



	OMEGA

	A Satirical Phantasy



	



	1

As we stole past the burning hulks of cars, our skin 
brushed by litter raised high by the cold wind, it was 
difficult to imagine the safe world and the secure way of 
life that was all I'd known just a week ago. A day that 
began with breakfast, on the dawn of a Suburban day much 
like every other Suburban day. As usual, my preparation 
for the day ahead was a bowl of cereal, two slices of toast 
with marmalade and butter, and a cup of instant coffee. 
The television burbled in the background, where it caught 
the reflection of the early morning sun slanting through the 
window.

Outside, the Suburbs was stirring. There was the low whir 
of the milk float, the revving of cars preparing to leave for 
work, the slamming of doors and the purposeful tread of 
commuters along the pavement. Sparrows and blackbirds 
serenaded each other from the hedges and trees. A postman 
paced by, oblivious to the stream of commuters as he sifted 
through post that he would dispense with a dull thud onto 
doormats already cluttered with free newspapers and 
unsolicited promotions. 

The Suburbs was where I lived. Semi-detached house after 
semi-detached house arrayed in all directions, 
harmoniously separated by fences, protected from the street 
by hedge, lawn and driveway. Every house adorned by 
television aerials, telephone wires, plumbing, electricity 
and gas. Every house self-contained and every Suburban 
occupant in a world bounded by television and the garden 
fence. 

My house was no exception. I was no exception. Except 
that today I was not a commuter. 

Although I was not in the general procession of commuter 
traffic, I knew that it would be my destiny. Soon, I would 
join the daily regiment that headed to the City, briefcase 
and umbrella in hand, to keep the Suburbs in garden 
gnomes, Welcome doormats and nostalgic country 
ornaments.	

I left my house with no purpose and no destination, 
envying those hurrying by with both. I ambled towards the 
park where the orderly rows of semi-detached houses gave 
way to orderly rows of trees and hedges along well-paved 
paths. There were children's swings and slides, and 
ornamental flowerbeds. There were no clouds in the sky 
and the shadows had a sharpness that enhanced the plastic 
clarity of the flowers and trimmed trees. 

I sat on one of the regularly spaced benches. The 
manicured lawn extended ahead towards a hedge that 
secluded the park from a less peaceful world where double-
decker buses and family cars drove past. My mind was on 
many things, mostly inconsequential. What did I need to 
buy at the supermarket? Which bills needed paying? Were 
there really rats under the floorboards? 

However, as now, in the desolation of a world turned 
upside-down, I was also occupied by thoughts of the Truth. 
At the time, it seemed such a harmless and abstract pursuit. 

There'd been a great deal of discussion on television as 
experts declared how close they were to divining its nature. 
They might not know for sure what the Truth was, but they 
had a clearer idea than ever before. Or at least they had a 
better idea of what it most certainly wasn't. 

Although that seemed absurd now in the desolate 
wastelands, I was tempted to declare that the Truth already 
existed and was in the Suburbs. If the Truth was evident in 
a life as well organised and purposeful as possible, blessed 
with the greatest degree of civilised comfort, where else 
but in the Suburbs was there the degree of utilitarian 
perfection that earned that description? Wasn't the purpose 
of life the striving towards further perfection of an orderly 
state? All that was needed was to tidy up a few lawns, 
eliminate litter and better municipal planning. 

However, I was sure there was more to the Truth than that. 
The Suburbs lacked any objective greater than its own 
perfection. I looked around the park and beyond, at the 
tiled roofs of semi-detached houses and private gardens. 
The Truth must be beyond all this.  	

But if not in the Suburbs where else could the Truth be 
found? As I looked now at my lover, illuminated by the 
flames of burning homes, I wondered, as I did then, 
whether it was to be found in Love. Generations have 
believed that the Truth is revealed through Love. The heart 
ascends above the mundane and predictable. You do only 
the best for others. And in return others do the best for you. 

My eyes followed a woman who walked purposefully by 
on the business of her day. Behind her, the sun heightened 
the greenness of the grass. A thrush hammered at the 
ground, no doubt equally in pursuit of its own business. It 
took off and flew like an arrow into a tree. 

Could the Truth be found in meditative contemplation of 
the world? Isn't it often said that beauty and reason is in the 
perfection of nature: the balance of the ecological order 
and the struggle for the most fit to survive. On a peaceful 
day in the park, that didn't seem as unlikely as it did in the 
shadows of the smoke billowing from abandoned 
buildings, where life was now so brutish and short.

I wondered whether the Truth had a Divine providence, as 
my eyes were directed heavenwards by the spire of a 
church above the television aerials. Could God be the 
personification of the Truth? A Truth, however, that 
required Faith. Without Faith (and which Faith?) where 
then is the Truth? And if God personifies the Truth, what is 
that Truth? 

The ants that filed past my feet then, almost invisible in the 
cracks of the path's tarmac, were so much less a threat than 
the swarms of huge insects now filling the skies. It is often 
said that insects, not humans, are the true owners of the 
world. I had heard that there were some rather large and 
frightening insects beyond the Suburbs, something I now 
knew for sure. 

Just one week earlier, the world beyond was totally 
unknown to me. I was certain I wouldn't like a great deal of 
it; but if I were to find the Truth, I would have to face 
many hazards. I had often been told of the horrors of the 
outside world. However, some of what I had been warned 
against sounded quite good fun. How can one know the 
Truth until one has lived life to the full, (which I was sure I 
couldn't do in the Suburbs)? But then, if the Truth could be 
found in a life of indulgence and pleasure, why so many 
warnings against it? 

Perhaps it would have been better if I had been content to 
listen to those older and wiser than I, who, from centuries 
of history and experience, divined traditions and customs 
that enshrine the Truth. However, although no historian, I 
knew of no occasion in the past when the Truth had been 
found. Perhaps it is the discoveries of the great 
philosophers that are timeless. Perhaps the Truth is attained 
through pure thought.

Perhaps there was a political solution, though in the ruins 
of one that seemed the least likely. The Truth is not just as 
an account of what there is. It is also a recipe for how to 
lead life. Contemplation is wasted when action is required 
to improve an inequitable, unjust and inefficient world.  
	

Perhaps the keeper of the Truth is education and its 
imperative to pursue knowledge. Perhaps the Truth is the 
embodiment of received wisdom that personifies all that is 
already known, all that is to be known and all that it is 
possible to know. Maybe the Truth is all things, including 
things it cannot be. But then how can it contain things that 
are not true?  

My mind protested at this uncertainty, so I looked at my 
watch. It was 11 o'clock. Time for elevenses. I'll treat 
myself to a coffee in a cafe. Whatever the Truth may be, it 
can surely wait for that. 

Lunch, dinner, tea are essential signposts of the day 
marked by food, celebrated and served at the Archer Street 
Cafe in pounds, shillings and pence. Coffee at 17 shillings. 
Tea for a ten shilling note. A traditional Suburban 
breakfast for œ2 7/-. And for me a cup of coffee and a small 
slice of cake for just over a guinea. 

The cafe was quite typical of the Suburbs. It was adorned 
by flowery wallpaper, pictures of distant meadows 
and valleys, a vase of plastic flowers on each Formica 
covered table and plastic chairs secured firmly to the floor 
as a precaution against theft. The cafe was neither empty 
nor full, maintaining a comfortable middle ground where 
there were people to look at, but none with their elbows up 
against mine. The other customers hardly warranted 
attention, being the usual collection of shoppers and shift-
workers either alone like me and avoiding eye contact at all 
cost, or in company and focusing their eyes exclusively on 
each other and their ears to the affairs of the Suburbs. The 
state of the roads. The perennial litter problem. The 
rubbish on television these days.

But almost all conversation came to an uneasy halt when 
the door of the cafe tinkled open and a black woman 
entered. Very few strangers ever visit the Suburbs, and 
usually they're visitors from other suburbs. But a black 
person. Very rare! This in itself was remarkable, but her 
impact was compounded by her wearing rather more 
skimpy clothes than is normal for the Suburbs. In fact, the 
unspoken thought reverberating among the blue rinses and 
hairpins was that she was barely decent. 

All her clothes were white, in significant contrast to the 
blackness of her skin: a white slip supported her substantial 
breasts, but revealed her midriff, a short flared skirt that 
just about obscured her knickers, short white ankle socks 
and white tennis shoes. She looked as if she might have 
just finished playing tennis on an exceptionally hot day. 
Her beaded hair dropped onto bare shoulders, obscuring 
the straps of her slip.

She walked nonchalantly to the counter and ordered a cup 
of tea, handed over a ten guinea note and expressed delight 
at all the change she was given in return. She then picked 
up her tea, balanced a plastic spoon and several white 
cubes of sugar on the saucer, and then, for the first time 
since she'd entered, looked around the cafe. She gave an 
amused smile, strode over to my table and sat in the seat 
opposite me despite there being several other empty tables. 
This woman was definitely not Suburban! No one from the 
Suburbs would ever be so presumptuous or intrusive.

She put the plastic spoon into the cup and started stirring 
the tea, while looking directly at me. 

"Hello, my name's Anna," she belatedly introduced herself. 
"You don't mind me sitting here, do you?"

"No, of course not," I said warily. 

"The Suburbs are jolly odd!" She announced. "I've never 
been anywhere so blinking reserved. You come from the 
Suburbs, don't you?" I nodded. "Me, I come from the 
borough of Baldam. Near the University City of Lambdeth. 
I've been travelling around, and made it to the Suburbs." 
She glanced around at the porcelain ornaments of country 
people on horses. "And I wonder now if it was ever such a 
good idea coming here. What do you think?"

In the Suburbs, people never ask such direct 
questions. Especially not people they've never met before 
or who introduce themselves without the usual excuses.  

I coughed. "The Suburbs has its own virtues. I'm sure 
there's some aspect of it you'd like."

"It's so boring!" exclaimed Anna, ignoring my comment. 
"Perhaps that's its appeal. There just doesn't seem to be any 
life here at all. It's dead! And no one wants to know you. 
Honestly, everyone looks at me as if I've arrived from the 
moon. I'm not that odd! I don't have four hooves or a furry 
tail. I don't have claws and sharp little teeth. Everyone here 
looks so much the same. And they behave like the whole 
world was the Suburbs. They're jolly polite enough, if you 
ask them the way, but they say as little as they can."

Anna looked at me past the condiments in flowery 
plastic containers and grinned broadly. The whiteness of 
her eyes and teeth penetrated through the Suburban air like 
beacons, tantalising advertisements of another world of 
attitudes and lifestyle. 

"Er, what do you do?" I asked, not sure whether a question 
that would in Suburban circles be almost as automatic as a 
reference to the weather or the dreadful traffic was really 
appropriate.

Anna laughed, and somewhat loudly for a Suburban cafe. 
I could feel heads turn and eyes gaze malevolently 
towards us. I'd never be able to eat at this cafe again in 
anything like my former anonymity. 

"Goodness! What a jolly funny question! I just do what I 
blooming well like. Shouldn't everyone?"

I persevered. "I mean, what do you do for a living?"

"Oh! This and that! Whatever makes enough money, you 
know." She beamed in paroxysms of silent mirth. "I 
suppose you're also going to ask why I'm in the Suburbs. 
You people are so predictable!" She picked up her cup and 
sipped from it. She put it down with a look of mild disgust. 
"The tea's so strong here! And the coffee so weak! I'm in 
the Suburbs because I like to travel about the country. Get 
out and about, you know. I suppose people in the Suburbs 
never do things like that!"

"You just travel about the country?"

"When I'm not staying in my flat in Baldam, or with friends 
in the City, that's what I do. I spend about a half of my life 
in Baldam. It's a fantastic city. The rest of my time is 
divided between the City and the rest of the country. 
There's just so much to do in the City that just staying 
there's like travelling the rest of the world. Have you ever 
been to the City?"

I shook my head. "It's very expensive..."

"Incredibly expensive! Fabulously expensive!" Anna 
exclaimed. "Everything's much cheaper here! And 
whenever I'm in the City, I earn a bit of money. Then I've 
got more than enough money for everywhere else." She 
fiddled with a gold ring on her finger which looked like it 
cost quite a few guineas. "But there's everything in the 
City! Everything! You've got to be jolly tired of life to be 
tired of the City! You can find whatever you want. 
Everything you could ever possibly want!"

I couldn't help wondering whether the Truth could also be 
found there, but I was sure that if I confronted Anna with 
that question she'd probably just think I was trying to be 
amusing.

"The City is the opposite of the Suburbs," she continued. 
"Where it's so predictable here, it's totally inconstant and 
erratic there! Where it's quiet here, it's bedlam there! 
Where there's nothing to do here, there's everything to do 
in the City! And yet," Anna surveyed the Suburban world 
through the curtain-draped cafe windows, "it's mostly 
people from the Suburbs who work in the City." She 
frowned as if perplexed by this paradox. "How is it," she 
asked me, running a bejewelled hand through her 
hair, "that Suburbanites can go to the City every day and 
never seem to have ever been there? It's as if they 
never actually see the place they're in."

Anna laid a wrist down on the table and studied her silver 
and gold bangles. She looked up at me. "Yes," she grinned. 
"They are worth a bit, this jewellery, but I'm not rich. I've 
just known some really wealthy people. You do, you 
know, going to Night Clubs and things in the City and 
being, you know, an Independent Woman. But although I 
wouldn't say no (not flipping likely!) if someone offered 
me a lot of money, I just don't think that money's what I 
really want out of life."

"Why's that?" I wondered, hearing for the first time what 
was heresy in the Suburbs where the measure of success in 
life was the size of one's pension at retirement. If material 
wealth wasn't the object of work, and if work wasn't the 
object of life, then what could be?

"I don't know," Anna answered noncommittally, perhaps 
sensing the discomfiture her view had caused. "I just think 
that the pursuit of wealth gets in the way of enjoying it. 
And how much more enjoyment does a billion guineas give 
you that a million guineas couldn't? It's just too much 
flipping trouble. And people who're rich ... okay, they're 
not exactly miserable, but I don't think their happiness is in 
direct relation to how much they earn."

"What makes you happy?"

Anna grinned with a quizzical furrowing of her brows. 
"You people ask the oddest things! What makes anyone 
happy? What's happy? But in the City I like going out. You 
know, there are loads of Night Clubs in the City. Night 
Clubs for the wealthy. The young. Everyone. But not," she 
glanced at a blue rinsed couple nearby, "I suspect, for 
people in the Suburbs. I just like to go out and dance the 
night away. What do you expect me to do?"

"Does everyone go to Night Clubs?"

"Well, not everyone. Not everyone can afford to. You 
know, there are some people, even in the City, who're what 
you call poor. No nightclubbing for them."

"Are they very poor?"

"You don't have poor people in the Suburbs, do you?" 
contemplated Anna. "Or if you do, they're kept hidden 
away like a dirty secret. The poor live in the East End of 
the City. The City is like two different places glued 
together. On the one side, there's the City of money, wealth 
and privilege. On the other side, in tatty, 
unplanned disarray, there are the rundown 
churches, dilapidated pavements, gutted shops, and bored 
people sitting by the roadside throwing stones at each 
other. Mind you, I'm not so sure there's anything very much 
more to do here in the Suburbs. I haven't even seen a 
cinema here. Do you have anything like that?"

"No, not really. In the Suburbs, most people's 
entertainment is at home. Mostly on television."

"Ugh! How horrible! I never watch television myself. 
I'd rather go out and see a film or a play. There's so much 
culture in the City! There are cinemas and theatres showing 
plays and films of the most elevated classical art, obscure 
avant-garde films, popular entertainment, pornography, 
comedies, everything. So, what can you watch on 
television?"

I described some of the situation comedies, quiz shows, 
soap operas and general entertainment screened on 
Suburban television. Anna seemed horrified. "I'm no art 
critic," she admitted, "but it does appear fairly 
incontrovertible that the Suburban audience 
is irredeemably plebeian and Philistine!  Isn't the value of a 
society best judged by the culture it produces and 
consumes? Suburban culture is no culture at all!"

I was slightly affronted by this opinion, though I 
couldn't think of any defence except to say that 
different standards prevailed in the Suburbs.

"Well," mused Anna reflectively, "It's a funny old world! 
And I've certainly not seen all of it! There are strange 
stories you hear of the most peculiar places hidden in the 
most unlikely places."

"What sort of places?"

"Weird places. Places that can be found in Police 
Telephone Boxes, through wardrobes, at the top of 
mountains, at the end of rainbows, all sorts of places. But 
I'm not sure what I think of things like that. Corn circles. 
UFOs. Weeping virgins. But one thing I'm sure is that there 
is just so much hidden and unknown." 

"Surely science will find them," I said.

"Science could never solve all problems. Science is 
about demonstrable quantifiable truths. And the Truth is 
probably not that. But scientists are certainly having a jolly 
good go at it. In the City, there's an absolutely fantastically 
big building. The Academy, it's called. And all the 
scientists are there. Looking for the Truth, I suppose. Or 
just studying things for their own sake. Things like 
zoology, equestrianism, aerial mechanics, lots of things."

"That sounds fascinating!" I commented, taken by Anna's 
reference to the Truth.

"There's just so much to learn," admitted Anna. She 
swallowed the last of her tea in a single gulp and looked 
desultorily at the empty cup. "So many places to go! The 
world's such a big place. And different countries have such 
incredibly strange cultures. There are republics and 
kingdoms. Democracies and dictatorships. There are 
countries at war. So many different languages, religions 
and customs." She leaned forward. "You've not been 
anywhere abroad have you?"

"No. I've never left the Suburbs," I admitted.

"The Suburbs are as much a state of mind as a place," 
commented Anna mysteriously. "You don't have to leave 
the country to see different things. Even in this country 
there's an incredible variety of people and customs. Some 
boroughs and counties are quite repressive and others are 
very open. Some are jolly dangerous. Some are boring, like 
the Suburbs. But boredom is not the worst! Or perhaps it 
is!"

Anna glanced up at the clock just above the counter where 
the second hand circumnavigated a design of flowers and 
fluffy rodents. 

"I suppose I ought to be going," she announced. She eased 
herself up out of the chair with a slightly embarrassed look. 
"Well, I'm leaving the Suburbs now. I'm going back to 
Lambdeth." She straightened herself up. "It's been jolly 
interesting talking to you. You know, if I were you, I'd get 
out of the Suburbs. See a bit of the world beyond. You 
don't have to prepare yourself or anything. Just pack your 
bag and go. It's a big world outside and you mustn't just 
ignore it."

With that advice she bade me goodbye and borne by the 
wind of Suburban disapprobation she sailed out of the cafe 
and into the sunlit streets. I watched her black and white 
figure recede into the distance, bending the necks of the 
curious as she passed by. 

Perhaps, I thought, turning back my head to the somewhat 
unsatisfactory normality of the cafe, the Truth could 
be found through escape from the Suburbs.

Philosophical musings pursued me beyond lunch time, 
beyond dinner time and onto nine o'clock that evening, 
when I was too restless to do anything than wander about 
the Suburbs. My wandering then lacked even the direction 
that guided me now through the ruin of a shattered world. 
My feet took me to a part of the Suburbs I'd never been to 
before. Late commuters galloped past me on the way home 
from work, carrying briefcases, umbrellas and bowler hats.

However unfamiliar this district was, I didn't expect to see 
a tall figure loom out of the dark shadows, several feet 
larger than a human being, wearing a tri-cornered hat and a 
long overcoat. Now I would find it a somewhat comforting 
sight, but on that evening I froze in fear and stared down 
the street at a pair of piercing eyes. This was not the usual 
stray fox, cat or rat one would expect to see in the Suburbs 
at night. This was clearly something very different. The 
figure towered mysteriously, casting a long shadow from a 
street lamp. Then it turned round and lumbered off, 
gradually receding into the distance. 

I stood shaken by the sight. Where did that apparition come 
from and what did it portend? The headlamps and the low 
roar of a passing car brought me back to the ordinary 
world. Perhaps I'd just imagined it.

Another car's headlights caught me in its beam and 
projected an extending shadow ahead of me. As it came 
close, the car slowed and, on overtaking me, pulled gently 
to a halt. This was another unusual sight in the Suburbs: a 
limousine with foreign number-plates, twice the length of 
an ordinary car. The passenger's door opened and a portly 
shadow emerged onto the pavement, turned round to ease 
the door shut and passed comments through the window to 
the silhouetted figures inside. Then this figure ambled 
towards me.

It was a rather fat gentleman wearing brightly coloured 
shorts with a camcorder strapped around his neck and a 
floral short-sleeved shirt. 

"Hiya," he announced himself. "Ya know your way round 
here?"

"Well, yes," I admitted.

"Perhaps then y'all be able to help us. We're lost. One 
goddamn street here is just the same as another. And 
nobody knows this area any more'n we do."

"Nobody?"

"We've been driving around for hours and I'm sure we've 
been back to this spot before. It's one goddamn maze here. 
All roads go back to where they started. Me and my pals 
are totally lost. Back home things ain't like this, I can tell 
you! Back home things are much better. Bigger houses, all 
with swimming pools. The roads are wider and there are 
signs to help you. Here, it's just row after row of the same 
goddamn houses. And you people are so goddamn 
suspicious. You'd think we'd come from another planet 
rather than another country. You people here are real 
weird."

"Do you mean just in the Suburbs?"

"Gee! I don't know! But your Suburbs are the weirdest! 
We've seen a lot of your little old country and none of what 
we've seen so far's anything like this! We've just been 
driving through the Country. That's so goddamn quaint. 
Some of what you've got here looks like it's not changed 
for millions of years!"

"I've never been to the Country," I confessed.

"You ain't!" the tourist exclaimed. "There sure is a heck of 
a lot to see. We were real impressed by the Art Gallery on 
the border of the Suburbs. A heck of a weird place for an 
Art Gallery! Especially one as big as that! I don't know 
doodly squat about Art but I'm sure I saw some real famous 
stuff there! You must've been there. It ain't no distance 
from here!"

"I've not been there either." 

"You ain't been nowhere!" the tourist exclaimed. "But then 
you live here. You've got your whole goddamn life to see 
everything, ain't you?"

The tourist then asked for directions to the Centaur Hotel, 
which I was thankfully able to give. It was a little 
complicated, so I drew a map on the back of an envelope, 
carefully marking all the straight lines and square parks 
that mapped out the Suburbs. He seemed genuinely 
grateful and shook my hand warmly as he left. 

"You must see more of the world, you know!" he advised 
me, as he wandered back to his car with the camcorder 
bouncing on his belly. He opened the door, and within 
seconds the car glided away leaving the street lonelier than 
before.

As I walked home, it seemed that my thoughts and 
encounters this day were leading only one way. Little 
knowing where it would take me, I resolved at that moment 
to leave the Suburbs and search for the Truth. I was sure I 
was not the first person to make the same decision. And 
why not me?

The reasons for doing so seemed overwhelmingly 
compelling. I was convinced from talking to Anna and the 
tourist that there was a larger, more exciting world beyond. 
A world that offered so much more than the Suburbs ever 
could. I imagined myself fighting against giant rats and 
drunken centaurs, in shining armour, a sword and shield in 
hand, and finally discovering the Truth. The Holy Grail. 
Alpha and Omega. However, if I knew then what I knew 
now, maybe I would have thought differently. 

And then, after a night of restless musing, breakfast once 
more. The start of another day in the Suburbs. In front of 
me was food for the day ahead and in the background the 
television. Outside the house, the world was waking up to 
the sounds of the Suburbs. And today, I decided, was to be 
my day of departure. 

My mind was in total turmoil. Wasn't I just leaving on an 
ill-considered and possibly contrived fancy? What was I 
expecting to find? Wouldn't I be better off staying put in 
the Suburbs? What could I achieve? Where was I 
expecting to go? And where would I start?

I started where everyone leaving the Suburbs does: at the 
Railway Station, one of the grandest buildings in the 
Suburbs, the point from which trains leave every day 
packed with commuters on their way to work. I was in the 
general mˆlee of commuting, jostled gently from side to 
side by people anxious to catch the 08.01 or the 08.11 or 
the late 07.24. What I still hadn't chosen was my 
destination.

I looked at the computerised destination board 
broadcasting accurately to the second exactly how much 
each train was late or going to be late. At the top of the 
board were the trains first scheduled to leave - most to the 
City - and as each one departed, the entire board rumbled 
as the destinations below shuffled up to take a new 
position of prominence in the list. Commuters stared 
apprehensively at the board and then trickled towards a 
ticket kiosk or streamed past the ticket inspector with their 
annual or monthly train passes held up in pride. I was in 
much less of a hurry and not at all sure which platform to 
head to.

I studied a map that showed the route taken by each train, 
colour-coded and totally out of scale. The two focal points 
of the map were the Suburbs and the City, with the latter 
and all its associated stations occupying a third of the 
entire space of the map. I wanted to go somewhere 
different. Somewhere with a name I'd never heard of, that 
suggested a world a thousand miles or a thousand years 
away from Suburban concerns. A tiny little place like 
Gotesdene.

I settled on this destination totally by chance, and queued 
up at the counter behind a commuter with a rolled 
newspaper discussing the relative merits of a leave-on-
Friday-and-return-on-Monday ticket over a Long Weekend 
Ticket for the same days at a different cost. When he'd 
finally resolved the discussion to his satisfaction, I 
breathlessly requested a single to Gotesdene.

The ticket clerk typed the name into a console which 
issued a single ticket. He briefly explained that it was a 
two-stage journey on a four-phase fare matrix system. I 
would change at Ratford Central to get a steam train which 
stopped at Gotesdene on its journey to Lambdeth 
Peccadillo. The four phases of the fare were spelt out in 
pounds, shillings, pence and farthings, which I paid in a 
mixture of gold, silver and bronze. The train was standing 
on Platform One. 

I sat nervously on a hard and threadbare seat in a tatty 
compartment, watching the commuters run towards it and 
jump on. Then, with a loud whistle and a wave of the 
station guard's flag, the train growled with anticipation and 
purred out of the station. As the train shunted off, I took 
what I thought then, but know better now, was my last 
glimpse of the rows upon rows of houses, parks and roads 
that compose Suburbia. 

	2

Before the train had travelled very far, I knew for sure that 
I had left the Suburbs behind. The ragged hedges no longer 
enclosed well tended lawns and flower-beds, but rather 
rectangles of crops, occasionally enlivened by a clump of 
trees. Goats roamed freely about, sometimes raising their 
heads to watch the train going by.

The transition from the Suburbs to the Countryside was 
apparent not only outside the train but also inside. The 
presence of Suburbanites reading newspapers or staring 
blankly through the carriage window was steadily replaced 
by a broader mix of people, representing the people who 
live in the Country. The composition of 
passengers changed as the train stopped, paused and then 
moved on again from rustic Country station platforms. 
At one station, several rats in precisely made and 
appropriately tiny clothes clambered into a nearby 
compartment by steps provided for the smaller railway 
customer.

At each station, a loudspeaker trailed off a list 
of destinations and, just as the train was beginning to leave, 
recommenced the list from the beginning. By this means I 
was aware that the train was approaching the station where 
I would change trains for Gotesdene. The train shook, 
shuddered and clanked as it steadied to a halt. I reluctantly 
sacrificed the warmth of my seat and disembarked onto the 
busy platform.

Barley Junction was quite a different station from the one I 
had left in the Suburbs. Goats jostled freely about the 
platform place, some entering the train I'd just left and 
some trotting out of it. One goat with a station porter's cap 
and an official uniform was bleating more loudly and 
insistently than the others, and I soon became aware that it 
was he who was broadcasting the platform announcements. 
It took a few moments to adapt my ear to his rustic bleat, 
but presently I managed to couple the name Gotesdene with an 
appropriate platform number and with this information I 
headed over the station bridge, sidestepping the family of 
rats I had seen before, and descended to where a Steam Train 
was waiting.

Being completely unfamiliar with the customs of the area - 
so different from the Suburbs - I looked for an indicator 
board that might confirm to me that this train, emitting 
large clouds of black smoke from its funnel, was the one I 
wanted, but there was no digital display unit to be found 
anywhere. There was only a wooden sign protruding from 
a post, with a list of names including that of Gotesdene. So 
this was it! I searched for an empty compartment, opened 
the door and sat on a hard upholstered seat by the window 
and watched the bustle of activity outside. 

There were the bleats of goats to one other: some 
advertising tea and newspapers. Above all this, was the 
more resonant voice of the station master listing where the 
train was due to stop. To lessen the platform din, and avoid 
the unpleasant smell of smoking coal, I pulled up the 
carriage window which promptly cocooned me from the 
world outside. I was alone in the company of two facing 
rows of upholstery, two opposing mirrors and advertisements 
for dental chewing gum, rat-killer, the Green Party and the 
Times.

I was not alone for long. The carriage door opened and in 
poked the head of a young woman about my age. "Is this 
compartment free?" she asked.

"Why certainly," I said in a slightly panicked voice. This 
was not merely because her presence had perturbed my 
composure, but also by her physical appearance. Partly 
this was due to the strangeness of her long straight green 
hair which cascaded down beyond her shoulders and to her 
waist. Mostly however this was due to the fact that she wore 
no clothes whatsoever. This was not a sight often seen in the 
Suburbs. Her pale but warm and friendly face was illuminated 
by sparkling bright green eyes.

"Then you won't mind us joining you," she continued, 
climbing into the compartment. Her bare feet walked 
obliviously over the varnished floorboards and she sat on 
the seat immediately opposite me. I was uncomfortably 
conscious of her bare apple-round breasts and the green 
bush of hair between her crossed thighs. She was followed 
by a boy of about fifteen also with green hair, but in his 
case styled into a neat short back and sides, and wearing 
an outfit that would not look out of place in the 
Suburbs. Indeed only the colour of his hair might ever 
attract any comment. His face was also pale, but the eyes 
failed to illuminate it at all. He sat next to the girl and I felt 
sure I could see a family resemblance.

"My name's Beta and this is my brother," continued the 
girl with an unselfconscious openness very rare in 
the Suburbs. "We're off to the City of Lambdeth. Do you 
know it?"

"I've heard of it."

"I've never been there myself, but Bacon has. He's going 
to college there and I'm escorting him." 

"Not that I need escorting!" the boy sniffed 
unenthusiastically. "I'm just pleased to get away from the 
Country. It's about time I moved into the Modern Age. I'm 
had enough of the ignorance and backwardness of the 
Village."

"Oh, Bacon!" Beta responded. "You don't have to be so 
harsh on the Village. It's where we've lived all our lives."

"Progress has just passed us by," Bacon continued. "The 
years go by and the Village and the Country just remain the 
same." He looked at me with a sardonic smile. "You just 
wouldn't believe how primitive the Village is. If you went 
there you'd think you'd been through a time warp."

"It's the way it is because its way of life has been so 
successful over the years," defended Beta. "Why change a 
place where people are quite happy with things as they 
are?" She leaned forward towards me, her hair falling off 
her shoulders and breasts to drop in curtains of green in 
front of her. "What do you think?"

As I had no wish to offend either the attractive naked girl 
or her brother I decided to be diplomatic. "I don't know 
your village, so I really can't comment."

"It's so beautiful and natural! A sweet little brook babbles 
alongside a wood and open fields, and goats and other 
animals wander freely in the lanes. Everyone is friendly and 
helpful - and, excepting my brother, nobody feels the need 
to wear clothes..."

"So? How primitive can you get!" Bacon snorted. "If 
dressing like savages was so wonderful, how come it's not 
more universal? People in the Suburbs wear clothes. 
And so do people in Lambdeth. Babbling brooks and goats 
aren't everything! You didn't mention, Beta, that the roads 
are unmetalled; the electricity is unreliable and 
intermittent; the water still comes from a well; there are no 
street-lamps and the only transport we've got is oxen-, 
goat- or mule-driven. It's only a paradise if you think 
deprivation's a good thing."

"But you don't need all those things if everything else 
is fine..."

"How can it be? The Village is barely self-sufficient at 
the moment. It produces very little surplus product and not 
many people from elsewhere are enthusiastic about buying 
our organic vegetables and dairy products. It won't be 
long until the Village will have to diversify its 
production or everyone will starve."

"Who says the Village will starve! Everyone has enough to 
eat now. Nobody's unhappy."

"It'll happen! Nowhere can last forever contented on just 
enough surplus to afford a single television for the whole 
Village and hardly any of the other luxuries that people in, 
for instance, the Suburbs take for granted. One bad harvest 
and the Village will collapse!"

"There have been people saying that for centuries and it's 
never happened!" Beta indignantly retorted. "All that's 
happened is that more people like you predict it to try 
and get people to change their ways. And it is 
self-fulfilling prophecy when people like you leave and 
it becomes more difficult for the Village to get by."

"And what's wrong with me for wanting to do that? If 
there's a better world beyond, why not go for it!"

At that moment, the train discharged sounds of 
scraping, puffing and snorting, and then accompanied by a 
chorus of cries, particularly from the station announcer, the 
Steam Train slowly puffed out of the station. Bacon and 
Beta dropped their conversation to watch Barley Junction 
recede behind and green fields open up ahead.

As the train settled into its rhythm of railway-track breaks 
and occasional hoots, I continued the halted conversation: 
"There are certainly a lot of goats around here! Far more 
than you'd ever meet in the Suburbs!"

"That just demonstrates how much more Progressive the 
Suburbs are!" agreed Bacon. "You're right. There are far 
too many goats in the Countryside. There really should be 
fewer of them."

"Now you're being unfair to goats!" complained Beta with 
a frown.

"They smell. They eat anything and everything. Left to 
their own resources they'd just eat the entire Countryside 
and we'd be left with nothing but desert"

"But they still have rights just like everyone else. You 
can't dismiss them just like that."

"Yes, you can! The issue is quite straightforward. There are 
too many goats! What you've got to do is reduce the 
number. And if it involves deportation or birth control then 
so be it."

"Or anything else, I suppose?" wondered Beta sadly.

"Exactly so!" Bacon said adamantly. "Goats are a menace, 
and they've got to be eliminated by one means or another!"

I could see that I hadn't chosen as safe a topic 
for conversation as I'd thought, but I listened as the two 
siblings discussed what Bacon termed the Goat Problem. 
Some of his solutions were quite drastic and not too 
dissimilar to some I'd occasionally heard in the Suburbs 
when considering eliminating vermin. "It's entirely a 
question of Progress!" Bacon insisted. "There should never 
be obstacles set in its way. We're all better off in the end - 
Goats too! - if less attention were paid to the finer feelings 
of the outmoded and obsolete..."

"For no fault of their own!" Beta interrupted.

"It doesn't matter! If there is any purpose to life at all, 
it must be the pursuit of Progress and Truth!"

I was just about to rejoin the conversation to announce my 
own interest in the Truth, when the engine released a series 
of hoots as it noisily came to a halt at another station. This 
one was extremely small, consisting of a platform, a 
derelict ticket office and a waiting room. A border of 
flowers and vegetables brightened the platform and beyond 
there was nothing but an uninterrupted series of open fields 
with a few scattered windmills in the distance.

"We'll be here for ages!" complained Bacon. "The train 
always is."

Beta stood up and pulled down the window. Instantly, the 
Country air rushed in, carrying the smell of hay and the 
buzz of little insects. "I don't see why that should be!" she 
commented as she leaned her shoulders on the top of the 
pulled-down window, her head and mass of hair outside 
and her bare bottom sticking out in front of my nose. The 
sun sparkled on her cheeks and lit up her hair, revealing 
long thin strands that floated about.

"Last time I was here I had to wait while they were shooing 
some animals off the tracks. I'm sure they were goats! You 
wouldn't get such gross inefficiency in Baldam I'm sure!"

Beta ignored her brother. "It's such a nice place here!" 
she remarked cheerfully. "There's a whitewashed wooden 
church over there. And a little chateau. And some donkeys 
trotting by on their way to the fields." She leaned out even 
further, her arms straightened, her buttocks tautened and 
her face soaking in the warm morning Sun. "And there's a 
large mouse there!"

"A mouse! Are you sure? Not a rat or something like 
that?" sniffed Bacon.

"I've known enough rats and mice to know the difference!" 
Beta retorted. "And I do believe this mouse is Tudor!"

"Tudor!" snorted her brother, leaning over to peer through 
the window himself. "Why should he be catching a train I 
wonder?"

Beta didn't answer, but instead waved her arms and 
shouted. "Tudor! Over here! Tudor!" 

I peered through the window to see what this mouse might 
be like, but I didn't expect to see one standing upright 
nearly five foot tall, wearing a smart blue jerkin, red 
codpiece and stockings with a ruff round his neck just 
below the muzzle. He was bareheaded with whiskers proudly 
displayed, bright eyes prominent in grey-brown fur and 
large flat ears twitching with a life of their own. He 
waved a gloved paw at Beta and strode towards us in red 
boots while his other paw supported a sheathed sword 
secured to his waist.

"Beta!" he cried. "'Tis thou! How dost? Art alone?"

"No, I'm with Bacon. We're off to Baldam. Come and share 
the carriage with us!" Beta pulled her head in through the 
window to enable Tudor to open the compartment door.

"Verily shalt I!" Tudor said resolutely, as he pulled himself 
in. "'Tis most happy and meet that I should so encounter 
ye!" He nodded at Bacon and me, and removed his belt and 
sword which he placed on the luggage rack above my head. 
He then sat next to me, facing Bacon, his long scaly tail 
winding around behind him and falling discreetly onto 
the compartment floor. He crossed his short legs, his 
boots reaching nearly up to his knee.

"Good morrow, sire," he addressed me. "Art thou also bound 
for Baldam?"

"No," answered Bacon on my behalf. "He's not one of our 
party at all."

"I come from the Suburbs," I explained.

"The Suburbs!" mused the mouse flicking his tail slightly. 
"'Tis a borough to which I have never been. Art many such 
as I there?"

"No, not at all," I answered honestly. "I've never seen 
anyone like you in the Suburbs."

"'Tis pity," he sighed. "Thou know'st me not. I am hight 
Tudor as Beta hath told thee and I abide in mine estate 
many a league yonder." He looked up at Beta and Bacon. 
"'Tis rare I should venture so far afield, but I have 
affairs to attend in Rattesthwaite. Dost thou know't?"

"It's further down the line," remarked the boy.

"'Tis so," Tudor acknowledged. The train shunted forward 
and back unbalancing the mouse and forcing him to grip 
my arm with his sharp claws to avoid falling to the floor. 
The train hooted and a cloud of sooty dust floated past 
the window. It then puffed off. The mouse clung painfully 
to my arm as the platform receded. While the train was 
moving, I observed a large hoarding featuring two hands 
held together. Better Together! it read ambiguously. I 
bent my head around to watch it go by and caught a glimpse 
of green writing at the foot of the poster, featuring a 
person's name and a green cross in a box.

"It's not long till the General Election, is it?" commented 
Beta noting the poster.

"General Election?" I wondered. "Is there one due soon?"

"Where have you been?" sneered Bacon. "Of course there 
is! Perhaps the most important one this country's ever 
known!"

"I just didn't know about it," I admitted. It can't have 
seemed so important in the apolitical Suburbs. "Which 
parties are contesting it?"

"Oh! The usual six," commented Beta putting up one hand 
of outspread fingers and a thumb. She then withdrew all 
but her index finger. "There's the Red Party. They're the 
left wing party."

"Bloody communists!" snorted Bacon. "They'll have us all 
living like peasants."

Tudor snorted equally disdainfully. "'Sblood! 'Twill be but 
the rule of the mobus populis. 'Twould be a disaster 
unpareil an 'twere they to govern."

Beta raised a second finger. "Then there's the Blue 
Party. They're the right wing party. That's the one Bacon 
supports, I think."

"Dashed right I will!"

"Then there's the Green Party. They're the ones I quite 
like. They're the party of the Countryside, tradition and 
environment." Beta now had three fingers standing, and 
then before her brother could comment on her choice, she 
hurried on by raising a fourth finger. "Then the Black 
Party. I think Bacon's got some sympathy for them, but 
even he doesn't like the militaristic aspect of the party or 
their dislike for foreigners." She raised her thumb. "The 
Illicit Party, which is quite a new one, and I'm not 
sure what they're about. And finally," she raised the thumb 
of her other hand, "there's the White Party and I don't know 
what they represent at all either."

"I don't think even they do!" scoffed Bacon. He smiled at 
me. "Perhaps you do. I read somewhere that they always do 
well in the Suburbs."

"Yes they do," I agreed, but I couldn't answer what they 
represented. They always appeared to win local elections 
by fighting for such local issues as clearer markings on 
public highways, more books in the public library and 
more flower shows. Their candidates seemed frightfully 
nice and when they spoke it was hard to identify any 
policy they advocated that one could actively oppose. 
"But what's so very important about this 
General Election?"

"I thought this kind of gross ignorance was confined to 
the Country," said Bacon disparagingly. "It's to break up 
the Coition Government that's been running this country - 
badly! - for as long as anyone can remember. They've 
changed the constitution such that whichever party wins 
will become the sole government and not have to work 
with all the other parties."

"How are they doing that?" I wondered.

"It's terribly complicated," Beta continued. "Something to 
do with how the votes will be transferred. But as a result 
they hope that it will resolve the mess the government's got 
into - you know, with never being able to make a decision 
without it being vetoed by some minority interest in the 
Coition."

"What sort of mess is the government in?"

"Perhaps it just doesn't affect people in the Suburbs," 
Bacon commented, "but everywhere else things have just 
drifted aimlessly for years. There's virtually no central 
government at all. Everything is decided at a local level 
and in the meantime there's a ridiculous budget deficit, 
foreign policy is totally ineffectual, the taxation system is 
creaking at the seams and not one part of the country fits 
well with any other part. In one part of the country the 
roads are metalled and well-signposted, but as soon as your 
car enters another borough, the dual carriageway abruptly 
becomes a pot-holed dirt-track. In some districts the cars 
even drive on different sides of the road. The gauge on the 
railways are all different, so that you can't travel any 
distance by train without having to change. And the cost 
of things just varies ridiculously from one place to 
another."

"I'sooth!" agreed Tudor. "'Tis great need for consistency 
in the nation. 'Tis all chaos and confusion."

"Who do you think will form the next government?" I 
asked.

"Nobody knows!" exclaimed Beta. "Past results are just no 
guide apparently. I'd like it to be the Green Party, but 
there's probably not enough support for them in the City or 
the Suburbs."

"I pledge my support for the Blue Party," Tudor 
said, twitching his whiskers agitatedly. "But in truth there 
is but little in them that I love. I have sympathies for the 
Black Party, but they too are unlikely to triumph. 'Twill not 
be an ideal result for me, I fear."

"I've also got sympathies with the Blacks," Bacon 
confessed, "but they aren't sufficiently committed to 
Progress or the Modern World. However, they are more 
honest than the Blue Party and if they were in power they'd 
definitely get things moving! I too would like to see a final 
solution to the Cat problem, end all these damaging 
industrial disputes and make the nation strong again. 
Nevertheless, informed opinion says that it will be a 
fight between the Red, Blue and White Parties and I know 
which of those I prefer!"

The train came to another halt at a platform equally as 
remote as the one before. In the commotion of arrival, 
conversation came to a halt and Beta once again took the 
opportunity to pull down the window and stick her head 
and shoulders out through it. I also peered out  and saw a 
Cat about the same size as Tudor sitting on his rear on a 
platform bench beside another poster for the Green Party. 
Like Tudor, he was fully clothed with only his head and 
front paws showing. He was reading a newspaper and wore 
looser clothes than Tudor, but nonetheless quite colourful 
ones. They were a blend of black, gold, green and 
blue, with trousers that reached to his knees below which 
he wore white stockings and buckled shoes. His jerkin was 
decorated by a flamboyant lace frill around the neck, and 
like Tudor he carried a sword attached to a belt round his 
waist. Beside him and lying on the bench was a large 
broad-brimmed hat with a magnificent feather sprouting 
from it. He didn't appear at all interested in our train and 
must have been waiting for another one.

"That's another sight you don't often see in the Suburbs," 
I commented absently. "Cats like that are just not common 
at all."

"If only 'twere the same everywhere!" sighed Tudor. 
"Wouldst 'twere fewer Cats altogether. Sooth, I am content 
he hath no wish to embark."

