“Ahoy there what?” The spaceman’s voice came as if from the earpiece of a telephone receiver, but in fact came from a grille in his chest similar to Tinto’s. The spaceman raised a rubber hand and waggled its fingers at Eddie.

“Might I sit down?” asked the bear.

“Your capabilities are unknown to me,” said the spaceman. “Was that a rhetorical question?”

Eddie drew out a chair and slumped himself down onto it. He grinned lopsidedly at the spaceman and said, “So, how’s it going, then?”

“I come in peace,” said the spaceman. “Take me to your leader.”

“Excuse me?” said Eddie.

“Sorry,” said the spaceman. “That one always comes out if I don’t control myself. As does, ‘So die, puny Earthling,’ and, curiously, ‘I’ve done a wee-wee, please change my nappy.’ Although personally I believe that one was programmed into me by mistake. Probably Friday afternoon on the production line – you know what it’s like.”

“I certainly do,” said Eddie, “or would, if it weren’t for the fact that I am an Anders Imperial, pieced together by none other than the kindly, lovable white-haired old Toymaker himself.”

“I come from a distant star,” said the spaceman.

“I thought you said production line.” Eddie Bear did paw-scratchings of the head.

“Perhaps on a distant star,” the spaceman suggested.

“Perhaps,” said Eddie, “but then again –”

“Let’s not think about it.” The spaceman took up his glass, put it to his face, but sadly found it empty. “I was about to say, let’s just drink,” he said, “but I find to my utter despair that my glass is empty. Would you care to buy me a drink?”

“Not particularly,” said Eddie. “But thanks for asking.”

“In return I will spare your planet.”

Eddie shrugged what shoulders he possessed. “I would appear to be getting the better part of that particular deal,” he said. “If I possessed the necessary funds I think I’d buy you a drink.”

“Perhaps you could ask the barman for credit?”

“Perhaps you could menace him with your death ray and get the drinks in all round.”

“Perhaps,” said the spaceman.

“Perhaps indeed,” said Eddie.

The spaceman sighed and so did Eddie.

“I wish I were a clockwork train,” said the spaceman.

“What?” Eddie said.

“Well,” said the spaceman, “you know where you are when you’re a train, don’t you? It’s a bit like being in a bar brawl.”

“No, it’s not,” said Eddie.

“No, I suppose it’s not. But you do know where you are. Which line you’re on. Which station you’ll be coming to next. It’s not like that for we spacemen.”

“Really?” said Eddie, who was losing interest.

“Oh no,” said the spaceman, ruefully regarding his empty glass. “Not a bit of it. We could be anywhere in the universe, lost in space, or on a five-year mission, or something. Drives you mad, it does, makes you want to scream. And in space no one can hear you scream, of course.”

“Tell me about the monkeys,” said Eddie, “the clockwork cymbal-clapping monkeys. Tinto tells me that you know who blasted them.”

“I do,” said the spaceman.

“I’d really like to know,” said Eddie.

“And I’d really like to tell you,” said the spaceman, “but my throat is so dry that I doubt whether I’d get halfway through the telling before I lost my voice.”

“Hm,” went Eddie.

“      ,” went the spaceman.

“Two more drinks over here,” called Eddie to Tinto.

“Dream on,” the barman replied.

“Two then for the spaceman and in return he promises not to reduce Toy City to arid ruination with his death ray.”

“Coming right up, then,” said Tinto.

“I need a gimmick like that,” said Eddie, but mostly to himself.

“Who did you say was paying for these?” asked Tinto as he delivered the spaceman’s drinks to his table.

“You said they were on you,” said Eddie Bear, “because it’s the spaceman’s birthday.”

“Typical of me,” said Tinto. “Too generous for my own good. But you have to be cruel to be kind, I always say. Or something similar. It’s all in this book I’ve been reading, although I seem to have lost it now. I think I lent it to someone.” Tinto placed two beers before Eddie and Eddie shook his head and thanked Tinto for them.

“So,” Eddie said, when Tinto had wheeled away and the spaceman had moistened his throat, “the clockwork monkeys.”

“What a racket they make,” said spaceman. “Or, rather, made. Tin on tin. If I had teeth, that noise would put them on edge. I don’t approve of willy-nilly blasting with death rays, but I feel that in this case it was justified.”

“I suppose that’s a matter of opinion,” said Eddie, tasting beer. “I’m not so sure that the monkeys would agree with you.”

“Each to his own,” said the spaceman. “It takes all sorts to make a Universe.”

“So it was you who blasted the monkeys?”

The spaceman shook his helmeted head. The visor of his weather dome snapped down and he snapped it up again. “Not me personally,” said he. “I come in peace for all mankind. Or in this case all toykind. It would be the vanguard of the alien strikeforce who did for those monkeys. And I know what I’m talking about when I tell you these things. Trust me, I’m a spaceman.”

Eddie sighed once more. He really couldn’t be doing with sighing, really. Sighing was not Eddie’s thing.

“Do you know where this vanguard of the alien strikeforce might be found at present?” Eddie asked.

The spaceman made a thoughtful face, although some of it was lost on Eddie, being hidden by the shadow of his visor.

“Was that a yes or a no?” Eddie asked.

“It was a thoughtful face,” the spaceman explained, “but you couldn’t see much of it because it was mostly lost in the shadow of my visor.”

“Well, that explains everything.”

“Does it?” asked the spaceman.

“No,” said Eddie, “it doesn’t. Do you know where they are, or do you not?”

“They could be anywhere.” The spaceman made expansive gestures. “Out there, Beyond The Second Big O. The Universe is a very large place.”

Eddie sighed once more. Loudly.

“Or they could still be right here. They said they fancied going to a nightclub, to hear some jazz, I think.”

There was no jazz playing at Old King Cole’s, only that terrible scream and that piercing white light. And then there was a silence and a stillness and even some darkness, too.

Jack, who was now on his knees holding Amelie to him and shielding them both as best he could, looked up.

A great many of the light bulbs in Old King Cole’s had blown and the club was now lit mostly by tabletop candles. Which gave it a somewhat romantic ambience, although this was, for the present, lost upon Jack.

“What happened?” asked Amelie, gaining her feet and patting down her skirt. “That screaming, that light – what happened?”

“Something bad,” said Jack. “Be careful, now, there’s broken glass all about.”

Amelie opened her handbag, pulled out certain girly things and took to fixing her hair and touching up her make-up.

“Nice,” said Jack, and then he peered all around. They appeared to be alone now, although Jack couldn’t be altogether certain, what with the uncertain light and his lack of certainty and everything.

The stage was now in darkness; beyond the broken footlights lay a black, forbidding void.

“Dolly?” called Jack.

“Yes, darling,” said Amelie.

“No,” said Jack. “Dolly Dumpling. Dolly, are you there?”

No voice returned to Jack. There was silence, there was blackness, there was nothing more.

“I don’t like it here now,” said Amelie, tucking away her girly things and closing her handbag. “In fact, I didn’t like it here at all before, either. They were horrid, Jack. I’m glad you hit that horrid man.”

“I’m glad you hit his horrid partner,” said Jack. “Perhaps they are still lying on the dancefloor.” Jack made tentative steps across broken glass, reached the dancefloor and squinted around in the ambient gloom. “I think they upped and ran,” he said.