BBC Cult - Printer Friendly Version

The Dying Days - Chapter Nine

Page 1
  

Our Friends From Mars

Wednesday, May 7th 1997

The exact sequence of events of the previous night was still confusing, and the newsrooms were still assimilating what had happened.

Lord Greyhaven and the Home Secretary had gone aboard the Martian ship. Some unconfirmed reports suggested that another two people, a man and a woman, had also been taken aboard. It was around then the attack on the Martian ship had taken place. A group of soldiers had opened fire with mortars, some of these had fallen short and caused panic in the crowd. All this time the Martian ship had remained immobile, and apparently it hadn't been damaged in the attack. Later, a statement from the Ministry of Defence said that the soldiers firing on the ship had been acting against direct orders, and had not been part of the force sent to the Square to contain the crowd.

Supporting this official line, the main body of soldiers moved in on those firing at the ship. Some civilians - reports varied, but probably only a handful - were caught in the crossfire. This had caused a stampede, limited looting and a couple of power failures. The rebel soldiers had commandeered an assault helicopter. When it was sent against the Martian vessel, it was finally provoked into opening fire. Some sort of energy ray destroyed the helicopter that had locked on to the alien craft, and then the Martian moved a little way into Whitehall to demolish an office building with the same weapon. The soldiers had commandeered the office block to launch their attack on the Martians.

Within half an hour, the spacecraft had returned to its position. The fighting was already over by ten o'clock and the third Martian Proclamation:

'PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. YOUR ASTRONAUTS COMMITTED A TERRIBLE CRIME, THROUGH THEIR IGNORANCE. THIS SHOULD NOT BE THE WAY OUR RACES FIRST MEET. LET US PUT TODAY BEHIND US, AND WORK TOGETHER. WE HAVE MUCH TO OFFER ONE ANOTHER. YOUR FELLOW HUMAN CLANS ABANDONED YOU, YET YOU FOUGHT FOR YOUR BELIEFS. THIS WE RESPECT. WE HAVE TALKED TO YOUR LORD GREYHAVEN, HE IS A BRAVE, BOLD MAN. LET US LIVE IN PEACE, PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM AND OF MARS. '

Tensions on the ground had noticeably lessened by the time Lord Greyhaven and the Home Secretary emerged, broad grins on their faces.

Page 2
  

Greyhaven, surrounded by the world's television cameras explained that there had been a terrible misunderstanding, but he and Staines had quickly come to an arrangement with the Martians. There were many exciting opportunities ahead. The few thousand people still in the Square cheered him as he made his way from the area.

Every paper led with a full page photograph of the alien ship hovering over London. There wasn't a great deal more variation in the headlines. 'We are not alone' was used by a couple of them. The Mail had 'UFOria'. The Telegraph had 'ET Our Friends, But The EU Are Not'. The Independent printed the declaration of peaceful intent in full. The Mirror had 'Mars: Planet of Peace'. Only The Times seemed to remember the Mars 97 with 'Britons on Mars, Martians in Britain'.

They weren't looking at what was happening in the rest of London or in Washington. News of the Prime Minister's assassination came too late for the papers. Before anyone had time to take in the tragic news, a press statement announced that evidence had been uncovered by MI5 of a conspiracy underway to overthrow the entire British political system and to kill the Prime Minister. Members of Parliament and other figures were arrested, some service chiefs had been suspended from duty. The conspiracy went deep into the civil service, the armed forces and both Houses of Parliaments. Many prominent people were involved, a number of whom were still at large. Under the circumstances, it had been agreed to dissolve Parliament, pending a full investigation.

Any other day, the greatest constitutional crisis since the Restoration would have dominated the headlines and thrown the country into panic, perhaps even civil war. Today, though, people were too busy rejoicing that the Martians were here and that they had come in peace to even notice.

It was light at six o'clock.