The train didn't stop for very long, and soon chuffed off 
leaving the feline beneath the station clock. "I detest Cats!" 
hissed Tudor. "Throughout history they have been a great 
enemy to mine people. It matters not which continent nor 
island Mice have settled, Cats have ever pursued 
us mercilessly and caused great grief. I trow 'tis but for 
jest they do molest us. They kill us for their sport as 
we might kill flies. And still now they pursue us:  
disinheriting and enslaving us." He looked at me, his 
whiskers twitching agitatedly and his tail flicking up and 
down with a ponderous rhythm. "Ere now, in the historic 
land of Mice, we art under the occupation of the 
illegitimate Kingdom of Cats. A Kingdom recognised by 
many nations but intent only on the supremacy of the 
Feline scourge. In mine historic home there be Cats where 
once Mice stood tall. 'Tis said 'tis but fair recompense for 
many centuries of Feline persecution, but 'tis verily unjust 
that now 'tis Mice who art scattered like pollen on the wind 
throughout the world. 'Tis now my kind who art the servile 
class in many a land, bereft of an ancestral home or 
spiritual centre."

"Have you personally been dispossessed?" I wondered.

"Ay, spiritually!" sighed Tudor. "In my heart and soul I too 
have been dispossessed, but - thanks be to the Lord! - not 
in mine means. Mice have been in this land for many 
centuries. Mice who have struggled hard against injustice 
and prejudice. And to them I owest my wealth and repute." 
He rested a paw on his sword which I was afraid he might 
choose to unsheathe. "'Tis the Cats I hate. 'Tis they who 
have raped Mice of their land and forced subservience to 
their pagan ways. 'Twere best that Cats wert dealt with as 
they deserve. E'en here - far from the timeless struggle 
'twixt Mouse and Cat - there be cause to hate Cats who 
bring misery and grief by their ruthless exploitation of the 
wealth and riches of this land. 'Tis they more than any 
other who have brought this land to such a sorry state - 
and any support I hath for the Black Party ist in 
recognition of their fine words in this crusade."

It wasn't long until the train came to another stop where 
the name of Rattesthwaite was clearly visible on the 
station platform. Tudor preened his whiskers with the 
claws of an ungloved paw. When the train finally ceased to 
shudder, he eased himself off the seat allowing his long tail 
to unravel behind him and fastened his belt and sword to 
his waist. Then he bade us all farewell as he got off the 
train. 

"It probably wasn't such a good idea to mention Cats with 
Tudor here!" Beta said as the Mouse hastened towards the 
ticket barrier brandishing a cardboard ticket where a goat 
was collecting them. "It's a subject that's bound to get 
him steamed up!"

"But essentially Tudor's right!" butted in Bacon. "Cats 
have caused considerable misery to Mice. It's a historic and 
unending conflict. And the Black Party is also right. The 
world would be a better place without Cats!"

"I just don't think that's true at all," Beta argued. "How 
can anyone believe that Cats as individuals deserve to be 
treated any differently from anyone else?"

"But they are different and they'd be the first to say so! 
They are an alien species who work only for their own 
individual benefit or the benefit of their kind in collusion 
with international capitalism to appropriate the wealth of 
the land and claim it as their own. I mean, have you ever 
come across a poor Cat?"

"Well, no! But it doesn't follow that all Cats are bad and 
I'm sure there are plenty that aren't particularly well-off."

"Essentially Cats despise everyone else. They 
ingratiate themselves on people with their purring and 
apparent affectionateness, but all they're concerned about is 
their own interests. And what they do is siphon the wealth 
of nations from where the Feline Diaspora has taken them 
and send it back to the Cat Kingdom."

"Even if that were true," argued Beta passionately, "it 
doesn't mean that Cats have to be locked in concentration 
camps, robbed of their wealth or methodically slaughtered 
as the Black Party proposes."

"That's only the view of a minority in the Black Party," 
disagreed Bacon. "The main source of misgiving is the Cat 
Kingdom itself. Ever since it was formed by the 
international community in the so-called historic homeland 
of the Cats - which so inconveniently overlaps the ancestral 
homeland of both Mice and Dogs - it's been nothing but a 
blight on this planet. Always having wars, always 
taking territory from other species in its own interest and 
creaming off the wealth of countries such as ours."

"What's true of the Cat Kingdom needn't be true for Cats 
as individuals!" Beta contested.

Bacon ignored her. "It's essentially to do with the Feline 
notion of Divine Right. Cats believe that they have a 
Divine Right to occupy their territories just as their King 
seems to believe he has to rule that territory. There's no 
democracy for the Cats - not like in our country, however 
inefficient. What the King commands is what the Cats 
obey. Whatever nonsense he comes out with." Bacon 
leaned forward towards me. "You wouldn't believe the 
stupid decrees the King of the Cats issues on occasion. In a 
Kingdom where the population is absurdly out of control, 
there is no contraception or abortion. In a Kingdom where 
meat is in short supply for a carnivorous species there are 
ridiculous rules about what can and cannot be eaten. Rats, 
for instance, are classified as unclean and therefore not 
to be eaten in a Kingdom totally infested by them. All sorts 
of things are forbidden to the Cat. They have to stay at 
home one day a week and are forbidden to do anything but 
sleep. How can the Cats deserve to be part of the Modern 
World if they follow such idiotic decrees?"

"I agree that some of the ways in the Kingdom of Cats are 
a bit odd," Beta retorted. "I've heard of how female Cats 
have to wear dresses which cover all their legs and ankles 
and have to attend different schools to Tom Cats. But 
what's true of Cats in their Kingdom isn't true of Cats 
everywhere."

"Yes it is, Beta. It's what distinguishes Cats from 
other species. It's their religious and cultural views which 
say that they are different from everyone else. You might 
respect the Cats' rights and freedoms, but I don't think 
they'd respect yours or anyone else's. If they are so 
wonderful, why is it that they're constantly at war with their 
neighbours."

"You mean the various Canine Republics? I don't really 
know a lot about them, but they don't appear to be 
blameless themselves!"

"They may not be blameless, but the Canine Republics 
have every reason to be aggrieved about the Cat Kingdom 
and the appalling way in which Dogs are treated there. Cats 
show no respect for the puritanical and literary traditions of 
Dogs in the land they've acquired. They even deny Dogs 
the right to read books written in anything but the Feline 
language. They don't even allow dogs to bark in their own 
tongue. And do you think the Dogs relish the way that 
soldiers from the Kingdom intrude into their sovereign 
territories for what they call security reasons."

"Whatever you say about the Cat Kingdom," Beta asserted, 
"does not change my view at all that Cats are individuals 
who shouldn't be discriminated against on the basis of 
some characteristic that their species might have."

Bacon was just about to counter Beta's view, but 
decided instead to change the subject. "Anyway, I'm sure 
our travelling companion must be getting tired of all this 
talk about Cats."

"No, not at all!" I said politely.

"So, why are you going to Gotesdene? It's quite an odd 
place for someone from the Suburbs to be going to, isn't 
it?" Beta asked, leaning forward towards me so that her 
curtains of green hair cascaded onto her bare legs. "Do you 
know anyone there?"

"No, I don't!" I admitted. "In fact I don't know anything 
about it at all. I'm actually going there to search for the 
Truth."

Bacon laughed out loud. "The Truth! You expect to find 
the Truth in a primitive backwater like Gotesdene?"

"Well, I have to start somewhere," I feebly defended 
myself. "I was convinced that I wouldn't find the Truth in 
the Suburbs so I thought I might find it in a place  
absolutely different."

"Quite so!" agreed Beta. "And why not Gotesdene, 
indeed." She tossed a lock of hair back off her face 
revealing her bare bosom. "A search for the Truth is 
an excellent idea! Think what a better place the world 
would be if only we had possession of the Truth. There'd 
be no wars. Everyone would be at peace because no one 
would be able to claim to be right and someone else wrong, 
when everyone knew who was right or not. With the Truth 
everyone everywhere would be rich - or as rich as they 
could be. Everyone would know all that they would need to 
know to be as wealthy as they desired. And with the Truth, 
there would be no more disease, no more pollution, no 
more injustice and everyone would be happy! It wouldn't 
be possible to argue like my brother and I do about issues 
like Cats because everyone would know the answer. And 
so would the Cats themselves. And there wouldn't be a 
need for General Elections because government wouldn't be 
determined by the whims of the people but rather according 
to the dictates of the Truth!"

"I don't see how the Truth would necessarily achieve all 
that!" sniffed Bacon. "And even if we had the Truth, would 
everyone necessarily agree on how to use it? And would it 
really be used for the best?"

"I'm sure it would!" Beta continued enthusing. "With the 
Truth, there'd be no cause for argument because everyone 
would agree about everything and I'm sure everyone would 
work towards the best for everyone else. Why should 
anyone ever do differently?" 

"I'm just not so sure," Bacon countered. "I don't 
believe people's nature works like that. Knowledge of the 
Truth could easily be used for quite different purposes 
to those you imagine. It could well be that peace and 
prosperity are not determined by knowledge of the Truth 
anyway. Why should the Truth be concerned with the greater 
good of anyone?"

"It wouldn't be the Truth if it wasn't!" Beta 
replied idealistically. 

"That's making an assumption about the Truth that simply 
cannot be made before knowing what it is. And anyhow, 
I don't believe the Truth is a thing that you just find like 
a crock of gold or a holy grail. It must be an abstract 
entity beyond material dimensions, and you can't just 
expect to find it lying around. Do you expect to find it 
hidden underneath someone's bed? Or stored in a casket? 
Or buried in the ground? That makes nonsense of the 
whole concept of the Truth. No. The Truth is what will be 
found eventually as a result of scientific research - which is 
what I shall be pursuing in Lambdeth - and I am more 
likely to discover it in a test-tube than you will hanging 
around in archaic villages like Gotesdene. I don't believe it 
will be found in my lifetime; and probably not for many 
generations yet. But eventually it will be found as a result 
of empirical and scientific research coupled with the genius 
of individual scientists." 

"You think that Science and Progress provide all the 
answers," Beta riposted. "I just can't believe that something 
like the Truth could possibly be found by something as dry 
and abstract as a mathematical equation or the formal proof 
of a theorem. If I could, I would join our companion here 
and search for the Truth with him. I don't know where it is 
any more than he does, but I doubt that the pursuit of 
Science and Progress is at all the same thing as the search 
for the Truth."

I was about to thank Beta for her support in my quest, 
when the train made another of its periodic hoots and drew 
noisily into another station. I took my eyes off Beta and 
focused on the platform where the platform name of 
GOTESDENE was displayed. 

"This is it!" I announced.

"So this is where we part," smiled Beta. "What a funny 
little place!" 

She was right. The station at Gotesdene was nothing 
more than a raised wooden platform and a platform name 
painted quite crudely on an old wooden board. On the 
platform were several goats and rats, and around the 
station were open fields dotted by the occasional copse 
and windmill.

I proffered my farewells to Beta and Bacon, and clambered 
down onto the platform. I waved to Beta as the train 
shunted off as she leaned out the window, waving at me, 
her long hair lifted up by the rush of wind. The train puffed 
away into the distance, the funnel trailing black and white 
clouds as it departed. 

I suddenly felt alone. I was at a place I'd never heard of 
before, quite clearly dissimilar in almost every way from 
the Suburbs. Instead of neat and tidy borders and hedges, 
pavements and roads, lampposts and television aerials, I 
was confronted by a neighbourhood of nothing but fields 
stretching away in all directions, bisected by the railway 
line from one horizon to another. Perpendicular to that and 
proceeding only towards one horizon was a long and 
winding brick road, barely wide enough for a small car to 
drive along. The platform was populated mostly by goats 
who were simply sitting about and not waiting for 
anything. Most of them had barely stirred when the train 
had arrived and paid no attention to its departure. A few 
watched me lethargically while chewing at hay or thistles, 
their tails occasionally flicking aside insects. 

I jumped off the platform - there were no steps provided - 
and strolled to the brick road that didn't quite reach the 
station and terminated in a patch of dusty worn ground. 
Just by the road was a signpost which pointed along the 
length of the brick road to only one destination. As this 
read Gotes Dene, I decided to follow this dusty brick 
road to start my quest for the ultimate enigma.





	3

Gotesdene and its surrounding environs were very 
different to the Suburbs I decided as I walked along the 
long and winding road. There was none of the obsessive 
order and neatness that characterises the Suburbs. Rather, 
the fields on either side were a quilted hodgepodge of 
crops with goats, oxen and other animals working on the 
land:  pulling ploughs, walking around in circles to 
grind grain in primitive mills, gathering crops in their teeth 
and throwing the produce into the back of carts. On 
several occasions, I had to step off the brick road into dried 
mud to allow an oxen-pulled wagon to ponderously lumber 
by. The midday sun was beating down on me but there was 
no shelter to be seen: there were few trees in sight and 
most of these were far off the road with many branches 
torn off, and their trunks ravished by the gnawing goats. 
Swallows occasionally dove down past me chasing after 
the insects buzzing around the corpses of animals by the 
roadside.

After two or three miles of walking through this rural 
scenery with my feet getting increasingly sore, I at last 
arrived at a village. There was no doubt that this was the 
village of Gotesdene, as just outside the fence barricading 
it was a painted board supported by two wooden posts 
which welcomed me to the village and requested me to 
drive carefully. Large ornate metal gates broke the 
monotony of fencing, featuring the crest of a rampant 
goat and ox, and supported by two pillars crowned by 
identical statues of rampant elephants bearing arms. 

Initially, I thought there might be some kind of toll required 
to enter the village as in front of the gates was a family 
of goats kneeling down by a wooden platter. They bleated 
at me piteously in a dialect I couldn't understand at all, but 
I soon inferred that they were begging for alms: a practice 
long discontinued in the Suburbs. I pulled out a groat from my 
trouser pocket which I threw into the platter, believing this 
to be the absolute minimum that I could decently give. I 
wasn't at all prepared for the effusiveness with which the 
goat incomprehensibly expressed his gratitude. Although I 
could distinguish the occasional English word, I speculated 
that he was speaking a totally different language altogether.

I pushed open the gate, which creaked noisily as it 
resisted me, and ventured in. The village comprised a wide 
space of open land around which there were numerous 
wood and mud hovels, and was traversed by a dirt track 
from which the slightest breeze blew up clouds of 
dust. Goats, oxen and others wandered listlessly amongst 
the scattered waste and detritus. In the centre of the patch 
of common land there were a stocks, a gallows and a tall 
gaily coloured pole from which dangled multicoloured strands. 
There were also some tall oak trees and a tall stone cross.

A collection of market stalls was gathered at one end of 
the common. As I hadn't eaten since breakfast, I decided to 
look for a stall selling convenience food, such as a 
hamburger or a pizza. As I approached, I saw that there 
was little likelihood of buying a microwaved pizza, a deep-
fried chicken or even chips. The stalls mostly sold 
agricultural implements, live chickens and vegetables. Many 
of these products flowed off the stalls and onto the ground, 
where decaying wicker baskets protected them from the dust 
and dirt. One stall was conducting a profitable trade in 
hay, around which gathered a crowd of acquisitive ungulates.

I understood very little of the stall-holders' cries, but 
I assumed that they were referring to their produce and 
how much a pound of this or an ounce of that would cost. I 
soon observed that the cost of living here was substantially 
lower than that in the Suburbs. Very little cost less than 
a florin or half crown in the Suburbs, whilst most goods in 
the Gotesdene market were selling for under a penny. This 
explained the gratitude the beggar at the gate had shown 
for a groat. I thought I might have a problem finding a stall 
furnished with sufficient change for the smallest 
denomination coin I had on me.

I bought a pound of apples for a farthing from a vegetable 
stall and had to resort to gestures to express what I wanted. 
I carried the apples loose in my pockets - as like other 
buyers I was clearly expected to have brought my own 
basket to the market - together with innumerable 
ha'pennies and farthings of change. While biting into a 
small acidic apple, I found myself being addressed by a 
voice which despite a rustic accent I was at last able to 
understand.

"You don't speak Anglo-Saxon, I presume?" asked a 
relatively small white elephant standing upright, in very 
colourful silk clothes swathed by a long red cloak secured 
by a large brooch beneath the chin. 

"No, I don't," I admitted through a mouthful of apple. "Is 
that what's spoken here?" I was surprised to find 
an elephant addressing me: especially by a white one, who 
I had heard was very rare. I had never spoken to an 
elephant, white or otherwise, before. He flapped his large 
ears using his trunk to pull his cloak together at the front. 
He had two quite short tusks, which nevertheless looked 
too dangerous to approach too closely.

"Ay, that is what they speak hereabouts," the White 
Elephant said. "Gotesdene is a very old-fashioned place. 
You, as an outsider, must find it extraordinarily 
undeveloped."

"It's very different from the Suburbs." 

"Very antiquated," the White Elephant continued. "But it is 
the village for which I have the honour to serve as mayor. 
And as so, I feel it to be my duty to take this 
underdeveloped little community, however reluctantly, into 
the modern age. You sophisticated Suburbanites probably 
can't imagine that villages like ours still exist: no running 
water, no electricity and mains gas, no metalled roads, no 
supermarket or video rental store. But I shall ensure that 
Gotesdene will very soon be as modern a village as any 
other in the realm. The centuries have passed Gotesdene 
by for far too long. I pledge that every home shall have 
fibreglass cabling, hot and cold running water and a roof. 
The roads shall have sensory speed detectors, traffic lights 
and tar macadam. Gotesdene shall be abreast of the world, 
with television, videophones and computer networking. 
You probably find it amazing to discover a place so 
lacking in the basics of modern life."

"I didn't expect to find life in Gotesdene so very different," 
I admitted.

The White Elephant swung his trunk around dramatically, 
while prudent villagers kept their distance from its range. 
"Gotesdene has probably not changed in 1500 years. It is a 
fossil yet to make the transition into the modern era. 
Almost everyone in the village and the surrounding 
countryside live off the land, and as they are unable to 
afford to pay taxes to Her Maphrodite's government, 
they provide work in kind to me, the Lord of this Manor. 
This work provides the surplus wealth - agricultural wealth 
I admit - which I sell to pay taxes. It's an arrangement by 
which we all work together. But I am resolved that 
Gotesdene shall diversify. Move into microchip 
manufacture, network services, aerospace and more.

"But great effort is needed to persuade the City to assist. I 
know that City financiers and banks are reluctant to invest 
their capital where there is so little infrastructure, where so 
few people have the necessary technological and management 
skills and expertise, and where communications are limited to 
the speed of an ox-drawn carriage. But this is just City 
prejudice. Understandable, perhaps, given the vast contrast of 
culture, but I am convinced that the low-wage opportunities 
here will eventually persuade the City institutions otherwise.

"I have my own wealth, inherited from centuries of White 
Elephants here in Gotesdene, and mostly invested in 
property throughout the realm. I admit it is at least partly 
my ancestors' fault that Gotesdene has remained so 
primitive, by repeatedly opposing any modern 
developments in or around the village, but the base 
stupidity of the peasant is to blame as well." He snorted 
dismissively, which through a trunk as long as his came out 
almost as a trumpet call. "Look at them!" he said, waving 
his trunk about at the villagers, many wearing very ragged 
clothes secured precariously by cord. "You'd never see 
such a mean crowd of scum in the Suburbs, would you?"

I shook my head. It is unlikely that a single one of 
the villagers could stay for very long in the Suburbs before 
being arrested on charges of vagrancy.

"White Elephants such as I have held the estates here from 
time immemorial," he continued. "In that time, we have 
become increasingly sophisticated. Connoisseurs of art, 
captains of industry, members of parliament. It is people 
such as I who have selflessly guided and directed the 
culture in the nation for the good of the peasant, whose role 
is to support our exalted projects. The long and grand 
tradition of my family has given communities like this the 
continuity and stability that it needs. It is only now that it is 
necessary to force the pace. Make of Gotesdene what it has 
to be."

"What plans do you have?" 

"I have such plans. Such great plans! I will build 
factories, power stations, mines and motorways. The 
primitive waste of this land, dedicated only to inefficient 
and outmoded methods of agriculture, will be transformed 
into a landscape of concrete and steel. Tower blocks will 
replace the mud-huts. Airport runways will crisscross the 
open fields. A giant shopping mall will be built where this 
market now stands. I have a vision of industrial estates, 
tower blocks, factories, flyovers and television aerials! All 
I need is the investment from the City."

"Do you work in business yourself?" 

"I own many companies in the City and abroad. I own a 
hotel, a chain of restaurants, several factories and shares 
in shipping, insurance and defence. But while Her 
Maphrodite's government dithers and flounders, I will 
never get the planning permission I need to modernise 
Gotesdene. Perhaps after the General Election there will be 
more decisiveness and direction. And then Gotesdene will 
no longer be dismissed as a primitive Anglo-Saxon theme 
park, but will be recognised as a modern, thriving 
community!"

The White Elephant shook his large ears and I followed 
him as he strode away from the market through the dusty 
streets, past obsequious peasants to the stone cross in the 
common land. We sheltered under the shade of the massive 
overwhelming oak trees whose bark was protected from 
vandalism by vicious spikes forced into the trunk. The 
cross was exquisitely ornate depicting an elephant 
heroically brandishing a sword in his trunk.

"So, young man, what finds you in our village so far from 
the Suburbs?" the White Elephant asked. 

I told him of my quest for the Truth.

"I believe I should be flattered by the notion that the 
Truth abides in Gotesdene," laughed the White Elephant. "I 
know that many have admired the village, but you are the 
first to come this way on such a quest. But mayhap in a 
community such as this, unpolluted by the vices and 
vagaries of modern irreligious heresy, the Truth you are 
looking for may indeed be found."  

"The Truth is here! What is it?" I asked enthusiastically.

"The Truth is balance and order. It is respect for the Lord 
and the world that He has graciously created for us. And 
that essential Truth is manifest in the elements of Earth, 
Fire, Air and Water. It is these to which the universe is 
essentially reducible." The White Elephant waved his trunk 
around at the village. "Everything here is composed of 
these Four Elements, myself included. They govern the 
World physically and spiritually, proportioned by the 
mystical qualities of numbers. Numbers are the 
Universe's abstract foundations. The smaller the Number, 
the more potent. The number One is the Universe and all in 
it. Two is the manifest division between the Spiritual and 
the Material. Three is the Trinity of the Father, the Son and 
the Holy Ghost. Three is also the number of times which 
something need be said to be known as the Truth. And 
Four is the number of the Elements.

"From the Four Elements are derived the Four Humours 
which govern the Soul of each individual. Just as a person 
is the physical union of matter, energy, water and oxygen 
so his Soul is governed by different proportions of the 
Spiritual Qualities of these Elements. There are, in 
addition, the Five Senses, the thrice Six which is the 
Number of the Beast, the Seven Sins, the Twelve Houses 
of the Heavens and the Twenty-Four Hours of the Day. All 
in its natural and God-given place in the Universe. 

"The Truth is but the balance and order in which God has 
invested the Universe, and it is the Duty of all to ensure 
that this balance is undisturbed by proboscidean, 
artiodactyl nor human endeavour. Nothing hastens more 
the Chaos and Destruction of the End than the rejection 
and perversion of the Natural Order by which the Truth is 
made manifest."

"How is the Truth perverted?" I wondered.

"In many ways. By the practice of perversions that  
transgress the Natural Order such as Sodomy, Heresy and 
Witchcraft. These must be suppressed with extreme 
prejudice, or, as surely as Three is the Number of the Lord, 
the Natural Order will unravel, power will be wrested by 
foreign despots, laws will be disregarded, monsters will yet 
again roam the Earth and the Heavens will open!

"The good people of Gotesdene strive hard to keep Satan at 
bay," continued the White Elephant indicating the stocks 
and the gallows with a wave of his trunk. "Here is where 
transgressors are purged of their sins. And if the Soul is to 
be purged from the Body to achieve its Salvation, then that 
is a sacrifice worth making. Gotesdene has a long and 
proud tradition of suppressing Witchcraft and I speak 
proudly when I say that no Witch who is accused is ever 
found other than guilty and punished accordingly. Does 
this not compare well with the pusillanimity of 
Justice elsewhere which so frequently permits Witches to 
wander free spreading their vice, perversion, magic and 
heterodoxy?"

"How are Witches punished?" I wondered, looking 
nervously at the scaffold.

"Not all Witches are hanged," the White Elephant sighed. 
"For many it is felt that there is opportunity for redemption, 
and if it be that their confessions of guilt are sufficiently 
sincere and detailed they may suffer only a whipping or the 
stocks. This is especially so if they are young and pretty, 
because if the exterior is fair then the interior cannot all be 
rotten. But occasionally a Witch will join the Homosexual, 
the Murderer or the Heretic on the platform with the noose 
around the neck. These occasions are a public event, where 
all can learn from seeing the ignominious end others come 
to and will reflect on their own transgressions. This is not, 
I believe, how Justice is conducted in the Suburbs?"

"No," I admitted. "It's a much more complicated procedure 
- and many of the things you mention are not illegal at all!"

"When the Day of Judgement comes," the White Elephant 
bellowed, "it will surely visit the most ills on those who 
treat the Natural Order with not so much contempt as 
indifference. Much as I admire the progress and order of 
the Suburbs, there are many features I find alarming. These 
are so much in conflict with the Truth that I marvel not that 
you should feel the need to leave the Suburbs to seek the 
Truth elsewhere. All are treated equally in the Suburbs: 
Women as equals with Men, the Poor as with the Rich, and the 
Believer as with the Unbeliever. How can this be right? 
When God created the Natural Order, He didn't do so only 
that places such as the Suburbs and the City should 
disregard it and substitute a New Order of their own 
invention. When Progress and Modernity are established in 
Gotesdene, it will not be to subvert the Natural Order, but 
to reinforce it."

"However," continued the White Elephant reflectively, 
"the Suburbs have but little sin and vice when compared to 
the City, where I have been many times and have been 
many times appalled. From the virtue and decency of the 
village of Gotesdene, through the indifference to vice and 
the Truth in the Suburbs, to the depravity and decadence of 
the City is painted a triptych of the ethics of Heaven, 
Limbo and Hell. In the City, there is no limit to what is 
permitted and practised. There are no moral constraints. No 
regard for the Natural Order. Indeed, the practice of vice at 
its most vicious, sin at its most sinful and decadence at its 
most despicable. Have you ever been to the City?"

"No, not once," I admitted.

"Perhaps, then, there is hope for you yet," snorted the 
White Elephant. "In the City, there is no likelihood that 
you will ever find the Truth for which you quest. Indeed, 
there is complete absence of the Truth. The City is a Hell 
of fast-moving traffic on many-laned motorways; buildings 
that scrape the very roof of the sky; frantic and hectic 
activity; ceaseless noise and light. In all directions the 
City spreads out, enclosing pockets of green, whereas 
Gotesdene is a village enclosed by countless green acres. 
There is nothing but concrete and steel; petrol fumes and 
neon lights; people coming and people going. Not, as in 
Gotesdene, merely being: they restlessly move from one 
place to another. And so many of them!"

"The City is very big, is it?"

"It is tall. It is wide. It houses many millions. It is the 
economic, financial, political, social and cultural capital of 
this land, and also the nation's whorehouse, bordello and 
opium den. It is also very expensive. In Gotesdene, the 
possessor of a guinea is a rich man. He has enough to live 
for a long time on one single guinea, which composes two 
hundred and fifty-two pennies! A fortune! That is over a 
thousand farthings! In the City, a guinea is but what a 
farthing is here. Perhaps less! But despite the expense and 
the hideous environment and the loathsome depravity, 
despite all this, many millions choose to live in 
and amongst its garbage and degeneracy."

"You don't recommend that I ever visit the City?"

"No. Not if you value your Soul!" the White Elephant 
said emphatically. "In the City, there is all the depravity 
and decline which will surely hasten the Day of Judgment. 
The City is like a cancer infesting this land. The City 
congests its inhabitants into smaller and less congenial 
spaces, spreads pollution into the air, the street, the 
water supply and the ether, exhausting the atmosphere, the 
soil, the reservoir and the power station. Worse than its 
physical despoliation, is its spiritual barrenness and 
pollution. It spreads prostitution, pornography, atheism, 
sexual perversity and a cult of instant gratification. And 
this is what is most despicable in the City and what it 
represents. Gotesdene will not be so corrupted as it 
pursues the path of Progress that I have planned for it. 
It will forever remain a bastion of virtue, faith and, yea, 
the Truth!"

The White Elephant paused in his tirade and looked about 
him at the village. His great claims for it did not seem 
particularly well illustrated by the general atmosphere of 
poverty and decay. A peasant was urinating against a tree. 
Several goats were plaintively bleating for alms around a 
pottery saucer. One goat had both rear legs missing and 
one eye. The ground was dusty and barren, dotted 
occasionally by piles of ox dung and attendant flies. 

"I have much business to which I must attend," the White 
Elephant announced. "I shall leave you now. But I hope that 
as you stay here you will reflect on all that I have said and 
focus anew your quest for the Truth." 

With that he bade me farewell, and walked away from the 
village green, his cloak raising a cloud of dust behind him, 
responding with a gracious wave of his trunk to the obsequies 
of the villagers who stood aside for him.

A passing goat was selling meat pies which looked quite 
unappetising, but my hunger resolved that I off-load some 
of the farthings I had accumulated for a pie that was 
fortunately cool enough for me to eat with my fingers. I sat 
down at the base of the stone cross with my feet resting in 
dried mud and decomposing faeces. I passively observed 
the bustle of the village, still slightly nauseated by the dirt 
and decay.

While chewing on a particularly unforgiving piece of 
unidentifiable meat, I noticed some men and women 
wearing unsophisticated flaxen clothes roughly push a 
woman towards the common. They headed towards the 
stocks, shouting and jeering at the woman as they 
proceeded. She was punched and kicked and some of her 
clothes had been ripped off. She seemed resigned to her 
misfortune and didn't struggle, but from the evidence of the 
bruises on her face and her bare arms and shoulders, she'd 
probably lost all the resistance she'd ever had. The stocks 
were opened, her head, hands and legs were pushed 
through, and then they were clamped shut. She sat in a very 
undignified position, with only the dusty ground on which 
to rest her bottom. The men forcing her in secured the 
stocks with a peg through the hole by the side.

Her punishment wasn't over then, as the group of men and 
women continued jeering at her, and threw earth and moist 
cow-pats at her. One or two children even threw stones - 
one catching her on the cheek and immediately opened a 
bloody gash. An ox passing by did a very good trade in the 
fruit he was selling, which judging from the messy way 
it splattered as it hit her was less than fresh and firm. 
I had never seen justice dispensed like this in the Suburbs, 
where punishment was generally either monetary or concealed 
in penal institutions. I felt uneasy about the unbridled 
enthusiasm with which this rough justice was dealt. 

"Poor girl!" commented a voice next to me. "Even if she is 
a witch, I'm certain she doesn't deserve what she's getting."

I turned my head away from the action to look straight into 
the eyes of a horse. At least, I initially thought it was a 
horse, judging from his muzzle, but he had a graceful white 
body with delicate cloven feet, a long sinuous tail and a 
single golden horn rising from his forehead. After 
encountering so many singular individuals today, 
encountering a Unicorn didn't appear so strange. But I'd 
always believed that Unicorns no longer existed.

This Unicorn was by no means extinct. He shook his 
golden mane and whinnied slightly. "It may be she is a 
witch. But if she is, there's not a great deal to show of her 
sorcery. I'd always thought she was more a veterinary 
surgeon, from the evidence of her care for pets and farm 
workers, but the good people of Gotesdene have clearly 
judged her guilty. Not that I'm at all sure what's wrong with 
witchcraft, despite the fact that in my several millennia I've 
not seen much to convince me that it ever actually works. 
Still, she's lucky in a way! If you'd been here a few days 
ago, you'd have seen the still decaying corpse of another 
convicted witch hanging from the gallows."

"How dreadful!" I exclaimed. "What happened to her?"

"Well, eventually the maggots, or whatever it is that eats 
decaying bodies, had loosened her neck sufficiently so that 
it snapped. Then her head fell off where it cracked open 
and rolled towards the oak trees. Her body just dropped 
down in a heap where the dogs straightaway pounced on 
her rancid flesh. It wasn't a pleasant sight!"

"I'm sure it wasn't," I agreed, still in awe of the Unicorn 
whose long tail gracefully looped round and with great 
accuracy snapped like a whipcord at the many flies 
showing interest in his rump. "Why don't people in 
Gotesdene like witches?"

"To say I don't know would be a lie. I've lived too long and 
in too many communities not to understand how people 
everywhere feel the need to find victims in their midst. 
Communists, Homosexuals, Jews, Cats, Pakistanis, Goats, 
Cockatrices, - they've all been victimised at one time or 
another. I suppose I should consider myself rather lucky 
that unicorns have never really been disliked by anyone. 
People in Gotesdene are very set in their ways, and anyone 
whose behaviour or attitude seems a bit odd or unusual 
means that they will almost certainly be accused of 
Sodomy or Witchcraft. And sometimes both at the same 
time. Which I suppose is just about feasible.

"But I make a point of coming to Gotesdene every now and 
then. I'm very popular with the villagers. There just doesn't 
seem to be anything that I can't do as far as they're 
concerned. They probably think I can vault tall buildings or 
stop speeding express trains. They certainly believe I can 
do wonders for impotence and gonorrhoea. Absolute 
nonsense, of course. But it's probably not so unusual to find 
someone like me in a place like Gotesdene. What is bizarre is 
that someone like you should be. Are you from the City?"

"No. The Suburbs," I admitted. "Indeed, I've never even 
visited the City!"

"Really, that does seem curious to me! But then I've never 
been to the Suburbs, although I've been to the City many 
times. Very many times. It's changed so much over the 
centuries: you wouldn't believe! I recall when it wasn't any 
bigger than Gotesdene here. In fact, I can remember when 
the modern-day Gotesdene villagers would seem positive 
sophisticates. In those days, people used to think I could 
cure them of laryngitis, leprosy or haemophilia just by 
touching them with my horn. It didn't matter how many people 
I'd touch with my horn who didn't get in the slightest bit 
better, my reputation didn't suffer at all. Often tales of 
the medical achievements I'd made without the slightest 
recourse to surgery or antibiotics preceded me and I was 
well feted wherever I went. In a way, those were good days, 
but I like to keep a lower profile nowadays. I don't like 
the way some people think they might solve the mystery as 
to how I've achieved so many miracles by dissecting me. 
I'd rather remain a mystery and alive."

The Unicorn shook his head sadly and blew agitatedly 
through his wide nostrils. "I like the City. If I were you, I'd 
make a point of visiting it some time. You can't hope to 
understand the world today without seeing the City. It's the 
exact opposite to here. In Gotesdene (bless it!) there really 
is nothing of any great interest, although I imagine its 
modernising mayor might think differently. In the City is 
literally everything of interest. The reason people want to 
escape from the City is not so much for what they are 
running towards, but from the tremendous bewilderment they're 
running away from."

"It sounds very forbidding."

"I daresay it does. And the first time one is there, one is 
astonished by how very busy it is. Everyone is rushing 
around from place to place. The City is alive all day 
and all night. In fact it's a cliche to say the City never 
sleeps, but it never does. Quite unlike Gotesdene which 
you could say could hardly be described as even fully 
awake.

"I'm forever astounded at how the City continues to grow 
and expand over the centuries. I've often thought: this is it! 
It can never get busier, or wealthier, or more crowded, or 
the buildings any taller. I've often thought that I was 
privileged to see the City at the pinnacle of its history, 
only to see yet again how mistaken I was. But then I have a 
very unusual perspective, having lived for such a very long 
time."

"How long have you lived?"

"I'm sure it's still considered rude in some cultures to 
discuss age," laughed the Unicorn. He shook his head with 
a rough snort through his nostrils, while a couple of oxen 
passed by chatting and laughing as they went. One of them 
shyly signalled to the Unicorn with his tail, and then 
returned to his conversation. "I am, as it happens rather 
more than two thousand years, probably close to three 
thousand. Quite a great age by your standards I imagine, 
but not at all unusual for Unicorns. I suppose we make up 
in number of years for what we lack in number of 
individuals."

I was quite astonished. This degree of longevity was 
extremely rare in the Suburbs. Indeed, as I reflected, the 
Suburbs, despite its apparent timelessness, probably didn't 
exist as such when the Unicorn was born. "You must have 
seen and done an astonishing number of things in your 
life."

"I have that," he laughed good-naturedly. "I've been to 
almost every corner of the globe at one time or another. 
I've had the luxury of enough time to spend what you 
might call a lifetime in rather a few of these places. 
I've been the companion of royalty: quite a few princesses 
have felt strangely enamoured towards me, but I've 
successfully resisted any indecent advances. Perhaps it's 
the Unicorn's very ability to resist such temptation, that's 
kept our numbers down, but like the manticore and the 
chimera I have great reasons to suspect the propriety of 
some of my ancestors." He glanced down at the cloven 
hoof at the end of his slender deer-like legs. "I really am 
such a curious mixture of things. It's difficult to imagine 
how anyone could ever have conceived of someone like 
me!"

"What places have you visited?" I wondered, hoping that 
perhaps he might give me some insight as to where I might 
find the Truth.

"Oh, so many places! Islands inhabited by moas, dodos and 
aepyornises. Plains full of quaggas and aurochs. Forests of 
giant lemurs, pygmy elephants and ground sloths. Seas full 
of great whales, giant auks and dugongs. Countries where 
people are sacrificed to the sun, nations which randomly 
enslave more than a tenth of their own people and work 
them until they die, and nations dedicated entirely to the 
pursuit of pleasure. I much prefer the last ones. I've been 
the guest of chancellors, viziers, caesars, walis and prime 
ministers. I've met some of the most famous people in all 
history. In fact, I've had one of the most rich and fulfilling 
lives you can imagine!"

"How do you manage to afford all this?"

"It's amazing how much a small investment can accumulate 
over a few centuries, let alone a few millennia. I've always 
been very careful to invest wisely, although I've lost a 
several fortunes in my time! The cumulative gain on 
capital over that time, with quite a respectable long term 
growth rate, particularly accelerated over recent centuries, 
has made me altogether immoderately rich."

The Unicorn turned his head round to look sympathetically 
at the witch in the stocks. Nobody was throwing anything at 
her now, but the face, arms and legs protruding through the 
stocks were covered in a mess of blood, vegetables and rotten 
fruit. Her head was dangling to one side, eyes bruised and 
swollen, and her hair tangled in the mess adhering to it. 
The Unicorn turned his head back to me, raising his eyebrows 
sadly while slowly shaking his head to one side. 

"Wherever I go," he said resignedly, "there is always cruelty 
and injustice. As you can see, Gotesdene is no different!

"So, tell me about the Suburbs," asked the Unicorn, 
concentrating his gaze at me. "It's very different from here, 
isn't it?"

"Very much so," I agreed. "People live in much nicer 
houses, wear much better made clothes and the streets are 
much cleaner. There are wastepaper bins on alternate 
lampposts where people throw their litter, so there isn't 
nearly as much filth. There are electric lighting, motor cars 
and no goats and oxen wandering around."

"It sounds almost sterile..."

"Yes, it's very clean and tidy," I agreed.

"I can see that can be viewed as a great asset," mused the 
Unicorn. "I've heard that it doesn't contain quite the variety 
and spread of individuals as even places like this. And it 
also has no witches, I suppose?"

"None that I've ever heard of. And no Unicorns or White 
Elephants either!"

"So, why then have you left a place of such great material 
comfort and apparent orderliness for a place like this?" 

I then told the Unicorn of my search for the Truth, which 
had only so far led me by train to the village of Gotesdene. 

"I can assure you that if the Truth exists in Gotesdene, it's 
eluded me!" the Unicorn laughed. "Did you seriously 
think you might find it here?"

"I was sure I couldn't find it in the Suburbs. The White 
Elephant said that the Truth was revealed in numerology 
and the four elements."

"You've spoken to the mayor, have you? I imagine he 
would think that the Truth was something that could be 
reduced to a simple set of axioms. It seems to me that if 
that were the case, then such views would never have been 
modified and certainly never discarded, as they mostly 
have been, in favour of science and logic. I'd have thought 
that the Truth would be more obviously self-evident than 
that!"

"Do you know where I might find the Truth?"

"Goodness me!" laughed the Unicorn shaking his muzzle 
from side to side, his long horn narrowly avoiding grazing 
me. "I may have lived a long time and gained a great deal 
of wisdom in that time. I may have done many things, met 
many people and seen many places. But I am not one who 
has ever found the Truth. If I had, I daresay I might truly 
possess all the healing powers attributed to me. No! The 
Truth is as much a mystery to me as it quite evidently is to 
you. But you aren't the first person I've ever met on a quest 
for the Truth, but known by completely different names."

"Have any of these people ever found the Truth, do you 
know?"

"Well, many of them have found something, and sometimes it'
s been what they were looking for, but I don't believe that 
what they'd found constitutes what you might call the Truth. 
Quite often they've had to slay dragons, fight monsters and 
do some quite gruesome things to get whatever it was, but 
the rewards of their quest never seem to have changed the 
world appreciably for the better. However, don't be too 
downhearted. There's no particular reason, I imagine, why 
you need not be successful where others have failed."

"Do you have any advice as to where I should look?"

The Unicorn raised his muzzle and looked up at the mid-
afternoon sun and the oak-leaves rustling in the light 
breeze. He then lowered his head, kicked a cloven foot on 
the dry earth raising a small cloud of orange dust, and 
whinnied again. "Not in Gotesdene. In fact, I'd advise you 
to leave Gotesdene before nightfall. There's no hostelry of 
any description where you would be welcomed to stay and 
it's quite likely that one of the villagers might get the idea 
that because you're a stranger to the village, you must 
therefore be a witch..."

"They wouldn't think that, would they?" 

"Even if they didn't, they may not be particularly 
sympathetic to someone who dresses and behaves so very 
unlike themselves. If I were you, I'd look for a different 
place to stay for the night."

"But where could I go?" I wondered, having rather hoped 
that I could stay at a motel or bed-and-breakfast in the 
village. 

"There are other towns and villages around here. I don't 
know how far you'd have to walk, but I'm sure you'll find 
one soon. Some are likely to be a great deal more to your 
taste than this Anglo-Saxon relic. There's a religious 
community near here. I don't know anything about it, but 
monks have been famous for their hospitality throughout 
history." 

The Unicorn looked towards the distance and saw a 
gathering of people around the White Elephant near the 
market stalls. "I think my presence may be required," he 
commented. He raised a hoof and gently pawed my leg. He 
wished me luck in my quest and then strode unhurriedly 
towards the White Elephant, his leonine tail raised high 
above his head. As he passed by the villagers, they bowed 
their heads deferentially to him, which he acknowledged 
with a nod of his head and a gesture of his tail. 

I lingered by the stone cross and pondered the Unicorn's 
advice. As my eyes wandered about the village and focused 
on the unfortunate and now unconscious figure of the 
witch, I decided that although his wisdom might not 
encompass the Truth, his advice to leave should not be 
disregarded.

I stood up and strode cautiously across the common land 
and through the village gates. The road outside wound off 
in one direction towards the station and in the other 
towards unfamiliar destinations listed by a wooden 
signpost. I had some difficulty deciphering the names from 
the peculiar runic characters. It was probably not going 
to take me any nearer to the Truth to go back where I'd 
come from, so I decided to advance in the opposite 
direction. I threw the last of my farthings at some very 
grateful peasants and while they squabbled over them, I 
headed off alongside the unenclosed fields towards the 
sun's afternoon aurora.



	4

Dark shadows from lush foliage fringed the road leading 
from the farmland of Gotesdene to a district where only the 
occasional tethered ox enlivened the orderly, monotonous 
rows of vegetable and root crops. These were regimented 
by an unending line of posts supporting barbed wire fences. 
At regular intervals signs warned me not to leave the path 
nor to appropriate what was not mine. At one stage, I 
observed a very despondent merman tethered just like the 
oxen,  with a sign hanging round his neck and a black hood 
covering his face and head. He was too far away across the 
fields for me to decipher the writing on the sign. 

The flat, grey paving stones of the road were undeniably 
better maintained than before, as also was the lethal barbed 
wire supported by posts in the grey earth, which had caught 
and killed the odd unfortunate song bird. It was getting late 
in the afternoon, but, as everywhere was so dark and grey, 
it seemed much later although the sky was no less blue nor 
the sun less golden. It was ominously quiet. There were no 
song birds and the only sound was the gentle rustle of a 
light breeze through the stiff orderly lines of cabbages, 
swedes and turnips.

Initially, I welcomed this tidier, more orderly, environment. 
It had evoked the care and attention I was accustomed to in 
the Suburbs, rather than the dirt and decay I had so recently 
left. However, after a few miles, I hankered for a break in 
the monotony or just the sight of other people. I had the 
distinct feeling that I was trespassing, although I'd seen no 
signs warning me off private property or informing me that 
I would be prosecuted.

