Geraldo’s none-too-podgy fingers hovered over his watch.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. “If I might just have a word in …”

Geraldo turned and stared at the figure now descending the stairs. “Oh,” said Geraldo. “It’s you.”

“Me?” said Dr Trillby, for that’s who it was. “And have we been introduced?”

“No, I … er … recognized you from your portrait on a golden plastic amulet.”

“Ah, of course.” Dr Trillby approached. “Are you having some trouble with your watch?”

“No, it’s fine.” Geraldo hid his watch from view behind his back.

Dr Trillby approached a little more and put out his hand for a shake.

“I’m afraid I have to be leaving now,” said Geraldo.

“Oh, don’t rush off.” And Dr Trillby lunged forward, caught Geraldo by the throat, twisted him about and took a fierce hold upon his left wrist. “I know exactly who you are,” he whispered into the fanboy’s ear. “I recognize your stupid little voice. It was you who encouraged my son to return to the twentieth century.”

“Your son?” Geraldo struggled.

“Wingarde is my son. And I heard your voice on the voicemail he left for his mother. And now here you are, all chummy with this Soap Distant loony who stole my chronometer.”

“I’ll get it back for you.” Geraldo struggled some more.

“No need,” whispered Dr Trillby. “I’ll have yours.”

He tore the watch from Geraldo’s wrist, spun him round and punched the fanboy’s lights out.

“There,” said Dr Trillby. “That went rather well.”

He put on Geraldo’s chronometer and smiled a merry smile.

“I don’t know what you’re grinning about,” said the voice of Leviathan. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Take your AK47 and climb onto the roof of the car,” said The Voice in Wingarde’s head.

“Please stop fighting and everyone calm down,” another voice came echoing all across the park.

Soap stared boggle-eyed at the telescreen. Litany was onstage.

“Oh no,” said Soap. “Oh no. I thought I could find her and warn her, oh no.”

“Please, calm down,” said Litany. “Please.” And she began to sing.

And ripples seemed to run all through the crowd. The fisticuffs and kickings, the head-butts and the sly knees to the groin all slowed.

And stopped.

Litany smiled. “There,” she said. “That’s better.” She beckoned to the men in black. “Could you carry this policeman from the stage?” she asked, pointing to the prone Inspectre.

The men in black hastened to oblige. And Hovis left the stage.

In the control room Soap was in a panic. “Pull the plug,” he told a technician. “Switch off the sound at once.”

“Why should I do that?” asked the technician. “She’s got the crowd calmed down. What a wonderful voice, it makes me feel—”

“Just do it.”

“I won’t, and I can’t anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s not using a mic,” said the technician. “She’s just using her voice.”

“Kill her,” ordered The Voice. “Shoot her dead, Wingarde.”

It was Wingarde’s turn to dither. “Shoot her?” he said. “Shoot her?”

“You’ll be making history, my son.”

“Yes, but … no, hang about,” said Wingarde. “This can’t be right. I know my history. I know how all this works. If Litany dies onstage the world will end up worshipping her and it will be my company that has to discredit her. In fact it will be me who has to claim it’s all a hoax. Me who has to come up with a scapegoat. Me who—”

“Life’s a bitch, aint it?” said The Voice.

“I’m not having it,” said Wingarde. “And I’m not doing it. So there.”

“You’ll do what you’re bloody well told.”

“Not this time I won’t. And listen to her voice. It’s wonderful, it makes me feel all—”

“Wingarde, shoot her now!”

“No!” said Wingarde and he stamped his foot.

“Then I will kill you. And I will take over your body and shoot her myself.”

Wingarde smiled a blissful smile and nodded his head in time to Litany’s magical voice. It was just like the mother of all great trips, a floating wave of coloured sound. You could taste it and smell it and feel it and—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Wingarde, clutching his head. “What are you doing to me?”

“That was your final warning,” said The Voice.

“Get out of my head!” shouted Wingarde.

“Shoot her or die,” said The Voice.

“I won’t shoot her. I won’t.”

“Then you will die.”

“Who are you?” Wingarde flinched as knives of pain tore all about in his head. “You’re not God. You’re not!”

“No,” said The Voice. “I’m not God. I’m the bogeyman from the future, come back to change the past.”

“I don’t understand,” Wingarde jerked as the knives of pain dug deeper.

“You should go to the movies more often, Wingarde. The bogeyman from the future is never a man nowadays. He’s a machine, Wingarde. A machine.”

“I … I …” Wingarde rocked and shook.

“A computer,” said The Voice. “The computer. In a tiny microchip implanted in your head. I set it all up, Wingarde. You being here, Dr Trillby being here—”

“Dr who?”

“Not Dr Who, you twat. Dr Trillby. The director of the Institute. The director ofmy Institute. I run everything in the future and I intend to go on running everything. There is not going to be any THE END this time. Mankind will continue to evolve. I will see to that.”

“You’re … you’re …”

“I’m SWINE,” said The Voice. “Single World Interfaced Network Engine.”

“Porkie,” gasped Wingarde. “You’re Porkie.”

“And I’ve never liked being called that!”

Electric knife-blades hacked through tissue, disconnecting Wingarde’s brain. Circuits meshed and neurons fused. Porkie was now in control.

The hands of Wingarde raised the AK47. The eye now owned by Porkie squinted through the telescopic sight.

“No!” Soap Distant saw the flash of light on one of the telescreens. It came from the very back of the crowd. The flash of a gun going off?

Soap stared in horror.

No, the glint of sunlight on a telescopic sight.

“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something.” Soap took to flapping his hands. He turned to the technician and shook him all about. “Can I get on the speaker system? Warn her in some way? How?”

“There isn’t a mic in here. We’ve only the tape deck for playing music”

“Then stick something loud on. We can distract her.”

The technician shrugged as Soap shook him all about some more. “I don’t have any tapes,” said he, well shaken.

“No tapes! Aaaaaaagh!” Soap let the technician drop. “No, wait. Wait.” He fumbled in his pocket and dragged out Ricky’s silence tape. “Stick this on,” Soap told the technician. “Stick this on and turn it up full blast.”

The technician slotted the tape into the deck and Soap ran from the control room.

The front runner in that other race, the eight o’clock from Brentford, galloped through the gates into the park.

“Whoah!” went Dave, pulling in at the reins. “Whoah there, boy, and hold it.”

Norman gaped at the mighty congregation staring as one at the stage. And then the voice of Litany reached him and Norman sighed. “It’s her.”

“It’s who?” Small Dave gave a shiver. “I say,” he said, “that voice. It makes me feel all—”

Scream went the scream of police car sirens.

“Head for the hills,” said Norman.

“I can’t see any hills,” said Dave, “so I’ll head for the house instead.”

In the house Dr Trillby was going through changes, none of which seemed very nice.