The police would tell you that at that time, London's streets are almost empty. The street sweepers and delivery men haven't quite started work, the trains haven't started arriving. Taxi drivers sit dozing in their ranks. In the big hotels, the kitchen staff are gearing up for breakfast, but the foreign night porter is still on duty and only a handful of the guests have received their alarm calls. Cafes and markets are beginning to open, but they don't have customers.

Page 3
  

This morning something was different, and it took a moment to work out what it was. It's like breathing: you do it all the time, of course, but every so often you're sitting down, relaxing, reading perhaps, and you become conscious of it. You feel every inhalation rushing through the hair in your nostrils, you feel it easing down your throat and inflating your lungs. You breathe out, acutely aware of your diaphragm contracting. For a while you forget how to breathe without thinking about it. In moments like that, you visualise all the other things your body does without telling you. The blood pumping around your brain, the skin cells you're shedding, the food that's slowly being turned into faeces in your stomach, and then you think about the chemicals flashing and winking in your brain that make you what you are. You sit there, wondering if you'll ever be able to concentrate on anything else again, or whether the steady rhythms of your body that have been there all your life will keep you in a hypnotic trance forever. Two minutes later, you've forgotten all about it again, and turned back to your book or television.

The difference was the traffic. The sound of cars was normally there in the background. Not the noise of individual engines revving or vehicles whooshing past with car radios blaring, but the flatter, more even sound of tyres against tarmac, a dull sound like rushing wind that's always there in every town centre. The invisible cars that are forever somewhere in the distance. The sound that is somehow the same volume whatever the time of the day or night.

In London, more than any other city in Britain, it is ever-present. It pervades every shop, every house, every office. There isn't a window that doesn't pulse, or a pavement that doesn't hum with the vibration. Even on the platform of a Tube station, deep underground, it's there. No-one ever notices unless they are by themselves, sitting in a park or waiting for a train that never comes.

But when it's not there, it's as though the city is holding its breath, or its heart has stopped beating.

There were sounds - burglar alarms that were still ringing, car alarms that hadn't yet run down. Every so often a police siren would wail past. Loudest of all was the birdsong.

A helicopter passed overhead.

Alexander Christian ducked behind the police box, scanning the sky as it receded into the distance.

Page 4
  

When he had finally broken cover, and walked down Whitehall, he realised that something was missing. It took a couple of seconds for him to register that it was the Martian spaceship. If only it had all been a dream, he thought, before wondering where the ship was now.

The burnt-out shell of the police mobile HQ was the only remaining police or army vehicle in Trafalgar Square. The corpses had all been removed, but the ground was littered with patches of blood and spent cartridges. A copy of the Evening Standard blew past.

He wondered when Bambera had noticed that he'd gone. Her plan was that he would head to Windsor with a group of the UNIT boys. Christian preferred to stay in London. He'd never been one to run away from a fight.

He'd expected more troops on the ground, but he soon realised why the area was so deserted - the whole of Whitehall, the Square and the Strand had been sealed off, along with a few of the back streets. The manpower was concentrated on keeping people away from the area. Even so, it was short work to find a gap in the defences and make a way out. Within ten minutes, he was in Covent Garden.

There couldn't have been many, Alexander mused, who had stolen the petty cash box of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. It had about seventy pounds in it - a fortune twenty years ago, barely enough to live on now. He didn't have any jewellery or even a watch to barter with. He'd be able to buy food and travel around the Tube if it was operating, but not buy any new clothes or items of kit.

Apart from a couple of sugar cubes, he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon at the Lethbridge-Stewart place, so the first order of business was breakfast. Covent Garden had gone upmarket since his day, but he still managed to find a greasy spoon cafe without too much difficulty. Radio One was playing the latest music - Christian hadn't been 'with it' twenty years ago, so it came as no surprise that the music now was louder and more unpleasant now than ever before. Two burly young men were discussing the form guide in their newspaper at one table, a young girl was sitting by herself at another. The proprietor was a lanky Greek chap, who took Christian's money and disappeared into the back to make his fry-up without saying a single word.

'You got a light?' the girl asked. She had an East End accent, long dyed-blonde hair that she kept loose.

