It might logically have been presumed that the warrior bands of social outcasts currently stalking the streets would have e from the 'lower orders'。 But not a bit of it。 The 'lower orders' were all safely tucked up at home watching television。 It was Rambo and his ilk who had bee subject to Duke's Principle and were forced to take to the streets。
The upper classes had fared rather badly in the post NHE world。 Without Wimbledon； the Royal Tournament； three…day events and Gardener's World； they couldn't actually bring themselves to watch TV。 And so they became non…participants in the great EYESPI credit race。 Those of them who left the bunkers made futile attempts to reclaim their ruined estates。 But you just couldn't get the staff。
Soon； like closing credits； they faded from the screen。
The young； for their part； took to the antisocial behaviour which was their birthright； and bands like the Devianti were formed。 Within their ranks； they maintained a strict social order； reasoning that when society was eventually restructured； it would be for them to reassume their natural place at the top and govern it。 The fact that they had bee the plete antithesis of this society totally escaped them。
These were； as the Bard of Mersey had once unknowingly predicted； 'strange days indeed'。
Rambo swung the car towards another cat； but the six…legged moggy danced nimbly aside。 The in…town runabout bumped over the mangled wreckage of something which had seemed very important at the time it was built and trundled up to the door of the Hotel California。
'Home again； home again； jiggedy jig；' sang Eric； shinning down from the cab。 'Oh shit！'
'Language。' Rambo joined him at the rear of the runabout。 It was empty。
'Well； bless my soul；' said the cannibal chief。 'This is most unexpected。'
'This is most unexpected；' said the smiling Jovil Jspht。 'Now let me see if I have it right。 You have chosen me to travel back into the past and alter the Earth's history。'
Mungo Madoc nodded sagely。 When put like that it did sound pretty ridiculous at best。 'We think you are the man for the job。'
'And indeed I am。 So； I manifest myself as an angel before this Paisley。'
'Presley； Elvis Presley。'
'Convince him not to join the Army and then e straight back here。'
Mungo patted him upon the shoulder。 'What could be simpler？'
'Gosh。' Jovil flushed with sheer pride。 'An angel。'
'We will issue you with everything you will require。 There are several videos in the archives made after Presley's death。 They will say it all to him。 Frankly we don't mind what you say to him。 Just convince him not to join the Army。 Leave the rest to us。'
'And once I'm done； I just press this little button。' Jovil reached for the black box which lay before him on the boardroom table。
Garstang hurriedly drew it beyond his reach。 'That's right； but not a minute sooner and only when you are a considerable distance away from Presley。'
Jovil looked puzzled。 'Why？' he asked。
'Because。。。 because why？' Mungo gazed about at his execs。 'Because why； Garstang？'
'Because you must be on your own；' said the sprout； who had twigged exactly what was going on。 'Transient photons causing a cross polarisation of the interstellar overdrive。 Anyone standing nearby would get sucked into the positronic trans…dimensional warp factor five graphic equaliser。'
'Exactly。' Mungo nodded approvingly。
'Sounds very plicated。'
Mungo nodded again。 'Oh； it is。 Very。'
Jovil turned to the sprout。 'But what about you though？'
'I'll find my own way back； don't worry about me。'
'So； Mr Garstang here will fill you in on all the details； issue you with the bits and bobs and whatnot。 Do you have any questions？'
Jovil shook his head； 'I can't think of any。'
'Good； well if you do； I'm sure Mr Garstang will set you straight。 Won't you； Mr Garstang？'
'Indeed I will； sir。'
'So now；' Mungo drew Jovil to his feet； straightened up and saluted him。 'Good luck soldier。 The future of the series rests in your hands。 We applaud you。' The executive team put their hands together。 On Phnaargos applause was considered the highest pliment or accolade that could possibly be paid to an individual。 It meant that you had really made it。 On twentieth…century Earth； the nearest equivalent would have been a guest appearance on Wogan or a libellous attack on your sexual habits by a Sunday newspaper。
'You can count on me。' Jovil Jspht stood rigidly to attention。 There was a tear in his eye。
To further applause he left the boardroom in the pany of Gryphus Garstang； who was carrying the black box at arm's length。