After more than an hour of walking between the barbed 
wire and the infrequent dark shadowy tree, I came in sight 
of a large sign under which sat a hunched figure wearing a 
long black gown and a tall black hat. The sign informed me 
that I was in The Borough of Divinity and underneath was 
copious small writing that I couldn't decipher until I came 
fairly close. It was a list of rules and regulations 
pertaining to the borough. Just behind the dark figure was 
a signpost which pointed in four directions ahead - two 
indicating Divinity that were nonetheless in opposite 
directions, one which read The Delta and the fourth which 
pointed to Endon. 

As I approached, the figure in the cloak scrutinised me 
silently and curiously, while I debated which of these four 
directions I should take. He was small and thin and his 
head was shaven. He turned to stare at me, but made no 
attempt to acknowledge my presence.

"Excuse me," I ventured after a while. "Where would you 
recommend I go?"

The figure cleared his throat, apparently resenting being 
addressed. After a moment of uneasy deliberation, he 
informed me that one direction led to the Holy Parish of 
the Divinity of Christ, which was the true and rightful 
administrator of the Borough of Divinity. The other 
direction, misleadingly also known as 'Divinity', was the 
heretical Parish of the Divinity of Christ the Lord. The 
borough, especially that part under the jurisdiction of the 
Holy Parish, was one which took true and unsinful pride 
in its status as a truly Holy borough in which the Word of 
the Son, the Father and the Holy Ghost was maintained 
as law and guiding principle. It was a district that 
welcomed with open arms all right-thinking people who 
honestly practised the precepts of the Holy and Sacred 
Scriptures, and who had surrendered their will and 
worldly goods to the greater good of the One True 
Religion of Jesus Christ Our Lord.

He didn't know from his brief acquaintance of me whether 
I were a Christian: one who followed the dictates of Our 
Saviour and not the heretical opinions of the Pope, the 
AntiChrist or the Devil (who are but one in their sin and 
heresy). Only a true Christian, however, would be welcome 
within the walls of the Holy Parish. His opinion at seeing 
my uncovered head and hands (he sniffed disapprovingly) 
was that I was no Christian; at least not a Christian who 
followed the true Word of the Lord as faithfully practised 
by the good Christian people of the Holy Parish. Even 
those of the misguided and despicable Parish of the 
Divinity of Christ the Lord covered these extremities and 
purged their scalp of the vanity of hair. If I were to have 
any likelihood of entering the Holy Parish I would be 
obliged to at least cover my hair with a hat, several of 
which were provided, with accompanying gowns, in a 
chest by his side, for strangers such as I. He advised me to 
cover myself without delay if I were to stay any longer 
within the borough.

I decided it was advisable to heed the pious gentleman, and 
selected a tall hat large enough to cover all my hair and a 
long black gown that shrouded me almost to my feet. While I 
was dressing, the gentleman commented that I must be 
speculating why a devout Christian such as he was sitting 
alone outside the walls of the Parish, when all good 
Christians were at prayer or devotion secure within the 
welcoming confines of the Chapel and not out in the open 
air, imperilled by temptation and sin.

He explained that he was indefinitely exiled from the 
Parish for committing the unforgivable and irredeemable 
sins of garrulity, irreverent laughter, vile thoughts and 
oversleeping. Sins for which he was pleased to do penance, 
awaiting a decision from the Priests of the Holy Parish, 
and the Lord God Our Maker who guides their deliberations, 
that he had atoned for his sins and could be rehabilitated 
into the community. In the meantime, he was to spend his 
days working on the fields with his comrades - never to 
utter one word to them on pain of more severe punishment - 
and his nights here, at the foot of the sign, in 
contemplation of the great mercy and goodness of Our Father 
Who Art in Heaven. When not praying, he would recite 
approved texts from the Holy Scriptures and flagellate 
himself with the barbed wire provided. In this way God the 
Most Wise and Merciful would see the sincerity of his 
penance and the degree to which he atoned for his 
transgressions.

The practices of the Holy Parish of the Divinity of Christ 
were inspired by the classical wisdom of the great prophet, 
Saint Isaac Newton, who in his religious and secular writings 
had divined the profoundest depths and meanings of the 
Christian faith as it should be practised. A faith that had 
strayed too far over the centuries from the original 
fundamental tenets preached by Jesus Christ and His Apostles 
under the lax and heretical doctrine of the Papists, the 
Lutherans, the Calvinists, the Baptists, the Quakers, the 
Anabaptists, the Mormons and the Eastern Orthodox Churches. 
A faith which had schismed so many times that it was only in 
the pure unadulterated vision of the Great Saint, who had 
divined the Noble Principles of Force and Motion, that it 
had regained the clarity and purity of Our Saviour's Own Truth.

There are Four Pillars of the Faith practised by Deists, as 
the good Christians of the Holy Parish are known by 
others blinkered by liberal ungodly interpretations of the 
Holy Scriptures. The First Pillar (1) is that of 
Unquestioning Faith. Man was not created by God to 
question His Laws or His Desires. What is Good is what 
the Lord dictates. What He wishes must be Good, because 
all that is Good is also the Wish of God. It is a Sin to 
question the Letter of Holy Writ, to even suggest that there 
may be error, misinterpretation or inconsistency. It is a Sin 
to even hint that one quarter of one word of the Law as 
interpreted by the Priests of the Holy Parish is anything 
but the complete and accurate precept of God the Father, 
the Son and the Holy Ghost.

Together with Unquestioning Faith is the Second Pillar 
(2) which is the Absolute Observation of Ritual. When 
Jesus Christ commanded Christians to pray at regular and 
frequent times of the day, to Labour not on the seventh day 
- the Day of Creation - and to attend Church regularly to 
voice praise, these were not meant as options for Christians 
to follow. Rather, as an ox must be tethered to prevent its 
escape, so too must Christians be tethered to the Rituals 
that characterise the One and Only True Church.

The Third Pillar (3) is that of a Rejection of Material 
Values. Material possessions and the means of measuring 
them in groats, shillings or florins were forbidden in the 
Holy Parish. A Good Christian must follow the example of 
Our Saviour who had no possessions of His own, as they 
were held entirely by the Church and in turn by God the 
Father. A Christian Man must not own his own ox, woman or 
slave. Possession is clearly the begetter of the Sins of 
Avarice and Greed, which along with the Five others 
(especially Lust), must be extirpated forever if Satan 
and his hounds of Hell are to be held at bay.

Not only must Material Values be rejected, but there must 
be conformance to the Fourth Pillar (4) which is 
Rejection of Spiritual Corruption. Satan is everywhere, 
ready to corrupt the Good Christian Soul as he 
endeavoured so unsuccessfully with Our Saviour. Nobody 
can hope to withstand the Temptations of the Devil as well 
as Our Lord Jesus Christ, so it is an Eternal Unceasing 
Struggle. Spiritual Corruption is the deadliest and most 
difficult of the Evils to ward off. It can lead to Atheism, 
Agnosticism or Heresy. Doubts as to the Perfection of 
Creation. Philosophical debate on the nature of Morality 
and Knowledge. Non-acceptance of class, status, race or 
gender, and one's own position in the Hierarchy of 
Creation, a Hierarchy headed by the Priests and Angels, 
under which, in descending order, are Men, Women, 
Negroes, Animals, Monsters, Demons and Cats. All such 
propositions are diabolic, and only an unflinching and 
Total rejection of such luxurious unGodly doubts and 
discussion can be tolerated by the Good Christian.

I wasn't convinced that I wanted to visit either of the 
Parishes of Divinity, so I asked the Exile if he could tell 
me about the other two destinations indicated by the 
signpost. He assured me that his knowledge of them was 
not based on personal experience, for he knew better than 
to risk Eternal Damnation by visiting known refuges of the 
Devil, but what he knew convinced him that it was better 
for all men, and not just Christians, to forsake these 
districts. In comparison to these, even the heretical Parish 
of the Divinity of Christ the Lord was to be preferred.

In one direction was the Insect City of Endon which must 
forever be Damned for four reasons that were as follows. 
The First Reason (and one which alone must surely give 
me pause to think) is that the inhabitants are not Human 
and therefore have no hope of Salvation. No Animal can 
be Blessed - and for that reason no Animal is permitted 
into the Holy Parish of the Divinity of Christ. The oxen 
who labour on the fields are permitted outside its walls, 
but never within, only insofar as they must never speak 
a word on pain of death and must only be seen as Beasts 
of Burden, for which all Animals were Created by Our 
Maker. 

The inhabitants of Endon are all insects - and such 
insects! Many as tall as a Man, if not taller, and 
pretend to Rights and Privileges which no Animal, nor 
even a Woman, would be permitted in Divinity. Even 
insects of more moderate proportions were not permitted 
within the Borough of Divinity: a partly inconvenient 
principle in that the fertilisation of all flowering 
crops had to be done by artificial means, but one which 
denied the Parishioners of much disease and all 
pestilence.

The Second Reason is that the inhabitants do not recognise 
the Primacy of the One True Faith as practised in the 
Holy Parish. There are Insects who claim to be Christians, 
but how can this be when they deny the superiority of Man 
over Arthropods or indeed any other Animal? It is true 
that the Borough of Divinity is a tiny island of Sanity 
and Virtue amidst an ocean of heresy, blasphemy and apathy, 
and in that regard the City of Endon is no worse than the 
Suburbs, Lambdeth, Delta or elsewhere; but it is no less 
the Damned for that.

The Third Reason is the Licentiousness of the inhabitants. 
They indulge in physical procreation, to read literature 
and view pictures not imbued with the Spirit or Word of 
Our Saviour, to freely express opinions contrary to that 
of the Christian Faith and to draw no ethical distinctions 
between race and species. Females are known to wander free, 
attracting lascivious and unholy thoughts. There is little 
or no public observance of Christian Ritual. There are 
private ownership, public vice and no respect for betters 
and elders. Sin is rife, in all its Seven forms.

The Fourth Reason is that the Borough of Endon is Doomed, 
and it was not necessary to wait for the Second Coming 
for me to see this happen. The Good Christians of the Holy 
Parish of the Divinity of Christ would soon extend its 
boundaries to enclose the territory of this great 
subterranean City and in the process purge it of the last 
of these oversized Insects; and the Spiders, Centipedes, 
Wood-Lice, Worms and Silver Fish that also live there. The 
City of Endon would become a mirror of Divinity itself: no 
longer a haven for Godless Arthropods. The cinemas, brothels 
and video arcades would be replaced by Chapels at which Men 
could pray to Our Lord for forgiveness for our Sins and for 
the elimination of Godless Exoskeletal Execrations.

In the other direction is the equally damned Delta where 
the Borough of Divinity meets the Sea. This is another 
Godless district inhabited by merpeople and water buffalo. 
The merpeople are as damned as the Arthropods of Endon, 
for they are, in addition, cruel satiric jokes created by Satan 
who has taken the Holy and Sacred Image of Our Lord, in 
whose likeness Men are made, and replaced the lower 
limbs with the tail of a fish, a form of life lower than even 
an ox. These deformed people live wholly in the saline and 
estuarine waters of the Delta, where they can breathe freely 
both under and over water, and wear no clothes. This naked 
flesh invites Lust, that most base of Sins: the mere 
entertainment of which is a capital offence in the Holy 
Parish.

I expressed concern at the harshness in which nonbelievers 
and animals were treated by the people of Divinity. The 
Exile responded with anger. He advised me that it was 
imperative for all Good Christians to purge the World of 
Godlessness and Sin. And part of that imperative is to 
forcefully convert all nonbelievers, under threat of 
capital punishment if necessary. Animals, who have no 
Soul, and therefore no chance of the Life Everlasting, 
should be purged without recourse to appeal. For what 
value is there in a being without Soul?

In the World of nonbelievers, there is a hierarchy of 
apostasy. Vile though the Dieuists of the heretical Parish 
of the Divinity of Christ the Lord may be, they are nearer 
to the One True Faith in that they departed from its basic 
tenets in only recent centuries. And this is why the greatest 
effort of the Holy Parish of the Divinity of Christ has 
been towards the forcible conversion and Spiritual 
Salvation of these most hated of reprobates. These Dieuists 
dissented from the Doctrine as prescribed by the Prophet 
Saint Isaac and follow instead the heresy of the Apostate 
Rene Descartes. May he be Forever Damned and his sufferings 
especially intense! To people beyond the Borough of Divinity, 
it may appear that there is little difference between the 
practices of Good Christians and Dieuists. They lead a 
similarly austere way of life, but unlike Good Christians, 
they place significantly less weight on the Natural Order 
as manifest by the Laws of Force and Motion. Instead, they 
attach greater significance to the Dual Identity of Mind and 
Body, believing that the Soul rests in the Pituitary Gland 
and that the Laws of Classical Physics have only passing 
relevance to the worship of the Holy Trinity of God the 
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

None of the destinations seemed wholly welcoming, and as 
it would soon be dusk, I thought it best to head to the 
nearest, whether it was a religious parish, a delta or a 
city of giant insects. The Exile advised me that the 
Holy Parish was by far the nearest, being less than four 
furlongs distant, but he was sceptical about advising one 
of such dubious character as I to sojourn at a Parish of 
such great virtue. He also advised me that I may not be 
alone in my journey as another - a woman, he admitted 
with some loathing, - had also passed by in that direction. 
He hoped that I would not sully my slim chance of 
Salvation by looking at, or, worse, speaking with this 
Temptress of Adam. I assured him that I would do my best 
to keep my Soul intact and followed the unswerving, grey 
paved path towards this one of the two Divinities.

As I walked along, I pondered the Exile's reference to a 
woman preceding me on this route. It wasn't long until I 
came upon a figure huddled up in a long black gown under 
the dark shadow of a broad-leafed tree whom I assumed to 
be a Priest. As I came closer I realised that this must be the 
woman I'd been warned to avoid. My steps on the hard paving 
stones attracted her attention. She raised her head and I 
could see that her skin was black and her hair was beaded. 
I was sure I recognised her.

"What the blinking heck are you doing here?" she 
exclaimed. "It's a flipping long way from the blooming 
Suburbs!" It was Anna, whom I'd met the day before.

"I'm just looking for somewhere to stay the night." I 
noticed acute misery in her previously self-confident face. 
Her eyes had lost their liveliness: evidence that she may 
have been crying. She didn't stand up, so I crouched down 
beside her at the foot of the tree. "What are you doing 
here?"

"I was looking for somewhere to stay as well," she sniffed. 
"I left the Suburbs yesterday and went by coach to the 
Delta which I thought would be jolly interesting. Well, a 
lot more flipping interesting than the blinking Suburbs, I 
reckoned. And I suppose the Delta is a lot more interesting: 
but it's really just a place where merpeople live. You can't 
see much of them, of course, as they mostly live 
underwater. All you can see is the odd merman or mermaid 
sunning him or her self by the water's edge or on a rock. 
There's a shop where you can buy souvenirs of your visit to 
the Delta and a cafe where you can sit and watch them 
frolic around in the water with sea-cows and dolphins. To 
be honest, though, when you've seen one merperson - and 
they're fairly common sights in some places - then you've 
seen them all.

"There's nowhere to stay in the Delta. Not unless you can 
breathe underwater, so I thought I'd come to stay the night 
in a motel or pub in this borough. I'd been told that 
Divinity was a rather peculiar place, where you had to 
cover yourself up like this..." She indicated with her hand 
the long gown that covered most of her body, and then 
tugged at the hood which would have totally hidden her 
face if she'd put it up. "I got all this gear from the souvenir 
shop in Delta when I'd been told what I'd have to wear. I 
suppose it was meant as a souvenir of Delta's neighbouring 
borough. It was jolly cheap - less than half a crown! But I'll 
be blinking well glad when I can take it off. It's really 
heavy and constricting."

I felt the same about the gown I'd put on.  "Didn't you find 
anywhere to stay?"

"No chance! I thought these people being Christians and 
everything would at least have some kind of stable or 
something for me to stay in, but I don't think I've ever been 
to a less welcoming place. If this is what Jesus Christ is all 
about, I'm flipping glad I'm not a practising Christian! 
When I got to that crossroads back there - you must've 
passed it! - the chap there didn't even look at me, let alone 
say anything. He kept turning his head away as if I were the 
flipping Medusa or something. But I went this way because I 
was sure it's nearer to this Divinity - (Did you notice there 
are two of them? Weird!) - than anywhere else. So I arrived 
at the Parish - and it's all surrounded by this high dark 
wall - and outside I found this bell you pull, so I pulled 
it. Then I stood back waiting for an answer. There wasn't 
one, so I tried again, only more persistently and louder.

"Then this pamphlet suddenly appeared through a kind of 
letterbox in the door. Look at it!" She proffered a folded 
piece of paper covered in quite dense script with the 
heading On The Reason Why Women and Negroes are 
Eternally Damned and Therefore Unwelcome in 
the Holy Parish of Divinity. "I stood around to read 
the pamphlet, thinking that perhaps if I waited long 
enough, someone would let me in and tell me it was all just 
a tasteless joke. However all that happened was that I heard 
a sort of thud as something hit the ground beside me. I 
turned round to see what it was, only to hear something 
else hit the ground. And then another thud. It suddenly 
dawned on me that the good people of Divinity were 
throwing stones at me, so I turned round and ran and 
ran. And then I stopped by this tree where I read this 
revolting pamphlet. It really is flipping dreadful!"

"What does it say?"

"Well, it doesn't distinguish between being a woman and 
being black. They're both equally damned. It seems that if 
you're either, you're some kind of subhuman. I mean, how's 
that supposed to make me feel? There are four reasons why 
I'm damned which they've got here in four helpful sections. 
There are scriptural reasons, and there are a whole load of 
quotations from the Bible about Cain and Abel, Adam and 
Eve, and Sodom and Gomorrah. I don't know what all 
that's supposed to prove, but it seems pretty jolly 
conclusive here. The second reason is that apparently 
women and Negroes have been scientifically proven to be 
inferior. In fact, that's the exact wording... 
"scientifically proven to be inferior in every detail to Man, 
created in the image of the Lord". I can't quite make out 
what all this stuff is meant to prove, but it doesn't 
convince me. Then in this third section, there are loads 
of historical reasons why the 'True Faith' has only ever 
been revealed to Caucasoid Men, and that no one of any 
other ethnic background gets a flipping look in - and 
especially no women. And then, when you'd've thought that 
three reasons were enough, there's a fourth one where it 
talks of all the sins that women and Negroes are supposed 
to have committed. It doesn't exactly sound like a litany 
of damnation to me, but it seems these Deists have pretty 
high standards. You just can't have a laugh or a good time 
with this lot!"

"So what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I just don't know. I'll just sit here I suppose. I 
don't want to go wandering about in the dark by myself. I 
had this friend I'd been travelling with, but he's gone off by 
bus somewhere. He was a Cat, quite a decent sort, - not 
one of those who keep going on about how badly History 
has treated them! He's much more interested in natural 
living and organic farming and that kind of stuff. And he 
certainly didn't want to come here. Good thing too! If they 
throw stones at me, just imagine what they'd do if they saw 
a Cat inside their precious borough. They'd skin him alive. 
Or crucify him!"

I stood up, leaving Anna still incredulously studying her 
pamphlet, and walked through the encroaching dusk 
towards the Holy Parish, the high walls of which I spotted 
at the end of the unflinchingly straight path, striped by the 
posts' long shadows. 

The Holy Parish certainly did not seem very welcoming 
when I stopped below its forbidding high grey stone walls, 
by a large grey oak door with monstrous black metal 
hinges. The precipitous walls rose imposingly from the end 
of the path. It was very quiet. Much quieter than I was 
accustomed to in the Suburbs, with not even the distant 
roar of aeroplanes or road traffic. It was difficult to believe 
that a community lived, worked and, presumably, slept 
inside those walls.

I broke the silence as I hammered on the door to attract 
attention. There was no response. I waited a few moments, 
then hammered again: the echoes of the heavy knocker 
perturbing the silent dusk. Again there was no response, 
so I turned back. However, as I walked into the gloom I 
turned my head round to see a silhouette entirely covered 
in a gown and hood. I wandered back to what must be one 
of the Priests of the Holy Parish. 

I could see nothing of his face beneath his hood, but when 
he spoke his voice reverberated with authority, with a 
curious tendency to start off loud and to finish each of his 
long sentences in a quieter voice than he'd begun. He asked 
me first of all if I were associated with the Negro woman 
who had so recently called, for if I were he knew that I 
deserved at best pity and at most Eternal Damnation for my 
sinful acquaintance. Women were damnable afterthoughts 
of the Creator, whose sole purpose was to maintain the 
essential generation of Man, created in the image of Our 
Maker, but who had betrayed even this humble duty by the 
Sin of Curiosity in the Garden of Eden.

In the Holy Parish of Divinity, in keeping with the Divine 
Wishes of God, Women were kept totally separate from 
Men and from each other. They were not to be seen by 
Men at any stage in their damnable lives for fear they 
should arouse that most base of Sins, that of Lust, which 
made Man no better than Animals, below which there were 
few orders of Creation of lower regard. The role of 
Woman, as prescribed in the Divine Command To Go Forth and 
Multiply was entirely for procreation, and for which the 
act of Sex (intimately associated as it is with the basest 
of Sins) had been proscribed, and, using scientific 
principles inspired by the Great Prophet Saint Isaac 
Newton, the necessary task of procreation was now 
performed by artificial insemination: a process which was 
sometimes fatal by virtue of how it had to take place in 
total darkness and without bodily contact. But this sacrifice 
of the potential Whore was far preferable to the loss of a 
Good Christian's Soul. To prevent the Woman corrupting 
the Virtue of the Child, the Mother was necessarily 
separated from their progeny who are inculcated in Good 
Christian Values by the Priests, unless, God Forbid, the 
Child were of the Lesser Gender, in which case more than 
the bare minimum of instruction in the Holy Scripture was 
both a luxury and a grave danger to the Social Order. In 
short, in the Holy Parish, Women were not permitted to be 
spoken to or heard from, seen or to be seen. This is how 
it should be and how it should forever be.

The Priest stated his opinion that the only reason I could 
have for venturing into the Borough of Divinity must be to 
seek accommodation for the night, but that for even the 
briefest of residencies, it was necessary to be sure that 
my presence would in no way corrupt the Godly and Righteous 
ambience of the Holy Parish of Divinity. He needed to know 
first of all if I were a Foreigner, because all those from 
foreign parts were necessarily Sinners, as it was widely 
known, and said frequently in the Holy Scriptures, that Sin 
was Abroad. I reassured him that I was not a Foreigner, and 
not even of Foreign birth. The Priest was much relieved, 
because he would not wish a Foreign Language or a Foreign 
Culture, especially one of an atheistic or heterodox kind, 
to be expressed within the confines of the Holy Parish.

The Holy Scriptures often damned foreigners, such as 
Philistines, Romans and Egyptians, who had so often 
brought misery to the Chosen People, who are those who 
follow the One True Faith. Some foreigners were much 
more to be feared than others, in particular Cats, who were 
nothing more than the Children and Representatives of 
Satan. Not only are Cats Animals, lower than Women or 
Negroes, but they are fundamentally damned for their close 
association with Satan and Witchcraft (the Devil's magic), 
for which they had been rightfully punished, purged and 
exterminated since time immemorial. The Holy Scriptures 
hold Cats in the Greatest Abhorrence, an assertion for 
which the Priest provided no Scriptural evidence.

All Animals are no better than slaves for Man, for whom 
they were created and by whom they were named. Those 
Animals such as the ox have a privileged role of servitude, 
for which they can be spared for as long as they are willing 
and able to faithfully serve. Other Animals have no such 
privileges, and should be exterminated with extreme 
prejudice. The Cat is the worst in the way that Satan's 
servants have inveigled their way into the homes and by 
the very hearths of Man, seducing Man with their lustful 
ways and their desire for food and comfort. All Sin is 
manifest in the Cat, for they carry Sin about them. 

Were it not of sufficient disapprobation that Cats were 
Animals, they have the vile heresy to pretend to religious 
practices and beliefs that are in direct contradiction to 
those of Good Christians. It is said that it is the strength of 
their religious belief that has kept Cats in fortitude and 
courage in the face of the pogroms and concentration 
camps to which they have been confronted over the 
centuries, but no punishment, by flame, live burial, 
skinning alive or the most extreme and gross torture, can 
not be justified when a Right Thinking Christian is faced 
with the provocation of a Cat's existence.

In addition to these two aspects there is also the Sinful 
presence of a Royal Family in the Kingdom of Cats. There 
can only be one Kingdom of worth and that is the 
Kingdom of Heaven presided over by God the Father 
flanked by God the Son and the Holy Ghost. How can any 
individual, especially an Animal, pretend to higher 
authority than those of others, even Her Maphrodite, when 
only God has True Authority which He divests only in the 
Priests and those ordained to execute His commands?

It is also known that Cats are in possession of great wealth, 
which they claim to have accumulated by hard work and 
endeavour. This can not be true, for they have gained their 
wealth rather by prostitution, racketeering and drug-
smuggling. They may have a reputation for working long 
hours and wisely investing their ill-gotten gains, but how 
can it be right for any Animal to possess greater wealth 
than the lowliest Man?

Good Christians know that Cats, together with Monsters 
and other Animals have conspired in depriving Man of the 
Wealth and Bounty that is decreed to him by God, who has 
created Man in His Own Image, and in the process have 
caused great misery and deprivation among Men. Who 
knows how many crowns and guineas that rightfully 
belong to Man have been sequestered by the usurious 
speculation of the Cat, by which they seek to spread their 
pagan beliefs, their sacrilegious Monarchy and their 
bestiality? There is a Divine Order to be maintained, with 
Man at the Apex of all Earthly Things - for these have been 
given to Man in compensation for the vileness of Woman 
and the Serpent - and Cats deserve only the Eternal Fires, 
the Infinite Tortures and Unceasing Misery that are their 
Deserved Lot in the Kingdom of Hell, under the 
jurisdiction of Satan, the foulest of all Creation.

The Priest then asked me about my purpose for being in the 
Borough of Divinity, so I explained to him that I was on a 
quest to find the Truth. He appeared appalled by this, for, 
as he expostulated, a search for the Truth must necessarily 
be blasphemous, as the Lord Jesus Christ through the 
Great Prophet Saint Isaac Newton had already deigned 
to reveal the Truth to Good Christians. To deny this fact 
was to express a heresy most foul.

The Truth is invested solely in the correct interpretation of 
the Holy Scriptures as practised by the Only True Church. All 
that a Good Christian need do is unquestioningly follow the 
Four Pillars of the One True Faith and on meeting his Maker, 
all the Truth there is will be revealed to him. The Priest 
then advised me to practise the Four Pillars of the One True 
Faith.

First, I should instantly abandon my heretical search and 
accept without question the Doctrine of True Christianity. 
My Soul was not to be saved unless I followed each one of 
the Christian practises as outlined in the Ten Commandments 
and in the preachings of Jesus Christ and His Disciples. I 
must accept all that I was instructed by Jesus Christ's 
earthly representatives, the Priests of the Holy Parish of 
the Divinity of Christ. Knowledge of the Truth could only 
be gained by a full understanding of the Holy Scriptures 
as correctly interpreted. 

This necessarily entailed conformance to the Second Pillar 
which is Absolute Observation of the Rituals inspired 
by the Lord. I should immediately take confession, pray 
the regulated number of times at the appointed times of the 
day and attend Chapel at the recommended intervals. The 
Truth could not be revealed to those who had not behaved 
in the manner appropriate to a Good Christian: a Good and 
Blameless life.

I must abandon all material values. All that I owned must 
become the property of the Holy Parish of the Divinity of 
Christ. In this way the One True Faith would benefit and 
in recognition of my sacrifice I might gain some 
opportunity of Eternal Salvation. The Truth could not be 
revealed to those who clung stubbornly to material values 
and had not abandoned themselves entirely to the Spiritual 
World.

I must immediately reject anything that would entail my 
Spiritual Corruption. To even entertain departure from the 
Borough of Divinity to seek the Truth elsewhere would 
naturally be sufficient evidence that I was not one who 
wished to become a Good Christian and therefore 
acceptable to the Holy Parish. 

The Choice was thus quite clear to the Priest. I either 
surrendered myself utterly and completely, until Death do 
come, to the Four Pillars of the One True Faith, or my 
presence in the Holy Parish, and within four leagues of it, 
was totally unacceptable and I should leave immediately, 
on pain of death. The Priest then asked me directly if I 
were then, without the least caveat, willing to follow the 
One True Faith. 

When I replied, without great conviction, that I needed to 
think about this proposal at greater length, the Priest 
informed me that this hesitancy was in itself impermissible 
and that for fear of my pagan Soul corrupting the Souls of 
Good Christians I should immediately depart from the 
Borough of Divinity. He then turned around and left me to 
watch his dark-gowned figure approach the door to the 
Holy Parish. He stood at the entrance and waved his arm at 
me. I understood this gesture to mean that I should make 
haste to leave, so I walked back in the direction from 
which I had come. After a few yards, I looked back to see 
that the Priest had disappeared, although I'd not heard the 
door open or close, and I was now left alone in the long 
shadows of the late evening.

As I retraced my steps, the last of the daylight disappeared 
and it was now darker than I had ever known it to be in the 
Suburbs. There were no lampposts or belisha beacons to 
guide my way: the only light there was came from the stars 
and a moon currently hidden behind the clouds. In all 
directions there was nothing but darkness and an 
encroaching night chill partly warded off by the heavy 
gown.

I soon came to the tree where Anna was still sitting, her 
arms wrapped around her knees and her head facing down. 
She heard me coming and raised her head as I approached. 
"I thought you'd never blinking return! They didn't want 
you to enter their precious parish either, I suppose?"

"No, they didn't," I admitted. "They were very firm about 
it."

"They're flipping nutters! I hate every last flipping one of 
them! What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know."

"I'm not flipping staying here! We'll go to Endon, if you 
like. It's a bit of a way, and I'm not that excited about 
spending my time with Insects, but it must be better than 
Divinity."

I accepted Anna's suggestion, so she stood up and we 
walked along together towards the crossroads where the 
Exile was sitting. He saw us coming, but, as Anna noted, 
he turned around to face away from us. As we approached 
closer, he deliberately avoided even looking vaguely in our 
direction, rotating his dark-gowned body around to avoid 
facing us.

I felt very grateful for Anna's presence as we walked in the 
dark, our shadows projecting onto the dark road and into 
the fields beyond, as she expressed gratitude for mine. It 
was undoubtedly unnerving to be in an environment as 
wholly quiet and empty as this with only the stars to guide 
our way. Anna wasn't very chatty - and I also felt very 
subdued - and this was partly due to the way our voices 
reverberated like unwelcome intrusions in the silence of 
the night, just as our physical presence had been to the 
Holy Parish.

After a while, I was feeling very tired of the long 
monotonous walk and pleased when we approached a high 
dark wall which stretched out to perhaps encircle the 
Borough of Divinity. We walked through a wide open 
gateway, leaving the regulated order of the borough and 
into what seemed to be a forest overshadowing the 
pathway. There was no sign of a place to stay the night, but 
as soon as we'd passed through, Anna drew in a deep 
breath. 

"At last! We're out of that dreadful place!" She looked 
around at the overshadowing grass and enormous flowers 
high above our head. "This must be Endon! We'll just have 
to sleep in the open air."

"Open air?" I'd never slept outside of a warm bed before.

"No choice! But we've got these gowns: so we should be 
alright!" Anna looked at me sympathetically, her eyes and 
teeth the only discernible details in the darkness of her 
clothes and skin. "Don't worry. This may not be the 
Suburbs, and it's certainly not comfortable, but it'll be safe. 
And don't worry about the creepy-crawlies!"

I was now grateful for the heavy black gown and hat I'd 
acquired in the Borough of Divinity, which made a very 
welcome blanket for me as Anna and I stretched out on the 
long strands of grass beneath the wall separating Endon 
from Divinity. It was difficult getting to sleep, however, as 
all around were the strangest noises I'd ever heard of 
constant rustling and occasional buzzing. Every now and 
then was the crash of something breaking through the tall 
sheaves of wheat or monstrous weeds and a hum of 
movement through the dark night sky. This was totally 
unlike the Suburbs, where the buzz of night sounds was 
associated with preparing for the day ahead. Here, 
however, the sounds were not those of pre-set videos 
clicking off, aeroplanes flying overhead or the odd car 
driving by. They were quite different: both unfamiliar and 
disconcerting. 

Anna didn't seem too troubled, however. She lay down on 
the grass with her hood covering her head and face and her 
legs pulled up towards her stomach. I looked at her face 
which betrayed no expression, her eyes closed and her 
thick lips slightly open. The rhythms of her breathing 
slightly stirred the folds of her gown. I was comforted by 
her relaxation, so I turned my head away and using my arm 
as a pillow, I gradually fell asleep under the curious gaze of 
innumerable, concealed arthropoda.  

	5

Endon was imposing but most of all frightening, I decided 
when the humming, buzzing, squawking and shrieking of 
its denizens compelled me to open my eyes. Anna 
remained asleep, unconcerned by the appalling noise. We 
had been sleeping under a dandelion more than fifty feet 
high, and the long palm-like leaves beneath us belonged to 
a species of moss. There were monstrous buttercups, 
several times taller than me, and towering above 
everything were the long shadows of daffodils extending in 
the morning sun.

If the flora was of a scale completely beyond my previous 
experience, so too was the fauna. When I was warned that 
the borough of Endon was inhabited by giant arthropods, I 
had not been prepared to see two-foot long ants and 
termites, wasps half my size flying overhead, butterflies as 
large as hand-gliders, centipedes whose legs and body 
stretched on and on, and snails the size of small cars. 
Fortunately, none of them were particularly interested in 
our presence, as we lay wrapped in our recently obtained 
gowns: now so thoroughly soaked by dew they were best 
forsaken.

This was Anna's opinion when she eventually awoke, 
throwing her gown off disdainfully and exposing a pair of 
tight white shorts and a singlet that bared all her midriff. 
She wore rubber-soled boots at the end of long bare legs 
which were altogether reasonable for long walks such as 
we'd had the previous night. She raked her fingers through 
her beaded hair and viewed the landscape with some 
amazement.

"It's jolly astounding! I just didn't believe there was so 
much disproportion in such a small borough. It's a mystery 
these insects are content to remain here and not take over 
the world! At least not everyone here's an outsize creepy 
crawlie..." she pointed to a tiger chatting to a merman 
under the shadow of a toadstool, "...but there are still too 
blooming many of them for my taste."

We abandoned the cloaks on top of some smaller 
mushrooms and followed the path as it wound past clumps 
of enormous daisies and knee-high moss, and crumbled 
under the strain of cabbage-sized algae. The path had lost 
all its rectilinearity and now wandered hither and thither, 
past interminable columns of termites, beneath colossal 
spider-webs and past the capsized body of a tank-like 
beetle whose companions were trying to righten. Anna 
chatted as we walked along, now much more cheerful. She 
intended to go into the Subterranean City of Endon, 
which she was sure was somewhere round here, and catch 
a train back to Lambdeth. She'd had enough of travelling 
for the moment, and would be glad just to return to her 
friends and relax.

The entrance to the City resembled the doorway to an 
underground railway station and was heralded by 
immense neon-lights. Outside were long lines of ants and 
other small insects hanging around and seemingly without 
very much to do. There was a general buzz of excitement, 
but no sense of actual achievement. Gadflies were selling 
newspapers, ladybirds were selling snacks and soft drinks, 
and a tiny stall attended by a woodlouse was selling lottery 
tickets. A tiger reading a newspaper sat nonchalantly by a 
family of mayflies. The tract was paved by tiny haphazard 
paving stones. It was very peculiar to find such a portal, 
mostly enveloped in vines and grass leaves, resting 
otherwise alone in the middle of such dense jungle. 

A mermaid sat decorously and unclothed on a bench, just 
by an advertisement hoarding for underarm deodorant. 
Beside her were several ants, one of which was 
particularly agitated and was arguing with a six-foot high 
green grasshopper in a green top hat and frock coat, who 
was gesticulating his four gloved forearms, while 
supporting his body on long spindly hind legs. His 
antennae were waving as excitedly as his several 
mandibles. The grasshopper appeared to be in dispute 
about something, but whatever it was he settled by cuffing 
the ant curtly across the face and strode away leaving 
the smaller insect in humiliation and pain. He had a 
newspaper under one forearm and a cane in another, 
leaving two buried in the pockets of his waistcoat. He saw 
us and deliberately strode towards us.

"Did you see that Damned ant?" he exclaimed. "The fellow 
had absolutely no Damned respect for his betters. He was 
trying to tell me - Sir George Greenback! - that I had no 
more Damned rights than he. He was trying to extort more 
farthings for the services he supplied in carrying my 
Damned bags. These ants: they claim to work hard, but in 
truth they're nothing but lazy idle sluggards! I don't know
how anyone can stand their Damnable impudence. What do 
you think, my lad?"

I wasn't sure what to say, but Anna had no such problem. 
"It takes all sorts make a world."

"It does indeed! Too many Damned sorts, if you want my 
opinion!" He viewed us through the countless lenses of his 
green eyes, his antennae twitching restlessly. As he spoke 
his mandibles moved sideways as well as up and down. 
"You're not from these parts are you?"

"Not at all," I replied. "It's the first time I've visited the 
borough."

"Ah! An exotic stranger!" chuckled the grasshopper. "And 
you, young lady, I'd fain believe that you too are new here." 
Anna admitted so. "In that case, may I have the honour of 
showing you around the City of Endon?"

"That's jolly kind of you!" Anna remarked.

"It is that," Sir George admitted, "but I consider it my duty 
to extend such hospitality to mammalian visitors such as you. 
Furthermore, I deign that I can protect you from the unwanted 
attention of the Damnable ants, termites and other scum who 
would offer to guide you through the labyrinthine roads of 
Endon for nothing more than pecuniary advantage. I heartily 
despise such opportunist trade."

The grasshopper's eyes scanned the gathered mass of 
insects. "Endon's a Damnably complex city for those who 
have never visited it before. A newcomer could easily get 
lost in its tunnels, and the unwary is easy prey to predatory 
wasps or mantises. But if you know your place, you 
shouldn't be afraid."

"And you know your place, I believe," guessed Anna.

"That I well do. I'm no proletarian or peasant like these 
Damned ants. Grasshoppers are of the highest order: 
cultured, sophisticated and courteous. Only butterflies 
compare with us in exaltation. Below are all sorts from 
dragonflies to slugs, from locusts to worms. And in this 
great city you encounter people of all orders and genera. 
There are the industrious bees, who keep themselves apart 
from everyone else in their own suburbs, and worms with 
which nobody would wish to associate themselves. But 
when we enter Endon, you'll see for yourselves what the 
city has to offer. Follow me."

Sir George strode ahead on his incredibly long hindlegs, 
while Anna and I hurried to keep pace with him. The door 
led to a precipitous escalator that descended down through 
the earth to a small square of light at the bottom. Alongside 
the escalator were posters advertising perfumes, films and 
financial services. The whole was lit by the soft glow of  
neon tubes which extended along the roof of this tunnel 
and every tunnel through which we subsequently passed. 

"You need to know your place in Endon, for sure," Sir 
George commented as we descended. "People from 
outside, I've noticed, have scant regard to social position. 
Here everyone has his own status and standing, and woe 
betide those, like that Damned surly Ant, who treat those 
such as I with less respect than we deserve. But even 
though the mores and standards of strangers such as 
yourself are totally alien to the good citizens of Endon, 
we respect you and only require you to reciprocate in 
kind."

At the bottom of the escalator, the city of Endon opened up 
to reveal a vast neon-lit cavern spreading out in all 
directions to form a broad plaza scattered with huge statues 
and tall monumental buildings. The statues featured 
insects, spiders and snails in full splendour and regalia, 
brandishing swords, seated on giant beetles or standing in 
pride of their municipal glory. All about were small groups 
of insects with their heads bent back to admire the 
monuments. I was particularly taken by the statue of a tiger 
with its lower half composed of a large fish's tail.

Anna gasped. "You just wouldn't believe there'd be so 
much blinking Art beneath a flipping forest!"

"It is Damnably impressive," proudly admitted Sir George, 
raising his top hat dramatically. "The citizens of Endon 
have always prided themselves on their æstheticism. You 
mammals never suspect that arthropods can produce so much 
splendour." He pointed towards a grand building in the near 
distance. "That is the Municipal Art Gallery, and if we had 
the time I would take great pleasure in showing you round. 
There is so much to see of Endon Art: its paintings, 
sculpture and architecture. You have nothing in the City 
to compare with this!"

"I wouldn't be so jolly certain!" laughed Anna.

"Pah! You mammals always think that you have the best of 
everything! But, God's Wounds! most of it is just 
foolishness. So much of what your chordate Art Critics call 
Art has no essential value at all. There are travesties of Art 
in your Art Galleries which could be produced by children 
or imbeciles. And that which is not merely amateurish and 
incompetent is Hellishly obscene."

"So what is it that defines Art then?" challenged Anna.

Sir George strode purposefully towards a grand statue of a 
heroic millipede raised on its hinder legs clutching a large 
cross in several of its limbs and a mitre perched on its 
head. We scurried behind him. 

"Here, for instance, is Art serving its primary function 
which is to instil virtue in its beholders. Art - Good Art, 
that is - should inculcate good Christian values, respect 
for authority and order, a good life and a ceaseless 
striving towards new greatness. What can Art be if the 
viewer isn't uplifted by it? Simon Peter Wept! Art should 
galvanise the spirit, fill one with aspirations of greatness 
and instruct the proletarian and peasantry in proper awe of 
the society they also serve."

"Surely, that's not jolly well all that Art's about."

"It most assuredly is! It certainly is not for preaching 
amorality and disharmony; as do the disgusting pruriences 
that masquerade as Art in vertebrate culture which so 
unsettle the aesthete. Why should I choose to rub my face 
in the excrescences of the world? There is already quite 
enough filth and scum!"

"I'm sure there's more to Art than that," Anna disputed. 
"Surely all this stuff - impressive though it is - shows just a 
small part of what there is in the world. Shouldn't Art do 
more than simply show the higher and more refined things 
in life?"

"Perhaps Art should show excretion, poverty and disease," 
scoffed Sir George. "I think not! Art should elevate the 
Soul. Not oppress it. Art is to instruct not revulse. And to 
do this it, venerates the more splendid things in the world. 
Art should be of recognisable things. Objects that one can 
grasp, that reflect the physical reality of Animal existence. 
I know that in the City and elsewhere, there are Artists - as 
they mockingly entitle themselves - who produce 
misshapen paintings, who eschew form and structure 
altogether to cover canvasses in wild, random doodlings. 
Charlatans who abandon the noble materials of canvas, 
paint and stone, to flaunt their insanity with the most 
unimaginably gross materials. These people do nothing 
more than decorate the walls of Hell, and I imagine 
damnation is precisely what is waiting for them."

"That's a bit jolly harsh!" Anna replied good-humouredly. 
"I'm sure the Artists who dedicate their lives to producing 
the sort of Art you don't like aren't doing it just to tempt 
damnation."

"You may laugh, but I'm most Damnably serious. I am 
convinced that one reason why mammalian culture is so 
decadent and reprobate is precisely because of the 
tolerance it shows towards Art that subverts the Social 
Order. I have heard that there are boroughs that even 
finance these unholy execrations with taxpayer money. I 
would greatly object to know that what little of my income 
my accountant permits the tax man to collect should be 
squandered on something that serves only to spread 
revolt in the lower orders and dissent in the middle classes. 
Art is not, or should not, be seen as nothing more than an 
excuse for the indulgences of a self-appointed elite who 
want me and my kind deprived of their justly earned wealth 
and position. God's Wounds! Do you envisage Sir George, 
knighted for his Services to Industry and the Social Order, 
would for one moment condone the very rubbishing of all 
that he stands for?"

Anna must have concluded that this argument was 
becoming too impassioned, so she pointed at a group of 
troubadour ladybirds performing at the foot of the statue of 
a large butterfly in a suit of armour. "Shall we listen to 
them? They sound jolly good!"