Page 6
  

He took out a match, and sat next to her. He lit her cigarette, then his own pipe. She wore a tiny cropped T-shirt that might have been sprayed on. It wasn't too difficult to work out what she did for a living. She was fourteen, fifteen at most.

'What were you doing last night?' he asked.

'Same as everyone else,' she said non-committally, 'watching the telly and hoping Jeff Goldblum was around, know what I mean?'

He smiled, as if he did. 'The spaceship's gone now.'

'It's over the Tower.'

'The Tower of London?'

'Yeah.' She dragged on her cigarette. 'D'ya want to buy me breakfast?'

'That's all I'll be buying,' he said.

'Fine.'

Christian went over to the counter and shouted through that he wanted another meal. The Greek emerged ten seconds later with both plates and took some more money from him.

The news was coming up, Christian listened out for it.

The girl sat there, taking her time over the bacon. 'What d'you think?' she asked.

The news bulletin came on - a group of MPs and senior army men had tried to launch a coup last night. This had been countered by loyal army units, and after fighting in the streets around Whitehall last night, most of the plotters had been arrested. Parliament had been suspended, and until the situation had stabilised, there was to be a Provisional Government led by Lord Edward Greyhaven. To prevent the escape of the remaining plotters, all ports and airports would be closed for two days. In the interests of law and order, the major cities would be under curfew during the hours of darkness for the next week or so. People should remain calm, and go to work as normal.

Page 7
  

'They didn't even mention the Martian ship,' Christian laughed, unable to believe the gall of it.

'I'm scared,' the girl said, stubbing out her cigarette and pulling out another.

'Everyone is,' Christian said, finishing off his fried egg.

'I like that Lord Greyhaven, though. I think he'd make a good Prime Minister.'

'You're not worried about the curfew affecting business?'

She smiled as she chewed, her mouth was full. 'I'n't he bold? I don't just work nights. I'm in what they call a recession-proof industry. Whatever happens I'll be OK.' She had a tiny bruise on her temple, scars on her wrists, and underneath that T-shirt he could see her ribs. Christian wanted to hold her, to take her little body and give her a hug. If he could just take her home, give her a bath and a comfortable bed to sleep in she'd be safe. But that was what she wanted silly old men like him to think, wasn't it?

'I'm sure you will,' he replied, getting up.

'Thanks for breakfast.'

'Thanks for talking to me.'

By seven o'clock, the phone lines of the Japanese Embassy on Piccadilly were jammed. Across London, all the embassies were fielding calls from worried tourists. At any given time, there were tens of thousands of Japanese in the United Kingdom, seeing the sights of London, Stratford, Bath and York. None of them wanted to be in a country occupied by a hostile alien lifeform. Most of these tourists were middle-aged, rich and respectable, the remainder were the children of rich businessmen. Either way, there were many powerful people at home scrutinising the actions of the embassy. The beleaguered staff were fortunate that the phone system had crashed last night - the London exchanges could only deal with local calls.

The embassy staff were quite busy enough trying to establish what the situation in Britain actually was. Tokyo had demanded clarification as to who was in charge, whether the situation was stable, whether Britain was still honouring treaties and trade agreements.

Page 8
  

Mr Fukuyama and his wife had been among the first to arrive in person at the embassy. They were keen to leave the country. Before he had retired, Mr Fukuyama had worked in the local tax office, so he was used to a steady stream of phone calls from irate people. He volunteered his services to help take the calls from his fellow tourists. The embassy staff gratefully agreed. They were trying to charter a fleet of aircraft to get their citizens out, but then so were all the other embassies, and for the moment at least the airports remained completely closed. A dozen Japanese film crews were in Britain - most of these were now within the embassy itself.

It was unusual for Eve to be a bystander in a television studio, it felt odd to be standing behind a television camera.

