Fergus rode down the central throughway。 Here and there he passed the minions； long of beard and wild of eye。 Each was dedicated to some particular year； month； day or hour； dependent upon their grade。 They never conversed with one another and they paid not the slightest heed to Fergus。 As he drifted downstream towards 1958； Fergus pondered upon the wonder of it all。 But as that soon gave him a headache he jacked the bugger in。
The year in question rose up before him and Fergus stepped from the throughway to enter its core。 Light flowed into it in many coloured shafts； kniving down between the shimmering globes。 Ridley Scott would have been very much at home。 Ahead； seated before his console with his back to Fergus and the ing and going amidst the light show； was the year's custodian。
'Good day。' Fergus affected a cheery smile。 Getting anything out of these lads was always a serious struggle。 'I really must apologize to you for this rude interruption。 But something of a most serious nature has e up。' The custodian ignored him。 'Hmm。' Fergus crept slowly forward and lightly tapped the gent upon his padded shoulder。 'If I might just trouble you for a moment。'
The custodian turned slightly in his chair and then slid gracefully from it to assume an unfortable twisted posture upon the floor。 His eyes looked up at Fergus but they saw nothing。 The custodian was quite dead。 A feeling of terrible panic welled up within Fergus as he knelt to examine the corpse。 Its fingers were charred and the hair stood up upon the crown of its head。 Electrocuted？ Circuit malfunction？ Static overload？ Fergus rose to view the console screen。 To his horror the graphics spelt out the very date he had e to review。 And across the centre of the screen big red letters flashed on and off。 They read：
ACCESS DENIED。 ALL FURTHER 20TH CENTURY DATA IS NOW BEING ERASED。 FAILSAFE IN OPERATION。 DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL。
8
A good performance is more important than life itself。 Iggy Pop
'Surely you can get something。' Ms Vrillium's hatchet nose sliced the air。 'Those air cars cost a packet。 What was the last report he made before he went offscreen？'
Maurice Webb； who was quite new to this kind of thing and who had only got the job because word of his remarkably large willy had reached the ear of the female operations manager； scratched at his groin and looked worried。
'We had his final report at…' he tapped at his terminal '…two o'clock； the name of Rogan Josh and a request that twenty…seven credits be placed in his account。 He called in from the car park of the Tomorrowman Tavern。'
'And then？'
'And then he flew north for about five kilometres and apparently struck some overhead powerlines。'
'Which weren't logged into the in…car puter。'
'Apparently not。'
'And why might that be； do you think？'
Maurice cringed。 'Lack of interdepartmental cooperation perhaps。 I haven't been able to identify the culprits as yet。' Ms Vrillium cracked her knuckles meaningfully。 'But；' Maurice went on； 'I wasted no time。 I immediately dispatched two search vehicles to seek out the wreckage and any possible survivors。'
'Very good。' Ms Vrillium patted the young man on the shoulders。 'Very fast thinking。'
'Yes；' Maurice agreed。 'I thought so。'
Ms Vrillium smiled。 The effect upon Maurice was very much what it had been upon Rex。 'And these search vehicles； they have the location of the powerlines programmed into their guidance systems； I trust。'
'Ah；' groaned Maurice； Webb。 'Now that you e to mention it。。。'
Rex heard the sounds of the approaching craft。 He peeped from his toxic hideyhole and saluted the murky heavens。 'Bravo God。' called Rex。 'You don't waste a lot of time； do you？'
The two explosions came fast upon one another。 A double mushroom cloud rose beyond the Hotel California。 Rex Mundi； the noted atheist； took to his heels。 He climbed into the cab of the Deviantis' in…town runabout； jiggled the joystick； thrummed the controls and made a very well orchestrated getaway。
Deathblade Eric and Rambo Bloodaxe； galvanized into action by the sounds of more falling fodder； issued from the hotel just in time to see Rex making off with their car。 Rambo kicked himself in the ankle。
'Fair gets a fellow's dander up； does this；' he observed as he hopped about。
'It surely do；' his panion agreed； 'it surely do。'
