‘We want you to leave,' Messimeris re-stated.

‘Is that your final word?'

‘It is,' said the other.

Shadwell nodded. Seconds ticked by, during which neither side moved a muscle. Then the front door opened again, and the gunmen returned. They had brought four more of the Elite with them, which made up a firing squad of six.

‘I request you, one final time,' said Shadwell, as the squad formed a line to either side of him, ‘don't resist me.'

The Councillors looked more incredulous than afraid. They had lived their lives in this world of wonders, but here before them was an arrogance that finally brought disbelief to their faces. Even when the gunmen raised their weapons they made no move, spoke no protest. Only Messimeris asked:

‘Who is Shadwell?'

‘A salesman I once knew,' said the man in the fine jacket. ‘But he's dead and gone.'

‘No,' said Messimeris. ‘You're Shadwell.'

‘Call me what you like,' said the Prophet. ‘Only bow your heads to me. Bow your heads and all's forgiven.'

Still there was no movement. Shadwell turned to the gunman at his left and claimed the pistol from his hand. He pointed it at Messimeris' heart. The two were standing no more than four yards apart; a blind man could not have failed to kill at that range.

‘I say again: bow your heads.'

At last, a few of the assembly seemed to comprehend the seriousness of their situation, and did as he requested. Most just stared, however, pride, stupidity or plain disbelief keeping them from acquiescence.

Shadwell knew the crisis point was upon him. He either pulled the trigger now, and in so doing bought himself a world, or else he left the salesroom and never looked back. In that instant he remembered standing on a hill-top, the Fugue laid before him. The memory tipped the balance. He shot the man.

The bullet entered Messimeris' chest, but there was no flow of blood; nor did he fall. Shadwell fired again, and a third time for good measure. Each shot hit home, but the man still failed to fall.

The Salesman felt a tremor of panic run through the six gunmen that stood around him. The same question was on their lips as on his: why wouldn't the old man die?

He fired his pistol a fourth time. As the bullet struck him the victim took a step towards his would-be executioner, raising his arm as he did so, as if he intended to snatch the smoking weapon from Shadwell's hand.

The motion was enough to push one of the six beyond the limits of his self-control. With a high-pitched cry he started to fire into the crowd. His hysteria instantly ignited the rest. Suddenly they were all firing, emptying their guns in their hunger to close the accusing eyes in front of them. In moments the chamber was filled with smoke and din.

Through it all, Shadwell saw the man he'd first fired upon complete the motion he'd begun with his salute. Then Messimeris fell forward, dead. His collapse didn't silence the guns; they blazed on. There were a few Councillors who'd fallen to their knees, heads bowed as Shadwell had demanded, and there were others who were taking refuge in the corners of the room. But most were simply gunned down where they stood.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Shadwell threw down his gun, and - though he had no taste for abattoirs - forced himself to survey the carnage before him. It was, he knew, the responsibility of one aspiring to Godhood never to look away. Wilful ignorance was the last refuge of humanity, and that was a condition he would soon have transcended.

And, when he studied the scene, it wasn't so unbearable.

He could look at the tumble of corpses and see them for the empty sacks they were.

But, as he turned to the door, something did make him flinch. Not a sight, but a memory: of Messimeris' last act. That stepping forward, that raised hand. He hadn't realized what it had signified until now. The man had been seeking payment. Try as he might to find some other explanation, Shadwell could not.

He, the sometime Salesman, had finally become a purchaser; and Messimeris' dying gesture had been to remind him of that.

He would have to start the campaign moving. Subdue the opposition and get access to the Gyre as speedily as possible. Once he'd drawn back the veil of cloud he'd be a God. And Gods were beyond the claims of creditors, alive or dead.

IV

THE ROPE-DANCERS

1

Cal and Suzanna walked as swiftly as curiosity would allow. There was much, despite the urgency of their mission, that slowed their steps. Such fecundity in the world around them, and a razor-sharp wit in its shaping, that they found themselves remarking on the remarkable so frequently they had to give it up and simply look. Amid the spectacle of flora and fauna surrounding them they saw no species entirely without precedent in the Kingdom of the Cuckoo, but nothing here - from pebble to bird, nor anything the eye could admire between - was untouched by some transforming magic.

Creatures crossed their path that belonged distantly to the family of fox, hare, cat and snake; but only distantly. And amongst the changes wrought in them was a total lack of timidity. None fled before the newcomers; only glanced Cal and Suzanna's way in casual acknowledgement of their existence, then went about their business.

It might have been Eden - or an opium dream of same -until the sound of a radio being ineptly tuned broke the illusion. Fragments of music and voices, interspersed with piercing whines and white noise, all punctuated by whoops of pleasure, drifted from beyond a small stand of silver birches. The whoops were rapidly replaced, however, by shouting and threats, which escalated as Cal and Suzanna made their way through the trees. On the other side was a field of tall, sere grass. In it, three youths. One was balanced on a rope slung loosely between posts, watching the other two as they fought. The source of the acrimony was self-evident: the radio. The shorter of the pair, whose hair was so blond it was almost white, was defending his possession from his bulkier opponent, with little success. The aggressor snatched it from the youth's grip and threw it across the field. It struck one of several weather-worn statues that stood half lost in the grass, and the song it had been playing abruptly ceased. Its owner threw himself at the destroyer, yelling his fury:

‘You bastard! Your broke it! You damn well broke it.'

‘It was Cuckoo-shite, de Bono,' the other youth replied, easily fending off the blows. ‘You shouldn't mess with shite. Didn't your Mam tell you that?'

‘It was mineV de Bono shouted back, giving up on his attack and going in search of his possession. ‘I don't want your scummy hands on it.'

‘God, you're pathetic, you know that?'

‘Shut up, dickhead!' de Bono spat back. He couldn't locate the radio in the shin-high grass, which merely fuelled his fury.

‘Galin's right,' the rope-percher piped up.

De Bono had fished a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from the breast pocket of his shirt, and had crouched down to scrabble around for his prize.

‘It's corruption,' said the youth on the rope, who had now taken to performing a series of elaborate steps along its length: hops, skips and jumps. ‘Starbrook would have your balls if he knew.'

‘Starbrook won't know,' de Bono growled.

‘Oh yes he will,' said Galin, casting a look up at the rope-dancer. ‘Because you're going to tell him, aren't you, Toller?'

‘Maybe,' came the reply; and with it a smug smile.

De Bono had found the radio. He picked it up and shook it. There was no music forthcoming.

‘You shit-head,' he said, turning to Galin. ‘Look what you did.'

He might have renewed his assault at this juncture, if Toller, from his perch on the rope, hadn't set eyes on their audience.

‘Who the hell are you?' he said.