It was a little after eight o'clock. Lord Edward Greyhaven, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, was sitting at a desk in front of a bookcase full of fake books, in a BBC studio, recording an address that would be broadcast that morning and at intervals throughout the day. First he recounted the events of the previous night, how a group a soldiers and politicians had attempted to attack the Martian ship. The Provisional Government had been established because they were now in a new era: the existence of real live Martians presented an opportunity that the old system would have been slow to take advantage of. He explained the benefits of co-operation with the Martians and how alien technology would help Britain and eventually the world.

'Politicians often promised jam tomorrow if only we'd make sacrifices today. The time has come, if you'll pardon the expression, to feast on Martian jam. I am pleased to announce that thanks to the savings that the simplification of government allows, my first act as Prime Minister is to cut both VAT and income tax by five percent. We shall be building new factories in the depressed areas of the North East and Wales, with many more to come. We were promised a more prosperous future - well, it's 1997 and high time that we had the future. Welcome to the prosperous today. Thank you.'

The director was beaming. 'Excellent, Lord Greyhaven, excellent.'

Edward stood, unclipping the mike and tucking his speech back into his Wallace and Gromit ringbinder. 'That should calm things down a bit.'

Page 9
  

'And we're really cutting income tax?'

'That was Xznaal's suggestion, yes.'

'But how do we balance public spending and all that sort of thing?' Staines asked, unafraid to hide his past life as a junior treasury spokesman.

'Xznaal said that he could. He says he also knows ways to reduce pollution and unemployment, traffic congestion and global warming.'

'Crikey. I suppose as well as all those spaceships and holograms and other gadgets, the Martians have also had millions of years to perfect chartered accountancy.'

Greyhaven smiled forgivingly. 'That must be it. What is the state of the nation, Staines?'

'Things are a little more subdued than we thought, Teddy. Problems at the ports, of course, but they are logistical ones: thousands of people with nowhere to go. We've promised full compensation to holidaymakers and tour operators. We'll need to do something about repatriating foreigners.'

'Will you indeed?' Eve asked archly. She hadn't known the Home Secretary long, but already had a well-developed sense of hostility towards him.

'Only if they want to go, Eve,' Edward said hurriedly, brushing her cheek with his hand. 'David, I'll need to talk to you later about tracking down the Doctor and Christian - one o'clock?'

The Home Secretary nodded.

'The Doctor?' Eve said. 'Mid-thirties, dresses like he's read too much Dickens?'

Greyhaven turned to her. 'The very fellow.'

'I saw him at the Space Museum, he thought he recognised me. I'll keep an eye out for him. So what's on your agenda, then?' Eve asked.

'I am in meetings with Lord Xznaal for much of the rest of the day, that's why I'm recording my message now.'

Page 10
  

'So I won't be seeing much of you?'

He brushed her cheek. 'I promised you the first American interview with the new Prime Minister.'

'You know that everyone wants to see Xznaal, too. Where's the meeting, Downing Street?'

'The Tower of London. Xznaal has taken a shine to it and so the Martians will be based there. We've called in some refrigeration engineers to adjust the climate for them. A simple process, apparently, and the Tower will be fully converted in three days.'

'Mars is a cold world,' Staines informed her.

'Yes,' she said, trying to match its coolness. She turned to Edward. 'Any chance of a talk to Xznaal?'

'I think that might be counterproductive for the moment. If Staines' reaction is typical then the public might react unfavourably towards our new allies. Let's just wait until things have settled down a little bit.'

Greyhaven had described the Martians as large reptilian creatures. They sounded quite palatable - fifty years of science fiction B-movies and corny TV series had prepared the way. They might look a bit like Klingons, but they didn't act like them - Klingons didn't help cut tax and set up trade agreements.

'I think you might be right - but people want to know all about them. What about their history and their culture? Never mind all that fuss about the Martian fossil last year. Everyone said that that was the greatest scientific discovery of the century. Guess that'll teach people to wait until the end of the century next time.'

'This certainly knocks what the Americans found into a cocked hat,' Staines simpered, smiling knowingly at Eve. She grimaced back at him.

