed back and forth under the weight of its beard. It was also pointing, and its mouth was an 'O'.

'Not a bad likeness,' said Prubert. 'Flattering, really. . . '

'Flattering?' said the Doctor incredulously.

'That's not my beard, though,' Prubert observed. 'Do you think I should tell them, get them to re-do it?'

'Prubert, you have interfered with a planet's destiny, and all you can think about is whether they've got your beard right?'

'I'm just saying, that's all,' said Prubert. 'If I'm their messiah, they'd probably like to get it right.'

'Prubert, you're not the messiah, you're a very ' The Doctor's words were drowned out by a mew of feedback. Charlton looked up at the various loud-speakers attached to the street lamps. They chimed a jingle.

'Electors of Minuea,' boomed a voice, each word reverberating in the sum-mery atmosphere. 'We proudly present, the father of democracy, the divine ent.i.ty from beyond the stars. . . '

Prubert shifted forward to get a better look.

188.

'. . . founder of our civilisation. . . Poobar Gasidge!'

The audience whooped and cheered. Garlands were tossed.

Prubert's jawed dropped. ' Poobar Poobar?'