“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Soap Distant, the way that you do when falling to your death. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” and, “Look out, below.”

There is, apparently, a mathematical calculation that can be worked out, regarding the speed of a falling object. Soap did not know this calculation, and even if he had known, and indeed known that it would take him precisely 3.4256 seconds to make contact with the ground below, it is doubtful whether he would have shown a lot of interest.

But a lot can happen in 3.4256 seconds, as anyone who knows such things will tell you.

But you have to know, of course, precisely which 3.4256 seconds to choose.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” continued Soap, using up 1.3849 seconds.

“Aaaaaaaaagh!” went he a little more, which was part of the very same “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

And then he stopped aaaaaaaaaaghing, because he ceased falling, which must have meant that he’d made impact.

As indeed he had. Though not with the ground.

Soap suddenly found himself hanging in the air. Just hanging there, suspended, so to speak. Some three good yards above the pavement and perched on a cushion of air.

And looking up from directly below him was a lad. A lad in a black T-shirt and shorts. A lad who looked strangely familiar.

“What’s your bloody game?” asked the lad. “You could have killed me falling down like that.”

Soap took to floundering up upon high. Boggle-eyed behind his goggles, open-mouthed beneath. Hovering on nothingness, defying gravity’s law.

“It’s a good job I’m wearing this,” said the lad, pointing to a complicated wristwatch affair. “Personal lifespan chronometer, incorporating personal defence mechanism. Activated by a wide-band polarizing field that detects rapidly approaching objects. Do you have any idea of the speed you were travelling?”

Soap managed a “No” and shook his head a little.

“Well, I can work it out on my chronometer. Look, here comes your hat.”

Soap’s black hat came fluttering down and landed on his head.

“Well caught, that man,” said the lad.

“What?” went Soap. “How?”

“How does it work? Simple. The wide-band polarizing field detects the approaching object, calculates its mass and causes a cohesion to occur in the surrounding air, effectively joining the oxygen molecules to create a spherical barrier that is virtually impenetrable. Go on, poke it with your finger if you don’t believe me.”

Soap didn’t bother. He did believe him.

“Trouble is,” said the lad. “It takes it out of the batteries. So if you don’t mind I’ll just step aside and switch it off.”

This he did, and Soap crashed to the pavement.

“Are you all right?” the lad asked.

Soap sat up and felt at his limbs. He seemed to be all in one piece.

“Well, if you’re not, it will just serve you right for falling on people. If you must jump out of high windows, try to do it when no one’s around. And look at all this glass, someone could cut themselves on that.”

Soap nodded numbly.

“Goodbye,” the lad said.

“No, wait, please.” Soap climbed painfully to his feet.

“What is it?” said the lad.

“You saved my life. I want to thank you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. In fact I didn’t do it at all.”

“Well, thank you anyway. My name is Soap Distant. Might I ask you yours?”

“Soap Distant?” the lad thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “That name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“But it will,” said Soap. “I will soon be very famous.”

“No,” said the lad. “If you were to be, I’d know.”

“Eh?” said Soap.

“Goodbye,” said the lad.

“No, hold on, please. At least tell me your name.”

“My name is Wingarde,” said the lad. “My surname I’d rather not mention.”

And with that he walked away, leaving Soap to wonder.

But he didn’t stand and wonder very long. Because all at once alarms began to clang out from the police station.

Which proved, at least, that Soap did ring some bells.

Soap fled the scene of his falling and saving and spent the evening and the night stalking around and about. He rarely, if ever, slept nowadays. Ten years beneath had altered him in many ways.

Soap stalked along the streets of his youth, passing the houses of friends he’d once known. Cab-Arthur Roper, Duck-Barry Martin, Wild-Norman Peacock and all of the rest. Soap paused at times to lurk in alleyways, where, with the rain beating down on his hat, he viewed people’s various doings.

He saw Norman Hartnell in his underwear returning to his shop. He saw Pooley[12] enter the Penist’s house and he made a mental note of the address. And he saw other things that were strange and mysterious. Things that you only see late in the night.

By the coming of the new dawn, Soap had formed a plan of action. Determined as he was to discover exactly what was going on and how history could have changed while he’d been belooooow, he was equally determined to remain at liberty and out of the clutches of the Virgin police.

Nine-thirty of the morning clock found Soap upon the steps of the Memorial Library. Hardly an action-packed kind of a place, you might think, but appearances can be deceptive.

Soap’s appearance this morning, for example, was one that he hoped might deceive.

Soap no longer wore his broad-brimmed coal-black hat, his coal-black coat and boots of coaly blackness. Instead, Soap sported a Hawaiian shirt, a dove-grey zoot suit and a pair of white winkle-picker boots. He had acquired these during the night, but from where was anyone’s guess. Soap cut a dashing figure in this get-up and one that he hoped would allow him to move about the borough unrecognized by those who viewed through street surveillance cameras.

When the Keeper of the Borough’s Books made the ceremonial opening up of the door, Soap hurried into the library, marched across the marble-panelled vestibule and presented his similarly acquired credentials at the desk.

The clerk on duty looked over the credentials and then the clerk on duty looked at Soap.

“This library ticket is out of date, Mr Omally,” said the clerk.

“Then kindly furnish me with a new one.”

“These things take time. If you’ll call back in a week or two.”

Soap Distant took to the shaking of his head. “It is time for action,” he said. “Kindly direct me to the reference section.”

“Oooooooh,” went the clerk. “The reference section. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Just lead me to it,” said Soap.

“Well, then, it’s through that door over there.”

“That door?” said Soap.

“No, that door,” said the clerk.

“Aren’t they both the same door?” asked Soap.

“It depends what you mean by ‘the same’, I suppose.”

“I suppose it does,” Soap agreed.

The reference section came as a bit of a shock to Soap. It didn’t have any books. All there was now was a neat row of desks, each of which held up a television jobbie attached to a typewriter keyboard. Soap sat down upon a chair at the nearest and stared at the TV screen.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF KNOWLEDGE

To access please touch any key.

Soap sought the key marked “any”.

“Assistance, please,” called Soap.

The clerk from the desk came bustling in. “What do you want?”

“I want action,” said Soap. “And I want it now. Where are all the books, please?”

“All the books are now on the Web.”

Soap’s thoughts returned to the offices of the Brentford Mercury and the woman who was worrying at wires. She had mentioned the Web, and she had mentioned it proudly.

“What exactly is the Web?” asked Soap.

The clerk explained all about it.