Merrily he rolled along。 Rex whistled station ditties as he steered his way between this and that； and around the other。 Luck； if not God； seemed for once to be actually on his side。 The two approaching craft； he rightly surmised； had been sent out by the station in search of his remains。 As they had met with a fate similar to his own； it seemed reasonable to assume that the crash hadn't been his fault。 He wasn't going to get the blame for blowing up one of their precious air cars。 In fact he would probably be able to claim some kind of pensation。 The situation held all manner of engaging possibilities。 Once he was safe back at Nemesis； of course。
The grim monotone of the old town sector passed him by on either side。 The buildings were ancient； their faces blurred by the acid rains。 Rex knew nothing of this area other than it； like everywhere else； was scheduled for redevelopment。 It was evident； even from the sorry ruins which remained； that this had once been a thriving neighbourhood。 But what it had once been called and where it in fact was； in relation to anywhere else； was anyone's guess。 Geography was a dead science。
Rex recalled the time that his Uncle Tony had shown him something he referred to as 'A Map of the World'。 He had pored over the coloured splodges； saying that these were countries and that millions of people had once lived in them。 'Different races；' he said。 The whole concept had had Rex enchanted。 That a sheet of paper could represent anywhere that it was possible to go； and somehow show you how to get there。 Rex had asked the old man how large he thought the world might be。 But Uncle Tony merely shrugged helplessly and replied that he had really no idea。 And when Rex asked to be shown exactly where they were on the map； he had shaken his head； saying that he didn't know。 Then he had wept。
Rex couldn't remember the map in any detail； and possession of such artefacts was illegal anyway。 So it was still a mystery。 All he knew of the world was that it was flat； rectangular and being redeveloped。
Rex hunched over the controls and squinted into the gloom。 Perhaps there never had been countries。 He felt sure that if he just drove and drove all he would ever find was simply more and more of just the same。
He switched on the spotlight atop the vehicle。 Night was beginning to fall。 And so now were his spirits。 Rex swerved suddenly to avoid something scaly and unwholesome which limped across the trackway before him。 He was growing very tired and ing to the dire conclusion that he was also growing very lost。 The night rain began to sizzle upon the vehicle's roof。 It spattered on to the windscreen； drawing blackened tear streaks down the plexiglass。 Further travel would soon be out of the question。 Habitation； sanctuary or whatever； was now very much the order of the evening。 Rex squinted。 It was growing as black as closedown。 No lights； not a nothing。 Press on a little； what else could he do？ The runabout trundled into a pothole and Rex felt some little nagging doubts regarding his future。 The filters on his weatherdome had given up the ghost and he had no replacements。 The night didn't smell good。
The rain now fell in poisonous torrents。 Lightning zipped and flashed； offering chances Rex felt disinclined to take。 He pushed the runabout out of gear and switched off the fission drive。 He was buggered。
'God；' said Rex； 'about this afternoon。。。'
But he didn't get any further。 In between the lightning breaks something else was flashing。 Colourfully。 Rex didn't take it in at first； but when he did； a grim smile found its way amidst his damp stubble。 The light went on 。。。 off。。。 on 。。。 off 。。。 on 。。。 off。。。 the way some of them do。 And this one spelt out MORROWMA TAV。
The sweeping drive up to Gracelands was chock…a…block。 Glorious 1950s black and white police cars were parked where they had slewed。 Front wheels deeply dug into the plastic turf。 Lots of flashing lights flashed； pressmen in trenchcoats with big cameras and fedoras milled about the mock Grecian pillars and asked to be 'given a break'。 Ambulances stood； their rear doors yawning。 Fat policemen； or cops； as they were then known； displayed their armpit sweat and called everyone 'mac'。 It was all jolly good fun； although the attention to period detail left much to be desired。 One pressman lit his cigar with a disposable gas lighter； which was wrong for a start。 And the aerials on the police cars were too modern。 The cops' hair was too long； but you have to expect that。
Elvis Presley didn't have much to say for himself。 But under the circumstances； he could hardly be blamed。 He had been bound tightly； hand and foot； gagged with a lurex sock and hooded with a US mailbag。 He lay face down in a flower…bed； where for those who are interested； certain flowers bloomed pletely out of season。
Jovi