Page 11
  

Greyhaven nodded to her. 'I think you are right. I'll check with Xznaal, and try to set up a meeting between the two of you. A documentary about their history will help people to understand the Martians better.'

Eve tried to stay calm as she was handed another world exclusive.

By nine o'clock, the breakfast television and radio programmes were drawing to a close. The news editors had been careful not to do anything that might lead to accusations that they had instilled panic in the population. They concentrated on the awe-inspiring prospect of a peaceful alliance with a hitherto unknown race. Reports about the political situation were downplayed in favour of more offbeat coverage: UFO cranks, science fiction writers and comedians got a great deal more airtime than constitutional lawyers, politicians or police chiefs. In the national interest, no-one asked where the Queen had got to - only she had the power to dissolve Parliament and to confirm the appointment of a Prime Minister.

EMAIL MESSAGE

From: Power Commission Ltd, London

To: PCL, Washington

Subject: Business Development, United Kingdom

Date: 8/5/97:10.15 BST

Greetings Abe,

It's been a busy day here, but things have calmed down now. As you know, the server went down about eight, approximately the time the UFO turned up! The engineers were here already, and they knew all about the fault, because they were in touch with the manufacturers. About nine PCL employees were down in Trafalgar Square, the rest of us were out of town. There were a lot of tourists there, and they watched two politicians going aboard for a pow-wow. There was a carnival atmosphere in the Square. Our business partners are in the dark about long-term prospects - some of them are optimistic. PCL will maintain its operation here.

Regards to the kids,

John.

Eleven o'clock British Summer Time is six AM in Washington.

Pentagon officials had been trying to determine the situation in the United Kingdom all day. International phone calls to Britain were proving erratic, although they had other means of contacting their embassy.

Page 12
  

Every intelligence analyst that could be spared was being flown to Langley. A host of agencies from the IMF to Omega Sector were put on stand-by. UNIT ONE, the Creative Intelligence division of the American branch of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce was co-ordinating the groups, while UNIT THREE was liasing with NASA and the White House on the feasibility of a counterstrike on Mars itself.

CIA analysts were treating the situation as an invasion, and the Provisional Government as a puppet organisation. It happened in third world countries all the time - some faction would receive funding from another power and topple the incumbent president, tyrant or whatever. The foreign power always had a purpose for doing that - strategic, economic or political reasons.

The military capability of the Martians was unknown. Their ship had arrived without registering on radar, but there was no evidence from the spy satellites that there was more than one ship over the UK, and there wasn't a mothership in orbit, as far as anyone could tell. The ship was a kilometre long, so there could be thousands of Martian troops onboard. It was armed with energy weapons and armour plating, but the ship hadn't demonstrated what analysts called 'Clarke Level' abilities: technology so advanced that it defied current scientific knowledge.

The PCL email was the first news from UNIT.

Oswald held up the printout of the PCL message.

'I can't believe you managed to intercept this. Doug, I think you may just have become the first person to hack into UNIT.'

Doug raised his finger to his lips, looking around the Cafe. The place was busier than ever following the Invasion - with most phone lines down, email was the only way to send an international message. And you could only do that with some highly illegal hacking into the BT system. 'I didn't do anything.'

'You know about UNIT?'

'Only what I read in FT. The paramilitary meet the paranormal, and go in all guns blazing. So this message is in a UNIT code?' If anyone knew it was Ozzie. Oswald was a regular at the Cafe. Although he was only twenty-three, he was an expert on the alien incursions that were still meant to be a secret. From the Abominable Snowmen to the Zygons, Oswald knew his stuff. He'd even spoken at conventions in America.

Page 13
  

'Not a code as such. It's a simple system based on key phrases. It's been in use for years. '

'It's comic book stuff. I don't understand why they didn't just use a secure line or encryption.'

Oswald nodded thoughtfully. 'That's the scary thing. UNIT clearly no longer have access to the equipment, or they have been compromised. They'd only use this method as a last resort. It's meant to look like an ordinary business letter to any censor or monitor. It's the sort of crypto a Third World country would use, not an European one.'

