“I thought you were the griddle chef,” said Jim.

“I am,” said Ricky. “But we have a change-around each week. It’s company policy. One week on the griddle, one on the tables, one on the washing-up and one on the cash register.”

“That must be exciting.”

“No,” said Ricky. “It’s shite.”

“Oh,” said Jim.

“Yes, oh,” said Ricky. “Now what did you want to order?”

“Well, actually I didn’t want to order anything. Well, that is to say, obviously I would like to order everything. I mean, who wouldn’t? But I came here to see you. About your band.”

“It’s not my band. It’s our band.”

“Right,” said Jim. “Well, I saw you and the band play last night at the Shrunken Head and it was one of the most incredible experiences I have ever had in my life.”

“So what do you want? My autograph, is it?”

“No,” said Jim. “I want to manage you.”

Ricky looked Jim up and down. “Fuck off, mate,” he said.

“No, please,” said Jim. “Just listen to what I’ve got to say.”

“And what have you got to say?”

“Well, my partner says that he can get you a record contract within the week.”

“Won’t happen,” said Ricky. “Can’t happen.”

“Why not?” asked Jim.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then try me, please.”

Ricky shook his big-haired head and his cap fell off. He did not stoop to retrieve it, he simply waggled a finger at Jim.

“Do you have any idea just what happened last night when we played?” he asked.

“No,” said Jim. “All I know was that it was something marvellous. Something wonderful and something that the whole world should hear and experience.”

“The whole world will never experience it.”

“Oh yes it will,” said Jim. “Apocalypso music will be the biggest thing ever.”

“What did you call it?”

“Apocalypso music”

“That’s a good name,” said Ricky. “I like that.”

Pooley made a hopeful face.

“But it won’t happen. It won’t be allowed to happen.”

“Why?” asked Jim. “Who would want to stop it?”

“Record companies,” said Ricky. “Record companies would stop it”

“Why?” asked Jim once more. “That doesn’t make sense. Litany’s voice can heal the sick. I saw it happen. I heard it and I felt it too. Any record company would pay millions to own an artiste like that.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Ricky. “And I’ll tell you why. There are no independent record companies any more. They’ve all been bought up by the huge corporations. And the huge corporations don’t just market music. They market everything. Cars and food and weapons and telecommunications and technology and chemicals and Pharmaceuticals. All these companies interlink and a few people at the very top control everything.”

“Scientists,” said Jim.

“Businessmen,” said Ricky. “And the House of Windsor. So imagine what would happen if all you had to do when you were sick was to put on a music CD and be cured.”

“It would be brilliant,” said Jim. “And everyone in the world would want that CD.”

“And then they would all be well and free from sickness.”

“Brilliant,” said Jim.

“Brilliant for them, perhaps. But not so brilliant for the mega-corporations that make zillions of pounds every day from producing and marketing pharmaceuticals. It’s like the everlasting lightbulb and the motorcar tyre that doesn’t wear out. These things exist, but they’ll never see the shop counter. The mega-corporations see to that.”

“Bastards,” said Jim.

“Exactly,” said Ricky. “But that’s the way things are. That is the way society has evolved.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “Evolution.”

“Evolution,” said Ricky. “Would you like me to tell you all about that?”

“Well,” said Jim. “Actually—”

“Everything evolves,” said Ricky. “Everything. And not just living things. Inanimate objects, too.”

“Eh?” said Jim.

“Take cars,” said Ricky. “The way cars have evolved.”

“Cars?” said Jim.

“Cars,” said Ricky. “Take the Ford Escort, for example. The Ford Escort of today bears almost no resemblance to the Ford Escort of twenty years ago. And why is that?”

“Because it’s been redesigned,” said Jim.

“No,” said Ricky. “That’s what they’d like you to think. The Ford Escort has evolved by itself, with no help from human beings.”

“What?” said Jim.

“I’m telling you the truth. I used to work for Ford at Dagenham. I worked on the production line, putting the rattly bits in the doors.”

“I often wondered who did that.”

“Well, it used to be me, but I left because I couldn’t take all the pressure. But do you know how long it takes to set up a production line? Make all the tools that make the parts and the moulds and templates and so on and so forth?”

Pooley shook his head. He didn’t know.

“Years,” said Ricky. “Four or five years. So imagine this. There are no spare production lines standing empty. All the production lines work non-stop turning out cars. Seven days a week they work, and fifty-two weeks of the year. And if you stop a production line for even five minutes it costs the company thousands of pounds in lost production. So they just rumble on and on and on.

“But notice this. Every year the cars that roll off that production line look a bit different. It’s the same model of car, but it’s not quite the same. It’s evolved.”

“But how could that be?” asked Jim.

“Don’t ask me. I’m not God. But it can be and it is. The production line itself evolves. In Germany some production lines have evolved so much that they don’t need humans to run them any more. They’re all robotic”

“Incredible,” said Jim.

“And it’s not just cars. It’s everything. Radios and televisions and telephones. And what about records? They used to be big black things made out of plastic. Look at them now.”

“And you think they’re all evolving by themselves, without people to help them?”

“It’s all part of the big conspiracy. All these so-called new developments. It works by natural selection. But it’s the men at the top who do the selecting and they do it for their own gain. That’s why you won’t see the everlasting lightbulb and that’s why you won’t hear the Gandhi’s Hairdryer CD.”

“I see,” said Jim. “Well, when you explain it all to me like that, it all makes perfect sense.”

“Evolution,” said Ricky. “And natural selection, and it will all go on and on like that for ever.”

“Oh no, it won’t,” said Jim.

“Oh yes, it will.”

“It won’t,” said Jim. “And I will tell you why.”

And Jim told Ricky why. He told Ricky everything that Geraldo had told him. All about how natural selection in human beings would come to an end and mankind would not evolve any further and how this would eventually lead to THE END in a world that was run by scientists. He didn’t go into all the details and he didn’t do any of the voices or do the descriptions in rhyme, and he didn’t mention the time travelling. But he laid it all out for Ricky and when he was finished the Stratster sat down and stared and stared at Jim.

When Ricky finally found his voice, all he could say was, “Wow.”

“So there you go,” said Pooley.

“Wow,” said Ricky once again. “It all makes sense to me now.”

“It does?” said Jim.

“Oh yes, it does. You see, there was just one thing I could never get my head around.”

“Just the one?” said Jim.

“Just the one. About the Stratocaster. You see, it evolved from the Telecaster, but its evolution stopped in the nineteen fifties and I never could understand why. I thought it should go on and on. That it would keep on evolving. But it can’t, can it? It has evolved as far as it can. Because it’s perfect. It has reached THE END as far as guitars are concerned.”

“I suppose it must have done,” said Jim.

“You’re a fucking genius, mate.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“You are,” said Ricky, and he reached a curious hand across and patted Jim on the shoulder. “You and me, we think the same way. We’ve both got different parts of the big puzzle. But they fit together. We could do things, think things.”