'Slow down； the man who takes the trip and picks up all this knowledge will bee。。。'
'Godlike；' said Mungo Madoc。
'Barmy；' said the sprout。 'Stone bonkers。'
'Ah；' said Mungo。 'I see。'
'As a hatter；' the sprout continued。 'Off his kookie； out of his tree。。。'
'Quite so。'
'Basket case。'
'Thank you。'
'Loony； dibbo； round the twist。。。'
'Thank you very much。 And this will happen as he makes the journey back？'
'The journey back into the past is OK； it's the journey forward that will do for him。 Blow his mind； freak him out； spring his。。。'
'Thank you！ This matter will require a good deal of thought。 Fergus； kindly take your little friend down to the lobby。 I'm sure he'd like a glass of water； or something。'
'Virtually self sufficient； chief；' said the sprout。 'Metabolic rate merely ticking over； pseudopodium catered for。'
'The lobby！' shouted Mungo and he meant it。
The door sealed upon a sullen Fergus and a plaining sprout。 Mungo smiled down at this team。 They returned his gaze； with varying degrees of apprehension。
'This is a conundrum；' said Mungo Madoc。 'One； in fact； quite new to my experience。 But it has potential。 I like it。'
'But it isn't going to work；' Gryphus plained。 'In fact it's a load of old。。。'
'Now； now。 I can see the problems。 To achieve our end； we must dispatch one of our number back into the past。 On his return he will be a headcase；'
'With delusions of Godhood；' sneered Gryphus。
'A Godhead case；' tittered Diogenes 'Dermot' Darbo。 'Indeedy。'
'Every problem has a simple solution。 This one is just a matter of expendability。'
A great silence fell upon the boardroom。 Silent prayers were offered up。
'It's all right。' Mungo raised a hand。 'I don't consider any of you expendable。 We need a volunteer。 Someone whom the station won't miss。 Some insignificant little nonentity with ideas above his station。'
'Showtime；' said Jovil Jspht。 'For what it's worth。'
'He's a friend to the foe
The star of the show
The man we all know
By his king…sized karma
He's a breath of spring
He's the living God King
He's the Dalai。。。 Dalai。。。 Dalai
Dalai La 。。。 ma。。。'
The Lamarettes were tonight stunningly clad in silver lame slingbacks； matching gloves and diamante ear…studs。 Anything more and they would have been grossly overdressed。
As the Dalai materialized on stage； the applause lights flashed and the audience synthesiser went overboard。 In homes above ground and homes beneath； prayer wheels span like football rattles and ring pulls popped from a million cans of Buddhabeer。 In the control room Gloria bit her lip。
'Blessings be upon you。' The Dalai twirled upon his heel and made 'peace' signs。 'Inmost One here saying a real fine howdy doody and a big Buddha wele to 。。。 wait for it。。。'
The vox pop crouched upon the edges of their makeshift seats。。。
'NEMESIS！'
Lights flashed； sirens wailed； gongs were beaten。 The Lamarettes fussed about the Dalai； who had fallen to the floor； as if possessed。 'Back to my suite； girls；' he giggled； 'I'll give you something king…sized to meditate on later。'
'I think I'll take my lunch hour now；' said Jovil Jspht。 'If you don't mind。'
'As you please；' Haff Ffnsh replied。 'But don't be late back。'
Jovil Jspht left the control room of Earthers Inc。 and wandered down the organic corridor。 Ahead of him the doors of the executive lift opened and Fergus Shaman； wearing a grim expression and cradling something in his arms； slouched out。 The two men didn't exchange pleasantries。
Jovil eyeballed the open lift doors。 He'd never actually seen the upper floors of the spiral plex； his status didn't allow it。 Jovil halted； the doors would close in a matter of seconds。 Was it worth the crack？ If he was discovered it would be a big number。 Demotion。 Goodbye pension scheme； hello post shovel。 In this world； as upon any other； chances were only taken by the nerveless few； success their preserve alone。 To quote the motto of the Phnaargian Special Service 'Who Dares Wins'。
Jovil shook his head。 The lift doors closed。
Mungo Madoc sniffed at the Destiny lily which grew from his lapel。 'So we are all agreed； it is a one…way trip for the chosen operative。'
Diogenes 'Dermot' Darbo made foolish chortling sounds。 Gryphus Garstang rubbed his hands together。 'Sounds good to me；' he sniggered。
Lavinius Wisten raised a limp hand。 'How are we to ensure that the operative in question doesn't return from nineteen fifty…whatever…it…is？'
Mungo Madoc twirled his outrageous moustachios in a manner much beloved of old…time villains about to foreclose on the mortgage。 'Garstang； let me have your thoughts。'