Sir George turned his head in the direction of the music, 
but made no attempt to move towards them nor indeed to 
change his subject of conversation. "Performing Arts, 
whether theatre, film or music, serves the same function as 
Visual Art. It must enlighten. It must enhance the Social 
Order. And it must tell a story. However, I'm not a prude. I 
enjoy music hall and comic opera just as much as the next 
man. I like to go to the theatre with my companions, to sit 
in the box and watch the Thespian entertain. But 
significantly seating arrangements of the theatre reinforces 
the Social Order and affords the lower classes the 
opportunity to reflect on the inherent superiority of those 
who by virtue of birth and effort (in both of which I am a 
sterling success) are necessarily of a more elevated 
position."

Anna was biting her lower lip, to restrain herself from 
criticism, so I politely remarked that Sir George was 
evidently very passionate about Art.

"And Art is not all I am passionate about, young man. I 
have studied the Sciences as well, for which I have the 
greatest regard. And is it not curious that the Sciences have 
again and again reinforced my views concerning natural 
order and the probity of honest effort? Is this not proved by 
the Theory of Evolution which has shown how advanced 
Animals such as Grasshoppers and Butterflies have 
ascended over lower orders by virtue of the Survival of the 
Fittest? I keep myself very fit, I can assure you. Has it not 
demonstrated that the pivots of the Universe are the larger, 
brighter spheres, which resemble Her Maphrodite and the 
Aristocracy who shine from the centre of the Social 
Universe? And even now the Science of Economics is 
resolving those great eternal questions relating to the 
generation of crowns, shillings and groats: the very oil 
which drives the wheels of Commerce and Industry and 
ensures the generation of Wealth! If Art always aspired to 
the expression of virtue as Science does to describing and 
explaining it, then I would never have cause to complain 
about the abominations pretending to such an elevated 
station."

We left the main plaza, past more municipal buildings, to 
where a number of tunnels were radiating away in all 
directions. Some of the tunnels were quite high and wide, 
sufficiently so to contain rows of houses and apartment 
blocks. Some were only wide enough for a single car to 
drive along. All were lit by the same neon glow that 
permeated the plaza.

"And what would you like to see? Where would you like to 
go? Endon has everything you should wish to see; all that a 
body might wish."

"I wouldn't mind finding a railway station," volunteered 
Anna. "I'd like to catch a train to Lambdeth."

"That should be no problem. Endon has a very impressive 
station, as befits a city of its population and industrial 
significance. And you, young man? Do you also wish to 
catch a train?"

"I've got no particular destination," I admitted. "I'm quite 
happy to see more of Endon."

"And that you will! God's Wounds! He who tires of Endon, 
tires of life itself! There is more to see than you could ever 
hope to find in Lambdeth." He strode along one of the 
medium-sized tunnels which had shop windows glazing its 
walls, with clothes, white goods, computer software and 
locally manufactured honey tastefully displayed inside. The 
clothes shops had the models of some very various 
arthropods accommodated by an astonishing variety of 
fashions and styles. Clothes that flattered the thorax, the 
abdomen and carapace of any insect or arachnid. Anna was 
evidently less impressed by the shops than I, but her eye 
was caught by a very prominent poster almost completely 
obscuring an empty shop window.

As my attention was distracted from the sight of insects, 
tigers, spiders and other shoppers, I noticed many other 
posters plastered about, and most were connected with the 
General Election. The one that had attracted Anna's eye 
featured simply the face of a koala wearing a broad-
rimmed hat looking benignly out at the world. Underneath 
was the single word Illicit, which I recalled was the name 
of one of the political parties contesting the Election.

"Who's the koala?" I asked naively.

"Don't you know!" exclaimed Anna, raising her eyebrows. 
"Golly! You Suburban people are so jolly ignorant. It's 
Chairman Rupert, the leader of the Illicit Party and 
president of his own country which he's renamed - 
modestly I'm sure! - as the Illiberal Socialist Republic of 
Rupert."

"The Damnable imposture of the Marsupial!" Sir George 
assented. "How can a classless four-thumbed Animal like 
him claim so much self-importance that he should name an 
entire country after himself? Even I haven't arrogated my 
power and influence to the extent of renaming my land the 
Sir George Estate, but there are those for whom pride 
knows no bounds!"

"So, what do you think of the General Election?" Anna 
wondered. "Are you going to vote Illicit? Or have you got 
better options?"

"Are you an Illicitist, young lady? Are you one of those 
who want to merge this proud nation with the Illicit 
Republic and replace Her Maphrodite by a eucalyptus-
eating mammal?"

"Goodness, no! As if I jolly well would. But everywhere 
you go there are more and more people switching their 
allegiance to the Illicit Party. It's like some sort of fashion."

"Simon Peter Wept! For an antipodean dictator!"

"I think it might be to do with general disenchantment with 
the established parties. After all, it's the only major party 
that doesn't name itself after a colour..."

"And what's so Damnably wrong with that! It's the way 
parties have always been identified, and I see no Godly 
reason why this proud tradition should not continue. But, 
you're right, my dear, there is great disenchantment. And 
can you blame the people when there are candidates such 
as these standing for election." He gestured a long spindly 
forelimb at a poster featuring a very sincere looking ant 
above the slogan The Red Party - Working for the People. 
"These scum who claim to represent the interests of the poor, 
downtrodden and the workers. All they wish to do is replace 
the rule of Law and Order, enshrined by status and tradition, 
by nothing better than the rule of the mob. They would see 
this nation run by ants and termites. They would destroy art, 
enslave the aristocracy in concentration camps and thoroughly 
ruin the nation's economy. It is not only self-interest which 
decides my opposition to these peasants, but also concern for 
the interests of industry. Capital would flee these shores 
were the Red Party to gain power and it would be an 
unparalleled disaster for all those who have worked so hard 
to make this nation great."

"Would you support the Green Party, then?" Anna asked.

"They are little better than the Reds! Perhaps they have 
some ideas I agree with, preserving many of the traditions 
of our nation, but all they would do is reverse the thrust of 
Progress. They would demand unacceptable restrictions on 
industry. Profits would plummet, economic growth would 
be stifled, capital would flee, and we would all have to 
become vegetarians."

"What about this lot, then?" Anna indicated a poster 
featuring a very heroic figure looking into the far distance 
carrying a sword with blood dripping from its blade. The 
poster was mostly composed of bold black lines on a dark 
blue background, with the slogan The Voice of Reason. 
"Do you think the Black Party is the one you'd support?"

"They are no more the Voice of Reason than the Red Party. 
In fact, the two are equally Damned, I believe, because they 
both wish to subvert the natural Social Order. They are a 
Party that takes good honourable policies and perverts 
them with a doctrine of hatred and xenophobia. They 
would also replace Her Maphrodite by a Damned president 
and would frighten off capital as assuredly as the Red 
Party. They have some very strange opinions regarding 
insects. Their wooing of the arachnid vote is extremely 
worrying: I wouldn't like a hairy eight-legged individual 
telling me what to do."

Sir George gestured at two other posters high above the 
shops on a hoarding. One featured nothing more than a 
blank space, with the words Vote White - You Know It 
Makes Sense. The other featured a mixture of apparently 
contented arthropods over the slogan Continuity, 
Tradition, Happiness, and by the side was a box with a 
blue tick in it. "The White Party hase never stood for 
anything I have disagreed with. Nor have they stood for 
anything I have ever really believed in at all passionately. 
But as always my vote will go to the Blue Party." He 
pointed a forelimb at the poster of contented citizens. "It is 
the Blue Party that most assuredly represents the Voice 
of Reason, and it is to them I have donated party funds and 
it is they who, God Willing! will triumph in the General 
Election and at last this nation will be steered gently and 
firmly to the betterment of industry, commerce and greater 
weal."

Anna smiled and made no comment. She addressed me. 
"So you know nothing about the Illicit Party at all." 

I creased my forehead. "I'm afraid so."

"I'm no expert, but I've got friends who are jolly interested 
in it. Mostly because they oppose it. The name Illicit is a 
kind of contraction of Illiberal Socialist, I believe."

"Damnable socialists like the Red Party!" snorted Sir 
George. "How can any right-thinking individual support a 
party associated with socialism?"

"I don't know that they are any more socialist than the 
flipping National Socialists, but it's their name and I 
suppose it explains some of their appeal for the working 
classes. But the party is one which has grown very popular 
in a very short time. Five years ago, no one had even heard 
of the Illicit Party or Chairman Rupert. Now the party is 
one of the biggest in the country."

"The Damned bounder Rupert has lied his way to power 
and influence in a way that even Machiavelli would find 
dishonourable. In his own country, he has made his way 
from the leader of just one of countless fringe parties to 
becoming its dictator. The people there must be of the 
damned to endorse him."

"I'm sure his rise to fame had something to do with the 
blinking mess his country was in. Far worse than this 
country..."

"That would be Damnably hard to believe! This, so-called 
Chairman, Rupert takes power by devious and fiendish 
means, and then suppresses all free discussion and 
imprisons anyone who's ever disagreed with him..."

"I don't know what his does in his own country, but some 
of the tales of book-burning, concentration camps, forced 
labour, purges, pogroms and persecution ... It sounds 
flipping horrid! And he looks such a harmless creature. 
You wouldn't blooming imagine that such a cute looking 
koala could be the author of anything like that!"

"Nothing you Damned mammals do surprises me!" Sir 
George strode on, and we again had to nearly run to keep 
up with his long elegant strides. "Just look at the 
marsupial! He wears a hat like Napoleon, a collarless dark 
suit, and shakes his Damned paws about like some insane 
lunatic."

"I've heard his political addresses are very inspiring," 
commented Anna, "but I've never met anyone who could 
give me a good explanation as to what Illiberal Socialist 
policies actually are."

"Isn't that just like the White Party?" I asked.

"There's nothing remotely sinister about the White Party. 
Nobody could object to better street-lighting, more public 
libraries or wider car-parking spaces. But the Illicit Party 
has some jolly odd ideas on a whole host of things, and a 
lot of them seem to contradict each other..."

"He seems too Damnably fond of mites and spiders, I 
woot. But he does have some progressive views regarding 
Art..."

"You mean the Art you like. A lot of Artists have had to 
emigrate from the blinking Illicit Republic..."

"...Coming over here with their Damned decadent and 
amoral work. The Art he encourages is at least 
inspirational."

"He is jolly keen on his own image, though," Anna 
commented. "If you like huge statues, paintings or posters 
of Chairman Rupert looking heroic, then the Illicit 
Republic is the place to be. He has even had arches 
modelled from his furry limbs, castle ramparts modelled on 
his tufty ears and his head is on all the currency."

"He has certainly stimulated the economy of his country..."

"...Only at the expense of the trades unions," countered 
Anna. "He has been very kind to businessmen - slashing 
taxes and lavish with state subsidies - but he's not been 
very kind to women, the poor, the unemployed and, I 
gather, to what was left of the Aristocracy..."

"His Damnable treatment of his social betters is an 
international scandal," agreed Sir George. "He exiled all 
the princes, dukes and barons of his country and 
confiscated all their wealth, so that he could finance his 
grandiose schemes..."

"It was jolly popular with the natives..." remarked Anna 
untactfully. Sir George declined to comment. "The Illicit 
Party is getting to be jolly popular in this country too. 
There are already several Illicit Party town and village 
councils. I imagine they're fairly popular in Endon as 
well..."

"Mostly with the Damnable Arachnids!" snorted Sir 
George. "I have little doubt that good sense and reason will 
prevail and this borough will reject the swine. I would not 
have thought it likely that the citizens of Endon would 
surrender sovereignty to a mere pouched mammal!" 

The tunnel widened as Sir George led us past the shops, 
houses and office blocks lining our way and the ceiling 
now arching high above us. It was generally busier as 
insects ran back and forth on their business. Termites 
pedalled by on specially designed bicycles. A small 
trolley was pulled along by four disgruntled cockroaches. 
A spider sat in an enormous web high above us as houseflies, 
the size of dogs, flew gingerly by. A tiger moth swooped 
down and brushed Anna with its dusty wings before gliding 
off into the distance.

Anna was not amused as she brushed off the dust that had 
scattered over her. "Uughh! I think some of it's got into my 
mouth!" she cursed, rubbing the back of her hand over her 
thick lips. "Some of these insects are utterly disgusting!"

Sir George laughed at Anna's discomfort. "God's Wounds! 
Don't think that the people of Endon aren't similarly 
disgusted by you endoskeletal, furry bipeds."

"All I can say," countered Anna, "is that I'm glad that not 
everywhere is like Endon."

We arrived at another junction of tunnels by which there 
was a large subterranean lake in which mermaids were 
frolicking with water boatmen and caddis flies. The gleam 
of neon tubes reflected off the water's still surface, on 
which floated enormous waterlilies while immense reeds 
towered overhead. Sir George escorted us to a car ferry 
which took us gently across the dark waters to some more 
tunnels on the other side. Anna and I leaned over the ferry's 
side to look at the dragonflies swooping above in the 
distant heights of the reeds, while Sir George chatted 
amiably with the ferry's skipper, a moderately bulky green 
beetle.

"I don't think I'm so enamoured by all these creepy-
crawlies!" Anna confided to me as the ferry ploughed 
through the dark viscous waters. "I mean, Sir George is 
alright. But his funny face and those eyes! You don't know 
where to jolly well look! And you can't be sure where he's 
looking either. I'm dying to get away from here to more 
human company."

"So you're returning to Lambdeth?"

"You can come too, if you like," Anna offered. "It's a lot 
more fun than Endon and I'm sure I can show you many 
more interesting things than you'll ever find with all these 
scaly monsters. It's quite an arty place, what with the 
University and all the students. And it's got at least as 
much history as this place... Oooh! Look!" She pointed at a 
couple of mermaids jumping in and out of the water in the 
near distance. They then disappeared under the surface and 
totally out of sight.

"I'm not sure..." I said dubiously, not wishing to offend Sir 
George who was waving at us cheerfully with one of his 
arms. He strode towards us, holding his top hat in two of 
his other arms.

"We're very close to the Station," he announced. "You can 
see it there on the shore." And there indeed, just by a quay 
where some boats were gently bobbing in the quite still 
water, was the entrance to another tunnel with timetables, 
maps and posters outside and the words Endon Central 
over the top of the doorway. There was a general buzz of 
activity with insects sitting by their baggage, some selling 
their wares and a few brawny cockroaches and spiders 
waiting with rickshaws. The ferry finally docked on the 
shore and we disembarked. There was a train for 
Lambdeth leaving within minutes at 11 o'clock, and so 
Anna rushed away rather swiftly to ensure she wouldn't 
miss it. The next one wasn't due for another six hours.

As a result of her haste, Sir George and I didn't have the 
opportunity to give her more than the most peremptory of 
goodbyes. She briefly kissed me on the cheek, assured me 
that we'd probably meet again, and rushed through to the 
platform in a flurry of black skin and white clothes. She 
waved at us from the platform, as she jumped onto the 
modern and very rapid train standing there.

Sir George sighed as we turned away and headed down a 
tunnel past more shops. "That woman is Damned 
impudent, don't you think, young man? If she were a 
grasshopper I don't think I could have stood for it at all, but 
as a human being, I'm really not able to correct her. 
Women are necessary evils, I believe. It is their duty to 
serve us men in their dual roles as providers of domestic 
comfort and sexual pleasure, and beyond that it is best they 
stray as little as possible. I know that my views on the 
natural subservience of the weaker sex are unlikely to find 
much favour with the modern miss, such as your dark-hued 
friend, but they are nonetheless sincerely felt. Don't you 
find the futile attempts of females such as she to stand up 
for herself in the face of the undeniable superiority of our 
gender rather touching?" 

A female grasshopper in a long dress whose train was 
supported by two ladybirds happened to be walking 
towards us. Sir George halted and bowed low with a sweep 
of his top hat as she passed by, one of her forelimbs 
waving a fan in front of her face, and using the others to 
keep her dress from trailing on the cigarette-butt strewn 
floor. He righted himself after she had gone by.

"Naturally, I believe in gallantry, as well," Sir George 
assented. "Just as it is the role of the stronger sex to 
provide and protect, the woman's is to accept, with 
becoming demureness, her position to support the male in 
his industry. A woman is to be useful as well as decorative: 
and the service they best provide is, of course, in the 
generation of children. I have sown my seed widely, I 
confess, and there are many batches of eggs I can claim 
to have inseminated, but my ambition, and that of all 
good Christians, is to sire offspring to the best of women 
and to provide the best for my inheritance.

"Never let it be said that I don't have the best interests for 
women at heart. But there is a limit to what a woman 
should be permitted to do, which your friend from Baldam 
would no doubt dispute. I fail to see any good reason why 
they should be allowed to vote. I fear it is the woman's vote 
which may be to blame if the Blue Party fails to win the 
General Election. That, and the imprudent over-extension 
of the franchise. It is plain that women are the lesser sex. 
How many great female artists are there, for instance? And 
can one imagine any woman having the leadership qualities 
necessary to become a prime minister or a president?"

I didn't comment, although I was sure that there had indeed 
been several women who had succeeded quite well in these  
very things. The tunnel wound along and away, and was now 
much narrower. There was a curious form of lane discipline 
whereby everyone walked on the left and all collisions were 
avoided despite the flamboyant wings sported by several of the 
larger insects.

All along the side of the tunnel, now constructed of clay-like 
earth, were holes which were the doors and windows of very 
unsophisticated homes. The inhabitants were now generally much 
smaller, represented primarily by ants, mites and termites. A 
serpent-sized worm wriggled by between our legs. A 
cockroach scurried past, furiously twitching his giant 
antennae.

"This isn't such a wealthy district of Endon," I observed.

"In truth, no," agreed Sir George. "The scum of the city 
must live somewhere, and this, I'm afraid, is one of their 
districts.  I apologise for having brought you into such 
close contact with the lowest of Endon society, dominated 
by ants and other inferior species."

"Are ants innately inferior?"

"God's wounds! You cannot compare them with beings such as I 
with epithets other than inferior or unfortunate. There is a 
natural order in Endon's society, as there is in mammalian 
society, and in keeping with this, just as there are those 
blessed with intelligence, aesthetic sensitivity and wealth, there 
must necessarily be those denied any of these things. Beings such 
as ants were created by the Lord to be wholly subservient to those 
of greater wisdom and aptitude such as I. It is only just and 
right that they should occupy such a role, just as it is right 
that I should have the advantages of my wealth and status."

"Are there many poor districts like this in the city?" I 
wondered, experiencing great difficulty in navigating 
through the scattered piles of litter and rubbish. I hoped 
that we'd soon find our way to a precinct not distinguished 
by peeling posters, huge heaps of neglected dung and with 
so many insects squatting by the roadside with limbs 
outstretched and pleading for alms.

"Like any city, Endon has a full variety of districts from the 
highest to the lowest," sniffed Sir George, studiously 
ignoring the beggars' entreaties. "There are much better 
appointed quarters, such as where I live, with magnificent, 
pleasantly designed houses. They have wide streets and the 
houses have spacious gardens. It is there that the most 
peerless of Endon's citizens live, with their staff of inferior 
invertebrates to tend the gardens, clean the streets and 
secure our properties from invasion by the scum you see 
here.

"Then there are these districts of urban hell, where the Red 
Party is unquestionably very popular, preaching rebellion 
and disorder. Areas rife with crime, murder, drugs and 
violence. Full of the unemployed, the idle and the feckless. 
Areas which should by rights be purged from the city and 
whose loss would not be in the slightest bit detrimental to 
the city's vitality.

"In between these extremes of sophistication and 
degradation, there are the districts of the artisans, mostly 
bees, who toil hard and are more content living in 
modest homes where they manufacture white goods, 
honey, electrical components and motor cars. Then there 
are districts inhabited by merchants, accountants, dentists 
and teachers. More ordered than here but less opulent than 
where I live. And finally there are the districts for the 
honest workers - the clerks, factory-workers, soldiers and 
policemen - not as poor as this but certainly not wealthy.

"But below all others and too far below for me to even bear 
to address, certainly to touch and without which the city of 
Endon would be improved are districts like this: for scum 
who have no real part in our society. I am told that nearly 
50% of the city lives in these districts. I know that if the 
Red Party were to have their way this mutinous crowd of 
the unemployed, the criminal and the state-dependent 
would consume all of Endon by fire, smoke and anarchy. I 
am just grateful that the majority of this rabble is too 
illiterate, apathetic and disorganised to ever pose a threat to 
the social order, but if they were to ever arise... Why then, 
Endon would be Hell on earth! Grasshoppers and 
butterflies would be crucified and their wealth confiscated. 
Bees and Wasps would be slaughtered by their own stings. 
Ladybirds, Dragonflies and Locusts would have their 
wings removed. That is a day I hope I shall never see."

I hoped so too, feeling rather uneasy as the kaleidoscope of 
myriad eyes expressionlessly watched Sir George and I 
proceed quickly through the long narrow tunnels 
intentionally not engaging their attention. There were ants 
and termites gathered in menacing gangs by barred 
windows. There were cockroaches lying in apparent stupor 
in the unglazed windows. A tiger with dark glasses was 
huddled in conference with several ants by the stairs of a 
fire escape, at the foot of a tall termite-mound. I definitely 
didn't feel very welcome in this neighbourhood. 

The tunnel soon widened to accommodate factories, abattoirs 
and warehouses, around which the streets were strewn with 
plastic cartons, discarded newspapers and cigarette ends. 
There were far fewer people, but I could see insects busy at 
work through the windows of the buildings and there was a 
general hum of electricity, steam and air-conditioning. The 
tunnel further widened as we came into a district that must 
have been one of the more salubrious districts Sir George 
had mentioned. The houses were large, and could just 
about be seen behind tall featureless walls topped by 
broken glass. In front of many houses were small sentry-
boxes in which might sit an aggressive looking beetle or 
spider. The air was clear and clean and songbird-sized 
mosquitoes fluttered around in the decorative heights of 
gladioli, rhododendrons and tulips. Besides the guards in 
front of the houses, there were very few people, although 
there was plenty of space to hold them. The occasional 
pond or fountain adorned our way, and monstrous 
buttercups and daisies lined the roadside.

"Do you live round here?" I asked Sir George.

"Goodness no!" laughed the grasshopper. "Where I live is 
much better appointed than this. Do you think I would 
choose to live in such close proximity to the riffraff we've 
just passed? But many quite well-off individuals do choose 
to live here, and quite a few residences are owned by 
people not really native to Endon at all. Like Lord Arthur 
over there."

He indicated a colossal towering figure, easily thirteen foot 
high, meandering towards us along the wide roads. He was 
too large to ever venture down the tunnels we'd emerged 
from, but he was no insect. At first, blinded by the bright 
light from the streetlights, I thought he might have been a 
tiger, but he was in fact an enormous lion quite tall enough 
to glance over the walls at the houses. Not that he was 
doing that, as he seemed totally lost in thought and 
appeared quite frail and weak, despite his massive size and 
undoubted strength. A once glorious tawny mane was now 
quite threadbare and portions of fur were shredding off. 
His tail drooped sadly behind him.

"Good morning, Lord Arthur," Sir George called out to the 
lion when we were within a few yards of him. The 
grasshopper seemed quite minuscule in comparison to the 
beast towering high above him, who could easily toss the 
gangling spindle-legged insect to one side with a single 
gesture of his monstrous paws.

"Is it still morning, Sir George?" wondered the lion raising 
his head and coming to a halt just five feet ahead of us. 
"This morning has seemed so very long. And so 
depressing. My Endon accountant tells me that I may have 
to sacrifice all my holdings in your fair city." He scanned 
the district with eyes quite as large as my head. "I have 
never really appreciated the beauty of your city before, you 
know, Sir George, and now that my estate and my factories 
and my shops are to be sold off to cover my debts I feel I 
am appreciating it rather belatedly."

"Who are buying your holdings?" wondered the 
grasshopper.

"What's left of my holdings," the lion corrected. "Once I 
owned more than a fifth of your city's businesses. The 
buyers are a consortium of bees. And believe you me, they 
are robbing me blind! I'm sure the capital wealth it 
represents is worth at least five times as much as they have 
paid. And even the several millions of guineas they paid 
will cover barely a fraction of my debts. But every little 
helps."

"Are you staying in Endon for very long, your lordship?"

"Not at all, Sir George. I have business to attend  
elsewhere. More to sell, I'm afraid. If it were not for the 
kindness and, dare I say, the great generosity of those 
friends of mine who have not abandoned me as my stock 
has sunk on the Exchange, I would have nowhere to stay. 
Once I had no shortage of homes in this city."

"Indeed I bought my home from you, Lord Arthur."

"You did! You enterprising arthropod. Not that I ever 
visited most of the properties I owned. I bought most of 
them for speculative reasons, you know."

"I'm sure you did," the grasshopper replied approvingly.

"But that was when business was good. Those were the 
days when the name of Lord Arthur was feared and 
respected throughout the civilised world. And further than 
that even. Now I can hardly open the financial pages of a 
newspaper without seeing articles speculating about when - 
no longer if - I will become bankrupt. These are sad days 
indeed, Sir George."

"God's Wounds! They are that! There is no longer the 
respect and honour due paid to aristocrats and businessmen 
such as we..."

"That may be so, though I don't really recall life being any 
better for it. But it is for me, not the world in general, that I 
complain. But hold! I must not forever grieve. I have 
known some very good times. Who is your young friend?"

Sir George introduced me formally to the lion. "He is a 
stranger whom I'm escorting through the city of Endon."

"A real stranger too," Lord Arthur growled indulgently. 
"There aren't very many warm-blooded endoskeletals in 
this city are there? Except for tigers and merpeople. I trust 
you'll be taking this young fellow to the Party..."

"I hadn't thought of that, your lordship, but that would be a 
most diverting way to occupy the afternoon. Are you also 
likely to come?"

"No. I'm afraid not. As I said, I have too much business 
elsewhere. I have an appointment at one o'clock I believe 
with a representative from Delta who wants to buy the last 
of my fish factory shares. I think I had best make haste or 
the day will all be gone."

He twitched his monstrous tail, the tassel of which was 
larger than my whole body, and unsteadily lumbered off. 

"Lord Arthur is old money on hard times," sighed Sir George. 
"He is a moral example to us all to retain by all means the 
wealth we have either inherited or achieved. God's 
wounds! It's incredible to believe that one as wealthy as he 
could ever have fallen so far. I sincerely hope I never share 
the same fate."

"How did he happen to lose his wealth?"

"I'm no economic expert. I employ others to provide me 
with that expertise and knowledge, but what I have read 
suggests that Lord Arthur burdened himself with more 
commitments in steadily declining industries than he could 
profitably gain from. And then, instead of divesting 
himself of these commitments or taking advantage of new 
market conditions, he simply ploughed more and more of 
his wealth into the hopeless task of keeping these 
industries going. Eventually of course the whole edifice 
collapsed about him. I will never allow that to happen to 
me. I blame the lion for being too sentimental to his 
employees and not restructuring soon enough." Sir George 
paused reflectively. "Still, less of that. I'll take you to the 
Party as the good lion suggested. My carriage shouldn't be 
too far from here."

Indeed it wasn't. Sir George led me through a wide 
archway, quite large enough for Lord Arthur to have 
walked through and I stood blinking in the strong midday 
sun illuminating the forests of Endon. Sir George's carriage 
was waiting for us, just as the grasshopper had predicted. It 
was very exquisite, drawn by a host of swift stag beetles 
who were snorting and pawing the ground while waiting. 
Sir George let me into the sumptuous and luxurious 
interior of his carriage where he opened a bottle of 
champagne and with a gesture produced a piping hot meal 
his chef had prepared for him.

"Our destination is several leagues hence," the grasshopper 
announced, "so we'd best have luncheon as we travel. I hope 
you enjoy my simple tastes."

The lavish meal of quail eggs, venison, caviar and 
champagne was somewhat less simple than I was 
accustomed to, and not having eaten since midday the day 
before I tucked into it with great relish as the carriage 
trundled off through the jungle of outsize flora.

		6

Zest and chatter from mingling party-goers orchestrated 
with the remote pulsation of a stereo system greeted me 
when I arrived at the Party. I was already impressed by 
the expansive gardens estate that surrounded the imposing
manor house. There were large ponds full of enormous trout. 
A tiger with shears was trimming ornamental hedges near the 
rosebushes. The long neck of a giraffe rose above a maze 
where he had a distinct advantage in navigating his way 
out. In such surroundings I imagined a fairly restrained, 
possibly formal, party and my main anxiety was that I 
wasn't suitably dressed.

Within moments of entering the massive hallway, I was 
separated from my grasshopper companion in a confusion 
of unfamiliar people and totally lost sight of him. I had 
been too intent on admiring the painted frieze on the 
vaulted ceiling from which descended an enormous crystal 
chandelier. A wide staircase wound from the hallway to a 
balcony along which gathered many other guests of every 
species holding glasses of wine or champagne in their 
hands, paws or hooves, and often with cigarettes of various 
dimensions drooping from their lips or mandibles. 

I felt intimidated by this mass of strangers, which included 
a tiger in finery, a dolphin in a comfortable leather-lined 
sofa, a megatherium chatting with a comparatively tiny 
manticore and an archaeopteryx perched high on a hat 
stand making drunken conversation with a beret. A pig, a 
wolf and a similar-sized pygmy elephant wearing frock-
coats and spats chatted amiably in a circle. I saw a swirl of 
guests in other rooms amongst wine-bottles and party food, 
some dancing to a curious amalgamation of techno, 
baroque and waltz. 

As I stood transfixed by perplexity, a young girl, perhaps 
only fourteen or fifteen years old, descended the staircase. 
She wore a long floral shoulderless dress with a wide-brimmed 
hat perched on long curly brown hair. As she walked down, 
the guests greeted her respectfully as she passed by: some 
with great flourishes as broad feathered or stiff tall hats 
were swept by, some with respectful bows and some by simple 
nods of acknowledgement. I guessed that this child was quite 
celebrated, but I didn't recognise her from my limited 
knowledge of society debutantes featured on Suburban 
television. She approached the foot of the stairs and headed 
towards me.

"Hello," she greeted me, outstretching a thin ivory-white 
arm. A single gold bracelet rolled down her wrist as she 
delicately shook my hand. "My father told me that Sir 
George had brought along a human to his Party. He also 
declared that you don't know anyone here. Is that so?"

"Yes, it is," I admitted shyly.

"Well, I had better perform my duty as my father's daughter 
and one of the Party's hostesses. My name is Zitha, in case 
you didn't already know, and I shall gladly show you 
around. The house is very extensive. It's got absolutely 
acres of space. Even with the hundreds of guests we've 
always got here, it never feels full. You could easily get 
lost in the hallways and corridors. I often get lost myself, 
you know." She chuckled like a child several years younger 
than she actually was. "I can stray for days on end. People 
just can't find me! I still find all sorts of rooms I'd never 
known about before. Rooms with such secrets, you wouldn't 
believe! Still," she pirouetted round to survey the guests, 
"where's Sir George?"

In amongst the velociraptors, peacocks, smilodons, elands 
and moas dressed in such wide diversity it just wasn't 
possible to distinguish a six foot tall grasshopper. Zitha 
grinned. 

"Well, I'm sure he's found someone to talk to. He's ever 
so popular, you know! However, I'll introduce you to our 
guests. This gentleman is a police sergeant, aren't you?"

She addressed a tiger in a blue stiff-collared uniform. 
"Actually, I'm much more senior than that..." he began, but 
wasn't allowed to finish as Zitha introduced me in rapid 
succession to a minotaur who'd made a mint from futures, 
a salmon in a wheelchair who'd inherited the biggest 
underwater farm ever, a tapir who wrote ever such difficult 
poetry, a phoenix big in insurance, a pterodactyl who was 
ever such a clever professor and many others who, before 
I'd had the chance to properly greet them or they'd had time 
to elaborate on Zitha's brief and sweeping descriptions, was 
superseded by another whose main claim to attention was 
that he, she or it was next nearest in proximity.

In this way, Zitha breezed me through a succession of large 
muralled rooms, libraries, hallways and studies each 
brimming with guests engrossed in wine, drugs and 
conversation. As we proceeded, I encountered more 
interesting and fascinating individuals than I would have 
been exposed to in an entire lifetime in the Suburbs, saw 
some but not enough of magnificent paintings, statues and 
furniture, and heard snatches of music generated from 
sound systems, string quartets, jazz trios and singer-
songwriters balanced on stools. In all this, my hostess was 
a constant provider of chat, inconsequence and distraction, 
but gave me no opportunity to focus my attention on 
anything for very long or to fully absorb my surroundings. 
On the way, I collected and lost glasses of wine and 
experienced the brief sniff, smoke and inhalation of a 
curious selection of recreational drugs that Zitha insisted 
that I had just got to try. It was no wonder that I was in a 
state of confusion my Suburban life had never prepared 
me for when Zitha eventually halted in a book-filled study 
from which the only doors led back out in the direction 
from which we had come.

"So what do you know about this Party?" wondered Zitha, 
leaning against an enormous oak fireplace carved with an 
array of gruesome gargoyles.

"Only what I've just seen," I answered honestly. "Is it your 
birthday party?"

"Goodness, no!" laughed Zitha. "I wasn't even born when 
this Party began. It's been going on for absolutely years. 
It's absolutely world-famous! Are you saying in all honesty 
that you've never heard of it?"

I delved back in my memory beyond the haze of recent 
imbibing and inhalation to news stories or magazine 
articles I might have read. Perhaps things like this were just 
never considered newsworthy in the Suburbs, though I 
knew that there were several magazines that reported only 
the lives of the privileged and famous. "No, I really 
honestly haven't!" I admitted sadly.

"My father started the Party absolutely ages ago. I think it 
might have been for his wedding reception, or maybe it 
was a housewarming party, or perhaps it was just for the 
sake of it. If it was a wedding party, it hasn't dissuaded my 
mother divorcing him.  My father lavished so much attention 
and expense on the Party that nobody wanted to leave the 
following day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. And 
in this way, it's just gone on and on. And now it's ever so 
famous. The Eternal Party they call it. And despite people 
saying that eventually my father will go broke in providing 
for it, and the money to pay for it has to come from somewhere, 
it just continues unceasingly. I guess there's had to be some 
sacrifices. Employees have been laid off or had to take pay 
cuts. Land has had to be sold. Subsidiaries mortgaged or 
floated on the stock market. But despite all the dire 
predictions, the Party goes on. And on. It's a jolly good 
Party too, don't you think?" 

"It's very impressive," I admitted.

"Of course, as time goes by, the guests just demand more 
and more. There are films showing in the private cinemas 
my father had to build. There are several dancing rooms. 
There are orchestras, plays, circuses, duelling, feasting, 
sex, drugs, poetry readings and soirees galore. The meals 
provided each and every evening would feed several small 
countries. The daily bill for alcohol alone is greater than 
most people's annual income. This Party costs simply 
thousands and millions of guineas. If my father wasn't so 
rich, generous and dedicated to the cause of satisfying his 
guests, it just would never have been possible. And don't 
you think it's worth it? Have you ever been to a more 
splendid party in your life?"

"No, I haven't," I admitted.

"Of course, it's a bit excessive to indulge in the Party all 
the time. I have to go to boarding school all week, and I 
think my father is quite grateful to get away to do his 
business in the City and elsewhere. Some people just never 
leave, and only when they get truly obnoxious or simply 
disrespectful to the wrong guests are they ever obliged 
to go."

"Can anyone come to the Party?"

Zitha seemed visibly offended. "Goodness no! Not 
everyone! We wouldn't want riffraff coming. Where would 
the guests look if servants were admitted? Or proles. Or 
peasants. My goodness! Only the truly suitable are ever 
invited. And their friends, of course. I wouldn't want these 
priceless carpets covered in working class vomit. I 
wouldn't like the magnums of champers to be squandered 
on people lacking taste and refinement. It would be a 
total waste! Not everyone can properly appreciate the finer 
things in life."

Zitha then led me out of the study and through more 
rooms, introducing me to yet more people. We arrived at a 
drawing room in which a few guests were gathered around 
a collection of bottles on a table. This room was really no 
different to any other that we'd been in except that for the 
first time I saw someone I recognised. The large Mouse 
carefully pouring a glass of mead into a tumbler, while 
sniffing the air with his massive nose and whiskers, was 
undoubtedly Tudor. He raised his head and regarded me 
amiably.

"Sooth, good morrow, young man," he greeted me warmly. 
"How dost? 'Tis most curious that we should so meet again 
but less than one day since!"

"Fabulous!" chuckled Zitha. "You know each other. I don't 
have to introduce you."

"'Tis verily so! 'Twas at a railway station many leagues 
distant that we met. This young man hath travelled far from 
the Suburbs where he doth abide."

"The Suburbs! How absolutely fantastic! You know, I've 
never been there. I've heard it's a pretty wacky place." Zitha 
giggled. "But tell me Tudor, are you travelling by train 
now? That's most terrifically adventurous of you!"

"'Twas not by choice, thou canst be assured," the Mouse 
remarked, lowering the warm tumbler of mead from his 
muzzle. "'Tis an adventure in discomfort and indignity. 
And thee? Thy Party continueth unabated?"

"As ever. And you've always been one of those 
pessimists who said it just couldn't last forever..."

Tudor laughed indulgently, twitching the muscles of his 
nose and ears. "'Tis but the way of the world. All things 
and all events have their season. Winter shalt come nigh 
ere long, and the Party shalt be a mere memory to all those 
who have known't."

"So enjoy it while you can!" chortled the girl removing her 
hat and brushing her fingers through the long dense curls. 
"We're all going to die in the end, so we might as well get 
as much pleasure out of life as we possibly can."

"Thou'rt most frivolous..."

"Well, I can't spend forever talking philosophy," Zitha 
laughed, replacing the hat on her head. "I've got other 
guests to gossip with. Enjoy!" With that she swept through 
the assorted guests greeting each of them decorously and 
briefly. Tudor gazed after her as she departed.

"The Party shalt end one day," he repeated. "All Parties 
must end. And in but two days from now, the party 
represented by the Coition Government shalt also come to 
its end. 'Twill be a sad day for those who have benefited 
from the too many decades of the chaos, incompetence and 
corruption that hath so much distinguished the realm. In a 
land riven by discord and disorganisation, 'tis but the 
lowlife and the Devil they serve who hath triumphed. Mine 
dread, however, ist that rather than peace and tranquillity, 
the General Election shalt result in naught but worse 
anarchy. We stand perilously nigh to the brink of 
civilisation's collapse, and 'twill take but the merest nudge 
for all to fall."

"That is a pessimistic view!"

"Perchance 'tis so. But for too long there hath been 
overmuch license: Satan and his minions march the land. Vile 
sins art practised: pornography, blasphemy, paganism and 
disrespect. Each person in this land believeth that he and 
he alone hath the knowledge and wisdom to govern this 
once proud nation, willing to take the real power once the 
sole possession of Her Maphrodite. The only solution to 
this nation's great woes must be a return to traditional 
values and principles once held so dear."

"What are those?" I inquired, having often heard similar 
opinions voiced in the Suburbs. 

"Less licenseand more respect." He paused to pour himself 
more mead while the distant rhythm of salsa thundered from 
several rooms away. A tiger in an expensive suit was 
collapsed outstretched on the floor with a bottle of wine in 
one hand, a cigar in the other and vomit stains on his silk 
shirt. I returned my gaze to Tudor who was holding a raw 
fish in his red-gloved claws which he was about to drop 
down his long muzzle. He glanced at me with his large 
round eyes, and then with a rapid movement of jaws and 
tongue the whole fish was gulped down his gullet.

He belched appreciatively. "Mine host: he ist the most 
generous of men! There is naught in the dominion of 
entertainment or diversion that hath not been relished  
at this Party. 'Tis oft I return for pleasure and 
relaxation. Food and drink most plentiful. The company 
for the most part pleasing and comely. But in all this 
cornucopia and generosity, which 'twere most ungrateful 
not to shower praise on't, I fear there ist a moral which 
reflects the greater waste and irresponsibility of this land. 
Nevertheless, 'tis by the industry of our host that all 
this is possible. 'Tis not achieved by theft nor smuggling 
nor murder. In that 'tis justified. And 'tis a most splendid 
mansion, i'sooth!"

"Yes, it is," I agreed, ogling the enormous paintings that 
lined the walls between tall bookcases and alongside the 
most exquisite leather-covered furniture. There were 
paintings featuring horses and hounds chasing foxes, dogs 
tearing birds apart with their jaws, fish being snared in 
fish-hooks, and gentlemen proudly displaying a shotgun 
with one hand and a batch of dead pheasants with the 
other. 

"'Tis most civilised," Tudor continued, picking at the 
salmon canapes and the small sausages on little wooden 
spears. "But tell me, young man, where goest thou?"

"I'm not absolutely sure. I was escorted here and I haven't 
decided where to go next."

"Thou'rt a traveller, art thou not? Far from the exotic 
Suburbs. Dost intend to rest here?"

"I'm not sure. I feel tempted never to leave."

"Hah!" laughed the Mouse, his whiskers and ears twitching 
madly. "Thou wouldst not be the first to succumb to the 
easy pleasures of the Party. Many come willingly and few 
leave, so 'tis said. But it hath been related that although 
there be great pleasure in the Party there ist but little 
purpose. Perchance if thou wishest to be enticed away from 
here, I canst offer thee one night at mine own castle."

"Could you?" I asked, perhaps manifesting my enthusiasm 
a little too strongly, but as I hadn't had a satisfactory sleep 
the night before I was attracted to the prospect of sleeping 
in a comfortable bed. I was also aware that I was unlikely 
to find the Truth in amongst all this jollity unless, (and the  
thought slightly unsettled me), this was all the Truth I was 
ever likely to find.

"'Tis but a humble abode, but I trow 'tis but my duty as a 
good Christian to extend mine hospitality to thee. I shalt be 
departing within the hour." Tudor sniffed. "Now, if thou 
canst but await and forgive my rudeness, I have business 
elsewhere. But thou needst not feel abandoned, for here I 
see again is our hostess, the beauteous Zitha."

Tudor strode out of the drawing room, his long scaly tail 
and the sheath of his sword trailing behind him. He passed 
Zitha as she entered and the two briefly exchanged 
pleasantries. The girl had changed into a green silk blouse, 
long pearl beads and baggy trousers. She now wore was a small 
bright blue beret almost totally lost in the abundance of her 
curls.

"Why hello, you silly Suburbanite," she giggled. "Are you 
having a good time?"

"Yes, very nice," I assented, sipping from a wine glass. 

"Well, don't hesitate to eat anything. Caviar, lemon sole, 
fresh trout, angel fish, it's all here! Our chefs are amongst 
the very best, you know. And there are perfect feasts 
served in the dining rooms later! There are some films 
showing. Some jolly risque ones too, I believe! Don't 
forget, all this is here for your benefit. I'll be most offended 
if you don't thoroughly indulge yourself."

"Why thank you," I replied, not feeling at all hungry, but 
nonetheless I politely nibbled on some caviar coated 
wafers.

Zitha scanned the assorted company. "I see Tudor's 
abandoned you. I don't like to see a single guest deserted 
like this. Shall I introduce you to the Cat Ambassador? 
He's a jolly interesting chap!" She twirled around and 
gestured towards a Cat, about the same size as me sporting 
the most flamboyant clothes, adorned with lace and 
buckles, a sheathed sword like Tudor's hanging from a belt 
around his waist and carrying a large broad-brimmed hat 
with an enormous feather in his white gloved paw. His 
other ungloved paw clutched a large fish whose head he'd 
already devoured. "How are you, Ambassador?" 

"I'm fine. Fine!" purred the cat, swallowing the whole of 
the fish with a single drop down his gullet, his whiskers 
twitching with delight. "As always, the food here is 
absolutely delicious. My compliments to your chefs. And 
who is this gentleman?"

"He comes from the Suburbs. Have you heard of it?"

"The Suburbs? I'm not familiar with all the parts of your 
fascinating land, but I'm sure it is another borough I would 
have great pleasure in visiting." He picked up a glass of 
wine, raised it to his mouth and decorously sipped from it. 
"Is it far from here?"

"It's a very long way," I replied. "And very different. There 
are cats there, but I've never met one dressed as gloriously 
as you."

"Indeed, no. Your indigenous Cats seem to have little taste 
or style, I deem." He addressed Zitha. "Tell me, has your 
father reserved a room for me for the night?"

"Of course, Ambassador. The usual ambassadorial suite. 
We've kept you as far away as possible from any Canine 
guests who might be staying here..."

The Cat shuddered. "That is most thoughtful of you!"

