'Right. Well, it's like this, you see. I've been monitoring this world's. . .

prospects, using the Tomorrow Windows, of course. I think you should go inside, and see for yourself.'

The hinges of the door squeaked. Fitz followed the Doctor into the building.

It consisted of one chamber that smelled of rotten wood. The Doctor held his radiation detector in front of him, its clicks becoming a whirr.

Fitz approached a pile of bricks that had been left in the centre of the room.

Half buried in the rubble was a cylinder surrounded by a nest of wires, capac-itors and valves. A cable was plugged into the base of the cylinder.

Fitz tapped his fingers against the cylinder. 'What is it?'

The Doctor crouched beside him. 'A nuclear bomb.'

Fitz jumped back with a start. 't.i.tting h.e.l.l! A nuclear bomb?'

'Yes.' The Doctor tested the connections by tugging at the wires. 'All it needs is a detonation signal and. . . '

Fitz tried not to panic, even though panic would be both the rational and emotional response. 'Wouldn't elsewhere be a good place to be, then?'

41.The Doctor turned to Charlton. 'By the look of it, this bomb contains about ten megatons megatons' worth of enriched pluranium. It will cause. . . unimaginable devastation. I suppose you want me to disable it?'

Charlton said nothing.

'Of course I can can, but I'm not sure I should. Not until I know who put it here, and why. Besides, this bomb alone is not enough to blow up a whole world. . .

and any interference with the connection will be noticed by whoever's at the other end of this wire.' The Doctor indicated the power cable. 'What sort of person leaves a nuclear bomb unguarded? I mean, it's just shoddy, what is the universe coming to '

There was a series of thuds from the doorway. Fitz turned to see three figures, each dressed in robes, each with its face hidden by a cowl. They each levelled a machine gun.

'Ah,' said the Doctor. 'That's more like it.'

We are not the only tumbril moving along the street we are part of a stream of pilgrims, all progressing at the sluggish pace of the cow-creatures. Ahead of us lie the double doors of the cathedral.

The statue dominates the sky. Craning my neck, I can see the underside of the outstretched arm. The rain drains off the elbow, dropletting down directly on to us.

'So that's Moop, is it?' I ask.

'No, no,' says Martin. 'The great prophet Moop, right, is the one who spoke to their G.o.d!'

'So everyone worships the big shouty bloke?'

'He shall return, he will,' mutters the woman holding the reins to our cow-creature. I've learnt that her name is Tunt, and the man is her husband, Fim.

'What?'

'He shall return, he will,' Tunt repeats. 'G.o.d shall return. So it was spaken unto Moop, so mote it be.'

'He promised, he did,' agrees Fim. 'He said if we rejected sin, if our faith was pure, and our devotion was absolute, then he'd come back, he would.'

'Oh. That's nice,' I say. I've heard this sort of thing before, usually just before I close my front door. 'Have you been waiting long?'

'A thousand years, innit?' says Tunt.

'And you're expecting him back, when?'

Fim turns to me. 'In about three hours.'

'Three hours hours?'

'So it was spaken unto Moop, so mote it be.'

'You're absolutely sure about this?'

42.'Oh yes,' says Tunt. 'He's definitely coming back, he is. To deliver us unto salvation.'

'I admire your faith.' We move through the double doors into a sudden darkness.

'Faith?' says Tunt as though it's an unfamiliar word. 'It is not a question of faith. It's guaranteed, it is.'

Our cart jerks to a halt in a crowded, brazier-lit hall. Around us, the sack-robed figures are gathering and kneeling. Martin helps me off the cart.

'What if he doesn't turn up?' I ask.

'He will.' Tunt is implacable. 'So it was spaken. . . '

'. . . unto Moop, so mote it be, I get it,' I say. 'He's coming back to save you all?'

'Oh yes.'

'Well, you must all be very excited.'

Tunt and Fim smile at me, then slap each other about the face.

Martin approaches a stooped, white-haired, saggy-lipped old man who is ushering people in and handing out battered prayer books. His robes are less grubby than the rest, so presumably he's in charge.

'h.e.l.lo,' says Martin. The white-haired man inspects Martin as though he's something he has sc.r.a.ped off a sandal. 'We're expected. Can you take us to see the Low Priest?'

The white-haired man frowns. 'You wish to pay homage to Jadrack the Pitiful?'

'Jadrack?'

'The Pitiful, yes.'

Martin nods. The white-haired man hands his prayer books to a colleague, sighs like a reluctant butler and conducts us through the throng. 'I am the Not-Quite-As-Low Priest Grigbsy. I shall take you to him.'

'The Low Priest?' I say. 'You sure you don't mean the High Priest?'

'No, the Low Priest is the one in charge, yeah?' says Martin, wide-eyed with excitement. 'They call him that because he's the most humble, most reverent priest of the lot.'

'I thought we were here to see the Doctor and Fitz?'

Martin grins at me. 'They'll turn up.'

'How can you be sure?' I say, feeling a growing unease. Something terrible is going to happen.