Gryphus Garstang grinned wolfishly。 'Shouldn't be too hard to arrange； a neat little 〃magic box〃 with the words 〃return to Phnaargos〃 printed on it and a single button。 He presses the button and。。。'
Outside in the executive corridor； a certain Jovil Jspht； hearing the buzz of conversation； pressed his ear to the boardroom door。
'All right。' Mungo Madoc took himself over to the picture window and gazed down upon sunny green Phnaargos。 'We are all agreed。 We need a hero。 A brave and fearless Phnaargian； willing to travel back into the past and change history。 Prepared to risk all for truth； justice and the ratings。'
From where his ear was pressed； Jovil Jspht wasn't able to hear the laughter； only the applause。
'So；' Mungo continued； 'suggestions； gentlemen。'
'I think I know the very fellow。' Grypus Garstang held up a certain memorandum； which had appeared upon his desk； as upon many others； that very morning。 'If I was to mention 〃Killer Maggots from the Earth's Core〃。'
Outside the boardroom Jovil Jspht puffed out his chest。 So this was it； recognition at last。 He had always known that his time would e； that his talents would one day receive the merit they deserved。 This was going to be one in the eye for Haff Ffnsh。 Oh； happy day。
'The ideal pillock；' said Mungo Madoc； but by this time Jovil Jspht was well on his way to the canteen。
There may very well be a moral here somewhere。 But in the light of future events； it would be extremely hard to pin it down accurately。
Mungo Madoc buzzed down for some executive nosebag and a magnum or two from the reserve stock； Jovil Jspht blew his whole week's luncheon vouchers on a belly…buster of heroic proportions and down upon Planet Earth certain others took their midday repast。
'Luncheon；' said Rambo Bloodaxe； 'and pre…cooked。'
Deathblade Eric poked around in the wreckage of Rex Mundi's burned out air car。 'The reactor's still intact。 Non…contaminated meat。 Shall I carve？'
'Certainly not； Eric。 I can't abide dining alfresco。 Kindly haul him back to the hotel。'
Rex Mundi's mortal remains were unceremoniously dragged from the crumpled cab and deposited in the back of Rambo's in…town runabout； a vehicle constructed from corrugated iron and charred timber； camouflaged to resemble a thrown…together transient's hut。 Side slits housed hidden armoury and the whole caboodle was powered by a nuclear reactor； not dissimilar to the one Eric had now mandeered from Rex's defunct 801。
Rambo keyed the ignition and the hidden wheels plied their way along the rubble…strewn street； en route for the Hotel California。 Headquarters； high temple and Holiday Inn hideaway of the Devianti。
'A few prime cuts and then it's into the freezer for this boy；' said Rambo； swerving the vehicle to clip something which might have been a cat。 'That Rogan Josh is a decent enough cove。'
Eric opened Rex's purse。 'Ten credits； Josh said our lunch owes him！'
'Give him the lot； Eric。 Money is the root of all evil； you know。'
'The life force of God in action in the material world。'
'Forever the philosopher； Eric。'
'It's a gift；' said Deathblade Eric。
They were a likeable pair of rogues； these Devianti flesh…eaters。 Well spoken； nicely mannered； and decently turned out。 Personable young men。
Rambo was of old Sussex stock； with a triple…barrelled last moniker。 Eric； the hereditary heir to the Lambton Lairdee； his extremely great great…grandfather having slain the famous Worm and been bunged the title in perpetuity by the king。 Three hundred years of selective inbreeding had left its inevitable hallmark； but whatever they lacked in the chin department was adequately pensated for by their deportment and ingrained sense of style。
For instance； they always wore their radiation suits beneath their clothes； a vogue which hadn't as yet caught on amongst the general public； acid rain having the tendency to play havoc with one's mackintosh。
The Devianti favoured striped shirts； club ties； grey cords； Hunter Wellingtons and Barbour jackets。 Beneath their weatherdomes jaunty…looking tweed caps were the order of the day。 Despite their unconventional lifestyle they considered it essential to keep up appearances。 The manufacture of such upper…crust…schmutter had； needless to say； ceased fifty years before and so its 'just…bought' look paid a posthumous tribute to the exclusive tailors of old London Town。
It might logically have been presumed that the warrior