"...And I'm sure you'll find that it has every luxury you 
require. However, if you could excuse me, I have another 
guest to see to!" She smiled apologetically and strode over 
to the tiger who'd earlier been stretched on the floor but 
was now leaning unsteadily on the mantelpiece with a glass 
of wine in one paw and the other struggling to keep himself 
upright. Zitha floated to his side and chattered to him 
oblivious of his inebriation.

"So, young man," asked the Ambassador solicitously, "do 
you know many of the other guests at this party?"

"Not really," I admitted. "I was brought here by someone 
who I appear to have lost. But I have met someone I know. 
Tudor, he's called."

"Tudor?" mused the Cat. "That's a Mouse name isn't it?"

"I suppose it must be. Tudor was the Mouse in here just a 
moment ago..."

"And I daresay he had some very unflattering things to say 
about Cats. Mice are so Anti-Feline! They have no 
understanding or appreciation of the Feline cause, and 
constantly bemoan the fact that to bring civilisation to their 
so-called motherland it's been necessary to also bring them 
the benefits of Feline Government. These Mice are so 
ungrateful! Do they really believe they'd be better off if 
they were under the yoke of a Canine Republic?"

"Is that what Mice want?"

"Well, they call it self-determination. But how can Mice be 
capable of running a country by themselves? They've 
proved to be a damnably unruly and uncooperative lot in 
the Cat Kingdom. The only way they could possibly take 
over in what they misguidedly call their ancestral home is 
by mortgaging themselves to the wealthier Dogs. And I've 
yet to see evidence that Dogs have anything like the 
standards of good government and tolerance evinced by us 
felines!"

"Is there some dispute about sovereignty in the Cat 
Kingdom?" I asked.

The Ambassador mewed. "You could say that!" He picked 
up another fish and dropped it down his throat. His furry 
throat convulsed briefly as it descended down his 
oesophagus. "It's a fairly meaningless dispute because there 
really is no case for the land to be anything other than 
Feline. As has been agreed by the international community 
which mostly recognises the sovereignty of His Majesty 
the King. Only the damnable Canine Republics and a few 
Mouse-sympathisers withhold their recognition, not that it 
ever prevents them trading with us. After so many years of 
Feline Diaspora in which Cats have been denied a nation of 
their own, forced to rely on the open hearth and generosity 
of northern neighbours, we have at last attained our 
historical homeland for which our rights by historical 
primacy cannot be seriously denied. We imagined we 
would finally see an end to the persecution that has 
hounded us over the millennia from the Canine scourge, 
the false accusations of witchcraft and the compulsory 
sequestering of our hard-earned wealth by whatever 
complexion of government has envied it. Even now there 
are those whose claims on our land being so much more 
recent are judged somehow to be the stronger as a result."

"Is it only because you're Cats that some people do not like 
you?" I wondered, remembering Tudor's intense dislike.

"I daresay that for most of our enemies it is quite simply 
that we are Cats they discriminate against us. They call us 
foul abusive epithets such as Pussy and Moggy. They mock 
our purring as growls and our tail-wagging as perverse. They 
are just envious of our arboreal and hunting skills, our 
nimbleness and adaptability, and our ability to see in the 
dark. However, that's not the professed reasons our enemies 
give for their enmity. Many pretend that it is distaste for 
our system of government in which the King has prime political 
power. The Canine Republics in particular oppose our model of 
government as archaic, arbitrary and unfair. They ask how 
a Cat can be endowed with the Divine Right to rule. 
However, surely hereditary government, vested in one 
trained and tutored from birth in the arts of government, is 
better than power which falls so arbitrarily into the hands 
of petty dictators, as in so many of the Canine Republics, 
who might even have originally taken power by democratic 
means, but more often in a coup d'etat, usually with the 
unfulfilled pretext of restoring democracy. And few of 
these petty dictators relinquish power, often bequeathing it 
to close relatives or their own puppies. Moreover, the 
Divine Right of the King to rule is bound deeply with the 
religious practices of feline kind. The King is both the 
spiritual and temporal leader of the realm. He defends both 
sovereignty and the faith. No Canine dictator can pretend 
to responsibilities as grave, however much they may bark 
on about the Bible and religion." 

"Does the Cat Kingdom get on with the Canine 
Republics?"

"Not in the slightest. We're constantly at war with one Dog 
Republic or another. It's a great strain on our economy, but 
the wealth of Cats throughout the world has ensured that 
this is a fight the Dogs can never win. Whatever the 
complexion of dog - spaniel, terrier, poodle, collie or 
whatever - the Dog is too disorganised and stupid to do 
more than merely harry and unsettle our nation. These 
Dogs don't have the political stability or historical 
traditions to compete with Cats. They dress like 
undertakers, forever preaching about God and Duty, live 
lives of unspeakable drabness and are just too incredibly 
diverse in kind. The Dog is a racial mess. When you look 
at a Cat, you know it's a Cat. We're all about the same 
shape and size, differing only in details like colour and 
length of fur. What can be said about an Animal of the 
mongrel varieties of Chihuahuas, Rottweilers, Pekinese, 
Daschunds, Doberman Pinschers and bulldogs? They're 
just a mess!"

"Who wins these wars with the Canine Republics?"

"Why, us of course. The Cat Kingdom! Who else? As we 
have always done. As we are destined to always do. It is 
our right and duty to triumph. It's not that we have any 
designs on the land of our neighbours, although we have 
been reluctantly obliged to occupy some of their land as 
guarantees of territorial security. We don't want our 
nation overrun by a host of poodles, corgis or pit bull 
terriers. We're quite happy to leave the Dogs where they 
are, - and only ask that they display the same magnanimity 
to us. And to stop going on so much about these accursed 
Mice. If they're that enamoured by rodents why don't they 
welcome them more in their own territories."

"Still talking?" asked Zitha who had unexpectedly returned. 
She had changed yet again: this time into a long black dress 
with a very high collar and another wide hat. The tiger 
she'd been talking to had vanished, leaving only a pool of 
vomit and fish-bones where he'd been slumped. "You must 
circulate, Ambassador! There are many more guests to see. And 
you, as well, you must meet a few more guests."

"Actually I'm waiting for Tudor to return. He said he'd let 
me stay at his castle."

"Did he?" laughed Zitha. "That's jolly generous of him. 
But I wouldn't expect him to return while you're chatting to 
a Cat. The Mouse probably thinks His Excellency would 
like to tear him apart for sport or something like that."

"The Feline reputation for wanton cruelty is much 
exaggerated," mewed the Ambassador. 

"I'm sure it is," agreed Zitha. "But if you could excuse us 
please, Your Excellency, we'll search for this gentleman's 
companion. There are a number of other ambassadors in 
the main dining room, if you would wish to join them."

"Thank you for your advice," the Cat replied, nonetheless 
remaining around the fish dinners that were laid out for 
guests, while Zitha led me on out of the drawing room, an 
arm locked through mine. We passed a veritable scrum of 
guests milling about outside rooms lit by red lights for 
which Zitha gave no explanation. We passed a darkened 
room, where a number of guests lay collapsed on cushions 
smoking from a large hookah-pipe appended to an ornate 
glass bowl. We trod over inebriated guests, including the 
tiger who had somehow negotiated his way along several 
corridors only to collapse in another stupor with many 
clothes now inexplicably absent. As we walked, Zitha 
chatted on about how the weather had been particularly 
warm recently, but looked like it might soon be on the turn; 
how she hoped that whoever won the General Election 
wouldn't in any way spoil the fun of the Party by excessive 
taxation; how she wondered at the dietary tastes and dining 
habits of several guests as we passed a pile of empty snail 
shells, fish-bones and hay; and how she hoped that I was 
enjoying her father's Party.

"Well," wondered Zitha. "What is it that takes you so far 
from the Suburbs? We get very few people from that 
borough coming to this Party."

I explained to her about my search for the Truth as we 
walked through a library in which books were stacked high 
up to the ceiling. "The Truth!" she exclaimed. "We get 
many guests here with the most bizarre ambitions. Eternal 
Peace. Love and Death. The Kingdom of God. But never 
one before with a quest to find the Truth. This is really, I'd 
have thought, the very last place in the world I'd visit if I 
were searching for the Truth. I've never come across it 
here. We've got everything else you might look for, and I'm 
sure there are plenty of books in this library on the subject. 
Not that anyone ever reads them! Did you seriously believe 
you'd find the Truth at my father's Party?"

"I don't really know where to look," I admitted. "When I 
was invited here I thought I might find some clues as to its 
whereabouts."

"There are certainly a lot of guests here who'd say they 
could advise you. Some of the best minds in the world 
come to this Party. That I know! But I can't believe that 
even the brainiest or wisest or most widely travelled can 
really claim to know what the Truth is or where to find it. 
Quite honestly, I don't know why anyone would ever 
bother."

"Why's that?"

Zitha paused by a globe of the world standing on a desk. 
She put a hand on it and theatrically spun it round. The 
continents and oceans passed by caged in by lines 
representing latitude, longitude and the tropics of Cancer 
and Capricorn. "Why bother? There are so many much 
more fun things to do in life. Look at the Party. It's been 
going on and on, all in the pursuit of pleasure. And 
however hard it is pursued, there is yet more pleasure to be 
found. And aren't there absolutely loads of people who say 
that the purpose of life is to find happiness? And, if that's 
the case, isn't there just a fantastic amount of happiness to 
be found here? Look at everyone! Aren't they happy? And 
is there really anything else you'd want in life?"

I looked around at the company which included a very 
drunken yale chatting to a hippogriff, a couple of aardvarks 
smoking reefers underneath the collected works of the 
Marquis de Sade, a canoodling pair of pygmy chimpanzees 
on the top of a bookcase, a wolf chatting amiably with a 
protoceratops, and a large hare slumped unconscious on a 
leather chair. Everyone certainly seemed happy, but I felt 
sure that this apparent happiness was not the Truth I was 
looking for.

"Life is for the living!" continued Zitha. "We're only on 
this planet for a few years and then we die. It could all end 
tomorrow. And what regrets we'd all have if we knew on 
our deathbed there were so many pleasures we'd not 
indulged in. Culinary delights uneaten. Alcohol unimbibed. 
Partners denied. Plays, films or video games not enjoyed. 
How can there be anything more to life than living it to the 
full? And where can life be enjoyed more to the full than 
here?"

"I'm sure that there are no pleasures in the world that aren't 
catered for at this Party," I agreed.

"Absolutely right! And the only struggle I think worth 
making is to find new ways to enjoy them. And to find new 
exotic and unexplored pleasures. These are the challenges 
that face every dedicated hedonist. My father struggles 
night and day, taking the advice of the greatest experts, to 
provide pleasures for all: however bizarre, perverse, cruel 
or refined. There is no pleasure he would hesitate to 
provide: from virtual sex, from blood-sports, from lively and 
witty conversation, from meditation, to whatever else our 
insatiable guests may demand. And in this pursuit of 
pleasure there are undoubtedly victims, but ultimately isn't 
their sacrifice worth the greater pleasure of those fortunate 
enough to be guests at this, the ultimate and eternal Party?"

"Are there casualties amongst the guests, though?" I asked, 
considering the unhealthy state of several of them, such as 
the tiger Zitha had been ministering to.

"In any great pursuit there are martyrs to the cause," mused 
Zitha, folding her arms and frowning. "Drug Addiction. 
Venereal Disease. Lethargy. Lung Cancer. Bankruptcy. 
Insanity. Delusion. Liver Disease. But it'll all have been 
worthwhile if the pleasure gained in acquiring these 
maladies outweighs the long term pain and degradation."

"I'sooth!" came Tudor's familiar voice. "Thou'rt being most 
uncharacteristically philosophical, Zitha. Nay, thou'rt nigh 
metaphysical in thy discourse!" The Mouse stood by us, 
supporting his weight on the table where the globe was 
slowly losing the momentum of its earlier rapid spin.

"It's the influence of your Suburban friend!" laughed Zitha, 
as if she'd been discovered doing something she wasn't 
permitted. "He's got the most bizarre notions!"

"'Swounds! I little ken the Suburbs, but ne'er hath I heard it 
described as the home of metaphysics or high discourse. 
'Tis oft spoken as a place bereft of all great thought, 
immersed only in its own perfection, imposing little on the 
world beyond and intent only on the provision of amateur 
dramatics, local history societies and supermarkets."

"It sounds absolutely bizarre!" mused Zitha. "There are 
places outside the pages of literature and the situation 
comedy living room which engross themselves in such 
things. I thought it was all a myth to make everyone feel 
jolly smug that their lives were tons more exciting."

"I know not," admitted Tudor. "Perchance, young man, 
thou canst impart details of thy home unto us. Is't so 'tis but 
a land of small concerns and, yea, smaller ambitions?"

"I don't know how best to describe it," I admitted. "It's 
very different to here. Or anywhere else I've visited 
recently."

"Mayhap 'tis true!" sniffed the Mouse, scratching his 
muzzle with a gloved claw. "But now, dearest Zitha, 'tis 
time, I trow, for mine friend and I to depart. 'Tis as ever 
with the greatest regret that I do so."

"And I don't imagine it'll be too long till you come back!" 
giggled the young girl.

"I'sooth!" agreed Tudor, before ushering me through the 
mass of guests to the main hallway which was far further 
away than I'd imagined. We passed all conceivable species 
of guests along opulent corridors, past defunct mediaeval 
armour, Ming vases, tall and imposing portraits of Zitha's 
ancestors, videophones, Hogarth cartoons, the heads of 
slaughtered deer and foxes, velvet curtains and finally the 
wide expanse of the staircase in the main hallway.

Tudor's carriage was waiting outside amongst a fleet of 
Mercedes, Rolls-Royces, Porsches and Bentleys. It was 
quite modest in comparison, being an open-top horse-
drawn carriage, although the armour-covered horses were 
magnificent and the carriage stout and resplendent. 

"'Tis but a few leagues until mine estate!" announced the 
Mouse as his chauffeur cracked his whip and the horses 
thundered off away from the mansion house. It was several 
furlongs until we passed through the garden gates past long 
avenues bordered by grand statues of all examples of 
exotic and extinct fauna.

	7

Evening descended as Tudor's carriage passed over the 
drawbridge to his castle and parked inside its dark grey 
walls. Within his walls, as without, there was considerable  
evidence of the Mouse's wealth in the form of fishponds, 
ornate hedges and enormous rosebushes. Several of 
Tudor's servants, all hares in livery, gathered to greet us 
when we arrived. One hare in dark clothes, a ruff about his 
neck only slightly less magnificent than Tudor's own, came 
directly to the carriage to welcome his master.

"I hope 'twas a day of great success for thee, sire," he asked 
obsequiously.

"Indeed, 'twas. Only a malign election result shalt deprive 
me of mine just desert. I have with me another guest," 
Tudor indicated me, "so I shalt expect a chamber prepared 
and a place ready for him at mine table."

"'Twill be done, sire," the hare replied, conducting us 
through a giant oak doorway into the main hallway of the 
castle. "'Tis salmon and trout on the menu this evening."

"And much mead I trust?" Tudor asked while his servant 
removed the belt holding his sheathed sword and held it 
respectfully in his paws.

"As ever, sire." 

I was impressed by the expansive hallway lit by great wax 
candles in a giant chandelier above our heads. All around 
were portraits of illustrious looking Mice posing with 
swords and horses framed by extensive estates populated 
by all kinds of livestock. Two suits of armour stood to 
attention at the foot of a wide oak staircase. Even through 
the soles of my shoes, however, the stone floor felt very 
cold, and although it was not a cold day the air was 
distinctly chilly inside the castle's walls.

"Thou hast another guest, sire," the hare continued, one of 
his long ears foppishly drooping. "'Tis Hubert. He arrived 
unannounced this morn, and when I saidst that thou wert 
abroad he declared he wouldst await thee."

"Hubert! 'Tis many a morrow sin last we met. Thou didst 
well to let him stay. But sooth didst he perchance relate why 
he hath come?"

"Nay, sire. But I woot 'tis as ever in his quest for the Great 
Bard."

"As incorrigible as e'er!" laughed the Mouse. He gestured 
to me. "Come, 'tis time to dine. Mine modest banqueting 
hall awaits."

It might well have been modest compared to the opulent 
surroundings in which we'd met earlier in the afternoon, 
but it was still a very large room compared to any to be 
found in a Suburban house. A long oak table extended the 
length of it, on which was a comprehensive collection of 
crockery, cutlery and unopened bottles of wine and mead. 

In a large leather chair below another portrait of a proud 
Mouse, sat the figure of an enormous teddy bear more than 
seven foot tall, wearing a long green waistcoat, a frock coat 
through the sleeves of which protruded the lace cuffs of his 
shirt and grey silk tights which just about squeezed around 
his tubular legs. His paws held a large green tri-cornered 
hat on his lap. He gazed at us through bright button eyes 
and as he twitched his nose I could see the stitching in his 
fur.

"Good evening, Tudor. I hope you don't mind me intruding 
on your hospitality like this," he announced, lifting himself 
up and strolling towards us.

"Not at all, Hubert. Nay, the pleasure, 'tis indeed mine to 
receive thee once more. Thy quest for perfect poetry hath 
brought thee here once more?"

"It has indeed! I seem to ever gravitate towards your castle 
in my quest for the works of the Great Bard. But who is your 
charming friend?"

"He hath come from the Suburbs. I met him on a train 
yesterday, and again today at the Party..."

"On a train! I would never imagine you'd ever contemplate 
such an uncomfortable means of travel! And, you, young 
man. You come from the Suburbs. Why! I was there just 
two days ago! From what I saw of that place, I am 
extremely surprised to see someone from there in such a 
place as Tudor's castle."

"Thou wert in the Suburbs? Thou dost greatly amaze me! 
Trowest thou that the Great Bard abided there?"

"I have so heard," Hubert admitted. "But there is naught 
for me there I confess. The relics of the Poet have been 
greatly obscured by municipal statues and supermarkets. 
But let's speak no more of that for I see that the first 
course is arriving."

Two hares dressed in tights, breeches and modest ruffs 
carried in large platters of fish. They were placed on the 
end of the table, where we were to sit, with Tudor at the 
head in a splendid high-backed chair, and Hubert and I on 
chairs to either side and facing each other. My chair was 
quite hard and rather too large, while Hubert must have 
found his chair uncomfortably small for his substantial 
bulk. The servants placed carved portions of salmon on our 
platters with the fishes' eyes staring reprovingly up.

"It's not at all long 'til the General Election," began the 
large teddy bear, choosing this topic as a means of 
stimulating conversation. "The day after next, I think."

"I'sooth! 'Tis so," replied Tudor carving his salmon with 
expert ease, while I was having great difficulty in 
separating the bones from the flesh. "'Twill be momentous, 
I trow, howsoe'er 'tis resolved."

"I'm sure you don't agree with me, Tudor, because I know 
what an old reactionary you are, but my hopes are on the 
White Party winning this Election."

"The White Party!" snorted the Mouse disdainfully. "Thou 
hast stayed too long in the Suburbs, i'truth! Thou wouldst 
advocate a government of no principles, no ideology, and no 
beliefs. The Party of compromise and dithering."

"'That's exactly why the White Party wins my vote," Hubert 
said pushing a forkful of fish into the dark lines of his 
mouth. "What this country needs is a government of 
consensus. Not one which pursues an agenda of its own 
design and oppresses the interests of others. Not a party 
like the Black Party who'd lynch Cats and other foreigners. 
Not one like the Red Party who'd increase our taxes. Nor 
one such as the Blue Party which would neglect the interests 
of the poor. No. What is needed is a party which pursues 
the golden mean. Neither right nor left. Neither capitalist 
nor communist. Neither catholic nor Protestant. Neither 
religious nor irreligious...."

"In short, Hubert, thou advocatest a government of 
pusillanimity and uncertainty. Thou wouldst desire  
government more for short term convenience than long term 
strategy. A government that doth naught that might ere 
disconsole the smooth order of life."

"You're quite right, Tudor, if a bit facetious."

"Then, Hubert, answer me this. Why 'tis thought needful 
for this General Election which shalt result in but one 
Party governing our great nation, when thou believest that 
government shouldst continue to be run by the consensus, 
dithering and delay that hath so long characterised it? 
Wouldst it better be 'twere all to stay as 'tis?"

"You may scoff, Hubert, but I do think that would be 
somewhat preferable to government by any of the other 
five Parties contesting the Election. If you consider the 
Suburbs, where the White Party has been in effective 
power from the beginning, you must confess that there is 
order, contentment, prosperity and peace. It is there that 
you will see the nearest to perfect government that 
currently exists in this land."

Before Tudor could rebut Hubert's reply, the servants 
breezed in, cleared away what was left of the first course, 
and lay another meat dish on the table that appeared to be 
rabbit or some other lagomorph. One hare, somewhat 
larger than the others, took slices from the carcass and 
placed them on new plates along with roast turnips, swede 
and parsnips. Hubert smiled appreciatively at his host 
while he took a forkful of white meat into his mouth.

"Tell me," pursued Tudor directing the conversation into 
uncontroversial territory. "How doth thy quest for the Great 
Bard for which thou hast travelled to such exotic boroughs 
as the Suburbs?"

"It continues, as ever, to exhume more of the legacy this great 
man has left. I have yet to find an authenticated tombstone nor 
indeed proof positive of his birth-place but I seek still and 
will persevere..."

"Until when? What is't thou seekest?"

"If I didn't know you better, Tudor, I would have thought 
you a philistine. The quest for Great Art is an end in itself. 
Its discovery is a mere trophy of one's endeavours."

"Great Art ist worth but three farthings if 'twere for the sole 
pleasure of the aesthete."

"Now, you are being facetious. Art is necessarily for all, 
though there are those of undoubtedly greater aesthetic 
sensibilities than others. This is just and fitting. The poet 
evokes images of great profundity in daffodils, roses, fish 
and wedding parties. He informs us of our condition and advises 
how best to advance on it. And so it follows that the greatest 
of poets must be the greatest of all creation, and that man 
is incontrovertibly the Great Bard."

"Thou must needs forgive me, Hubert, for the very 
ignorance that thou dost deride, but I little grasp the 
greatness of poetry. Thou canst not live in it. Thou canst 
not eat it. And thou dost not become rich by possessing it."

"Again I must beg to disagree. One most certainly does 
become rich in the possession of poetry."

"And I woot a very conceited lot these poets art! Why, 
Hubert, shouldst I heed these petty scholars who hath lived 
little and gained but little wealth?"

"Are you never affected by the wit and wisdom of poets 
who take any issue, however improbable, and in a few apt 
words persuade us to behold it anew?"

Before Tudor could challenge Hubert, the hares returned to 
remove what was left of the main course and to replace it 
with a selection of cakes, fruit, biscuits and cheese. They 
also brought in a bottle of brandy from which Tudor took 
great pleasure in pouring us all a drink. He picked up a 
glass in his claw and sniffed it with his long nose while his 
whiskers twitched agitatedly. As if satisfied by the smell he 
swallowed the contents entire and poured himself another 
glass.

"How was the Party, Tudor?" wondered Hubert, 
decorously brushing the crumbs of cake from the corner of 
his mouth with a serviette.

"As ever," sniffed the Mouse absently. "'Twouldst be better 
an 'twere not for the presence of the Cat Ambassador. That 
the host canst be so persuaded to invite a Cat to his Party 
illustrateth, wert demonstration required, the malign 
influence of the Cat in our society."

"I'm sure he was present more on account of his being an 
Ambassador than of being a Cat," commented the teddy 
bear diplomatically.

"Thou'rt too liberal in thy views!" exclaimed the Mouse. 
"A Cat ist a Cat, and as such ist innately damned. This 
Ambassador was disseminating his malign propaganda at 
the Party, and was dressed in such immodest and vulgar 
opulence that shouldst excite repugnance in all good 
Christian souls."

"You really don't like Cats, do you?"

"Wouldst thou, wert thou a Mouse? Mine kind hath been 
attended shamefully by Cats. I feel naught but sympathy 
for the Mouse Liberation Organisation and Canine 
Freedom Fighters who struggle against Feline oppression. 
'Tis oft claimed by the Cats that they art the victims of 
racism and intolerance, but 'tis a hollow claim when thou 
knowest the discrimination practised against Mice in the 
Cat Kingdom who art denied expression in their own 
language and the rights of plebiscite and representation, 
and whose land ist oft stolen by so-called Feline Settlers. 
How canst the Cat deserve respect when he depriveth other 
species of theirs?"

"So you approve of the extreme behaviour of Rodent and 
Canine terrorists who blow up aeroplanes, hijack buses, 
gun down civilians, explode monuments and bandstands, 
and consign their own districts to a constant atmosphere 
of fear and distrust."

"Is't unlike the terrorism executed by Cats by which they 
acquired the ancestral homes of millions of Mice and 
Dogs? Plainly, I wouldst defend those who by active or 
passive means art employed in reversing the wrongs the 
Cat hath wrought. And thou'rt mistaken - a thousand times 
so - when thou sayest that the struggle ist entirely engaged 
by the terrorist. In the Cat Kingdom there art many who 
refuse to patronise Feline premises, to pay taxes to the 
Feline oppressors or to bow down to the tyrannical rule of 
the Feline King. They art engaged in a struggle that hath oft 
cost them their lives."

"I don't believe that it's at all inconsistent for me to be 
sympathetic to that kind of protest and somewhat less so to 
the terrorism of more militant individuals," argued Hubert. 
"And furthermore I am a little disquieted by the notion of 
the Dogs becoming a greater influence in the region. Some 
of the Canine Republics are decidedly unpleasant not only 
in the way they treat Cats, but even other kinds of Dogs."

"Necessity maketh strange bed-fellows," agreed the Mouse. 
"I wouldst not wish the independent nation of Mice when it 
ariseth from the ashes of the Cat Kingdom to emulate the 
dictatorships and theocracies of the Canine Republics. 
I'sooth, I wouldst not wish Mice to be bound to Calvinist, 
Baptist or Evangelist dogma as the Basset Hound Republic 
or the Republic of Cocker Spaniels. 'Tis true that I wouldst 
be an unlikely advocate for temperance and I have but little 
patience with those who forever quote from the Bible. And 
I wouldst not wish the future Nation of Mice to be governed 
by such military rulers as those of the Labrador, Collie or 
Whippet Republics. But I believe not that these nations shalt 
be the model for the future Mouse nation."

"I'm sure you're right," commented Hubert diplomatically, 
poking at the inside of his mouth with a tooth-pick. "I was 
merely expressing reservation about the use of violence to 
attain the ends you believe in."

"'Tis immaterial. The struggle ist one which shalt continue 
by fair means or foul. And one in which my bank account 
ist much committed. However, my friends, shalt we retire 
to the smoking room?"

"A splendid suggestion, my good Mouse!" agreed the 
teddy bear, heaving up his immense weight and then, 
clearly familiar with the layout of Tudor's castle, leading 
the way through the immense oak doors to the adjoining 
room, in which the servants had already prepared a fire. As 
we left the dining room, the servants bound in and began 
tidying up the remains of our meal. 

The smoking room was aptly named as it possessed a very 
strong smell of tobacco which clung to the leather furniture 
and wallpaper, and had discoloured the ceiling with a 
pronounced yellowish stain. We reclined in comfortable 
upholstered chairs and sofas set around the fire which 
emitted most of the light in the otherwise gloomy room. 
Portraits of Tudor's ancestors lined the wall beyond the 
shadows cast by the fire. In front of us stood a low oaken 
table on which there was more mead and wine, and, 
appropriately for the room, a collection of long clay pipes, 
loose tobacco and spills. Tudor and Hubert went through the 
rituals of piling tobacco into the pipes and puffing away at 
them to keep them alight. In no time the room was full of a 
thick sweet-smelling odour that saturated my eyes and throat 
and made me feel distinctly unwell.

Tudor took a long draw from his pipe and exhaled a long 
twisting cloud of smoke. "Tell me, young man," he asked. 
"Why is't thou hast departed the Suburbs and voyaged 
here?"

"My impression from my stay in the Suburbs," Hubert 
added, "is that for the natives to venture anywhere beyond 
the borough's confines is considered hazardous. The people 
I spoke to had very disapproving opinions about the rest of 
the country, or indeed the rest of the world. It was almost 
as if they'd never seen a seven foot tall teddy bear in a tri-
corned hat before."

I explained to Tudor that I had left the Suburbs on a quest 
for the Truth which I believed could only be found 
elsewhere. "It seemed well worth the effort of leaving 
home."

"I'sooth, in comparison to Hubert's quest for the Great Poet 
'tis incontestable that thy quest seems a nobler thing by far. 
Few who wouldst question the need to seek out and peruse 
all the Great Poet hath writ, spake or thought wouldst 
quibble at the relative nobility of the Truth. But I wouldst 
disagree with thee that thy search is the wiser or more 
advisable. The very nature of thy quest suggesteth that the 
Truth canst be found in a material or physical form. I 
wouldst avow that the Truth ist of a spiritual nature that 
canst be attained only by total immersion in philosophy, 
religion and contemplation. Moreo'er, thy quest conflicteth 
with the Truth revealed in the person of Our Lord Jesus 
Christ who hath suffered, died and been resurrected to 
spare us the need of similar discomfort to save our souls."

"Religious objections like that are most untypical of you, 
Tudor," laughed Hubert. "I don't doubt the sincerity of your 
Christian beliefs, but surely you wouldn't deny our young 
Suburbanite credit in an equally sincere search for the 
Truth. Perhaps it will lead him eventually to conclude that 
the Truth does in fact lie in the Christian religion."

"I ken thee too well, Hubert, to accept that thou affordest 
the Word of the Lord with the least respect. 'Tis known that 
thou'rt a damnable atheist and thou no more think our 
young man shalt find the Truth in the Christian faith than 
in a tureen of sushi."

"Tudor! You misrepresent me most cruelly! I am no 
atheist, as you claim. I am a doubter. A skeptic. I believe 
that the Truth cannot be known and that the best that one 
can hope for is a greater approximation of knowledge of 
the Truth. Who am I to say that the Truth won't after all be 
substantiated as manifest in the Holy Gospels? I hope that I 
am not too arrogant to immediately doubt such a 
proposition. I would just say that I entertain great doubts as 
to whether this will be the case."

"Thou mayest not know the Truth, Hubert, but I trow that 
thou hast thy own opinions as to what the Truth mightst 
be."

"It's true that I have opinions, but I wouldn't be a skeptic if 
I didn't say that they are mere speculation. It could well be 
that your views, or the views of Cats, or the views of your 
lapin servants, are the ones which are in actual fact a closer 
representation of the Truth. My belief is that the Truth is 
the insight that one sees in just a flash of recognition in the 
expression of great Poetry. It is in the wit, wisdom, 
conceits, epiphanies and revelations that Poetry delivers. 
The Truth is in the most perfect Haiku, the most 
devastating Sonnet, the most expressive pentameter and the 
most scathing of dismissive satire. The pursuit of Truth is 
not a pursuit of a thing that can be held, examined or 
dissected; but is in fact to be found in the greater and 
more exact expression and statement of itself."

Tudor puffed silently at his clay pipe. His whiskers 
twitched with their usual agitation and he blinked his 
massive eyes to avoid the smoke. "From what thou sayest, I 
wouldst deem that thou believest that the Truth hath been 
already found, with which I wouldst agree, and that the 
Truth ist to be revealed by great insights made by the 
properly qualified. In this we art agreed. Howe'er, I trow 
that the Truth ist revealed not by Poets who but claim to 
spiritual, moral and ‘sthetic wisdom, but in those who at 
the pulpit of the church hath truer claims than any poet to 
wisdom and knowledge which hath the affirmation of the 
Truth, and that which hath come on high from God, the 
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost."

"I would never dream of being as specific as that," Hubert 
contended, putting down the glass of mead he'd been 
drinking. "The Truth I'm sure is a single monistic thing of 
many aspects, of which the Poets have illuminated just 
some. Poetry constantly strives towards a greater and more 
accurate expression of that simple undoubted Truth. When 
it has finally expressed the Truth in all of its potential 
manifestations then it could be said that it has been found."

"Thou hast indeed a very grand notion of the profession of 
Poetry," laughed the Mouse. "I wouldst agree with thee, if 
'twere not commonly known that the majority of Poetry, 
e'en that scribbled by thy Great Bard, hath no content of 
Truth in't at all. 'Tis but humour, scurrility, conversation, 
digression and indulgence..."

"But these too are aspects of the Truth!" insisted the teddy 
bear.

"'Tis all frivolity!" concluded the Mouse, tapping out the 
ashes of his clay pipe into the open fire. "Now 'tis time for 
ye to be shown your rooms for the night."

Tudor then escorted us around the castle, which was very 
dark and quite cool in the late evening. It was difficult to 
be sure of my tread as I followed Hubert and he up the dark 
shadows of the oak stair-case and along wooden corridors 
that creaked ominously under the heavy weight of the giant 
teddy bear's footsteps. 

My bedroom was a room somewhat larger than the one I had in 
the Suburbs and in many ways very luxurious. There was a large 
log fire blazing in the room which a hare was diligently 
priming when we put our heads through the door. There 
were some very expensive furnishings, some very valuable 
paintings, beautiful oriental wallpaper featuring fishermen 
and fish, and the most ornate wood panelling. But there 
was no electric light switch and I had to snuff out a candle 
with a curious metal spoon. The four-poster bed had a very 
hard mattress and was evidently designed for people that at 
their very tallest would have been Tudor's size (and was 
most certainly not designed for people of Hubert's 
dimensions). And despite the fire which undoubtedly 
heated one seventh of the room, the remaining six-sevenths 
of the room remained inexplicably cold. But I was very 
tired and after I'd crawled under the several heavy woollen 
blankets that weighed down the bed I was soon able to 
escape to my own dream Arcadia.

	8

The following morning I was awakened by a hare who 
offered to dress me before I joined his master and 
companions for breakfast. As I had great doubts that an 
animal substantially shorter than I and significantly less 
dextrous would dress me quite as well as I could, I 
declined the offer and waited until he had left the bedroom 
until I pulled my feet free from the confines of the sheets 
onto the floor several feet below. I grimaced at the sudden 
cold pang of the stone floor and got dressed on the 
luxurious carpet in front of the fire.

I then stole out of the bedroomtried to find where breakfast 
was served. I looked up and down the long passageways at the 
suits of armour, the portraits of illustrious rodents and the 
odd sheep-skin rug, but could see no sign guiding me to the 
breakfast room or indeed anywhere else. Consequently it was 
after several minutes of wandering around the ill-lit hallways 
and through several unpromising rooms that I located my host 
in a room where chairs were arranged in front of a fire on 
which some hares were toasting some rolls and buns. Tudor 
saw me enter the room and greeted me with a gloved paw while 
munching on a bread roll.

"Good morrow! Thou hast slept well, I trust?"

"Very well," I answered, as indeed I had when I'd finally 
got used to the hardness of the mattress. 

Tudor was accompanied by Hubert, who was sitting down 
with his columnar legs stretched out in front of him 
wedged into boots which just about accommodated them, 
and a Scottish Terrier about the same height as Tudor 
wearing black clothes ornamented only by a grey lace 
collar. He had placed a tall black hat like a stove pipe on 
the arms of his chair and his paws were clasping a mug of 
tea. "Thou hast not met mine friend, the Philosopher," 
Tudor remarked. "He hath travelled many leagues from his 
distant land and ist once again honouring our fair nation 
with his presence."

"You're very kind, Tudor," the dog barked. "I always enjoy 
my visits to your pleasant land. And surely there is no 
pleasure greater than that found in travel and good 
company.  A weary foot and a glad heart are the best 
comrades a soul can have."

"Are you also on a quest like Hubert?" I wondered.

"Goodness no, young man. No amount of travel could 
reach the object of my pursuit. Philosophical insights are 
gained only by contemplation and analysis. The deeper you 
search the more you uncover."

I nodded, pretending to understand what he was saying, 
and let my eyes wander about the breakfast room. In the 
corner were two hares in conversation and a young man in 
ragged clothes crouched on the floor wolfing down the 
relics of the meal we had been eating the evening before. 
He glanced up at me with a sheepish grin and then resumed 
his chewing on the cold meat on a bone. I scanned my 
companions in the hope that they might introduce me to 
this eccentric guest, but they were deep in conversation.

"...And the moral is that just as in any infinite series of 
numbers there is an incongruity, so too in any ethical 
practice there is an element of immorality..." The 
Philosopher noticed me while licking his tea-stained chops 
with his long flat tongue. "Are you troubled, young man? 
Perhaps you are not accustomed to ethical discourse. Be 
assured that the pursuit of knowledge is not achieved by 
conversation alone. A bird in the tree may in a flash of 
inspiration see what has eluded the greatest thinker."

"No, it's not that," I commented, slightly puzzled. "I was 
just wondering who that fellow is." I pointed at the young 
man who was scooping at the insides of a soiled bowl with 
the crust of a stale roll.

The Philosopher suddenly burst into laughter, which was 
frighteningly like barking. Tudor tittered, but explained my 
faux pas. "An thou thinkst that wert a guest thou couldst 
ne'er be further from the truth. Nay, 'tis the Philosopher's 
slave thou cravest know."

"The Philosopher's slave?"

"Slave. What could be simpler?" smiled the Philosopher. 
"Perhaps you don't have such things where you come 
from?"

"No," I admitted. "There are no slaves in the Suburbs."

"'Tis verily true," agreed Tudor. "'Tis rare in this land to 
encounter a slave. 'Tis forbid in many districts, and I woot 
the Suburbs ist a borough where 'tis so proscribed."

"So what is seemly to the elephant is unseemly to the 
mastodon," commented the Philosopher. "No, young man. 
In my country it is quite normal for those of means to 
purchase as good a slave or set of slaves as they can. 
This slave cost me a few crowns I can tell you. He is now my 
property and I am free to dispose of him exactly as I would 
any other property. This is a role equally sanctioned by my 
slave and he would no doubt not wish it otherwise."

"Wouldn't he prefer not to be a slave at all?" I wondered.

"That is a most naive and simplistic view. Wouldn't we all 
wish to have a different life than we have? The man on the 
other side of the hill is always on the better side. But we 
are always best off as we are. My slave benefits from his 
working relationship with me because I provide him with 
security, safety, lodgings and food for as long as his work 
continues to be acceptable. His role in life is to serve, 
just as mine is to be served. The master needs the slave, 
just as the slave needs the master."

"Why's that, Philosopher?" wondered Hubert who was 
chewing some toast.

"Because without the one then the other has no existence at 
all. How can a master be a master if he has nothing to be 
master of? And for that matter how can a slave be a slave 
without a master to serve? It is all as it should be. The hare 
bounds in the field, while the sheep safely graze." 

"I may just be acting as the Devil's Advocate here, 
Philosopher," continued the giant teddy bear, "but have 
there not been many arguments postulated quite to the 
contrary. That rather than being natural, slavery is wholly 
unnatural and indeed unjust. This slave may look like just a 
ragged wretch, but given different chances in life might he 
not deserve a better lot? And wouldn't it be better to be 
wretched and free, than well-fed and enslaved?"

"I don't really understand why so many people in your 
country believe that liberty is prima facie a good thing. 
You wouldn't want dragons or demons to wander free in 
this country. As free as the wind, but also as free as the raft 
adrift from its moorings. Nevertheless, I recognise the 
wisdom in such assertions, Hubert, and I would not 
advocate slavery if I didn't accept its economic necessity. 
How could the economy of my nation, or of the world, 
prosper without the very valuable contribution made by 
slaves? How could we pursue philosophy and poetry, 
without the wealth creation of this invaluable underclass? 
Even the worm is needed to aerate the soil so that we can 
eat. For some to have plenty it is necessary for others to 
have less than nothing at all."

I wasn't at all persuaded by the Philosopher's arguments but 
I had no counter to them. I chose a line where I hoped I 
could get Hubert's support. "I didn't realise that Poetry 
needed slavery to exist. I thought Poetry was above the 
economic order."

"Poetry is the expression of Philosophy by elegant 
language," the Philosopher replied, not really addressing 
my objection. "And language is the means of all thought 
and expression. It is through a precise understanding of 
language and how it is used that we understand all 
subjects of discourse. But if a sheep wrote Poetry would 
we understand what it was saying?"

"Or even want to," commented Hubert. "Poetry isn't really 
Philosophy at all. It may express great insights, but not all 
these are of a philosophical nature. Some Cat poetry is 
noted by its absence of philosophical speculation and more 
by its unquestioning acceptance of what they consider to be 
the truth."

"Isn't that fatalistic acceptance itself a concern of 
Philosophy? Great thought is expressed through its absence 
as much as in its presence. But I am sorry to hear you 
speak even indirectly of any virtue in Feline practice or 
poetry. Their despicable behaviour in the war with my 
nation has shown Cats to be wholly unpossessing of the 
finer sensitivities, and they are certainly not eminent 
opponents of slavery. They are, after all, a species who 
have allowed themselves to be governed by an absolute 
hereditary ruler. It is true that I would no more advocate 
the rule of the anarchic mob any more than does the Cat. 
Good government by a tyrant is better than bad government by 
the people. I would say, however, that government is 
practised best by those selected and trained for their skills 
in the art than either the unschooled mob or those born to 
luxury. Indeed, luxury is as foreign to the skill of 
government as it is to logical discourse. A greenhouse is 
not the best place to grow a turnip."

 "I dare say you are right, Philosopher," smiled Hubert. He 
stood up from the chair and towered above his company. 
"But I must be on my way. I fear I have business elsewhere."

"Where goest thou? Dost return to the Suburbs?"

"No. I doubt I shall ever return to the Suburbs. I go to 
the City. There are some archives I wish to examine." 

He then made his farewells and strode out of the breakfast 
room followed by a hare Tudor had detailed to see to his 
needs.

"Have ye both eaten well?" Tudor inquired as a servant 
closed the large oak door behind the teddy bear.

"Very well, thank you, Tudor. When the stomach is full, 
the heart is glad. As always your servants have prepared a 
sterling breakfast."

"If 'tis so, then 'tis meet we promenade the gardens before 
ye leave on your travels. Where goest thou, Philosopher? 
Mayhap 'tis the same course as our Suburbanite friend."

"The young man is quite welcome to accompany me if he 
so wishes. The tread is merry when the tongue does the 
walking. I shall be heading to the town of Iota, which I 
believe has been renamed recently, but I'm not sure to 
what. But a town by any other name must be the same."

"'Tis also said that a change of title ist a change in nature."

"Exactly, Tudor," agreed the Philosopher, putting on his 
tall black hat. "But lead on, dear sir; let us see your 
gardens. There is no beauty greater than that of a well-
tended garden. A rose brings joy to the eye and relief to the 
weary thinker."

Tudor led us through a series of doors and eventually out 
into the early morning sunlight. We were trailed by a 
retinue of hares and by the slave who kept his head bowed 
as he followed. The light was radiant compared to the 
relative gloom of Tudor's castle and I had difficulty in 
focusing my eyes on what was around, but I was impressed 
by the its orderliness. The rose bushes and herbaceous 
borders, the hedges and small statues, were all 
distinguished by well-defined orthogony. Tudor 
commented that the garden had been designed on the 
principle of the octagon, which he explained was a square 
with its corners halved. I soon lost track of his account, 
but it appeared to be of great interest to the Philosopher 
who had much to say about the number eight, which he 
remarked was very much like the symbol of infinity. 
"And who can tell what significance that may portend?"

"I trow but little," Tudor replied. "'Tis just a symbol. The 
power of the number lieth in its universality, not in its 
expression."

"Exactly so," agreed the Terrier, as if this was what he had 
just said. "If one were two and two were one, their sum 
would remain the same."

I reasoned this out, and it was indeed true. But I couldn't 
really understand what the Philosopher was trying to say. 
My attention returned to the garden where some sheep 
were grazing in the fields, tended by a hare with a crook, 
and near a herd of grazing fallow deer. Tudor's grounds 
stretched on with no apparent end, but this was partly 
because any enclosing wall was obscured by the small 
copses of oak and birch trees that scattered his estate.

My attention wandered back to the conversation between 
the Philosopher and Tudor as we strolled along the well-
paved paths of the garden, with the servants just a few 
yards behind. They were discussing the coming General 
Election which enthralled the Philosopher.

"Democracy has its merits, Tudor, but it appears to be a 
political system intrinsically marred by its very openness. 
Only a fool leaves his door open to all comers. Who can 
say with certainty who will come in?"

"'Tis so. The Election doth trouble me greatly. 'Tis possible 
that the Red Party couldst gain the greatest number of seats 
and 'twere so 'twill be great suffering in our land. I and 
many others would wish to forsake the land of our birth. 
And where wouldst a Mouse be welcome?"