'Don't forget this；' Mungo plucked up the sprout and tossed it after them。
The boardroom door sealed and Mungo rubbed his palms together。 'I think that went remarkably well。'
Fergus Shaman shook his head doubtfully。 'I really must protest。 You are going about this all the wrong way。 It will end in disaster。'
'You would rather make the trip yourself； then？'
Fergus shifted uneasily。 'I'm not saying that。 But blowing him up 。。。 something might go wrong。'
'The thing that worries me；' said Lavinius Wisten； 'is the fact that he never asked once whether the mission was dangerous。'
'He trusts us。'
'It will end in tears；' said Fergus。
'And another thing；' Wisten continued； 'that sprout； he cottoned on to what was on the go a bit fast。 I wouldn't trust him as far as I could kick him。'
Mungo nodded vigorously。 'Now on that we are both agreed。 I think we will have a little surprise waiting for friend sprout when he gets back。' He made knife and fork motions with his fingers。
Fergus leapt to his feet。 'You can't do that。 The Time Sprout is a marvel of horticultural science。 It will open up new vistas； whole new worlds。'
'It is a loose end；' said Mungo Madoc in no uncertain tone； 'and it will go down a treat； lightly boiled with just a dash of melted butter。'
Fergus Shaman buried his head in his hands and wept bitterly。
As the lift slithered obscenely down the yielding membrane tube； Jovil Jspht made little clicking sounds with his tongue and popped his fingers。 It was true that he hadn't touched upon the possible dangers of the mission。 But this was simply because he hadn't even given them a moment's thought。 Far greater issues were at stake here。 And anyway； how could anything possibly go wrong？ He had bee the Chosen One。 The Saviour of the Series。 The Man with the Mission！
And Jovil already had the whole thing planned out。 He would return to the 1950s and sort out this Presley character； put him on the right track。 There was no real problem there surely。 And even if there was； he could always bung Presley the little black box； let him go and see for himself the mess he'd got everyone into。 No problem。 After all； he had no intention of using the black box himself。 Once the Presley business was out of the way； he meant to get down to the real task at hand。 The revitalization of the series！ His own personal rewrite of the script！
Jovil did a big ear…to…ear job。 And all set in the 1950s； it couldn't have worked out better if he had planned it himself。 His very favourite period in Earth history。 The golden age of science fiction。 Forbidden Planet； Them； The Quatermass Experiment。 Those were the days。 The skies were full of UFOs； and every secret research establishment had a radioactive mutant skeleton in its cupboard。 It was just perfect。
He'd give the Phnaargian viewing public something they would long remember。 The rating topper to end all rating toppers。 He could already see the blurbs。
Mankind faces its greatest ever threat。
Spawn of the nuclear age。。。 Born of the Bottomless Pit 。。。 can nothing stop。。。 THE KILLER MAGGOTS FROM THE EARTH'S CORE？？？
This was no accident of fate； no mere chance or coincidence。 He had been singled out for this。 It was Divine intervention。
'Thank you； thank you； God；' chirruped Jovil Jspht； pressing his thumb and forefinger to his nose and making the sacred squeeze。 'Thank you very much。'
Above and beyond all this； the deity in question examined the tip of his holy hooter in a shaving mirror the size of a billion galaxies。 'You're a ripe…looking little bugger；' he said。
All the world is just a stage and all the men and women merely players。
Elvis Presley
Rex Mundi peeped out of the discarded bio…hazard drum where he had taken up temporary residence。 He saw Rambo Bloodaxe kick the rear of the in…town runabout。 He saw Rambo Bloodaxe kick the rear of Deathblade Eric and finally he saw Rambo Bloodaxe kick at the rear of a six…legged moggy； miss and fall heavily to the oily sod。 Rex stifled a snigger and felt himself for probable fractures。 He appeared to be in remarkably fine fettle； all things considered。 His radiation suit was somewhat charred； but its heat…resistant inner lining had spared him a roasting。 His weatherdome was badly cracked； though； and the rancid stench of the outside world was all too apparent to his recently…rooted nostrils。
Through the dome's blackened glass Rex watched Eric help his chum up from the dirt。 The two Devianti gazed bitterly up and down the ruined highway。