Doug tried not to think too hard about that. 'So what does the message mean? I've worked out that PCL is UNIT, Abe's the ... President?'

'That's right. "Power Commission" is the United Nations, strictly speaking. "Server" is the local government, "engineer" means soldier, "manufacturer" means foreign power. It's really hokey.'

Doug was reading back the message. 'So what they're saying, this bit here, about the engineers already being in contact with the manufacturers, is that the British military were in league with the aliens?'

'Yeah. Told you so.'

'So now you're saying that you knew this was going to happen all along.'

'Well, if you remember, last week I did tell you that the Martian atmosphere was breathable.'

'Sure, just before you told me that Elvis died in November 1995 of diabetes.'

'I played you his last CD,' he laughed, 'what more do you want?'

Oswald scrutinised the printout again, for theatrical effect more than anything else. 'Reading into it, the two guys who went into the saucer were in on the deal, and those that weren't have been rounded up and put in prison. That's the "in the dark bit".' He paused. 'The conspiracy runs deeper than I thought.'

Doug laughed, and began wiping down the counter. 'Yeah, but whaddya going to do?' he said in his best Homer Simpson voice.

Page 14
  

Oswald fixed him with that intense stare of his. 'We fight back.' He motioned around the Cafe. 'From our state-of-the-art command centre.

At one o'clock precisely, David Staines was let into the Prime Minister's office deep within Number 10 Downing Street.

Greyhaven looked at home already, sitting at the same place as his illustrious predecessors. On the staircase up to the PM's study there were paintings and later photographs of all the previous occupants of the office, rows and rows of portraits. Like most Britons that passed them, Staines could recognise a dozen or so, the list becoming more complete as he reached the top of the stairs and the twentieth century. He paused at the last photograph. He and the Prime Minister had never been close politically, but they respected one another. Staines had no idea that Greyhaven had been planning to kill him.

There was still a constitutional problem - Greyhaven couldn't just make himself Prime Minister regardless of how many Martians backed his leadership bid. The British constitution being what it is, there was some dispute about what conditions needed to be met - the dissolution of Parliament muddied the waters still further. One thing was for certain: just because Greyhaven had the mace didn't mean he was the Prime Minister. For the moment, officially, he was still only the Acting-Prime Minister.

Staines chose not to draw attention to this. 'Prime Minister,' he oozed.

'Home Secretary.' Greyhaven was studying a typed report and didn't look up at first. Finally, he granted Staines his full attention. 'What is the mood of the country?' he enquired in the tone of voice you would normally used to ask after the health of a maiden aunt.

Staines had spent the morning receiving police, army and intelligence reports from around the country. 'It's settling down. The country is nervous, as you'd expect, but most people went to work as normal. London's more subdued. We've had some problems in the North - rival army units fighting on the streets in Manchester and Bradford.'

'Our support?'

Page 15
  

'All the army units and police chiefs that we contacted beforehand have stayed true to their word. They are helping to keep a lid on things, and at the moment their men are following orders. We've had a few objectors, but not enough to affect operational efficiency. We've got enough people on the ground.'

'Yes. Half the staff at Downing Street were unwilling to serve here, or they're in mourning. I had to order out for lunch. Still, it always was part of the plan to slim down the government machinery. The opposition?'

'Taken by surprise, unaware quite how close we can keep tabs on them. A number of barracks and bases have sealed themselves off and put themselves on full alert, but they aren't moving against us. We've got control of the communications and surveillance networks, so we'll be able to mobilise against them very quickly. So far there hasn't be a single report that the "no fly" order has been violated by civilian or military aircraft.'

Greyhaven nodded. 'The bases will be trying to contact each other - keep a very close watch on them. If they start moving, we might need Xznaal to enforce our authority. What else?'

'The SNP are organising a demonstration in Edinburgh tonight. They claim that constitutionally, they are not bound by the terms of the peace treaty with Mars and that England is ignoring them.'

'Big deal. Next.'