"Democracy is only one system of government. It is often 
justified as a safeguard against the rule of a single person, 
as is the case in my country. And as it is in the Kingdom of 
the Cats. Autocracy is a system even more fraught as its 
good governance relies overmuch on the wisdom and 
goodness of that leader. If that ruler is truly virtuous, wise 
and far-seeing then that nation is truly a happy land. A firm 
hand at the tiller and the boat sails fair. But too often the 
monarch, despot or tyrant is flawed. By whatever means 
the power of the state is invested in a single ruler, by fair 
means or foul, by inheritance or coup d'etat, there is so 
great a threat that he will be attentive not to the welfare of 
the people he represents but to that of himself and his 
family. Self-interest is not the greatest motive for altruism.

"Here in your country, there is a Democracy which 
pretends to represent the interests of the people and not of 
the rulers, but power is weakened as it serves so many 
disparate interests. How can a boat be steered if it is 
dragged both forward and back, sideways, and up and 
down? The boat will just sink, or, as in your country, 
remain still as the holes in its hulk are patched when they 
become too conspicuous. There is a clear failure of 
democracy as your six main political parties fight and 
squabble over the direction of policy and resolve nothing. 
It is a boat adrift on a sea of troubles constantly threatening 
to overwhelm it, and in which many volumes of discussion 
have served not at all to calm the waves. This is why your 
Coition government has chosen to abandon its policy of 
compromise and consensus."

"'Tis so, but I fear 'tis better far so as 'tis, than a 
government of communists, socialists or anarchists." 
Tudor's ears twitched in agitation as he surveyed his 
gardens. "Mine estate which I hath the great responsibility 
to tend wouldst be wrest from me. The labour of mine 
ancestors wouldst be for naught, and peasants wouldst 
wander unfettered through my gardens and castle rooms 
admiring not the legacy of a majestic tradition but its 
remnants. They would leave their sweet-wrappers and 
cigarette-ends on my garden paths. They would sneer at the 
portraits of my noble forbears. 'Tis a nightmare which I 
hope and I pray shalt ne'er be."

"What you fear, Tudor, is not democracy, which has left 
you and your wealth intact, but the rule of the mobus 
populis. The anarchy of no government at all, but a state in 
which no one can say to another: you mustn't do that! You 
fear that your servants will arise, forget your generosity and 
kindness, and snatch the wealth your family has 
accumulated over the centuries. Furthermore, the rule of the 
mob leads always and inevitably to the assertion of 
dictatorship. That which the anarchists most detest 
arises from the chaos, like a phoenix from the ashes."

"'Twere best then that the nation be governed by a single 
ruler. 'Twould obviate the chaos in which mine inheritance 
wouldst be seized, the portraits slashed, the garden razed, 
the castle defaced and mine wealth scattered fruitlessly 
to the winds."

It was clear that these images troubled Tudor considerably, 
as he paused, surveying his estate, a claw grasping the 
handle of his sword and his servants trembling at the 
possibility that the violence of his feelings might be 
expressed more physically. He regarded us.

"The way to the town known formerly as Iota ist beyond 
mine estate and along the road. 'Tis less than eight furlongs 
distant. Dost wish to walk? Or dost wish to travel by 
carriage?"

"It's a lovely morning, Tudor," the Philosopher replied. "I 
would prefer to relish it on foot. Moreover the business I 
have in the woollen trade will occupy many hours of 
unpleasant haggling, and I fancy a brisk walk will set me 
well."

With that the Philosopher and I sauntered off along the 
path Tudor indicated, with the Philosopher's slave trailing 
us by several yards. Whilst the Philosopher strode along 
briskly and easily, pointing out with a staff the various 
flowers and fungi that lined our walk, his slave was 
burdened down under the weight of a heavy bag carried on 
his shoulders and another which was strapped to his chest. 
He didn't appear to relish the morning sunshine nearly as 
much as his master. After a furlong or so we finally quit 
Tudor's estate by a gate where a hare standing on guard 
with a musket was idly admiring the lambs frolicking 
amongst the daisies. He saluted us as we passed, but 
relaxed quite visibly when the slave staggered by behind.

The countryside was very green and pleasant. The fields 
were open, there were the occasional copses of trees and a 
stream babbled along the side of the path, sometimes near 
and sometimes winding away. The sun brightened the sky 
and cotton-wool clouds floated harmlessly by. Lambs and 
leverets were bounding about together in the fields, 
savouring the innocence of their tender years. The 
Philosopher revelled in the landscape which he described 
as an earthly paradise, a model of beauty and good order, 
and a great source of obscure metaphor. He was very much 
in good spirits, unlike his servant struggling under the 
weight of the baggage. When I commented to the 
Philosopher on this, he merely commented that it was his 
slave's duty to serve and not his right to complain.

The Philosopher's good humour somewhat lessened when 
we were greeted by a modestly dressed Cat by a milestone 
that had lost all legibility with age. He was sitting down 
with a small bag on the end of a stick, a coat that came to 
below his waist, below which he wore green jerkins and 
buckled shoes. He wore a small hat on his head which fell 
between his ears and shaded his eyes from the sun.

"Good morning, sirs. Are you heading this way?"

The Philosopher was clearly discomfited to be addressed in 
such a familiar way, but he grasped his staff and replied in 
the affirmative with a voice struggling to retain its previous 
air of jollity.

"You don't mind if I join you?" the Cat asked, jumping up 
and walking alongside us before the Terrier could find a 
reason to decline. "It is so much better to stroll with 
convivial company, don't you think?"

"Good company finds its own stride," replied the 
Philosopher cryptically. "Where are you heading?"

"Oh nowhere in particular," the Cat replied. "I'm on 
holiday from the Kingdom and enjoy looking at everything. 
I've had quite a jolly time so far; and I've met some very 
interesting people. I thought I'd go to the next town and 
perhaps catch a coach or train to the City or somewhere 
else. I don't mind where I go as long as I am with friendly 
company."

"And do you meet much friendly company?" I wondered, 
reflecting on some of the distinctly unfriendly comments 
Tudor had made regarding Cats.

"Oh, most people are very pleasant," the Cat purred, 
"although there's an awful lot of prejudice towards 
foreigners from some. Some of the sheep round here, for 
instance, have been awfully rude to me. They gathered 
around me bleating in a very abusive manner until I moved 
on. I really don't understand it at all! Still, I just hope the 
people in the next town are friendlier."

"Perhaps the reason the sheep abused you was that you're a 
Cat," commented the Philosopher.

The Cat seemed somewhat puzzled by this comment, and 
his stride became less confident, while his tail wagged in 
apparent disconsolation. Then he mewed good-
humouredly. "Oh, you would say that, because you're a 
Dog. No offence, but I'd absolutely forgotten. In this 
country there are so many different types of people that you 
just completely disregard things like that. I mean, look at 
all the sheep and hares round here. In the Kingdom there 
are mostly only Cats. And a few Mice and Dogs, but you 
hardly ever get to meet many of them. I suppose a lot of 
you Dogs aren't particularly keen on Cats. Not that I can 
blame you. The King and his ministers have some pretty 
bizarre views on Dogs and Mice, haven't they? You'd have 
thought they'd learnt something from the way history has  
treated the Feline species, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," remarked the Philosopher without humour. 
"History is a lesson in the school of life the Cats have 
definitely not attended. And without knowledge of 
History, the Cat is like a tree detached from its roots."

The Cat laughed indulgently. "I say! That's jolly good! 
Where do you get all these sayings from? You don't make 
them up do you?"

The Philosopher didn't reply nearly as amiably. "I am a 
Philosopher. It is my duty to observe, comment, cogitate 
and deliberate, and then to disseminate the wisdom I have 
gained by my efforts."

"Well, the very best to you! As I say, I don't blame you 
Dogs for feeling so sore, but I hope you don't think that all 
Cats feel the same way as the King about things. I mean, 
quite a lot of Cats, and I'm one of them, really think the 
Mice get a really raw deal. It's not their fault they happened 
to have settled on our ancestral lands. And the same goes 
for the Dogs in the occupied territories. It must be bad 
enough to lose a war: it must add insult to injury to then be 
treated as second class citizens in their own country. Mind 
you! It's not as if your Dog Republics treat even Dogs very 
much better than the Kingdom does."

"What do you mean?" growled the Philosopher.

If the Cat suspected that his companion was less than 
delighted by his company he didn't show it. "Well, look at 
the appalling way the Greyhounds were treated in the tiny 
Spaniel Republic. Not to mention how the Irish Terriers are 
being persecuted by the Dalmatians. And if you were a 
Daschund, are you really better treated in the Canine 
Republics than you would be as a subject of the Kingdom?"

"The Dog Republics are at least governed for Dogs by 
Dogs; not by foreigners trawled in from all over the globe 
and planted on soil cultivated for centuries by other 
species. They don't practise a heathen religion that 
attributes a Divine Right to Rule on a Cat by mere good 
fortune of his parentage. They haven't plundered their 
neighbours nor been the author of the atrocities that Cats 
have visited upon us. And the Canine Republics don't 
administer foreign countries as if they were their own nor 
disregard the sovereignty of their neighbours when 
searching for so-called terrorists."

"Oh dear! You really don't like Cats at all do you!"

"I'm not prejudiced," snarled the dog viciously. "I would 
never declare that one species of animal is necessarily 
superior to another. We all share the same basic design. 
But the practice of the Kingdom of Cats demonstrates to 
me that the Cat is as yet unready to govern, as has the Cat 
been wholly unworthy throughout History. The Kingdom 
of Cats is nothing more than a bastard state, a political 
abomination and a threat to regional stability."

"I see," mused the Cat thoughtfully. He looked around  
nervously, and then spotted the slave stooped down under 
his load behind us, sweat dripping from his forehead and 
leaving drops along the dusty path behind him. "And what 
about your friend? Don't you think he might do with some 
help with that awfully heavy luggage he's carrying? I could 
help him, don't you think?"

"I think not!" snarled the Philosopher. "He is my slave and 
I don't wish to have my property violated by feigned Feline 
kindness."

"Oh! Is that what you think?" the Cat commented rather 
unhappily, his tail wagging agitatedly and his whiskers 
sagging. He looked around him. "Well! Goodness me! An 
inn!" he announced pointing at one down a small lane to 
the left. "What I fancy is a nice glass of milk! Would you 
care to join me?"

"No, I would not!" barked the Scottish Terrier, turning his 
head away. He strode faster and I had to increase my stride 
to keep up with him, while his slave almost had to break 
into a trot. The Cat, meanwhile, stood alone at the corner of 
the lane clearly rather unsettled by the Philosopher's 
sentiments. My companion remained uncharacteristically 
silent for a furlong or so more, not slackening his pace and 
his paws gripping his staff so determinedly that his claws 
left distinct marks on it.

"Well, young man," ventured the Philosopher at last, "what 
brings you so far from your borough of the Suburbs? Is it 
merely a desire to travel?"

"Well, not just that." I told him about my quest for the 
Truth.

"The Truth!" exclaimed the Philosopher. "That's exactly 
what my quest in life has been, but not by travelling. I 
would be very surprised to find the Truth in such an 
aimless way. The Truth can only be discovered by intense 
ceaseless philosophical enquiry. With enough time and 
effort even a worm can find its way to the end of a maze. 
With a powerful enough microscope even a mole can see 
the atoms of fundamental creation. With sufficient 
philosophical enquiry the Truth will surely be revealed."

"Do you have a hypothesis of what the Truth may be?"

"The pursuit of such metaphysical enquiry has not been my 
speciality, but I have read widely and debated long with 
many of the finest minds of our time. My opinion is that 
the Truth is such that when it has been demonstrated as 
found, by rigorous logic, then the end of all philosophical 
enquiry will have been achieved. The Truth will shine out 
from the predicate calculus of its expression. Indeed it 
could be said that some of the Truth is already known."

"Is that so?" I asked, speculating that I might be nearer the 
object of my search than I'd anticipated.

"Indeed it is! It is undeniable, for instance, when I say that 
if all birds fly, then if that is a bird then it must fly. This 
is true by virtue of its expression and is what the Truth must 
partake of."

"But not all birds do fly," I objected. "Penguins don't fly. 
Kiwis don't fly. Ostriches, diatrymas and rheas don't fly. 
And if a bird damages its wing or if the wing is clipped 
then it can't fly."

The Philosopher smiled. "You are clearly not a logician. It 
matters not whether a proposition is true. The Truth lies in 
the expression of that proposition. It follows that if the 
reasoning is correct, then if the propositions express the 
Truth then the Truth is revealed: however amazing and 
unbelievable that Truth may be."

"Then the Truth must lie in the fundamental propositions," 
I commented.

"Exactly so. A house made of straw will surely fall, but one 
built on firm foundations will weather any storm."

"Isn't the question then to find what these firm foundations 
are, rather than in what they can be used to build?" I 
speculated, using the Philosopher's metaphor.

"Philosophers have said that what we see in the world are 
just shadows of the Truth. Our lives and our experiences 
are nothing more than the most modest reflection of the 
Truth. And it has been said that it is impossible to directly 
gaze at it, as we would be blinded like one staring at the 
sun. We are just silhouettes of our real polydimensional 
selves. Scientists have concluded that at the smallest 
quantum level of the universe the rules governing the 
universe are totally unlike those we perceive. We see 
just the crudest outline of what the Truth may be."

"So the Truth is something that can't be directly 
experienced?"

"I didn't say that. But there are those who would say so. 
And there are those who say that the Truth is not a physical 
thing that could be experienced at all. It is just a proper 
reasoned expression of what the universe may be, arrived 
at only from the most fundamental of axioms. Cogito ergo 
sum. By being sure of what we know by rigorous logical 
enquiry then we can be certain that what we know is truly 
what we know. We can be certain that the universe is so 
and not such."

"The Truth doesn't appear to be a particularly exciting 
thing in that case," I commented with disappointment.

"Indeed why should it be? Others profess that the Truth is 
nothing more nor less than God. They argue that the proper 
pursuit of the Truth is merely to know God, in all His glory 
and magnificence. Some have sought to prove the 
existence of God from the workings of the universe; 
asserting that the Truth is nothing more than another name 
for the Great Mover, the Original Being and the Creator of 
all things. I have my doubts, because it would not answer 
the question as to why there is a God. The deeper you plunge, 
the deeper still there is to descend." The Scottish Terrier 
looked at my puzzled expression. "I hope I have illuminated 
your ignorance," he remarked. "Philosophical enquiry is like 
a torch shone in the darkness, but like a torch it is painful 
to look directly into its beam."

"Perhaps you're right," I mused. "Perhaps I'm searching for 
the Truth in totally the wrong way. Maybe I should spend 
my time in thought and meditation."

"Thought should be adequate, young man. But I see that we 
have arrived at the town. Where's my slave?" He looked 
around him irritatedly, and could see the slave quite a long 
distance behind us bowed further down by the weight of 
the luggage and walking towards us rather slower than 
we'd managed. "Pah! The lazy peasant. I'll be late for my 
appointment if he doesn't hurry!" 

He barked urgently at the slave who stood visibly more 
upright and hastened a little faster. 

I left the Philosopher waiting impatiently for his slave by 
the roadside, angrily muttering to himself, and proceeded 
towards the town which I only knew by its former name 
of Iota.



	9

I was impressed by the many banners and flags hung up 
along the road approaching the town. The Borough of 
Rupert Welcomes the Great Leader. We Salute 
You, Chairman President. All Hail President 
Chairman Rupert. I had the distinct impression that the 
people of the town were very enthusiastic about President 
Chairman Rupert: a notion reinforced by portraits of the 
koala in many striking and heroic poses hanging from 
lamp-posts, embellishing walls and filling enormous 
posters. These were intermingled with election posters all 
for the Illicit Party. There were none at all representing 
other Parties. Everywhere there was Rupert's face wearing 
his broad-brimmed hat, accompanied by a single word next 
to a cross in a square. The single word was sometimes self-
explanatory like Rupert, Illicit and Unity. Sometimes the 
word suggested something less obvious like 100%, 
Republicity and Truth. This last word particularly caught 
my attention, especially as it was one used more frequently 
than almost all others. Even some of the slogans used the 
word. Only the Illicit Party knows the Truth. Truth 
is Illicit and Rupert. The Truth belongs to the 
Illicit Cause. 

The enthusiasm expressed for the Illicit Party and its leader 
built up steadily as I wandered past a brand new sign that 
read in enormous letters: Welcome to the Illicit 
Borough of Rupert, under which were details relating to 
the town being twinned to the cities of Rupertgrad and 
Rupertsville in the Illicit Republic of Rupert. This 
enthusiasm wasn't constrained to banners and posters, as I 
found myself in a town almost full to overflowing with 
people all moving in one direction. Most townspeople were 
sheep of one kind or another, and I was nearly deafened by 
their excited bleating punctuated with the chanting of 
political slogans. I couldn't easily differentiate the slogans 
but many included the words Illicit and Rupert. One 
sounded like: "Her Maphrodite Good. Rupert Better." 
Another referred unfavourably to Cats, but over the 
competing noises I could catch only the gist of a litany of 
crimes attributed to them and the tortures that Cats 
deserved as a result.

I followed the crowd's flow, curious to discover what was 
attracting so many people. It was very orderly and this was 
ensured by the presence of small dragons standing on street 
corners emanating a steady stream of smoke from their 
nostrils, nursing semi-automatic firearms between their 
wings and their forearms, while their serpentine tails 
wagged from side to side. The density of images relating to 
Rupert steadily increased, as not only did his marsupial 
features gaze benignly down from enormous hoardings on 
the top of buildings and from the walls of every available 
building, but, as if more were needed, many sheep carried 
banners adorned by the koala. These banners also had 
slogans relating to issues hinted elsewhere, such as: 100% 
Turnout. 100% Rupert. Avenge the Sufferings 
of Feline Expansion and Truth and Justice and an 
Illicit Government. The images of Rupert included even 
a statue, at least nine feet high, standing on a tall pedestal 
well above the crowd. The statue gazed towards the distant 
horizon, one paw hidden in the depths of a monstrous great 
coat and the other held out horizontally in front as if 
showing the way.

The purpose of this large gathering, I discovered from 
reading some posters, was that there was a political rally to 
inspire electoral support for the Illicit Party. This had 
already started, and as I approached more closely to the 
town square loudspeakers blared the voice of a small 
dragon in a very dapper suit who was addressing the crowd 
of ruminant supporters and raising the occasional 
approving cheer. However, this speaker, popular though he 
clearly was, did not fully explain the large turnout. The 
reason was that President Chairman Rupert himself was 
due to address the gathering. He was actually meant to be 
speaking now, but even from the hundred yards or so that I 
stood from the platform that had been erected for the 
speakers, I could see that he was not even amongst those 
seated in chairs behind the dragon.

Driven by curiosity, I moved into the midst of a crowd 
fortunately mostly somewhat shorter than me, so I could 
get a very good view and was soon able to position myself 
where I could properly hear what was being said. An 
enormous bank of speakers curved round in a semicircle to 
address the heaving mass of woolly fleeced supporters who 
crowded out the entire square, and spread beyond and 
behind the surrounding buildings. The odd dragon strode 
through the crowd carrying an automatic weapon and 
puffing menacingly to calm the more over-enthusiastic 
lambs. The speaker was clearly getting very excited by 
his own rhetoric in which he interspersed the words Truth, 
Cat Menace, Illicit Party and, most frequently of all, 
the name of Rupert, for whom no praise seemed adequate.

The dragon brought his address to a close by repeating over 
and over again the word Rupert, which was echoed 
increasingly by the audience. This became a loud 
monotonous chant of "Rupert! Rupert! Rupert!" Then, 
when I was sure the chant couldn't get louder, the crowd let 
loose a thunderous incoherent cry as a small figure 
appeared from the corner of the stage, sporting a great coat 
which reached almost down to his ankles and a flamboyant 
hat, and sauntered towards the centre of the stage. On cue, 
enormous screens above and on either side of the stage 
suddenly flickered into life to display identical pictures of 
the same koala waving his arms at the audience in 
appreciation of the greeting he earned.

This went on for nearly ten minutes in which I felt trapped 
in the mass of people and threatened by a cheering that sent 
vibrations up from the cobbled ancient ground through my 
legs, causing my jaw to tremble and my ears to ache. And 
then, suddenly, with a single lowering of the President 
Chairman's upraised arms, the crowd was hushed. There 
was not even a single bleat. An enormous image of his face 
filled the screen. A colossal flag of green, red and black 
descended to the back of the stage in the centre of which 
was a single vertical black line that I presumed was the 
letter I representing the Illicit Party.

"We have worked hard. We have laboured long. We have 
struggled against all adversity. We have defeated our 
enemies. The enemies of Illiberal Socialism and the Truth. 
Through astute and farseeing manoeuvres, we have seen 
off traitors and secured power for the great cause of 
Illiberal Socialism in our land. And now we shall secure 
the same cause here." The crowd roared its approval. "Here 
in the Illiberal Socialist Borough. Here with all of you 
gathered here. Here. And Now. Illiberal Socialism begins its 
relentless, unstoppable struggle which in the Election or 
after will bring us to Power in this land. Here and Now is 
where the Battle commences!"

The koala paused and the crowd took its cue for a wild 
abandon of applause, much the same as before but focused 
now on the rallying cry: "Lead us forward, Rupert! Take 
the nation! Exterminate Her Maphrodite and the Coition 
ministers!"

"The continuing success of the Illiberal Socialist cause is 
the accomplishment of a political movement which addresses 
the needs of all the people, which powers the engine of 
great economic growth and brings prosperity to all. The 
Illicit Party is the Party of Freedom." 

"Freedom!" roared the crowd.

"True Freedom is freedom from want, from poverty, from 
despair, from indecision, from uncertainty and from the 
corruptions of the capitalist, imperialist reactionary. 
Freedom to serve the greatest causes. Freedom to follow 
and obey. Freedom to build the strength of the Illicit 
State. With a strength, untainted by bourgeois liberal 
caveats, to crown the achievements of the Illiberal 
Socialist Republics with victory here, led by you, 
the people of the Illiberal Socialist Borough. Pooling 
together your untutored strength and your determination to 
wage war for Peace and Prosperity. For it is only by 
unceasing struggle using sticks, stones, firearms and 
missiles that true Peace will be attained. And then we will 
be Free. Free from the corrupt Coition government and its 
communist, capitalist and imperialist ministers. Freedom!"

"Freedom! Freedom!" came the chant.

"And what does this Freedom the Illiberal Socialist 
movement desire so much? Is it the freedom from 
oppression and dictatorship so desired by the petty 
bourgeoisie? The liberty that promises so much, but 
furnishes us instead with vile pornography, immoral 
literature, repugnant art and so much opinion that no one 
knows when they are right or when they are wrong. The 
freedom that borders on chaos and anarchy in which 
crime is rife and the mob wanders where it pleases. What 
freedom is that? No freedom at all! And is it the freedom 
advocated by the Red Party? The freedom to organise, rebel, 
destroy and usurp. No! The freedom advocated by Illiberal 
Socialism is the freedom to serve, the freedom to struggle 
in a great cause. The freedom which serves the greater 
good. And that is what we mean when we advocate Freedom. 
We want freedom now! Freedom from the Reds, the Blues and 
the Greens!"

"Freedom! Freedom!" The crowd chanted, stomped and 
enthused in a regular rhythm partly coordinated by the 
dragon stewards mingling with the crowd and raising 
smoke from their mouths as they yelled out a refrain that 
gradually returned to a refrain of "Rupert! Rupert!"

The koala raised a paw to silence the crowd, which did so 
with remarkable promptness. "There are those who criticise 
the Illiberal Socialist Party for contesting the General 
Election. They say that as we do not practice democracy in 
the Illiberal Socialist Republics then we are hypocrites to 
participate in the process here. But democracy is nothing 
more than the means by which the people of a country 
choose how they wish to be governed. And in the Illiberal 
Socialist Republics that decision has been made. 
Unequivocally. Unanimously. And Eternally. As it will be 
made here tomorrow!" 

The crowd roared its approval and perhaps prematurely a 
section of the audience recommenced a chant of "Rupert! 
Rupert!" He let it carry on for nearly a minute before 
silencing it with a gesture and continuing.

"When the people of this nation so wish, and by the flawed 
process of Representational Democracy if necessary, the 
Illicit Party will take power in this land. Then this country 
will enjoy the more genuine democracy as it is practised in 
the Illiberal Socialist Republics. Not a paper democracy 
where once every four years or so, the people are allowed 
the rare privilege to register their disapproval of the 
governing parties. Not a democracy where the people's sole 
method of making themselves heard is by entering a cross 
against the appropriate candidate. The democracy the Illicit 
Party believes in is not one where each candidate is 
presented to the people only for the campaign for election 
and then squanders the rest of his tenure in the City far 
away from those he supposedly represents. 

"No! The democracy practised in the Illiberal Socialist 
Republics is an active one. One where a Party official is 
at hand in even the smallest community ready to listen to 
the representations of the people and report his findings 
to a pyramid of party officials able to respond swiftly 
to each specific issue. Within weeks or even days of the 
representation there is prompt and decisive action. The 
faulty shearing machines are repaired, the broken cobbles 
are mended and the new by-pass built. The corrupt landlord, 
bureaucrat or intellectual is appropriately punished. The 
statues and posters reminding each of us of our duties to 
the Illiberal Socialist cause are erected in response to 
popular demand. The shopkeeper, cafe-owner and hairdresser 
insufficiently reflecting the Illiberal Socialist zeal of 
his customers is chastised. And in addition, the local 
Party official also guides the community in the ways of 
Illiberal Socialist doctrine, weeds out the shirkers and 
malcontents, and ensures that everyone is happy with their 
lot. In the Illiberal Socialist Republics discontent is 
gravely frowned upon and the future for a Party official 
in a discontented community is unlikely to be prosperous. 

"So, to all the doubters and cynics: We are not afraid 
to hear the voice of the people. Go! I beseech you! Go ahead 
tomorrow and register your vote for the Illicit Party and 
your excellent local candidate!"

The crowd immediately erupted into more cheering and 
chanting. I felt increasingly crushed by the pressure 
from behind as more and more people moved forward to be 
nearer the President Chairman. I was grateful indeed that 
the crowd were fleeced so well. However, no matter how 
crowded it was, there seemed to be no obstacle to the flow 
of stewards through the throng.

"It has been said that the Illicit Party has no policy on 
wealth and power. It is proclaimed by these sceptics that 
political debate should only address the two issues of 
wealth distribution and the concentration of power. All 
other issues are mere distractions from a great class 
struggle that has been taking place since the earliest 
of times. What nonsense I say! What poppycock! Have you 
heard anything so ridiculous?" 

The crowd was invited to laugh which it duly did, but I 
still wasn't sure what the joke was. 

"It is this spurious debate which divides the two wings 
of political opinion: the Reds and Greens on the one side 
and the Blues and Blacks on the other. The Red Party and 
other communists throughout the world claim to represent 
the interests of the poor which they would achieve by a 
dictatorship of the proletariat, in which all wealth and 
power is distributed amongst the poor. What utter 
nonsense! Is society to be turned upside down? Is the 
servant to tell his master what to do? Is the student to 
teach his lecturer? Is the shop floor worker to dictate 
to his manager what should be produced? What arrant and 
dangerous nonsense!" 

The crowd laughed appreciatively. These were more like 
jokes.

"The Blue and Black Parties represent opinions of the 
right, by which they assert that the preservation of law and 
order is dependant on the current distribution of wealth and 
power. They claim that by acting in the interests of the rich 
and powerful they act as guardians of law, order and common 
decency. But if the law be corrupt? If the order be fractured? 
If the rich and powerful act against the interests of the 
people? Where then is the argument for preserving the wealth 
and power of the established order? We say that the interests 
of the people are best served by seizing it from the present 
corrupt, immoral and uncaring establishment. Then to transfer 
it to safe custody in the interests of all the people and in 
the furtherance of the Illicit cause. 

"We say to you corrupt businessmen, condescending aristocracy 
and overpaid intellectuals: Enjoy your wealth and privilege 
now for as long as you can. For soon it will belong to us!"

The crowd erupted again in great cheers. "Rupert! Rupert! 
Rupert!" A few dragon stewards raised their small-arms 
above their heads and waved them in exultation. Firecrackers 
exploded noisily in the distance.

While the crowd continued to show its approval by 
cheering, chanting, banging drums, whistling and waving 
banners, I scanned over their heads. Amongst the sheep and 
dragons were humans, mermen, lions, crabs, scorpions and 
there in the distance a solitary Cat whom I felt sure was 
the traveller I'd recently met on the way to the town. He 
was rapt in attention and showed no evidence of having 
seen me.

"Government is always fraught by uncertainty and 
indecision," continued the koala, his face beaming out from 
the screens to the whole crowd. "Even an Illiberal Socialist 
government is run by imperfect beings, of which I must 
count myself. Bad decisions are made which seem so right 
at the time, but later appear so wrong. The Illicit Party has 
made such mistakes, it must be acknowledged. Once we 
were too tolerant of criticism from intellectuals and 
academics: a mistake now rectified. Once we allowed too 
much power and wealth to remain in the hands of the 
aristocrats, capitalists and counter-revolutionaries. 
Although corrected now, the Illiberal Socialist Republics 
still suffer from the legacy of this indulgence and lack of 
unswerving zeal. There is only one way that a government 
can be sure that what it does is right, proper and for the 
best. There is only one way to ensure that government is 
truly for the best, without regard for the petty bourgeois 
tendencies of its administrators. And that way can only be 
achieved by possession of the Truth!"

"Rupert! Rupert!" chanted the crowd in agreement, while I 
reeled at the import of the President Chairman's remarks. 
Was the Illicit Party, like myself, on a quest for the Truth? 
What did the koala mean by the Truth? Was it the same 
thing that I was looking for?

"This is why I have authorised a search for the Truth!" 
Rupert announced as if echoing my thoughts. "With the 
Truth, there will no longer be doubt or indecision. With the 
Truth, it will be known for sure where mistakes may be 
made and how they can be avoided. Armed with the Truth, 
an Illicit government can ensure that government is fair, 
just and accords with the aims of Illiberal Socialisme. 
It is the right, indeed the prerogative, of the Illicit 
Party to be armed with this, the most potent of all weapons, 
against which we need have no fear of contradiction, no 
fear of wavering from the best path towards the proper 
exercise of power. So I tell you now. Go out! In your 
thousands! In your greatest numbers! And seek the Truth! 
Seek it here! Seek it there! With the massed effort of all 
Illicitists, the Truth will be found and will forever serve the 
interests of our great movement! The Truth! The Truth!"

The crowd echoed this cry and all around me I was 
surrounded by the chant: "The Truth! The Truth!" 
intermingled with "Rupert! Rupert!" and even the 
combination "Rupert is the Truth! Rupert is the Truth!" 
The koala allowed this last chant to dominate, orchestrated 
by some dragons whose cries came out in bursts of sulphurous 
fumes. 

He raised his paws.

"No! No! I am not the Truth! The Truth is not I! No person 
however good and wise can embody the Truth. It is a thing 
beyond mere corporeal being. Beyond even the knowledge 
and wisdom represented by the Illiberal Socialist 
movement. The Truth is the embodiment, the expression 
and the undeniability of all that can be. It contains the 
essence of morality, government, wisdom, knowledge and 
power. It is all that has ever been desired. All that could 
ever be desired. The Truth is all that there is. Omnipresent, 
immanent and elusive. It is there. It must be there. Under 
all the superficialities of life, seen through the distorted 
lens of all the senses, there it lies waiting to be 
demonstrated, experienced and learnt from. And the Truth 
is what we shall all seek!

"The Illicit Party is the only cause to admit that its 
objective is to attain the Truth. The other parties 
heretically claim to already be in possession of it. A Truth 
mysteriously found in the works of Mohammed, Marx, St. 
Paul, Hitler, Adam Smith, Confucius or the Buddha. The 
Red Party says that it lies in the redistribution of wealth and 
power. The Black Party in the certainties of dogma and 
prejudice. The Blue Party in the continuation of tradition 
and the practice of capitalism. The Green Party in the 
maintenance of the ecosystem. The White Party in who 
knows what. 

"Only the Illicit Party is humble enough to admit that it 
does not have sole possession of the Truth. Only the Illicit 
Party is willing to strive for the Truth, not trammelled by 
an ideology which claims prior knowledge. And on this 
greatest quest of all, all of us, of whatever species, race, 
epoch or mythology, are together called upon  to seek it out. 
To look for the Truth. Wherever it may be. In the Country. 
In the City. In the Suburbs. Wherever! So when you leave 
today, let your thoughts be only on the Truth. After you 
have voted for the rightful succession of power by the 
Illicit Party's candidates, your minds should be focused 
on only one thing. And that thing is the Truth! The Truth!"

"The Truth! The Truth!" obediently chanted the crowd. 

I stood in a degree of confusion. Had my quest been 
superseded? With so many people searching for the Truth, 
what chance was there in my quest being successful? And 
where would the search take all these thousands of Illicit 
Party supporters?

"It has been said that possession of the Truth would make 
no difference to the conduct of government. Politics, 
Power and the State are entities wholly divorced from the 
theoretical constructs embodied by the Truth. Even with 
the Truth, it is said, there would be no change to the 
conduct of government. There is already sufficient wealth 
in the world it is said for everyone to be moderately well 
off and yet there is starvation. It is universally agreed that 
murder and crime are wrong and yet they are still 
prevalent. How should possession of the Truth make any 
difference? But there is a difference in kind. The Truth is 
absolute. It is eternal. It is incapable of being refuted. 


"In the custody of the Illicit Party, which, under 
my chairmanship, is committed to following the edicts of 
the Truth however unpalatable they may be, possession of 
the Truth will make all the difference. All the difference 
there can be! You have my word! So! All of you! From the 
smallest lamb to the largest wyvern, it is now that you must 
take the initiative. Follow the Illicit Party banner. And all 
in your vast numbers to seek out the Truth. To find it. 
Secure it. And then bring it back to me. And to the Illicit 
Party! Find the Truth!"

"The Truth! The Truth! The Truth!" echoed the crowd. 

I gazed at the small distant figure of the koala as he gestured 
wildly at the crowd whose cheers crashed like waves in 
crescendos of volume and whose face on the screen 
expressed satisfaction through beady eyes shadowed 
slightly by his large hat. For several minutes the cheering 
continued, waxing and waning, now thundering, now 
almost a murmur. And then just as I was thinking that the 
speech was drawing to an end, he drew his arm out in a 
horizontal sweeping gesture which quite suddenly cut off 
the cheering and chanting like someone turning off the 
volume switch of a radio. 

"There have been many slanders expressed about the Illicit 
Party by our enemies and recidivists. From what I hear it 
would seem that it is the author of great injustices and 
crimes. And that I, as Chairman of the Party, am myself a 
vile criminal. Such slanders cannot remain unchallenged. It 
is not true that government in the Socialist Republics is 
maintained by terror and fear. It is not true that anyone 
other than the convicted criminal is ever arrested without 
trial. And it is not true, as some have said, that the Illicit 
Party is a racist or speciesist party. It is wholly 
contradictory to the policies and practises of Illiberal 
Socialism that any individual should be discriminated 
against on account of the number of legs they may have, 
the furriness or scaliness of their skin or their height. Such 
discrimination is wholly against the fundamental precepts 
of Illicitism. Ungulate or pachyderm. Saurischian or 
ornithischian. Cretaceous or Pliocene. Chimaera or dragon. 
All are the same in the regard of the Illicit Party.

"However, the sternest critics of the Illicit Party are those 
who themselves discriminate against all species other than 
their own, and have done so since their inception in the 
shadow of the earliest pyramids. These are, of course, the 
Cats, who, under the leadership of their King so cruelly 
discriminate against Mice, Dogs and Sheep."

The crowd gasped. "Death to the Cats!" chanted one 
section of it. "Death to the Cat Kingdom!" chanted another 
section. I glanced over at the Cat traveller who appeared 
untroubled by these remarks.

"One reason why the Feline critics have libelled the Illicit 
cause is because we alone of all the parties have a 
constructive policy towards natural selection. The Illicit 
Party recognises that with time, the people of a nation 
become genetically inferior unless an effort is made to 
encourage the breeding of superior stock, and, at the same 
time, to discourage the breeding of the genetically inferior. 
In this way, the people of Illicit nations will be only the 
most intelligent, most physically fit and most loyal. 

"Already the people of the Illiberal Socialist Republics are 
obliged to petition for the right to bear children and are 
awarded quotas of production according to their fitness to 
do so. For those who are especially well-qualified, these 
quotas are generous and it is made plain that it is viewed 
as the individual's duty to achieve these reproduction 
quotas. For the least fit, the Illicit Party offers (free of 
charge!) methods to ensure these individuals are relieved 
of the ability to reproduce should they be so tempted. The 
demand for these services has been quite high, and 
consequently the treatment has been rather brusque and 
irreversible. It is also believed that for those who are not 
obviously fit or unfit, which includes many Illicit Party 
officials, it is necessary to demonstrate fitness to reproduce 
measured by devotion and loyalty to the Illicit cause. In 
this way, Illicitism will be maintained forever on the 
deoxyribonucleic acid of the people."

The crowd seemed less inspired by this discourse, and the 
President Chairman may have noticed that the resulting 
cheers and chants were less than overwhelming. He didn't 
dwell on this subject, and instead raised his voice to bring 
the crowd to attention.

"It is the view of the Illicit Party that there is such a thing 
as inferior stock, which results from millennia of 
inbreeding and unselective breeding. A prime example of 
this is the Cat. The Cat is a degenerate species that has lost 
many of the proud attributes of its ancestors. This is 
reflected by the primitive nature of government that the Cat 
has adopted. Whereas all other species have aspired to 
modern government led by presidents or democratically 
elected individuals, only the Cat has opted for a form of 
government in which power is invested in a single 
individual whose qualifications to govern are merely to do 
with the 'nobility' of his birth. The Illicit Party is utterly 
opposed to such hereditary dictatorships and is therefore 
opposed to the very essence of the Cat Kingdom.

"The Cat is also an inherently war-like species. Whilst  
others have forsworn their carnivorous tendencies, the Cat 
has reversed the process in its fierce wars against the Dogs 
bordering the Cat Kingdom's frontiers and the Mice who 
live within. The Cat will never be satisfied until he has all 
other mammals under his merciless yoke, no doubt feeling 
free to feast on them. How can the civilised world permit 
the Cat to fix his teeth and claws in the flesh of his 
enemies? 

"Not only is the Cat exemplary of all that is wrong, as the 
result of centuries of inbreeding, but in all lands the Cat 
has cunningly and deceitfully amassed wealth which by 
rights belongs to other species. The Cat has become the 
archetypal capitalist and speculator, by his manipulation of 
the hard-saved earnings of those foolish enough to invest 
in their concerns or to buy at their shops or to wear the 
clothes they have made. How much of the wealth that 
should by rights belong to us all is held by the foul feline! 
The cunning cat! The manipulative moggie!"

The crowd was more excited by Rupert's condemnation of 
Cats. I regarded the Cat traveller who seemed visibly 
nervous even from this distance: his tail wagging 
involuntarily and his whiskers twitching. He was 
presumably hoping that by keeping a low profile he'd be 
able to sneak away from the large crowd who were looking 
at him with hostile interest.

"Not only does the Cat take your money! He takes the jobs 
that should go to sheep and others. How often have you 
applied for a job only to find that a contentedly purring Cat 
has taken it from you? How often have you applied for a 
bank loan only for a Cat in an office miles away to turn you 
down? How often has your life been ruined by the devious, 
inscrutable Feline malefactor? How long can decent people 
stand by while Cats take, take and take from others? How 
long can we continue to suffer the Feline yoke? How much 
more can we take?"

"Death to Cats! Down with Cats!" chanted the crowd in 
unison. 

Then quite suddenly, the Cat traveller, who'd somehow 
remained standing in amongst the hostile crowd was 
knocked over onto the back of a ewe. He picked himself 
up only to be knocked over again. The area around him 
erupted into a whirlwind of aggression as people of all 
species descended on the Cat who could be glimpsed in the 
scrum. His clothes were torn off and the rags remaining 
were thrown up into the air. The President Chairman 
paused in his address and impassively viewed the 
proceedings, but notably made no attempt to calm things 
down.

The last I saw of the Cat was of a battered naked figure 
with a torn ear, blood running from where his eye might 
have been and a crooked waving tail, fur pulled out in 
chunks revealing his bare flesh and mewing piteously. 
Then before I could really make out more details, the 
battered figure was once again submerged under a mass of 
hooves and claws with flaying limbs and blood. In the 
scramble for the unfortunate Cat I could hear the bleating 
of lambs pressed by the mass of their neighbours and 
saw a dragon steward rescue a pelican who'd been trampled 
by the mob and whose white feathers were a mess of blood 
and whose wings were painfully broken. While this was 
happening, the orchestrated chants and cheers continued 
unabated, accompanied by a frightening more primaeval 
roar of aggression.

"Death to Cats! Kill all Cats! Down with the Cat 
Kingdom!" shouted the crowd. Gradually, the chant 
became more positively: "Rupert! Rupert! Rupert!" and the 
references to Cats appeared to be forgotten as easily as the 
passion of hatred had begun.

President Chairman Rupert commenced his speech after 
calming the passions of the crowd with another gesture, but 
I had lost my appetite for the rally. I couldn't help 
wondering whether the wrath of the crowd might soon be 
directed away from Cats and towards people from the 
Suburbs. So, while he continued his speech, I struggled out 
through the crush of the crowd to the quieter streets beyond 
the public square. It was not easy threading through the 
tightly pressed bodies and it was with considerable relief 
that I found myself at last in the relatively deserted streets 
beyond. It seemed as if everybody in the town was at the 
rally.

There was a small cafe open several streets away, so 
feeling hungry as it was now past midday I entered and 
ordered myself a hamburger and chips from the counter 
where I sat. In very little time my order arrived in a small 
plastic container and I paid the shilling and sixpence that 
the meal cost. The cafe was not unlike similar fast food 
places in the suburbs, but the walls were pasted with Illicit 
Party posters, and a massive portrait of President Chairman 
Rupert dominated above the plastic laminated pictures of 
muttonburgers, beefburgers and french fries. The person 
serving was a small young dragon wearing the green 
costume of his job with a paper hat carrying the symbol of 
Mutton King, the title of the store. His name was written 
on a plastic badge on his lapel amongst a plethora of 
badges bearing Rupert's face.

"Have you been to the rally?" he asked me.

I nodded as I bit into the hamburger and removed a strand 
of onion from my teeth.

"I wish I could have gone, but Mutton King just wouldn't 
understand. I'd love to see the Great Leader myself. He's 
been speaking, hasn't he? What did he have to say?"

I reflected on what I could remember while chewing on the 
meat. "He had a lot to say about the Truth."

"The Truth!" mused the dragon thoughtfully. "So the great 
quest is on! I heard it would be! And so close to the 
General Election as well! The Great Leader is so wise! I 
hope to join the search for the Truth myself." He scratched 
his chin with a claw while a small cloud of smoke billowed 
from his nostrils. "Are you going to be searching for the 
Truth, too?"

"Yes, I am," I admitted positively. "I've been searching for 
the Truth now for several days."

"You're certainly ahead of me! You're sure to find it before 
anyone else! You must be a very true supporter of the Illicit 
Party."

"Not really," I admitted. "I decided on my quest for the 
Truth before I knew that the Illicit Party was also doing 
so."

"Really!" said the dragon, clearly quite impressed. "How 
wonderful! But of course it will be the Illicit Party who 
will find the Truth. As is only right. It is the prerogative of 
the Illicit Party to find it before anyone else can. Only the 
Illicit Party is able to fully utilise the Truth for the greater 
good of everyone. How did you decide on this quest before 
the Great Leader showed us all the way?"

"I'm not sure. It just seemed like a good idea."

"And of course it's a good idea. It must be! Otherwise, the 
Great Leader would never instruct us all to follow it. Do 
you have any idea where the Truth might be?"

"I don't know. I left the Suburbs with just that question."

"The Suburbs! I've heard rumoured that the Truth may be 
there. But you obviously don't believe it is?"

"In the Suburbs? That would be the very last place I'd 
expect to find it. I'm sure it's elsewhere. Perhaps in the 
City. Perhaps in a distant country. I really don't know."

"And have you any idea what the Truth might be?"

"None at all. People have told me all sorts of things about 
what they think it might be, but I've yet to come across 
anyone who can convince me. Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll 
know it when I find it."