' Trust Trust me.' Martin rummages in his jacket pocket and hands me a Galactic Heritage leaflet. 'Shardybarn. Look it up. . . ' me.' Martin rummages in his jacket pocket and hands me a Galactic Heritage leaflet. 'Shardybarn. Look it up. . . '

The Doctor flicked through the leaflet. 'A Grade 1 listed planet,' he observed.

'A "pastoral world of outstanding natural tranquillity".'

43.The thud of the engines caused Fitz's seat to vibrate. Oil lamps swinging like pendulums illuminated the cabin of the airship. Three figures in grimy robes sat guard, each with a gun across its lap like a Capuchin gangster. Their cowls had been drawn back to reveal shaven heads dotted in sores.

Fitz peered out of the window, holding his breath to avoid clouding the gla.s.s. Far beneath them, the moorland gave way to a village and the buildings cl.u.s.tered together to form a town. Smoke swelled from chimneys. Pylons formed a wire lattice over the higgledy-piggledy bustle of rooftops.

At regular intervals, there was a domed building like the one they had visited. Each one kept watch over its surroundings with four animal faces.

Not much outstanding natural tranquillity, thought Fitz. 'Bit out of date,' he said.

'Yes.' The Doctor folded the leaflet, re-creased it and returned it to Charlton.

'Pollution, poor diet. . . Something has gone wrong here, Fitz.'

One of their guards rubbed his palms together and slapped his face. His two comrades joined in. It was like some sort of overenthusiastic German folk dance.

'I wish wish they wouldn't do that.' The Doctor shuffled in his seat to address Charlton. 'How long do we have left now?' they wouldn't do that.' The Doctor shuffled in his seat to address Charlton. 'How long do we have left now?'

Charlton sneaked a glance at the mini-Tomorrow Window concealed inside his coat. 'About three hours.'

'You're sure about this?' checked Fitz.

Charlton nodded.

'Because,' continued Fitz, 'you didn't predict Tate Modern blown up '

'The worl' will not end,' stated one of the guards. His voice was deep and ladled with a thick, country accent.

'What?' said the Doctor.

'The worl' will not end. G.o.d'll return and save us.'

'A little faith is a wonderful thing, but you can't expect miracles '

'Yer, we can,' gruffed another of the guards.

'Our science deacons 'ave made sure,' said the first guard. 'The Low Priest Jadrack 'ave found a way.'

'"Science deacons"? "Low Priest"?' said the Doctor. 'Who's in charge here, on this planet of yours?'

'Low Priest Jadrack. He be in charge.'

'And everyone obeys him, absolutely?'

The guards nodded as though the answer were obvious.

'A theocracy. . . ' breathed the Doctor. 'A fundamentalist, totalitarian theocracy! Well, that explains a great deal.'

The engines sputtered and Fitz's seat sank beneath him. They were descending.

44.'Oh my giddy goodness, will you take a look at that!' exclaimed Charlton.

The Doctor and Fitz leaned forward, polishing the condensation from the windows for a clearer view. The first ruddy streaks of dawn were driving through the clouds. Twin suns cast an orange glow over the city, and over a vast building, that was in the form of an angry bearded man sitting on a throne.

Fitz turned to the Doctor for a reaction. The Doctor was wincing as though trying to remember something.

It's the most awful noise I've ever heard. A constant, nerve-sc.r.a.ping wail.

The nursery is filled with row upon row of babies. Each one is wriggling inside a filthy incubator. Each one is grasping helplessly a the air. Each one is missing its two little fingers.

The function of the room is obvious. The babies have been brought here to die.

I can't look away. My eyes mist. Play a role, Trix. Be someone else, someone who can deal with this.

'The wrong-borns,' snaps Grigbsy. He steers Martin and I back into the corridor. After climbing another stairwell, we are now somewhere within the giant figure itself. Tapestries adorn the walls, depicting a man upon a throne shooting flame from his outstretched hand.

'The "wrong-born"?'

'When G.o.d came unto Moop, and he spake unto him, he did say that we should take a bit more notice of the heavens, for they have an influence upon our lives.'

'You mean, astrology?' says Martin.

'Indeed. Our G.o.d told Moop that the date of a child's birth would affect its nature.'

I begin to understand. 'You mean, those babies in there were '

'Born on the wrong day, yes,' says Grigbsy. 'They would grow up to become thieves and murderers. They are evil and, alas, must die.'

'Astrology isn't like that,' I protest. 'It's just a bit of fun. You're not supposed to take it seriously.'

Grigbsy halts. 'It is not a "bit of fun". Our G.o.d spake unto Moop, and Moop did take what he spake very seriously. Not for nothing was Moop known as Moop the Very Serious. . . As well as Moop the Pedantic, and Moop the Somewhat Literal-Minded.'

'Killing babies, that's a bit. . . extreme!'

'He was also known as Moop the Extreme. . . though there is some dissent about the exact translation. Some claim he is Moop the p.r.o.ne to Exaggera-45 tion. . . ' Grigbsy looks puzzled. 'How can you know of astrology, and yet not follow it to its logical conclusions?'

'That's because we don't really believe believe ' '