The chrononauts, led by Thomas Bendyshe, arrived once again in Grosvenor Square, the middle of which was, thankfully, a great deal less congested than last time. From here, the travellers gained a better view of the upper reaches of the city. London had achieved phenomenal heights. Its towers ascended to such a level their top storeys faded into the atmosphere and their internal heat generated clouds, which streamed from them in wispy trails.

The many walkways and—Burton now noticed—monorails were of such a multitude that it looked as if the city was entangled. Small flying machines buzzed hither and thither, and, at a higher altitude, massive airships floated. Many were like the Orpheus and Mary Seacole, airborne antiques, appearing entirely out of place. Others were smooth disks of silver or gold, their mode of propulsion invisible and mysterious.

“I see nothing of my own time,” Mick Farren said. “I might as well be on another planet.”

“I see the same shaped plot of land,” Detective Inspector Trounce observed, pointing around them. “This is still Grosvenor Square.” He shuddered. “I didn’t much enjoy what little I remember of my last visit.”

Farren indicated a tall pyramidal structure. “That’s where the American Embassy used to be.”

“It’s still the embassy,” Bendyshe said. He looked around, and when he was satisfied no one was close enough to eavesdrop, he continued, “It’s inhabited only by a few technicians nowadays. They oversee the equipment that broadcasts to your AugMems. The building is a part of an inner circle of establishments. From it and the others, a web of deception expands.”

“Inner circle,” Wells said. “And what is at its centre? The Turing Fulcrum?”

Bendyshe gazed at the embassy. “We think so.”

He waved the chrononauts across to an area beneath a leafy tree, which, when Burton placed his hand against its bark, proved to be of the material called plastic.

Nothing is real.

The king’s agent struggled to maintain a connection. His mind kept wandering, his attention being attracted by first one thing then another. His powers of analysis failed. Automatically, his hand went to his pocket, seeking Saltzmann’s. There was none.

“What you’ve seen so far is but a single layer of the illusion under which the population labours,” Bendyshe said. “I’ll now give you a taste of the rest. I’m adjusting your AugMems.”

He put his finger to his right earlobe and muttered, “Okay. Proceed.” Suddenly, he was enveloped by a colourful aura. Burton looked at his friends and saw that they, too, appeared to be generating beautiful halos.

“We are masquerading as the elite,” the Cannibal explained. “Thus we glow with the light of the upper classes. However, what we see is what the general populace sees. Look at the city’s citizens.”

Burton gazed across to the pavement. He saw, amongst the shuffling crowd, three people who were also surrounded by light. The rest were not. His eyes rested on a pedestrian. A calm voice whispered in his ear and caused him to jump in surprise. He heard the others utter sounds of astonishment.

John Thresher, cook, thirty-two years old. Three thousand two hundred and twenty-nine credits in debt. He plays poker. His wife has a lover. John hopes to win a fortune and lure her back, but he’s lost money eleven games in a row.

The king’s agent looked from person to person.

Teresa Chowdhury, child minder, nineteen years old. She is learning to read so she can train as a nurse. Her father tells her she has ideas above her station.

Cecilia Sanz Garcia, cleaner, forty-seven years old. She has pre-diabetes and a glandular disorder that causes extreme mood swings. She struggles with relationships.

Steven Powell, clerk, thirty-three years old. He suffers from shyness and has a tendency to stutter.

Blake Cresswell, baker, seventy-one years old. He’s never held a job for more than two years. He’s a convicted felon. His last crime, burglary, was committed twenty-seven years ago.

Mary Suzanne Clayton, metalsmith, twenty-four years old. She owns a small allotment from which vegetables are frequently stolen. She has hidden homemade wiretraps around its perimeter to catch the thieves.

“What’s this?” Sadhvi Raghavendra exclaimed.

“In your time,” Bendyshe replied, “I believe it was called tittle tattle.”

“Gossip?” she said.

“Yes. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Only the upper classes are immune to the intrusion.”

“It’s a blasted liberty!” Trounce cried out. “By God! Has no one any privacy?”

“Only in their thoughts, and they have to be extremely cautious in expressing those, else they’ll certainly fall foul of informants. Anything that can possibly be interpreted as seditious is reported, and the punishments are brutal.”

“How can anyone think at all with all this horrible chattering in their ears?” Swinburne objected. “Can’t they turn it off?”

“Only the elite have that privilege. As for thinking, I suspect the system is expressly designed to discourage it.”

“Stop it, please,” Burton said. “It’s too much.”

Bendyshe touched his ear again and mumbled something. The whispering voice fell silent. The auras faded. “That,” he said, “is what the majority of the population must endure. Maximum distraction. Minimum meaning. Their existence is overflowing with inconsequential information. They drown in it. They are mesmerised by the trivial minutia of one another’s lives, and so the really big issues evade them. Questions pertaining to justice and human rights and the distribution of wealth, the preoccupations of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries are no longer asked.”

“This is perfectly foul,” Herbert Wells cried out.

“Shhh!” Bendyshe urged. “You’ll have the constables onto us.”

“But he’s right,” Mick Farren said. “How could it have happened?”

“People were seduced,” Bendyshe said. “The Turing devices and other technologies gave them an endless choice of entertainments, but the corporations that made those entertainments, in competing with each other for customers, rapidly reduced everything to its lowest common denominator. What might once have carried philosophical weight became nothing but empty spectacle; what stimulated the intellect now did nothing but titillate superficial emotions. By 2100, intellectual had become a pejorative term.” He stood. “Come with me. It’s time to show you the truth of the Anglo-Saxon Empire.”

They followed him across the square to the mouth of South Audley Street, coming to a halt on the exact spot where, a hundred and sixty-two years ago, they’d fought off three constables.

Bendyshe pointed along the length of the thoroughfare. “Watch the street. I’m going to temporarily deactivate your AugMems. I’ll give you a full minute of unadjusted reality. It’s risky.”

“Risky how?” Wells asked.

“AugMems work in both directions. They accept the government transmissions but also send out a signal that holds your personal details—false information in your case. If the latter is interrupted, the loss will be noted and constables will be sent to investigate. They’ll hunt for any individuals who aren’t broadcasting. It’s therefore vital that we keep moving. I should be able to restore the AugMems’ function before we’re located.”

“Is it worth endangering our mission?” Burton asked doubtfully.

“I think so. You need to see this.”

“Very well. Please proceed.”

“Start walking. Try not to react. We’re going down to Green Park to take a look at the palace grounds.”

They set off.

“Brace yourselves,” Bendyshe said. He put a hand to his ear, quietly muttered a few words, then announced, “The AugMems will disengage in three, two, one—”