"That's what I hope, too! I'm sure that if I'm the one that's 
lucky enough to find it, I'll recognise it. And when I do, I'll 
so gladly come galumphing back to the Great Leader 
carrying it like booty and presenting it to him so humbly. 
'Here it is!' I'll say. 'It's yours to do with whatever you like!' 
Wouldn't that be wonderful! Perhaps he'd make me a Party 
Official. Maybe a member of the Inner Party. And then I 
would be able to stand in his presence all day long. What 
do you think?"

I finished my beefburger and left a few of the more soggy 
french fries lying in a puddle of brown sauce. I re-entered 
the street outside where I could distinctly hear the 
thunderous sound of Rupert's address reverberating from 
opposing houses. The streets were eerily empty in 
comparison to the crush in the square, and all the other 
shops were shut. I peered inside them, and noted that all of 
them had several portraits of the President Chairman on the 
walls. I didn't have to search hard to see his face, as it was 
also gazing down on me from the many posters and billboards 
surrounding me. 

I decided that I was unlikely to find the Truth in the 
borough of Rupert, so I wandered out from the town the 
way I'd come in search of a bus stop to take me elsewhere. 
I had no real idea where I wanted to go, but I felt sure that 
the Truth was to be found in quite a different arena.



	10

Keeping in the direction indicated by signs of a 
silhouetted coach, I made my way to the bus station just by 
the main road outside the town. Although there were no 
buses or coaches, there was a reassuring assembly of 
travellers. I was unable to get past a group of bulls who had 
converged, stomping and disputing, in front of the bus 
timetable and so could not decide which bus to take. A 
small dragon in an official cap and overcoat was standing 
by a poster promoting holidays in the Illicit Republics. I 
contemplated approaching him to ask where the buses were 
heading, but I was somewhat intimidated by the smoke 
billowing from his nostrils.

I looked around in some perplexity. Where should I go 
next? And would I be travelling nearer to or further away 
from the Truth? I stood on the tip of my toes and scanned 
the depots in the hope of seeing some helpful signs or 
indicators. A Gryphon approached me, carrying a 
newspaper under his claws. "You look lost, young man. 
Can I be of help?" 	

"I was just wondering where the buses went from here."

The Gryphon cawed slightly. "Is that all? Well, I can assure 
you they go to quite a few destinations. And if you are 
willing to transfer, you will be able to reach any point on 
the globe you choose. Where is it that you actually want to 
go?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted with embarrassment.

"You're not sure? You must have some idea. It is just not 
possible for one to have no destination at all. Do you want 
to go to the Suburbs? To Lambdeth? To the City? To the 
Country?"

"Lambdeth sounds a very agreeable destination."

"And indeed it is. The great University city of our fair land. 
The seat of learning and the font of knowledge. Is that 
where you want to go?"

"Yes!" I said decisively. 

"Well, let's have a look at the timetable if our bovine 
friends will just allow us to squeeze through..." The 
Gryphon approached the company of bulls, many wearing 
cheerful straw boaters and scarves, and with a few polite 
and firm excuse mes, he made his way to the front and 
gazed up at the timetable finding instruction from its 
seemingly arcane symbols. He placed a claw on the back of 
a bullock, with the newspaper headline (Red Victory 
Likely) prominent. His other claw traced a route across the 
columns of destinations and times. 

"There's a bus to Lambdeth Central in just a few minutes 
from bay number..." his eyes gazed up at the headings, 
"...bay number Nine. The same bay where my bus is 
leaving in fact. But a little later than yours, I'm afraid." He 
squeezed back out past the broad backs of the bulls. "Now 
the next thing is to buy a ticket. I trust you have sufficient 
for the journey. It'll cost you nine shillings and nine pence."

The Gryphon led me along to the ticket office window 
where another dragon took my two crowns in his claw and 
hesitated over a groat, before handing me three pennies as 
change. "Are you sure you only want a single?" he 
wondered. "The return fare is only a shilling more 
expensive."

"No, that's fine," I replied returning with the Gryphon to a 
bay where the huge number 9 was displayed, but no list of 
destinations. We sat on the narrow flap-down seats, and the 
Gryphon unfolded and refolded his newspaper. The 
headlines tantalised my eyes during this rather fastidious 
process: Whites Certain to Win Suburbs. Illicit 
Gains Spider Vote. Blacks Threaten Immigrants. 
A diverse selection of other passengers were lined up on 
the plastic seats or stood guard by their luggage. There 
were a few jocund bullocks; a young woman in a long 
green overcoat; an elderly dragon with a pitifully thin 
column of sulphurous smoke trailing from his nostrils; a 
diprotodon in a dapper three-piece suit; a snowman 
sweating in the mid-afternoon heat; a turtle in a bonnet 
with a basket of eggs; and a large black swan.

"There are quite a few heading to Baldam," I remarked to 
the Gryphon.

He frowned slightly, wagging his large tufted ears. "I'd be 
very surprised indeed if very many were going to Baldam, 
however attractive a destination it may be. Most will, like 
me, be catching the following bus, which is for the City. 
More people go to and from the City than any other 
destination, so statistically I would assume so too is the 
majority of this motley crew."

"Do you live in the City?"

"Goodness no! Although I have been tempted by the pay and 
availability of work. I'm a teacher, young man. I teach at 
a school in a town perhaps nine leagues from here. I teach 
Mathematics and General Science at a Lower Secondary 
Modern. I have been enticed by the opportunity to teach 
at a City Grammar School or perhaps even one in Baldam, 
but my wife and children are happy where they are so 
relocation is quite unlikely for the moment."

"What's your school like?"

"A very ordinary school, young man. With a very ordinary 
syllabus: Latin, Greek, Home Economics, Physical 
Education, Geography. Not very different, I imagine, from 
the school you attended."

"Perhaps," I replied, reflecting that none of my teachers 
had beaks, wings and leonine tails. "I suppose schools are 
much the same wherever you go..."

"Well, you're showing your ignorance there, young man. 
As a result of the incoherence of the Coition government's 
education policies there's quite a free-for-all of approved 
syllabi in this nation. Boroughs are at liberty to institute 
any model of education they wish. In this town, for 
instance, the children are not so much educated as 
indoctrinated. And indoctrinated it seems to me in the most 
appalling nonsense that there ever was. There are boroughs 
dominated by one or other of the multitude of churches 
where even such basic facts as the law of evolution, the 
principle of genetics, the curvature of space and Godel's 
Theorem are denied them. I abhor education which seeks 
not so much to enlighten as to conceal."

The Gryphon snorted his distaste and reorganised his 
newspaper. Whites May Lose Out to Blacks, I briefly 
glimpsed. Reds Get The Blues, another headline 
ambiguously announced.

"The objectives of education are forever perverted by 
ideological or religious prejudice. Education isn't simply to 
fit students into a mould determined by national or local 
government. It has the much nobler task of adapting future 
citizens to an unpredictable future and inculcate values of 
common decency and virtue without which the realm will 
degenerate into ignorance and dullness. It is education's 
duty to anticipate the changes ahead and ensure that the 
student has the appropriate grounding in Ancient Latin, 
Classical Mythology or Euclidean Geometry to confront that 
future.

"Undoubtedly, education must also pertain to ethical 
instruction. Without moral guidance, who is to say what 
degrees of amorality may pervade in the future? I would hate 
to see any pupil of mine ignorant of the proper rules of 
etiquette; lacking appreciation and respect for their elders 
and betters. I despair of the so-called modern schools in 
the City which provide not even the minimum of moral guidance, 
complying with anarchistic doctrines that assert that the 
pupil's character is like a flower that blossoms when 
abandoned to free expression. Such a flower will simply be 
swamped by weeds and be a very sorry sight indeed."

"Aren't there other reasons for education?" I questioned, 
finding the Gryphon's views remarkably similar to those 
held by teachers in the Suburbs.

"Yes, indeed," the Gryphon agreed, thoughtfully scratching 
the feathers on his chin with a claw. "There is the 
provision of an educated and skilled workforce. What hope 
has any society unless it has the army of doctors, lawyers, 
accountants, clerks, estate agents, teachers and Classics 
scholars that all societies need?"

The Gryphon paused to further re-organise his newspaper. 
He smoothed it flat with a claw so that the half-finished 
crossword faced upwards. He looked back at me. "Where 
is it that you come from, young man?"

"The Suburbs."

"I guessed so. People from there are very distinctive. But 
you don't find many of them so far away as this. So, why 
have you left the Suburbs? Are you considering settling 
down in the fair city of Lambdeth?"

"No, I'm actually on a quest. A quest for the Truth."

"The Truth? You're not an Illicitist are you?"

"No, not at all. I was intent on finding the Truth before I 
was aware that anyone else was interested."

"Is that so? I must say it is a most curious endeavour for 
someone from the Suburbs to engage in. But as they say, it 
takes all sorts! Even in the Suburbs there must be some 
with a penchant for the crazy, the futile and the misguided. 
My advice to you, young man, is simply to abandon your quest 
now, take your bus to Lambdeth and, after a short holiday, 
return to the Suburbs. You will never find the Truth by 
travelling about the nation by omnibus."

"Is it totally futile?" I asked, discomfited by the Gryphon's 
apparent common sense.

"In the way you're going about it ... frankly, yes!" The 
Gryphon lowered his eyes to his crossword, hummed softly 
and then returned his gaze to me. "The Truth, young man, 
is not a physical thing that you can just go off and look for, 
whatever these fanatics in this town may say. The Truth is 
nothing more and nothing less than the accumulated 
wisdom and knowledge of the ages: exactly what I am paid 
to impart to my pupils and with which they will carry on 
the noble tradition of imparting the same wisdom to future 
generations. The Truth is just a convenient term for the 
knowledge gathered under such more precise headings as 
English Literature, Trigonometry, Algebra, Political 
Geography, Inorganic Chemistry and Religious Education. 
There is nothing mystical, fantastic or exotic about the 
Truth. It doesn't wait for us in a pot of gold at the end of a 
rainbow. It doesn't live with the fairies at the bottom of the 
garden (and they have assured me of that!) It is something 
to be unearthed only after long hours of dedicated study 
and research, poring over books in libraries, taking notes in 
lectures and doing the exercises attached to the end of 
every text book chapter."

"Is the Truth really as dull as all that?" 

"It is. It must be. It is prosaic, unexciting and 
unremarkable."

"Is it possible to know all the Truth there is to know?"

"Of course not. Well not for anyone of your species or 
mine, although no doubt the boffins are working hard at 
inventing machines which could store all the knowledge 
that currently exists and all that may exist in the future. 
What they would make of such an enormous amount of 
knowledge, I don't know. So, if you still seek the Truth, 
take advantage of your visit to Lambdeth and ensconce 
yourself in the university library."

The Gryphon sighed and looked at the company gathered 
around the bus station. He discreetly indicated the woman 
in the green overcoat who was reading a magazine on her 
lap. "Do you recognise her at all, young man?"

I scrutinised the woman carefully. She was too engrossed 
in her magazine to notice that we were watching her. "No, I 
can't say I do."

"I may be wrong, and I am definitely not an expert on these 
matters, but I believe she's a film actress. But what she's 
doing here, I don't know!"

"A film actress! Are you sure?"

"Not at all. But if she is the actress I think then she makes 
her living from displaying her naked body to the prurient 
and dissolute. An immoral and shameless harlot."

"A pornographic actress?"

"No less! And what more disgusting occupation can there 
be? Other than prostitution of course. Spreading filth and 
low morals to the weak minded and the easily led. Totally 
perverting the moral purpose and ‘sthetic value of her 
profession. I have often had to confiscate pornographic 
material from my pupils and I am certain that her face is 
one I have seen in magazines about the pornographic film 
industry. Well, not certain, but the likeness is rather 
remarkable."

"Is that so?" 

Although fairly attractive there was nothing about the 
way she dressed or behaved that would lead me to suspect 
this.

"Pornography is just one thing about modern film and 
theatre I find impossible to condone. And it is not merely 
the nature of pornography I find unacceptable, but the way 
it has demeaned the noble theatrical tradition represented 
by Shakespeare, the author of Titus Andronicus and The 
Rape of Lucretia. Theatre should raise the sensibilities 
of the audience with unambiguous moral messages and 
refined aestheticism. It is, or should be, an educational 
tool to supplement the pedagogical tradition in moulding 
the character. It is both instruction and a joy to those 
in full possession of their critical faculties."

"What are those?"

"An ability to penetrate the superficialities of the story 
and action to see the moral truths expressed therein. 
Without this the audience is merely entertained, and not 
instructed."

"Is that such a very bad thing?"

"Yes, it is, young man!" The Gryphon insisted, indicating a 
poster for a film, Georgia Brown and the City of the 
Undead, amongst the political propaganda. "Films like 
that, promising nothing  more than sex, violence and 
action, beget a culturally illiterate population, who 
believe life is nothing more than a sequence of events 
lacking moral significance and in which the most 
disgusting and unwholesome activities are routine. It 
trades on being entertainment, when in truth it is a 
perversion of even that term. How can it be 
entertainment when it features violence, death, sexual 
perversion, crime and gross horror?"

"Perhaps the film isn't aspiring to be art."

"Only film and theatre aspiring to art is ever worth making. 
And if it fails to achieve any artistic value, it should not 
have been made at all. I cannot accept that any creative 
endeavour should aspire to merely divert. That is such a 
sad waste of effort."

At that moment, a double-decker bus pulled into the bay 
with the words Lambdeth Central prominently 
displayed above the driver's cabin. The doors of the bus 
opened with an exhalation of air and several people 
disembarked. Then, after bidding farewell to the Gryphon 
who continued to wait for his own bus, I queued up behind 
a couple of bullocks in straw hats who were being escorted 
in by a diminutive dragon in an official uniform. Once they 
had filed down to the front of the lower deck, I entered the 
bus and climbed up to the totally empty upper deck. I 
walked down the aisle to sit at the front, shaded by the 
tinted green glass of the windows, and stretched out my 
legs.

While waiting for the bus to stir and gazing at the Gryphon 
reading his newspaper, I heard another person clamber up 
the stairs and stumble down the aisle. I turned my head 
round to see who it was and saw the woman in the green 
overcoat the Gryphon had been discussing. She smiled at 
me, and slumped in the seat across the aisle from me. 

"Are you off to Lambdeth Central too?" she asked, crossing 
her long legs demurely. 

"Yes, I am. I've never been there before."

"No? Well there's a first time for everything." She shook 
the blonde hair that flowed onto her shoulders and ran her 
fingers through it from her temples. "Did I hear you and 
your Gryphon friend talking about me at the bus stop?"

I blushed slightly. "Yes. He thought you were a film 
actress..."

"...And a pornographic one at that, too, I suppose? Well, 
your friend is right, I'm afraid. I am an actress. And a good 
living it is too! I gathered also from what I heard your 
friend was saying (so loudly and clearly!) that he believes 
film and theatre is all about art and education. He seems to 
think that it can never be entertainment."

"I think he was saying something like that."

"How amusing. I suppose that all of life is some kind of 
school lesson? How jolly dull! Why can't things just be 
fun? Why can't we do something just because it's 
enjoyable? If we only ever do something because we think 
it's good for us or because we might learn something from 
it, it merely debases life, which must contain an element of 
fun in it."

"I think the Gryphon was also saying that film and theatre 
shouldn't just entertain..."

"He did, did he?" mused the Actress as the bus's quietly 
purring engine changed its tone and the bus moved slowly 
out of the depot. It curved and cornered onto the main road, 
leaving behind Bay Number 9, where another bus was 
manoeuvring in. It sped along black tarmac past fields of 
cattle, wheat and barley, demarcated by tall trees with 
white-painted trunks which filed past with the same 
regularity as the white markings in the centre of the road.

"Your Gryphon friend has a point, though," admitted the 
Actress. "Whether films or plays aspire to be art or 
entertainment is irrelevant, they will always inculcate 
values into the audience. It is the task of those involved in 
their production, in whatever capacity, to be aware of these 
values however deeply hidden they may be. It is quite 
simply everyone's moral and political duty to ensure not 
only that their principles are not compromised, but that 
they are furthered in whatever work they do."

"Are you saying that films should be like propaganda?"

"Intentionally or not all films, all art and all creative 
enterprises are propaganda. They reinforce the cultural 
and social structures which led to their creation. It is an 
inevitable and inescapable aspect of everything one does. 
In my performances I always try to further my views on the 
rights of women; the struggle of the working classes; the 
value and vulnerability of the environment; and the self-
determination of all species. It may have to be done subtly 
in the context of the roles I play, within the constraints of 
the script and the athleticism and pathos the part demands. 
But it is there nonetheless."

"So you do believe that film is a kind of propaganda."

"In a way. But only insofar that film cannot avoid being so. 
And usually the message generated is really nothing more 
than a restatement of the comforting status quo, reinforcing 
the principles of the film financiers and the target 
audience." 

The Actress smiled disarmingly and laid down a copy of 
her magazine, The Struggle, the cover of which featured a 
picture of a figure huddled in a blanket in the entrance to a 
shop with the words Homeless and Hungry! scrawled 
on a piece of cardboard. "I'm sorry to go on like this. I just 
get so jolly fed up when I hear people like your Gryphon 
friend going on about things he really doesn't know 
anything about. But on a different note: who have you 
voted for in the General Election?"

"I haven't voted for anyone," I had to admit. "The General 
Election wasn't very well advertised in the Suburbs."

"Typical White Party indecisiveness, I imagine. And if 
that's where you come from, and judging from the way you 
dress I can't imagine it being anywhere else, there isn't 
much point in voting for anything other than White or Blue 
unless you want to waste your vote. Parties like the Reds 
and the Greens don't have the smallest chance there."

"No, they don't." I agreed. "Nobody in the Suburbs votes 
for either of them."

"Not like the City or Baldam where the Red Party almost 
always triumphs. I imagine people in the Suburbs simply 
agree with the general misrepresentation of the Red Party: 
that they will immediately shut down the Stock Exchange, 
nationalise all industries, depose Her Maphrodite and 
instantly impose punitive taxation on the rich."

"Isn't that just exactly what the Red Party wants to do?"

"All socialists, including me, would like to see the 
capitalist system replaced by a fairer system which focuses 
on the needs of the poor and the most disadvantaged, rather 
than perpetuate the injustices which make such a misery of 
the lives of those least able to defend themselves. All 
socialists are affronted by a system of patronage which 
permits wealth to be amassed by those like Her Maphrodite 
who have gained it entirely by virtue of birth. All socialists 
want a more equable distribution of wealth and power. But 
the Red Party represents a very broad amalgamation of 
socialist, communist, anarcho-syndicalist and social 
democratic interests, and although individual comrades 
may have opinions and views much more radical than 
others, the Party is committed to a gradualist reformist 
policy. It would not do in a society as complex and 
integrated as ours to make changes that are too sudden 
and too radical. Experience has shown that the immediate 
satisfaction it might give to the more far left members of 
the party is more than outweighed by the distrust and lack 
of co-operation it engenders in society as a whole. And a 
true socialist utopia cannot be achieved without the full 
approval and commitment of all members of society."

"Are those your views?"

"If they are the views of the political bureau of the Red 
Party then as a comrade in the struggle towards a fair and 
just society they will be my views as well. The Red Party 
will not gain power if it does not present a unified and 
coherent front, attractive to all factions of the working 
class and unlikely to alienate too large a proportion of the 
bourgeoisie. Once in power, it will not hold onto it for very 
long if it does not consolidate its support. Otherwise, the 
socialist revolution is lost before it has even begun."

The Actress studied me carefully. "I know that you're 
unlikely to vote for the Red Party. It would be incredible 
that anyone from the Suburbs would vote for the relief of 
poverty and prejudice they have never witnessed and will 
never suffer from. So, what are you doing here on a bus 
to Lambdeth so many leagues from the Suburbs? Why haven't 
you stayed behind and voted in the General Election?"

"I'm on a quest for the Truth."

The Actress raised her eyebrows in surprise. "That's a jolly 
odd thing for someone from the Suburbs to be doing! The 
Truth! Flipping heck! It must be a jolly fashionable thing to 
do these days. These flipping Illicitists are searching for it I 
believe. Are you in the Illicit Party?"

"Not at all. I just think it's a worthwhile thing to do."

The Actress smiled wanly. She leaned forward, her 
overcoat opening to reveal a plunging neckline and a pearl 
necklace. "I really don't agree with you. The search for the 
Truth is diversionary and counter-productive. And anyway, 
I just don't believe it can ever be found."

"Surely if it exists, it can be found."

"Even if that were true, I would like to know how anyone 
could ever be sure that what they'd found was actually the 
Truth. How can you be sure that it is not something that 
merely looks like the blooming Truth, walks like the Truth 
but is merely masquerading as the Truth? And even if one 
could be sure, even if it could be verified as the Truth 
by some expert, or had a label attached to it reading 
The Truth, The Universe and Everything, or if the 
certainty of the Truth was intrinsic in its own discovery, 
what then? What do you do with it? Is it going to feed 
people? Or house them? Or solve all the terrible problems 
of war, pestilence, plague and famine that trouble the 
world? 

"If the Truth exists, it's always been there, and doesn't 
need to be found to alleviate the world's ills. In fact, 
if the Truth were ever found, by you or anyone else, it would 
become just yet another expensive luxury stored at colossal 
expense in a museum or research institute, further diverting 
attention from the needs of the underprivileged, the 
underdeveloped and the undernourished. Even the search 
for it merely diverts valuable resources away from where 
they are needed. Surely, it is better to sort out all that which 
is wrong in this world before leaping ahead and looking for 
things of interest only to philosophers, scientists and 
academics."

"You don't believe that my quest is at all worthwhile."

The Actress laughed kindly. "I don't wish to down-hearten 
you too much. You do exactly what you like. You're only 
one individual, and what you do isn't really going to 
change very much. Even if you do find the Truth, which I 
frankly doubt. However, if you think that you're going to 
find it in Lambdeth Central, you'd better steel yourself as I 
believe it's just coming up!"

I looked out of the window and noticed that the bus was no 
longer speeding along past fields or forests, but along a 
series of raised roadways around which were tall buildings 
and warehouses. The view was dominated by enormous 
hoardings, neon-lit product names, traffic lights soaring 
above and road signs. The roar of the bus's engine was 
partly obscured by that of other traffic passing above it, 
below it, and on either side. Then, sure enough, the bus 
turned off the main motorway, descended down and around 
a loop of roads, through a tunnel illuminated by the 
message Lambdeth Central Welcomes Careful Drivers and 
finally drew to a halt at a bus station attached 
to a much larger railway station.

The buildings all around were constructed of plastic, steel, 
glass and concrete.  People swarmed around escalators, 
elevators, robots, blinking lights and small trucks. "So, 
here we are!" announced the Actress, standing up. "It's 
been jolly nice meeting you. I'm off to the City now, but I 
hope you enjoy your stay in Lambdeth. I warn you though. 
It may be a pleasant sort of place, but it's no utopia!"



	11

Lambdeth Central was quite simply the largest railway 
station I had ever seen. Several times larger than any in the 
Suburbs. Indeed, it was like a complete town: consisting of 
a network of pubs, cafes, shops and amusement arcades. 
Quite clearly it was designed to divert those expecting to 
wait several hours for their next train. I wasn't at all sure 
whether this reflected on the frequency of the services or 
the likelihood of there being delays. Amongst all this 
provision and behind the electronic indicator boards, were 
the numbered platforms where trains of all kinds were 
waiting on distinctly different railway gauges, some 
purring menacingly with the apparent ability to exceed the 
speed of sound while remaining terrestrially bound, whilst  
others puffed cheerful clouds of smoke from coal-filled 
furnaces. 

The station was not crowded, although it was in the midst 
of the evening commuter rush, and many of the waiting 
passengers seemed to have only a passing interest in the 
trains. There were oxen sitting on specially designed 
seats; a couple of serpentine centipedes reading 
newspapers; a dire wolf selling magazines in a stall to a 
boa constrictor who rather ingeniously managed to both 
pay for a magazine and then hold it open to read; a 
dimetrodon hastened by with his umbrella in his mouth; 
and a hippogriff was engaged in selling lottery tickets 
behind a large model of a blobby pink figure with yellow 
spots.

There was quite enough to see at the railway station, 
without venturing through the main entrance past the 
squawking sparrows and pigeons into the university city 
itself. I could see the tall stone buildings, the clocks ticking 
with civic pride on ornate towers and a flurry of black 
gowns and mortar boards on bicycles. For the moment, 
however, I was more interested in finding something to eat, 
or at least a coffee to drink.

I wandered along the station grounds, peering at the signs 
to find a place that sold food and drink rather than compact 
discs, lawn mowers, magazines and fluffy toys with I Love 
Baldam written on them. I carefully trod over the length of 
an anaconda lying rather untidily outside a Ye Olde 
Croissants shop, and when I looked up after this 
difficult manoeuvre I saw a familiar figure waving at me 
and running in my direction.

It was Anna, whose hair was now very short, with massive 
hooped earrings dangling from her ears, light-weight floral 
cotton shorts and a very loose white tee-shirt barely long 
enough to cover her midriff. "Flipping heck! We keep 
meeting!" she exclaimed. "One moment in Endon and the 
next in Lambdeth Central. So, are you still with that 
oversized grasshopper?"

"No. I last saw him at a party a long way from here."

"Well!" Anna exclaimed again. She looked at me and 
around her, apparently not quite sure what to do. "Where 
are you going now?"

"I'm looking for somewhere to eat. I feel quite hungry."

"That's a super idea! Let's go to one of the cafes here ... 
Let's see ..." She stood on her sandaled toes and scanned 
the station. "Let's go to an Uncle Joe's. They do pretty 
good kirsch and I wouldn't mind sharing a samovar with 
you." She pointed to a cafe promoted by a very avuncular 
character with a thick moustache and a collarless jacket, 
just between a Big Frank's Frankfurters and a Chinese 
take-away. We strolled towards it across the plastic carton 
littered expanse and were welcomed in by a small bull with 
a ring through his nose and a plastic hat on his head. He 
escorted us to a table by a window that looked out past the 
cardboard figure of a cheerful Uncle Joe to a waiting steam 
train. 

I was somewhat undecided as to which of the rather 
unfamiliarly entitled items on the menu to order. There was 
never so much variety or choice in the Suburbs. Anna, 
however, was considerably more knowledgeable than me 
and with her assistance I selected something that 
approximated to a steak and chips, while Anna ordered a 
samovar for us to drink from. I was glad that she was 
knowledgeable of the ceremonies and procedures 
associated with such a strange kind of teapot. 

"You've changed your hairstyle," I commented while Anna 
poured out the first cup of tea. "It's much shorter."

"Well, that's fashion for you, dear! I'm only away from here 
for such a jolly short time and it's all change! A girl can't 
stand still for an instant in the modern world! You leave it 
for a little while and when you get back you have to be 
jolly quick to avoid looking like yesterday's news!"

"Where have you been visiting?" I asked as Anna put down 
the samovar and I picked up my blisteringly hot cup. My 
lips were scorched by the liquid, so I left it to cool 
for a few moments.

"Oh! Here and there! Well, you know where I've been! I've 
been to the Suburbs amongst other places: and a more 
blinking tedious place you couldn't imagine! Yes, I know 
you come from there - you poor thing - but a girl's got 
to have an opinion! I had ever so much difficulty finding 
somewhere to stay there. You just wouldn't believe the 
number of bed and breakfast hotels which were full, despite 
having Vacancies signs outside! I don't think I'll be going 
back to the Suburbs in a hurry! Meeting you there was almost 
the highlight of my visit. Having seen other places, do you 
think you'll be hurrying back to live in the Suburbs again?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "The Suburbs is where I come 
from and where my home is."

"I suppose that's true. But it's not for me, I'm afraid. I much 
prefer it here. Or in the City which is where I'd been 
visiting before the Suburbs. And in comparison to the City, 
the Suburbs are bound to be blinking dull! Now, there's a 
place to go! If it wasn't so flipping expensive that's where 
I'd live. It's about twice as expensive as here. Six guineas 
ten shillings for a cup of tea for instance! There's just so 
much to do there, but I was feeling jolly poor after a few 
days, I can tell you. In comparison to the City, Lambdeth is 
almost as dull as the Suburbs. Well! That's exaggerating! But 
you know what I mean. And as well as the City I've been to the 
Country, and what could be more of a contrast. All that oxygen! 
It really makes you feel like a new person. All those fields, 
forests, lakes and things. If I didn't like city life so much, 
I'd live there! What do you think?"

"I'm sure it would be very nice," I said.

"And cheap as well! I felt like a blooming millionaire. I 
could pick up a bit of cash here or in the City, working as a 
waitress or something, and afford to spend most of the year in 
a little cottage by a lake or in the mountains or by the sea. 
On the other hand, there's so little to do. The Suburbs may be 
dull, but so too is the Country! Some parts of the Country 
haven't experienced civilised life at all. Heaven only knows 
which century they belong to. Still in the eleventh century. 
But if there's anywhere I'd never live, however much you paid 
me, and that's that horrible borough of Divinity. Wasn't it 
dreadful?"

"It wasn't very friendly," I admitted, remembering the 
unwelcoming way Anna had been treated.  

She smiled sadly, picked up a cup in her hands and raised it 
to her lips as the single golden bangle slipped down her 
bare black wrist. 

"That's putting it jolly mildly. It was the most unfriendly 
place I've ever visited! I've still got that pamphlet they 
threw at me. Friends of mine in Baldam just can't believe 
there are people like that. It's only a couple of days since 
I was there, and I'm still jolly relieved I got out. Those 
humourless religious fanatics. They must lead the most 
dreadful lives! If they didn't like me for being a black 
woman, the dickens only knows what they'd think of the 
waiter there," she indicated the bull who was idly standing 
at the bar with a cigarette in his mouth, "and as for those 
snakes at the table over there! Well! I've heard about the 
snake in the Garden of Eden. They'd probably just skin 
them alive if they ever saw them, don't you think?"

"You may be right," I admitted. "They had a very low 
opinion of animals."

"And some lower than others, I bet!" Anna shook her head 
and sipped thoughtfully from her cup. An earring rang 
hollowly against the cup as she leaned forward. "Well, now 
we're in Lambdeth. My home town! What do you think of 
it?"

"I've only just arrived. I've only seen the railway station."

"Pretty impressive, isn't it! Almost as good as the ones in 
the City. There are a few cinemas and even a night club on 
the premises. Baldam's a really impressive borough. 
There's not just the university. The borough spreads for 
miles. Much of it is suburban like where you come from, 
but not nearly so deadly dull. There is a much wider 
range of species for a start. And although some people 
commute every day to the City, as they do from the Suburbs, 
most work in Lambdeth, which is quite a big city itself. 
Compared with the City, it's jolly tiny; but there's enough 
of it to keep me jolly content."

"Does its prosperity just come from the university?"

"I'm sure it jolly well helps. But it's not just the 
university. There are plenty of businesses based here. And 
then there's the cathedral. Quite an important religious 
centre, apparently."

"What's that like?"

"It's absolutely flipping monstrous. Not as big as the 
cathedrals in the City of course, but apparently more 
important. Pilgrims come from all over. I gather there's a 
lot of dispute between all the different religious groups as 
to which one has priority, but you expect it from that lot! 
They often have fights about who should worship when. Some of 
them jolly violent! People have been killed, I gather. But 
most of the time, the cathedral's a jolly serene place. I'm 
not religious, but I like going there. I feel so tiny and 
insignificant under its enormous dome. And although 
the organ music's a bit slow, it's flipping loud! I just love 
the statues and stained glass windows, although there are 
always religious fanatics that try to destroy them."

"Why do they do that?"

Anna shook her head. "Don't ask me! I'll never be able to 
understand these people. Some religious people, however, 
go dool alley over the icons and things. They light candles, 
bash their foreheads and go into raptures. Others think it's 
all idolatry and blasphemy. What can you say about such 
people?"

At that moment, the waiter returned to our table carrying 
our orders on a cleverly designed tray. The food was piping 
hot. Anna and I took our plates off the tray with the gloves 
provided and placed them on the table mats in front of us. I 
looked at my serving uncertainly, but Anna had no reservation 
about attacking hers.

"It's lovely!" she exclaimed, her face distorted by a bulge 
of food in her cheek. "You'll love it!"

I tucked in hesitantly, and found it very tasty if a little rich. 
However, after so many exotic meals recently it wasn't long 
until I was eating with the same relish as Anna. A bottle of 
red house wine was also added to the bill, after Anna had 
attracted the waiter's attention. She poured me a glass and 
raising hers she prompted me with a "Cheers!"

I picked up my glass and sipped it, while Anna gazed at 
me. "You don't seem to me a person who's left the Suburbs 
much at all in your life. What are you doing here in 
Lambdeth?"

Lubricated by the wine and food, my tongue prattled on 
about my search for the Truth and the different advice I'd 
had: from the very hostile to the relatively enthusiastic. 
I confessed that it was only a small minority who'd extended 
any encouragement.

"I'm afraid I'm not one of those. It seems a jolly silly idea 
to me. I just can't see any blinking point to it. After all, 
is the Truth going to feed anyone?" She raised another forkful 
of unidentifiable mush to her mouth, and chewing it continued 
to speak: "There's so much famine and starvation in this world. 
Millions who haven't got enough to eat. I know! I've seen it on 
telly. All those swollen tummies and sunken cheeks." She put her 
forefinger and thumb into her mouth to remove a very 
stringy strand of something from between her teeth. "And 
if you can't eat it, what are you going to do with it? Put it in 
a museum and look at it, maybe? That won't make anyone 
any happier."

"Those who are searching for the Truth will be happier 
when it's found."

"Don't be so sure! Most people will be jolly disappointed 
when they find the Truth is nothing like what they thought 
it was. Well, it's got to be! There are so many different 
ideas of what the Truth is! And personally I think the 
Truth's going to upset plenty of people who've never ever 
considered looking for it. It's only my opinion mind, but 
the Truth is going to make everyone feel rather desolate. I 
think the universe will just seem a jolly sight more 
unfriendly and purposeless than it does now. Every new 
thing they find out about does make it seem a lot more 
discomfiting, don't you think? Black holes. 
Polydimensional superstrings. Curved time. Uncertainty 
principles. Doesn't it just make you shiver?"

"Surely knowing that for sure will affect how people 
behave?"

"I don't flipping believe it! Too many people like to think 
whatever they like whatever you say to them. Tell them it's 
day and they'll say it's night. Tell them that one and one 
make two, and they'll insist it makes three. The Truth 
might be there - undeniable and incontrovertible - but 
there'll still be people who'll say the world is flat, that the 
moon is made of green cheese and that pigs can fly. I 
know! I know! There are pigs that can fly, but only the 
ones with wings. And they're not proper pigs anyway!"

Anna chewed thoughtfully on another forkful of food, and 
washed it down with a sip of wine. She smiled at me. 
"Come! Don't look so downcast!" she remarked patting the 
back of my hand. "You do what you like. Don't be put off 
by me! If I were you, and I were searching for it, I'd take 
my trusty sword and vorpal blade and head off to the City. 
If there's anywhere you'd find anything, it'd be there, rather 
than in a much smaller place like this!"

"Do you think so?"

"Oh! I'm certain! Pay your fare at that kiosk there and get a 
one-way ticket to the City. It'll be expensive mind you: and 
that's just the cost of getting there. But you've got to visit 
the City once in your life! And your jolly little quest seems 
the ideal excuse."

"What's the City like?"

"Didn't we chat about the City in the Suburbs? But there 
the City seemed such a distant and unreal place. Even here, 
it seems pretty much unbelievable! It's quite simply the 
most jolly exciting place there could possibly be! Ooh!" 
She splayed her hand dramatically to emphasise her 
wonderment. "It's everything you could possibly want! 
Everything! They have these weekly listings magazines 
saying what's going on: the cinemas, theatres, 
night clubs, opera houses, art galleries, museums! 
Everything! You couldn't see and do everything you 
wanted in a whole lifetime in the City. Doesn't it sound 
jolly exciting?"

"It does indeed," I admitted. 

Perhaps Anna was right. Perhaps a place with so much 
happening was exactly where I should be heading.

"I get such a flipping buzz from the City!" Anna enthused, 
mounting the last shreds of food onto her fork and pushing 
it into her mouth. She looked sadly at her now bare plate, 
holding her glass in one hand and a napkin in the other. 
She glanced around the cafe, at the snakes still chatting on 
one table and the waiter who leaned rather heavily against 
the till which was attended by a petite Australopithecus 
wearing heavy make-up over her face. "Some of the people 
here: I'm sure they're from the City. But usually you just 
can't tell. There's just everyone in the City! All sorts. 
Prostitutes. Gangsters. Millionaires. Royalty. Her 
Maphrodite as well, of course. The seat of government, 
commerce, culture, depravity, vice, virtue and literature. 
You name it. It's there! And so many people! So many 
millions and millions of people! Running backwards and 
forwards. To and fro. Hither and thither. Everywhere. If 
you think there's action here in Lambdeth (and after the 
Suburbs I'm flipping sure you do!) in the City you'll think 
this place is just dead."

I was still rather impressed by the grandeur and scale of 
Lambdeth Central. It was difficult to believe that there 
were really buildings which could truly dwarf this place. 

"And after the Suburbs! My dear! So dull! The City is 
probably just the excitement you need in your life. It's all 
the excitement you'll ever need! I'm not saying the streets 
are paved with gold. Well, not all the streets, anyway. But 
there's money to be got. Things to do. Things to see. Okay! 
It's flipping expensive. The tiniest, dingiest little bedsit will 
cost you an absolute fortune. It's a Lambdeth salary to get a 
seat in the Opera Houses. Some restaurants will charge you 
more for the grubbiest, meanest piece of celery than Uncle 
Joe's will charge us for an entire meal. But if you're 
earning in the City, then, believe me, there's money to be 
made. And real money. Millions and millions of guineas! 
So, if I were you, I'd head straight off now. Don't bother 
with tiny little university city Lambdeth. Go where the real 
life is! Head to the City! Make a fortune! See and do 
everything you ever wanted."

"You make it sound very impressive!" I remarked, finally 
finishing my meal. 

Anna picked up her glass and gazed through the cafe 
window at the hustle and bustle outside in the station. Even 
though the rush hour had finished there was enough 
activity to persuade the shops to stay open into the evening. 
There were some bullocks in university gowns running by. 
A chameleon was shifting to match the kaleidoscope of 
colour given off by the lights of a gramophone record 
store. 

Then I saw a more familiar figure stroll by, looking 
through the shop windows with an expression of intense 
curiosity. It was the still naked figure of Beta with her long 
hair trailing behind her and the soles of her feet 
conspicuously blackened by the station floor dirt. She 
frowned while looking through the window of Big 
Frank's Frankfurters, paused briefly and then stared 
directly at me through the window of Uncle Joe's. It was 
evident that she recognised me, but was somewhat hesitant 
that I recognised her. I smiled at her. She beamed back.

"You see someone you know?" wondered Anna turning her 
head round. "Oh! What a sweet girl! She must be from the 
Country dressed like that. Her hair! So unfashionable! 
Invite her in!"

Before I had a chance to do anything myself, she beckoned 
Beta to enter the cafe. She pushed open the glass door and 
strode in. 

"I didn't know you were going to Lambdeth," she declared 
as she sat next to me. "I thought it was just Gotesdene 
you were going to. And who's your friend?"

I introduced the two women to each other, and explained 
how I had met Anna in many different places.  

"It's very odd," I remarked.

"Oh, I don't know! I'm always meeting the same people all 
over the blinking place!" Anna remarked. "You do when 
you travel. But tell me, Beta, what's brought you so far 
from the Country? It is the Country you come from, isn't 
it?"

"Well, yes. Everyone seems to guess that here," Beta 
laughed. "It's my brother Bacon. He's enrolled at a college 
here. He thinks it's better to be a student in Lambdeth than 
stay in the Village."

"I don't imagine you have many colleges where you come 
from."

"There are a few but they're all such a long way from 
home. But this is even further. Much further. It's so busy 
here! And so many people! You could spend all day 
walking up and down the main roads and not meet anyone 
you know!"

"If you think this is busy, Beta, you should visit the City. 
I've just been telling your friend here how jolly super the 
place is. It's to Lambdeth what Lambdeth is to the Village!"

Beta smiled sceptically. "I can't believe the City is much 
bigger or more crowded than this. How can it be?"

"It can. And if you don't believe me you ought to go there 
and find out for yourself. In fact, I've just been trying to 
persuade this young man here to go there on his search for 
the Truth."

"Is that so?" marvelled Beta with a warm friendly smile. 
"That sounds a wonderful thing to do! Do you think you'll 
find it there?"

"I don't know," I confessed. "Anna says if it's anywhere, 
it'll be there."

"Of course, it is. No doubt about it! But, Beta, what have 
you been doing in Lambdeth? Have you been here long?"

"Only a couple of days. Just long enough to see that Bacon, 
my brother, was happy in his digs and that he could find 
his way about. I've met some of the other students on his 
course, visited the cathedral, looked at the university, and 
just got to know the city."

"So what do you think of my home town?"

"I like it," Beta enthused thoughtfully. "I don't know that 
I'd want to live here permanently, mind, but it's what 
Bacon wants and I'd love to visit him here again. Even if he 
is argumentative!" She smiled to remind me of his 
conversation on the train to Gotesdene.

"Argumentative?" wondered Anna, leaning forward.  

"Oh, he just thinks everything modern is good and 
everything traditional is bad. That's why he's come here. To 
get away from a traditional way of life."

"Tradition! You can't get away from it here any more than 
you can in the Country. Or for that matter in the City. It's 
everywhere. The cathedral's tradition. The university's 
tradition. I imagine what your brother wants is a place 
where there's a modern world as well as the traditional, but 
even the modern world has a history. It didn't spring from 
thin air, you know!"

"I'm not sure I'm that keen on the modern world, really. It's 
very exciting, though. I like all the shops and the enormous 
concrete and steel buildings. But the roads are terribly 
congested and the air's so filthy. I just long for fresh air on 
my skin again."

"Where are you going now?" I asked.

"I was thinking of going home. That's why I'm at the 
station. But I'm not really in such a big hurry to return to 
the Village. Being so far away is such a treat. I'd love to see 
more of the world."

"Go to the City then. See what the real modern world is 
like."

"I'd like to, Anna, but I'm frightened of going by myself. 
I'm sure people will take advantage of the fact that I'm a 
Country girl. Even here I feel really out of place. People 
ogle me and treat me as if I were stupid. It must be worse 
in the City."

"Oh! There's flipping everyone in the City! No one would 
look at you twice, not with the range of species, 
nationalities and cultures crammed into the place. I'd give 
it a try if I were you."

Beta stared at the waiting trains. "It is very tempting! I just 
don't know, though."

"Well, don't take too long to make your mind up. Look! I'll 
settle the bill and be off now. I'm meeting some friends of 
mine. I don't know what we'll do, but I'm sure it'll be fun."

"Surely I should pay," I protested.

"Don't be silly! If you're going to the City you'll need all 
the flipping money you have. No, you two stay here and 
finish the wine. There's still a glass or two left!" Anna 
attracted the bull's attention with the flash of a plastic card 
embellished by the holographic image of her face dancing 
on the surface. He compared the holograph with the real 
thing, and then slid the card through a reading device he 
carried in his hand which flashed up the digits £79 19/9d: a 
sum of money considerably greater than I'd anticipated. 
Anna's face showed no expression, though Beta's flashed 
with alarm.

Anna stood up, kissed me tenderly on the cheeks and then 
hurried out into the station foyer and off into the distance. 
Beta sidled round to the other side of the table.

"Seventy Nine Pounds Nineteen Shillings and Nine 
pence!" she gasped. "More than Seventy Five Guineas! A 
meal and a bottle of wine would cost less than a groat in 
the Village. If there were any restaurants there, of course." 
She smiled back at me. "But it's wonderful to see a friendly 
face again! I was terribly afraid of being all alone in this 
place. It's so frightening and intimidating!"

Beta poured wine into an empty glass and sipped it while 
staring thoughtfully at the station. "If there are all sorts in 
the City, what sorts could there be that aren't in this place. I 
just didn't believe there was such variety on even the whole 
planet. What do you think?"

"I haven't ventured out of the railway station yet," I 
admitted.