'The Archbishop of Canterbury is urging people to remain calm, but not fully to co-operate with the Provisional Government until the situation is more clear. There were vigils at quite a few churches last night. There would be, I suppose.'

Greyhaven raised an eyebrow. 'Really?'

'Well, it's one of the Big Questions, isn't it? Life on other planets. Do you think that Xznaal's a Protestant or a Catholic? The Pope has sought an audience with him, you know.'

'Everyone wants to speak to him, David. Which reminds me: the first few rooms of the Tower will be refrigerated this afternoon. Xznaal will be holding a reception there at seven. You're invited, of course, as are a number of our colleagues. Could you see that they are warned about his appearance? At the same time, make sure that the press don't know about this - I don't want any telephoto shots of the Martians.' Greyhaven passed across the guest list.

Page 16
  

Staines scanned it. 'Miss Waugh will be there, I see.'

'She will,' Greyhaven said levelly.

'But not your wife?'

'My wife is at home, David, a hundred miles from here. How I choose to conduct my private life is my own business.'

Staines could see the newspapers' reaction to the discovery that the Prime Minister had a mistress. The tone of Greyhaven's voice suggested that he wasn't concerned, that he thought the papers had better things to be talking about. The Home Secretary knew better. He didn't dare say anything, but made a mental note to have a word with a couple of his friends in Fleet Street.

'Yes, Prime Minister,' he said.

'The foreign situation seems to be stable - no-one wants to pick a fight with the Martians. Xznaal's proclamation was clear and unambiguous. Too clear, if anything. I'm still not sure what he's planning to do with the American airbases. As for his plans for Eire if the IRA attack our boys...' he shook his head disbelievingly. 'It's been a while since we put the Dail to the sword. And, do you know, despite the Euro-sceptics I don't think that the British government has ever threatened to "smite" the EU before.'

'Teddy, I'm worried.'

Greyhaven frowned in mock-concern. 'Are you, Staines?'

'Yes. You've opened a can of worms. You're using Xznaal to control the country and to crush our enemies, but how do you plan to control them? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, eh, Teddy?'

'I have my means,' Greyhaven said firmly. 'The Martians serve a useful purpose for the time being, but once our power base is secure, we won't be needing them.'

'You can destroy them?'

'If it proves necessary. It's only one ship, Staines, it wouldn't last long against the RAF. I have the situation under control. Can you say the same about Alexander Christian, or the Doctor?'

Page 17
  

Staines chuckled. 'Surely now the Martians are here we don't need to - '

Greyhaven leapt from his chair and grabbed the lapels of the Home Secretary's jacket. 'Those two are the greatest threats to what we are doing here. Find them, Staines, and kill them.'

'You don't want them captured?'

'So that they are brought here and I can tie them up while I boast about my plans? No, I want them dead. Post that to all police and army units.'

Staines made a note of that. 'Is there any more business?'

'That will be all, thank you Home Secretary. See you at seven.'

Just before three o'clock Eve Waugh received a phone call. She was in her hotel room with Alan, getting ready to go to the Tower of London. They were talking through their plans: they would try and charm Xznaal into granting an interview.

'How do you dress to meet a Martian warlord?' Alan asked her.

'Edward told me to treat it like any other state banquet.'

'That helps,' he chuckled.

'Your tux will be fine,' she assured him.

'And I'm taking my camera but keeping it in my bag?'

'That's right. Don't even try to sneak a shot of the Martian, you might cause an interplanetary diplomatic incident.'

The phone rang. Eve answered it and spoke for a couple of minutes.

'Don't change just yet,' she told Alan when she'd finished. 'Where's Canterbury?'

Alan checked his road atlas. 'About an hour away, I think. South of here.'

'That was the Doctor. He says he wants to talk to us. He's told us exactly where he is and says he wants to meet us at four-thirty. We can get there and back in time for seven?'

'No problem at all, if we leave quickly. I'm sure that your friend Greyhaven would like to know where the Doctor is. Are you going to tell him?'

Eve hesitated.

NEXT WEEK: God save the King.