"You haven't? You can't have been here very long! You 
ought to at least see the cathedral if you ever get the 
chance. It's absolutely colossal! It's quite the biggest thing 
I've ever seen! The church in the Village could fit inside 
and there'd be loads of space above and around it. And 
such a lot of people there. You wouldn't believe there were 
so many religious types about. Some wore brightly 
coloured clothes, shaking bowls of incense and chanting. 
Some were bowing right down to the ground, covering 
their clothes with dirt, and wailing. Some just sat around 
trembling and shaking as if in some kind of a fit. There 
were a few visitors like me, really not at all bothered to 
pray or chant or anything like that, admiring the icons, the 
tombstones and all the little chapels dedicated to different 
Saints. There are shops and stalls where you can buy 
rosaries, beads, postcards, books and fluffy toys. There are 
several model sets of the Garden of Eden with Adam and 
Eve and a vicious looking snake wrapped round an apple 
tree. There are fluffy models of asses and a scale model of 
the golden calf. Are there cathedrals or churches like that 
in the Suburbs?"

"Nothing like that at all. Most of the churches are 
neglected and in danger of falling down. Religion isn't that 
popular in the Suburbs, although a few sects ring the 
doorbell to ask for contributions."

"Religion's still very important in the Village. We often 
receive itinerant preachers and all the villagers come out to 
hear them preach. With only one television in the whole 
Village, it's quite a treat. The preachers can be quite 
fanatic, talking about hell and damnation, fire and 
brimstone, but none as fanatic as a really horrid group of 
pilgrims I met in the cathedral. I hope I never meet them 
again!"

"What was so bad about them?"

Beta frowned as she recalled the encounter. "They were so 
abusive. It was by this chapel dedicated to Saint Rene 
Descartes. I hadn't even known the philosopher had been 
sanctified and to be honest I don't believe he was that 
famous for leading a religious life. But there it was: in a 
dark corner of the cathedral just by this painting of the 
Lord Krishna on a white cow (and I've no idea what that 
was doing there!) And in the chapel were nearly a dozen 
men in dark cloaks with hoods that completely covered 
their faces. It looked rather spooky so I just stood there and 
stared as they bowed and prayed silently in front of this 
very plain altar decorated only by a gruesome image of 
Christ on the Cross.

"One of them noticed me, and he and three of his 
companions approached me. They weren't at all polite. 
They told me I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself in 
shaming consecrated ground by dressing so immodestly. 
Indeed wearing nothing at all. They told me I was a 
shameless harlot and a whore who should shave off my 
hair, which they said was nothing better than blasphemous 
vanity, and cover every inch of my shameless flesh. Well, I 
know that in Lambdeth there aren't many people who dress 
like me, but in the Village nobody wears clothes. It's just 
not thought necessary. Nobody had ever accused me of 
being a prostitute before and no one in Lambdeth has been 
nearly as rude. In fact, nakedness and long hair were only 
two things I was meant to be ashamed of. I was sinning by 
even being out in public, as these fanatics believe that all 
women should be locked out of sight for good, so as not to 
tempt Good Christians away from the light. Have you ever 
heard such nonsense?"

"I've heard opinions like that. Anna had stones thrown at 
her by people like that."

"Had she? How horrid! But I'm sure these fanatics would 
have done the same to me if they'd been allowed. And 
anyway I was far from the only naked person in the 
cathedral. This pilgrim told me that even the smallest 
display of flesh was considered sinful as it promoted lust 
and pride. That's probably why they wear such clothes. He 
also said that even modestly dressed women were an 
abomination. Honestly! If I'm an abomination, what on 
earth isn't?" 

Beta looked at her half-empty glass with concern. She brushed 
a lock of green hair off her face.  

"He told me that my shamelessness had already condemned me 
to an eternity in hell and that my soul could never be saved: 
however many prayers and confessions I made; however 
penitent I was; however many pilgrimages and fasts I 
undertook. He said that I would face an eternity in which 
my eyes would be carved out of my face, mushed to a pulp 
and then reinserted. That I would be frozen to temperatures 
marginally above absolute zero and that my limbs would 
congeal in the intense cold. I would then be roasted, 
causing my hair to blaze, my skin to blister and peel off, 
and my pubic hairs to flame in perpetual agony. My body 
would be hung, drawn and quartered; and then reassembled 
to begin again. Knives and spears would be thrust through 
every orifice of my body transporting me to agony as my 
internal organs emerged at the end of these instruments. I 
would be raped, ravaged, eaten and tortured forever and 
ever. I would be hung by my extremities from great heights 
and then dropped at great velocity. Have you ever heard 
such an obscene list of punishments?"

"How did you get away?"

"I was terrified.  I was just rooted to the spot and couldn't 
move, as these pilgrims went on and on: tormenting me by 
recounting all the horrid things that would happen. How I 
would be sawn in half by blunt saws. How I would be 
forced to eat my own entrails. But a priest, a bull with a tall 
hat and golden gown, told them to leave me alone or be 
expelled from the cathedral. He was very stern. How can 
people be so beastly! I reckon that if they had their way 
they wouldn't wait until I was condemned to hell, but 
would start subjecting me to all those horrid tortures in this 
life. I didn't believe Christians were supposed to feel so 
much hatred."

Beta was clearly distressed by the incident. She cupped her 
hands round her now empty glass and stared into it. A lock 
of hair gradually released itself from behind her ear and 
flopped down over her face, but she made no effort to 
replace it. She looked up with wide blue eyes. 

"But the rest of the cathedral was lovely. You really ought 
to visit it."

"I'd like to, but at the moment I'm undecided whether to 
stay in Lambdeth or to follow Anna's advice and go to the 
City."

"Oh yes! I remember now. You're on a quest for the Truth, 
aren't you? All I can say is that I didn't see any sign of it. If 
there's anywhere in Lambdeth you'd expect to find the 
Truth it'd be the cathedral. And I didn't see it there. Anna's 
probably quite right. The City's a much more likely place to 
find the Truth. Anyway, how is your quest? Have you got a 
better idea of what it is and where it might be?"

 	"Not really. I've been given a lot of advice, but it's 
all been contradictory. In fact, some people have said the 
Truth doesn't exist. And others have said that the Truth 
might exist but that I couldn't possibly find it."

Beta smiled sympathetically, looking directly into my eyes. 
"I'm sure your quest is a good thing. It sounds so good and 
noble. I'm sure there can't be a better one. Don't be 
disheartened! It's exactly the sort of thing I'd like to do."

"Is it?" 

Beta frowned in self-reflection. 

"Well, yes it is!" she answered positively. "Yes, I think 
it may well be. And now I'm here, so far from the Village 
and not really expected back at any particular time, it 
seems especially tempting. The Truth! What quest could be 
better than that? And even if I weren't to find it, there 
wouldn't be any harm in having tried." She smiled at me 
thoughtfully. "Perhaps I ought to go with you to the City 
and look with you there. What do you think?"

This proposal was totally unexpected. "It sounds a very 
good idea," I spluttered in reply. "Very good. I'm sure two 
people would have twice as much chance of success as 
one."

"Although if there's no chance of finding the Truth at all 
then we'd still not find it," remarked Beta with a grin. "Yes, 
now I think of it: a search like that would be very exciting. 
We could meet some really interesting people. Heroes 
striving out to do battle against evil and in pursuit of good. 
Across dry, dusty plains. Over windswept barren hills. 
Through thick dense jungle. Along the crowded, busy 
streets of the City. I can see myself peering out to the 
horizon, scanning in all directions to see if the Truth is in 
the East or the West, the North or the South. We could 
meet knights errant, lost princesses, buried treasure, and 
who knows what else! It sounds very exciting!" 

Beta's wide-open eyes sparkled with the illumination of her 
imagination.

"It hasn't been nearly as exhilarating as that," I remarked, 
ruefully recalling an uncomfortable night's sleep in the 
open air. "But I have seen some interesting places I'd 
probably never have visited otherwise."

"Well, that sounds exciting enough. There's so much more 
in this country than a life in the Village would suggest. Or 
even one spent in the Suburbs, I imagine. Are they really as 
tidy and well-organised as they say, with litter-bins on 
alternate lamp-posts and trees lining all the roads? Do all 
the houses have lawns, garages and security lights?"

"Yes, it's true."

"It sounds so tranquil and restful. And not a trace of 
poverty!" She slid out of her seat and stood up beside me, 
watched by the indolent gaze of the waiter. "Come on, 
then! Let's head for the City before it gets any darker. With 
any luck we might find the Truth before night falls."

I swiftly swallowed the rest of my wine and followed Beta 
out of Uncle Joe's, across the station foyer to the ticket 
kiosks signposted in several languages and went to one of 
the clear glass cubicles advertised by the word City. 
Another glass cubicle proclaimed the word Suburbs and I 
felt some trepidation in not buying a ticket to take me back 
to the comfort and security of home. Some of the other 
ticket kiosks were somewhat more shabby and were for an 
itinerary of destinations in the Country that I'd never heard 
of. 

A few people were ahead of us in the queue, but we 
patiently waited our turn, while Beta excitedly speculated 
about what the City had to offer. The ticket attendant, a 
cobra with a peaked hat, was surprised that neither Beta 
nor I had any credit cards, but he accepted a cheque which 
he slid it into a machine and asked me to sign a sheet of 
clear plastic card on the counter. As I wrote, my signature 
was embossed onto the cheque and the figure of £111 
1/2d was inserted. 

"Surely it's not that far to the City!" Beta gasped.

"Special evening one-way concessions," the attendant 
hissed amiably. "Two for the price of one. Enjoy your visit 
to the City!"

The train we boarded was a very large fast train that purred 
gently as we entered. The doors opened automatically as it 
sensed our approach and a small platform extended out and 
down to assist our entry. An illuminated floor-plan greeted 
us to show us which seats were currently unoccupied, with 
a little sign that read: 'To reserve your seat, please 
leave something behind so the seat can sense your continued 
presence'. 

We sat facing each other on two very comfortable seats and 
gazed at the hubbub of activity on the platform as trolley-
loads of mail were loaded onto the train by busy little 
robots assisted by porters who were dashing up and down with 
hand-held computers. The train's engine abruptly changed its 
note and an announcement, first in English and then in 
several other languages, informed us that the train was now 
about to leave. There then emitted a warning siren, a thud 
as doors were secured and the train eased out of the station 
with barely any more noise than when it was stationery.

We couldn't see more than the lights from office-windows 
and lamp-posts as the train sped on, but we could sense 
that it was getting progressively faster. The landmarks we 
passed - small railway stations, automatic signal boxes, 
overhead cables, weather indicators - sped by in 
progressively less time. It was too dark to enjoy very much 
scenery, so we chatted together. 

It was less than an hour later when the train drew into the 
City. It smoothly decelerated from its earlier rapidity and 
we were at last able to distinguish the lights that sped by.

It was just before midnight and we had arrived in the City 
with nowhere to stay. This prospect would normally have 
terrified me, but I was comforted by no longer being alone. 
We disembarked and travelled along a series of walkways 
and escalators past other trains until we came to a series of 
waiting rooms, shops, restaurants, newsagents, cinemas 
and cafes. Everything was lit by bright unforgiving neon 
reflected on smooth tiled floors.

"What do we do now?" Beta asked. 

The City wasn't at all a friendly place to be this late at 
night. All sorts of sinister looking figures were lurking 
around the shadows of the station. Pigeons looked down at 
us from above, seeming to laugh at innocents like us 
arriving so unprepared. Everyone else seemed to know 
exactly where they were going. No one else seemed to be 
in our dilemma.

"I don't know," I admitted unhappily. "Find somewhere to 
sleep, I suppose."

We were too tired and disorientated to know where to go. 
We walked aimlessly around the City station following 
misleading signs. After several minutes of fruitless 
wandering, we resigned ourselves to spending the night in 
a waiting room, only to find that others had made the same 
choice. 

We drifted in to lie on the padded plastic seats that 
seemed so welcoming at this late hour. There was a bull 
slumped against a column; an eagle on the floor under a 
chair clasping a can of beer in his wing; a python slumped 
unsteadily over several steel-framed chairs; and  a 
struthiomimus slumbering on another set of seats, head 
drooped over his chest. It was not going to be a pleasant 
night's sleep, particularly as the bright neon glare from the 
ceiling showed no evidence of being dimmed during the 
night, and knowing that not all passengers would 
necessarily view the waiting room as a place to sleep. I 
chose a padded seat relatively close to the door, whilst 
another seat just opposite was chosen by Beta.



	12

Morning was heralded  by a cacophony of platform 
announcements, the flutter of circling pigeons and the hiss 
of the python chatting to the struthiomimus. I looked 
across the tiled floor at Beta lying spread across her seat, 
head resting on her arm and eyes that were wide open and 
staring at me.

"I thought you were never going to wake up!" she said 
with a mocking smile. She swung her body round, ran her 
fingers through the long tangles of her green hair and 
rested her feet on the floor. "It's getting ever so much 
busier now!"

Although in the tedious hours of the night, I had longed for 
morning to arrive while listening to Beta's gentle breathing 
and the distant sound of unidentifiable machines, the seat 
now had never seemed more comfortable nor the prospect 
of continued sleep more welcoming. Nevertheless I prised 
open my eyes and tried to focus more clearly in the bright 
neon light that had never dimmed at all, although there was 
enough natural light streaming through the windows for it 
to be superfluous. 

"What do we do now?"

"Let's see more of the City!" announced Beta jumping up 
and frowning at my recumbent figure. 

My tongue tasted the sour rawness of my mouth and my fingers 
carefully detached small grains from the corner of my eyes, 
while just behind my forehead a persistent thud was 
commanding me back to sleep. However, I knew there was no 
prospect of that, regarding the commuters sitting around with 
their business suits and rolled umbrellas. I followed Beta as 
she pushed open the glass door to the waiting room and 
confronted a greater density of people running backwards 
and forwards than I had ever seen before. I was pressed 
against the wall by this whirl of activity, anxious of losing 
sight of Beta who strode fearlessly ahead. 

The jostling flow of commuters, - many no doubt coming 
from the Suburbs, -marched forward in determined haste 
towards the signposted underground stations and bus stops. 
Watches were glanced at, newspapers tucked under arms, 
tickets stuffed back into wallets and eyes set dead ahead 
with contempt for all distraction. Beta preceded me 
through the tall portals of the railway station, past 
newspaper vendors yelling in staggered unison "Latest 
Election News!" and "Election Latest!"  I dashed after her 
and caught up with her outside where she stood unabashed 
and unembarrassed staring around her.

The City was all that I'd imagined it being and more. All 
around and towering high above were the tallest buildings I 
could imagine. A narrow corridor of blue sky ran parallel 
to the road below. People bustled by in two streams of 
motion on the wide pavements, separated by a slow, nearly 
stationary, procession of buses, taxis, lorries and cars. 
Above and passing between and through the tall buildings 
were monorail tracks from which trains were hanging and 
standing commuters stared at the pavements below. At 
street level, shop windows were displaying clothes, 
electrical goods, robotics, leisure facilities, foreign 
holidays, luxury lets and anything else that someone with 
substantially more money than I could afford. Dotting the 
pavement were advertising boards, bus-stops, litter bins 
and traffic lights.

"I just can't believe it! I just can't believe it!" uttered Beta 
again and again as she surveyed the scenery. "And this is 
just a tiny corner of the City! How can there be so much? 
So many! So ... oops!" A pair of diatrymas jostled past her 
and caused her to fall forward slightly. I caught her by the 
arm before she was trampled underfoot. 

"Let's get out of here," I suggested.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere. Somewhere not by the station. It's bound to be 
busy here." I looked at a signpost illuminated by a stick 
figure with a purposeful stride. "How about Her 
Maphrodite's Royal Palace?"

Beta agreed. We followed a stream of commuters, at the 
same rapid pace, dodging the feet of the odd beggar or 
other figure sprawled out in front of the shops, and 
constantly in danger of being knocked down and under the 
crowd ourselves. All we could see, smell or hear were the 
backs of commuters ahead of us and the fumes and noise 
of the impatient traffic. 

Eventually, the push of the crowd lessened and we were in 
a much quieter area adorned by older but no less splendid 
buildings. The enormous skyscrapers and attendant 
monorails were supplanted by palaces and town houses 
circumscribed by high walls, towering railings and tall 
trees. 

"Let's stop!" commanded Beta breathlessly, pausing by an 
elm tree and a pair of peacocks chatting to a couple of 
anacondas. She gazed through the railings of a majestic 
building guarded by soldiers in blue uniforms and bearskin 
hats, who were marching with eccentrically held rifles. As 
they approached each other from opposing directions they 
performed a pantomime with their rifles, spun around and 
marched back in the direction from which they had come.

Most of the people in this district were carrying cameras 
and wearing tee-shirts emblazoned with such words as I 
Love The City. The building that was the object of their 
attention and the focus of their cameras was an 
architectural montage of styles from every period 
imaginable. Corinthian arches, Palladian pillars, round 
domes and grandiose glass windows framed by 
magnificent velvet curtains. All of this was beyond high 
golden railings, forbidding guards, several furlongs of 
concrete and ornate lawn, and a towering row of flag staffs 
with the blue, red and green standards of several nations 
waving slightly in the breeze.

"Doesn't this make you feel proud to belong to this 
country?" commented one of the pair of peacocks standing 
by us, a videocamera strapped around his neck. "Don't you 
just feel awed by it all?"

"It's very impressive!" admitted Beta. "Do you think Her 
Maphrodite might be in residence?"

"On the day of a General Election? Of course!" enthused 
the peacock. "Someone's got to be on hand to give the new 
Prime Minister constitutional authority. Where would we 
be without Her Maphrodite? It just makes my feathers 
preen!" He splayed out his orange-eyed feathers. "I just feel 
sorry for foreigners. They are so deprived. They don't have 
a monarch to look up to as we do. No wonder they envy us 
so much and clamour to immigrate in such vast numbers!"

"Is it possible to approach any closer?" wondered Beta, 
grasping the railings in her hands.

"For the likes of us, of course not! Royalty have to stay 
apart from the mass of ordinary people. It wouldn't do to 
mix their blue blood with the debased genes of 
commoners! They're over there. And we're over here. And 
that's the way it has to be!"

"I see," contemplated Beta. "Are they really so much better 
than us?"

"Someone has to be. And royalty have more entitlement 
than anyone else!" 

The peacocks returned to their serpentine companions who 
were wrapping themselves around an ash tree and lifting 
themselves as high as they could to get a better view of the 
palace grounds and the stiffly marching soldiers. Beta and I 
stood against the cold iron bars with the crush of tourists 
behind us and the broad empty space ahead, in which the 
soldiers performed their unchanging rituals and the flags 
gently fluttered.

We left the palace and the tourists who, even this early in 
the morning, were amassing in increasing numbers to 
glimpse at this world of privilege. We drifted into a 
precinct of magnificent shops where people in fur coats, 
jewellery, pearls and gold watches strolled by in total 
indifference to the majority of the population who were 
admiring goods they could never afford through massively 
thick plate glass windows. I certainly couldn't afford the 
ten thousand guinea suits, the ten million guinea watches, 
the five hundred guinea silk ties, the four hundred guinea 
packages of caviar, chocolates or game fowl, the cars in 
excess of two million guineas and quite modest portraits at 
several hundreds of millions of guineas. These numbers, 
with their long string of zeroes, were shocking to me, but 
even more so to Beta.

"Even the newspapers cost more than five guineas!" she 
exclaimed. "In the Village, a newspaper costs less than a 
groat! How can people afford them?"

"I imagine they must earn more money in the City," I 
remarked, but still awed at the cost of a bar of chocolate at 
three guineas, a packet of cigarettes at thirty guineas and 
cassettes at nearly two hundred guineas.

"How much do you have to earn to be able to afford what 
some of these people have!" Beta exclaimed, indicating some 
rather fat men in opulent and ostentatious clothes. One man 
was smoking from a cigar nearly as long as his forearm and 
disdainfully flicked ash over a boa constrictor sitting by 
a cardboard sign which read in scrawling biro: Cold & 
Hungry! Please Help! The snake squirmed to avoid the ash. 
"Did you see how much one of those fur coats cost? It would 
feed the Village for hundreds of years! Where does all this 
wealth come from?" 

The answer to Beta's question was perhaps provided after 
we had walked beyond the expensive shops; the hotels 
guarded by smart looking security guards in anachronistic 
uniforms; the Rolls-Royces, Bentleys and golden carriages 
parked outside lavish buildings; and the women sporting 
luxurious fur coats and snakeskin handbags. Tall buildings 
reappeared, but taller than ever: marble, concrete and glass 
towering higher and higher. At the top, eagles and condors 
circled on the up-draughts from the slow-moving traffic 
below. The buildings had large plaques outside, often set in 
small grass plots adorned by statues of both modern and 
antique origin. The names gave me no doubt that this was 
where in the City there was most wealth: the Country and 
City First Agricultural Bank, the National & Provincial 
Assurance Society and the Bank of the New Canine 
Republics. Each building housed a bank, an insurance 
company, an investment group or other financial 
institution. Although only the reflection of other buildings 
could be seen through the glass windows, I imagined rows 
upon rows of clerks and computer screens, frantically 
ringing telephones and stock brokers frenziedly shouting at 
each other as trillions of guineas were exchanged across 
international time zones and between other financial 
centres. Beta was very impressed by my suppositions.

"I've just never thought about money like that before!" she 
remarked, gawking up at the anonymous windows on the 
highest windows. "Are you saying that these buildings 
contain trillions of guineas of money? That must take up an 
awful amount of space unless they're stored in very large 
denominations. Perhaps they have billion guinea notes. 
That would be an awful lot of 0s! Would that be nine? Or 
twelve?"

"I don't think it's actually stored as money," I explained 
further. "It's nominal rather than actual money. I think it's 
really just stored as data on computers. The trading is in 
the form of digits shifting up and down as credit is moved 
from one account to another."

"What's the point of that? Why can't they just leave it 
where it is?"

"It's to make profit. If the money moves about a lot it 
somehow becomes more on the way. I don't know how that 
works. I think the money is invested into businesses and so 
on..."

"So, when my father borrowed ten shillings from the bank 
to buy a new donkey, and paid back a shilling a month for 
a year that makes the bank profit. I can see that. So they 
must loan out an awful amount of money. It's a wonder 
they have any left!"

"I don't think that's the only way that money accrues profit 
though," I remarked watching a couple of magpies in 
business suits trot up the steps into the Two Brothers 
Insurance Company building. "I think that some of it is 
made from buying things at one price and selling them 
again at another price. There's a lot of profit to be made if 
the volumes of the sale are particularly huge. If you buy a 
billion guineas of pig iron and sell it at a profit of 0.1 % 
you make a profit of a million guineas. Whereas if you 
bought only ten guineas of pig iron and sold it at the same 
profit then you'd only make 2¬d. Hardly worth the effort!"

"Do you mean they've got a billion guineas worth of pig 
iron in these buildings? No wonder they're so big! I can't 
begin to imagine how heavy all that would be."

"It's not that they've actually got all the pig iron they buy. 
It's just a transaction done by computer. The people who 
trade in pig iron probably never see any at all. They also 
trade in the anticipated values of things in the future, 
promises to pay by governments that no longer exist, the 
likelihood of things happening or not happening, the 
relative differences between the value of money in one part 
of the world and another, or anything that will part people 
from money."

"That sounds like nonsense to me!" sniffed Beta. "You say 
that all this wealth is made from things that may or may 
not exist now or in the future, which you probably 
wouldn't really want anyway, and is only stored as 
electrical or magnetic impulses on enormous computers. 
What's that got to do with the real world? How does all 
that give you food to eat or clothes to wear?" She gazed at 
the shadows of the buildings on each other, and the 
walkways hundreds of yards above where more besuited 
people were walking above our heads. "Then why do they 
need such enormous buildings?"

We strolled on through the streets, which were extremely 
busy, even now long after most people had arrived at work, 
with employees rushing in and out of tall buildings 
clutching files, brochures and documents under their arms 
or between their teeth. There were bowler hats, striped 
shirts, braces, dress-suits and stilettos jostling past us on all 
species of worker, all entirely intent on their destination. 
The eyes were always fixed ahead and regarded us only as 
obstacles to be sidestepped. 

"How many banks are there?" Beta wondered as we paused 
to let two vultures dash by in urgent conversation, tiny 
bowler hats covering their bald heads and umbrellas tucked 
under their wings.

"Not that many really!" remarked a tall pigeon about our 
size who was standing nearby and pecking at a bag of 
seeds he supported in a wing. "I'm sorry to interrupt your 
conversation, but I just couldn't help overhearing you. All 
this ridiculous wealth: trillions and zillions of it in less than 
a cubic mile of the City. It's enough to make you spit! 
What do they want so much of it for? And what is it for but 
to build even more of these enormous buildings, push up 
the land rental to extremes you just can't comprehend, and 
push out all the honest hard-working Citizens like me who 
will never ever see the smallest iota of this wealth. And 
where are we to go? The East End slums? The distant 
Suburbs? Have you any idea how expensive rent is in the 
City?"

"None at all," I admitted, as we huddled against the 
Commercial & Lambdeth Union & Friendly Society to 
avoid being stampeded under a rush of shirt-sleeved young 
men led by a couple of hinnying hyenas in psychedelic 
braces. "More than in the Suburbs I imagine."

"You'll be lucky to get much more than a room the size of 
a toilet cubicle for less than five thousand guineas a week. 
That's a week! And how many people living in the City 
earn the sort of money they can afford that kind of 
expense? I consider myself fortunate to take home just 
enough to get by. There are plenty whose earnings are less 
than six digits."

"That's still an awful lot!" gasped Beta.

The pigeon glanced at Beta. "You would say that! I guess 
you must come from the Country. You have coins smaller 
than a crown there I believe. And you can even buy things 
with them! But to many working in this financial district, 
like those noisy louts who just passed by, anything less 
than nine digits is considered an admission of failure. For 
them it's just money, money, money. And what do they 
spend it on? Champagne. Gambling. Fast cars. What do 
you think of that?"

"I suppose if I had a lot of money like that there would be 
quite a few frivolous things I'd like to buy," mused Beta. 
"It'd be quite nice to have more money than I need."

"It certainly would be!" chirped the pigeon enviously. "I 
would just love to know that my salary cheque would see 
me through the month comfortably, with no risk of my 
bank balance going into the red! But what makes it so 
unfair - so terribly and utterly unfair - is that all that money 
which piles up as a result of all this financial wizardry and 
wheeling and dealing eventually goes to shareholders who 
haven't contributed anything to this activity but capital. 
Capital, moreover, that they have mostly just inherited. 
Only those who already have obscene quantities of wealth 
can invest money and make money."

"Is that how it works?" Beta wondered. "Rich people put in 
a lot of money and then get a lot more out."

"Essentially, yes. And there's a kind of sliding scale. The 
more you already have the more you're going to make."

"So ..." Beta reflected, "the rich get richer and richer. What 
about people who're not rich? Don't they get richer too?"

"Oh, I wouldn't think so for one minute! These financial 
institutions aren't working in the interests of the poor. Why 
should they?"

"If there's only so much wealth in the world and more of it 
is going to richer people, then there must be a drain from 
somewhere else," I remarked.

"Only if there's only a fixed amount of wealth in the 
world," the pigeon replied. "All this prosperity is based on 
the belief that the world's wealth will just go on growing 
for ever and ever. And because of that, people say that it 
isn't just the rich who benefit. Everyone else does as well."

"That sounds silly!" Beta pointed out. "How can things just 
keep growing forever? Surely there must be a point at 
which it just can't grow any more. And then what happens? 
Do the rich continue to get richer and everyone else gets 
poorer to finance them? Do the things which used to make 
money stop making so much money in future? And can't it 
all go into reverse? Maybe all these buildings will just 
crumble into the ground and we've used up all the world's 
resources?"

"I don't know. I'm not an economist. I just live here." 

The streets of the financial district eventually gave way to 
an area of shops, restaurants and cafes at the foot of 
buildings that still towered above us, but seemed less 
remote and threatening. The hustle and bustle eased, but 
there was still the ubiquitous roar of traffic. By now, like 
everyone else, we were no longer really seeing the people 
we passed by. Their very numbers had somehow robbed 
them of personality.

Even though it was still some time till midday, diners were 
greedily eating in the restaurants and cafes. We peered 
through the window of a restaurant to see two pigs facing 
each other over a table loaded with plates of the most 
exotic and rare foods which they shovelled into their 
mouths with a constant unbroken rhythm. A waiter 
approached and poured them each a glass of wine which 
they picked up in their trotters and drank immediately in 
one mouthful, so requiring a further refill. One of the pigs 
noticed us and made no attempt to avert his gaze. His jaws 
clumped again and again on a sinuous trail of meat which 
dangled out of his mouth while rich sauces dribbled down 
the dark pink folds of his chin and mixed in the 
kaleidoscope of stains on the cloth table napkin tucked into 
the collar of his striped shirt. 

"There's enough food there to feed my Village for a 
month!" gasped Beta. "How can they eat so much? There 
must be much much more food than they could possibly 
need!"

The pig lost interest in us and returned to his food with 
relish, plunging his knife and fork deep into its entrails. His 
companion had not once paused his gorging, but the 
likelihood of him finishing before his companion was 
lessened by the waiter bringing in more plates of food. 
Looking at so much food awakened Beta's appetite, so we 
wandered past restaurants selling meals at thousands of 
guineas a head until we found a small, comparatively 
inexpensive cafe where a cup of coffee cost less than ten 
guineas. The decor of the cafe matched the relative cost of 
the coffee, with only a few very uncomfortable wooden 
stools lined along a small counter facing onto the street 
outside. I paid for two coffees with several grimy pound 
notes which the anaconda serving was initially reluctant to 
accept, while Beta reserved two seats for us just next to a 
pair of teenage boys and a couple of small minotaurs. I 
lifted myself up onto the stool and looked through the plate 
glass window, past writing in Cyrillic and Arabic, to the 
never-ceasing crush of pedestrians outside. It was 
somehow relaxing to watch this world go by, knowing that, 
temporarily at least, we were not a part of it. The coffee 
however didn't taste at all pleasant and was not especially 
warm. The addition of tasteless milk from the sachet or 
sugar cubes in paper covers did nothing to improve the 
taste nor the temperature.

"What do you think of the City?" I asked, putting down the 
cup and trying to ignore its taste. "Is it all that you 
expected?"

"There does seem to be an awful lot of it!" she remarked. 
"Much more than I thought. Anna was right. The City does 
make Lambdeth seem terribly provincial. And I thought 
that was big enough. Everyone seems to be terribly busy. 
Dashing around with some mysterious purpose."

"Not everybody!" I commented, pointing at a pair of 
ground sloths who were slumped over a table, idly peering 
at tabloid newspapers with the headlines Reds Do 
Better than Expected and Her Maphrodite's 
Aunt Eats Hamsters. Beta turned her head round, a 
curtain of hair flopping down to her knees.

"Those two don't look busy either," she said indicating a 
couple of crocodiles who were sitting impassively, barely 
even blinking, with full but probably cold cups of tea on 
the table in front of them. It was difficult to believe that 
they were in fact real living people, but it seemed 
implausible that anyone would bring in two stuffed models 
and set them there. "I suppose not everyone in the City has 
a lot to do."

"If you were unemployed then neither would you have!" 
sharply remarked one of the boys sitting next to us, who 
like Beta wore no clothes.

"You mean they might not have jobs?" Beta remarked.

"Not everyone has, you know!" the boy continued. "You 
come from the Country don't you?" 

Beta nodded. 

"My brother and I did as well. We thought: come to the City 
and get rich. Even the unemployment benefit is several 
hundred times more than you could ever earn in the Country. 
But it doesn't last. Money just doesn't go anywhere here. 
And if you haven't got a job, what can you do? Just sit in 
cafes like this and watch life go by and just wish you had 
a chance to join in."

"Surely there are plenty of jobs here," I commented. "If that 
wasn't so, why do so many people from the Suburbs 
commute here to work?"

"There are jobs for them!" the other boy remarked. "That's 
why the City wants them. But farm labourers like us, what 
can we do that we're qualified for? There are only so many 
jobs available for our like. And so many people crowd here 
from all over that the jobs soon go. And then all you do 
and all you've got energy to do is spend your time 
surviving. And in between the visits to the dole office and 
going to bed, what else can you do? Just watch things go 
by."

"I really envy those crocodiles," the first boy continued. 
"They can take the boredom. I don't know how they do it! 
Hours these reptiles can spend doing absolutely nothing. I 
suppose it's just their make up."

"But surely even without money there are things to do?" 
Beta wondered. "My father's always saying he wished he 
had more time not looking after the farm animals and 
tending the crops. All the books you can read. All the 
things you can see. All the creative things you can do."

"It's not like that!" sniffed the boy. "You just don't 
understand. That's what you think at first. But one day 
becomes another and time goes by. No job. No money. 
And it becomes a trap you get into. Soon you just get 
resigned to it."

"I just can't believe you can't do anything. It must be very 
boring!"

"It is! It is!" the boy agreed.

"It's inevitable though," his companion said. "If everyone 
was busy then for those who can afford to do things there'd 
just be no space to do them. The City needs people to do 
nothing or it would just have no space left. It's people 
staying at home, out of sight and out of mind that keep this 
place functioning. If everyone was active, going to cafes, 
writing novels and so on, everything would just seize up."

We finished our coffees and strayed again into the street 
which had become no less busy for our absence. As we 
walked past more restaurants and shops, my feet were 
getting very weary and Beta's feet had become almost 
black with the dust and grime from the pavements. 
Occasionally, we had to stop for her to detach a small 
patch of darkened chewing gum or mushed cigarette end 
from her soles. It was on one such occasion, while Beta 
was trying to shake a disgusting plastic stretch of gum from 
her fingers, that we heard a loud commotion. Beta looked 
up sharply to see a pair of wolves who were baying at a 
couple of bulls in track-suits. 

The abuse was quite explicit and extremely personal. As 
the accusations were so bizarre and disgusting they must 
have been grounded on speculation rather than firm 
evidence. One of the bulls retorted with an angry snort by 
butting a wolf with his head. This triggered a sudden and 
startling flurry of violent action which at once froze the 
flow of pedestrian traffic in its track. The wolves leapt onto 
the bulls, teeth and claws at the ready, while the bulls 
circled round and around with menacing impulsive thrusts 
of their long horns and their tails slashing out like whips at 
the wolves on their backs.

Most pedestrians either turned back or crossed the road to 
avoid the violence. Some braver ones gingerly passed by 
along the kerbside. More disturbingly however, several 
pedestrians decided to participate. A pair of weasels 
wearing jeans and tee-shirts produced flick-knives and 
jumped on top of the bulls. A thickset boa constrictor 
sprang onto one of the bulls and pulled its body around the 
bull's neck. The violence was beginning to draw blood. 
One of the bull's horns was reddened at the tip and a wolf 
was viciously thrown against a restaurant window which 
withstood the impact but caused him to slide unconscious 
onto the pavement.

"This is horrible!" exclaimed Beta, showing more presence 
of mind than me. "Let's go!" 

She pulled me away and we headed down a busy street 
perpendicular to the one we'd been on. As we hastened along, 
a large sparrow chirped at us with something of a chuckle 
in his voice: "Quite a scrap, eh!"

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" I asked.

"That fight! Lots of blood, eh! Not the most violent I've 
seen but pretty good anyway!"

"Good!" retorted Beta, clearly distressed. "What could be 
good about that?"

"Well not good, so much. But pretty violent. Not the worst, 
but bad enough. I've seen a lot of violence in the City. You 
do, you know! You just do. You can't avoid it. It's 
everywhere. The City is a violent place!"

"Is it?" Beta asked, looking at the mass of people passing 
by. 

"Look at that police officer!" The sparrow continued, 
pointing with a wing at a savage looking ceratosaurus in a 
uniform nestling a small automatic rifle in his arms. "Don't 
tell me that he carries that around with him if he doesn't 
think he needs it, eh? This is a violent place. Rapes, 
ultraviolence, gang bangs, mass shoot-outs, everything. 
Often the pavements are just red with blood after an 
especially gruesome gangland killing. Business leaders get 
shot point-blank through the head, their brains splattered 
over spaghetti and lasagne. Pubs get blown apart with 
small incendiary devices. Cars get stolen and plough down 
innocent pedestrians on the pavement. Arguments are 
settled in a blaze of gunfire. Buildings are set alight and 
their inhabitants tied to chairs to prevent them escaping. 
People are chosen at random, followed by assassins and 
their entrails torn out of them. The City can be pretty 
violent, eh!"

"I'm sure it can be," remarked Beta, with an expression of 
some distress. "We must be on our way though."

"Well be careful as you go, eh!" the sparrow remarked as 
Beta hastened us along the shop-lined street at quite a 
stride.

"I hope we don't see very much of this violence," I 
commented kindly. "It's not very pleasant."

Beta flashed a quite angry glance at me. "I don't want to 
talk. Or even think about it," she enunciated slowly and 
firmly. I scampered along behind her, belatedly aware of 
the distress she'd felt on witnessing the fight. 

The road we walked along was brightly lit by neon, despite 
it being early morning, and we passed cinemas, shops and 
other places of quite a different character than those we'd 
passed before. GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! one screamed 
out in orange neon with a window covered with pictures of 
naked women of all species engaged in some very peculiar 
behaviour. Naked Encounter promised another. 
Topless and Uninhibited a bar advertised.

"I don't like this area at all!" remarked Beta, slowing her 
rapid pace and walking closer to me as if for protection. 

Scantily dressed women, but none of them dressed as 
naturally as Beta, gazed at us surlily from shop doorways, 
and through red-lit windows, which, if they were shops, 
were either selling decor for those with a distinct 
preference for the colour red and a preponderance of satin 
and silk, or (more likely) the services of the semi-clad 
women who pouted at us as we passed by.

"I've never heard of any of those films," I remarked 
pointing at the neon titles of a cinema. I'm Coming On 
You. Sexy Serpents. Two Is Not Enough. 
Twelve Hours Of Passion.

They don't look very nice, do they?" remarked Beta 
stopping in front of the cinema and looking at the explicit 
pictures of innumerable different sexual practices between 
various species who exhibited more than a hint of pleasure 
in their faces. "Look at that! How can anyone do that? Do 
people actually come here to watch films of that sort of 
thing?"

I looked around me. There were still quite a few people in 
the street, but actually rather less than in most of the City. 
There was also less traffic, but the vehicles were still 
driving by rather slowly. People of all species, but mostly 
male, were entering and leaving shops through plastic 
strips that only partially obscured the rows and rows of 
videos, magazines and other objects displaying a 
preponderance of naked flesh and sexual organs. The 
words Sex, Flesh, Hard Core and the letters 
XXXX seemed to adorn almost every building that wasn't a 
residential block.

"I don't like this at all!" Beta asserted, though seeming 
strangely excited at the same time. "Let's leave here as 
soon as we can!" 

She strode on, and I followed as close behind her as I 
could, ignoring as best I could the curious calls from 
the more human women who stood in shop doorways in little 
more than their underwear. My ears burnt with 
embarrassment while the pressure against the inside of my 
trousers was somehow reappraising my feelings towards Beta 
in a way that I couldn't claim to be proud of.

Beta steered us off the main roads down some quite narrow 
roads, framed on either side by the windowless hulk of tall 
buildings, but it was not long until we felt lost and longed 
to return to the relative comfort of a more populated street. 
The few people we passed seemed somehow menacing and 
unwelcome, however innocuous they might otherwise 
appear. We zigzagged across the roads to avoid them, 
huddling together for protection. It was very dark in the 
shadows of the buildings on all sides, and despite being 
nearly midday on a sunny day it seemed more like twilight.

Our nerves, already on edge in this unfamiliar and 
threatening locality, were further troubled by what 
appeared to be the sudden and shrieking scream of a large 
bird. 

"What was that?" gasped Beta.

"I don't know. Whatever it is, I don't want to find out! Let's 
go!"

The scream came out again, and this time it sounded much 
more like someone shouting in distress. 

"I don't think that's the right thing to do at all!" 
reproved Beta sternly. "If someone's in trouble we ought 
to try and help." 

She strode off in the direction of the scream and, 
abashed but still reluctantly, I chased after her. 

We followed the punctuated cries around a series of  
anonymous buildings and narrow streets as they became 
gradually more distinct. "Get off! Ow! Leave me alone!" 
The calls were soon identifiable as coming from a woman. 

Beta broke into a run and I picked up my pace to stay 
within sight of her. We turned a corner past black 
plastic rubbish bags and decrepit cardboard boxes, and 
were confronted by the sight of a young woman struggling 
in the grip of a large pig wearing a uniform and a conical 
hat.

"Leave her alone!" commanded Beta with authority. 

The pig turned round, holding the woman's arm in one of 
his trotters, revealing that he was a police officer. He 
contemplated us standing there. 

"Just leave her be! She doesn't like being held like that!"

I couldn't help marvelling at Beta's steadfastness of 
purpose in confronting someone who if he so chose could 
probably make our lives very unpleasant. The police officer 
was also rather impressed, and simply released his grip so 
that the woman slumped sloppily onto the pavement.  She 
was sobbing and weeping forlornly. I noticed for the first 
time that she was quite severely pregnant: a large round 
belly whose distended navel swelled out from beneath her 
stretched tee-shirt and hung over her ragged knee-length 
skirt. 

"The City has a policy of discouraging vagrancy," the 
police officer said in his defence.

"I'm sure the girl is quite discouraged now!" Beta replied, 
bravely conciliatorily. "If you leave her with us, we'll 
ensure she's looked after."

"Very well!" remarked the police officer, clearly quite 
embarrassed as he fastened his belt together round his 
rotund waist. He looked down at the pregnant girl who was 
huddled in a piteous state, her shoulder-length hair over her 
face and her hands supported on her bare knees. "Don't let 
me find you begging again," he ordered her unconvincingly, 
"or the full weight of the law will descend on you!" 

He then pocketed his truncheon, turned around and strode off 
down the narrow streets, leaving us behind. 

Beta raced over to the girl, bent down to her and drew her 
sobbing face to her bare breasts. I stood helplessly by, 
feeling somewhat redundant and removed from the drama. 

The girl raised her thin, high cheekboned face and stared at 
us through tears and their silver reflection on her cheeks. 
"Thank you! Thank you!" she repeated between sobs. 

She was in a very sorry state, and not just as a result of 
her recent assault. Her hair was matted and unwashed; her 
clothes were smudged and torn; her feet were bare and 
black with the muck of the pavement; and her skin was 
discoloured by a mixture of dirt and bruises. Her face was 
the very image of suffering. "He was horrid! Horrid!"

Beta looked up at me with a sad smile. 

"We'd better get her out of here." 
She turned back to the girl. 

"What's your name? Where do you come from?"

"Una. My name's Una," the girl sobbed. "I don't come from 
anywhere. At least not lately. I used to live in Unity. 
Beyond the Country. But I don't live anywhere now. Thank 
you! Thank you! That horrid pig! Just because I'm so poor. 
I've not lost my humanity, even if I have lost my dignity. It 
was horrible! Horrible!"

Wordlessly, Beta lifted Una to her feet and gestured to me 
to help carry her. She was not too badly harmed by the 
encounter, although some of the bruises on her arm were 
quite fresh and tender, and she hugged her bare stomach 
with anxiety. She was very light, despite the extra weight 
she carried inside her, and would normally be very thin. 
Her wrists were nearly half the thickness of Beta's and her 
legs were of almost childlike proportions. She was also 
slightly shorter than Beta. Her hair was very pale despite 
the patches of dirt that darkened it. 

As we supported her and walked slowly along the back streets 
in the hope of finding somewhere to rest she continued 
sobbing: ruing her luck and reflecting on her recent assault. 

"It's because I look such a rag doll! It's because I'm so 
filthy! Even the police think I'm fair game! Just a victim 
to be victimised again and again!"

"I'm sure that's not true, Una," remarked Beta comfortingly. 
"Nobody's meant to be a victim. No one has to be abused."

"Yes they do. Yes they are. And I'm one," Una sobbed with 
understandable self-pity. "And here I am with the child of a 
rapist in my womb wandering the desolate City streets; 
sleeping in dark alley-ways under newspapers and 
cardboard; drinking soup at soup kitchens and eating the 
rubbish left in waste-paper bins. I'm just as low as you can 
get! Any lower and I'd be dead!"

"Don't be silly," Beta said reassuringly but without 
conviction. "There's always worse than the worst you'll 
ever know." 

We emerged into the relative brightness of an open street 
in which there were the comforting arcades of shops and 
the hustle and bustle of people. The streets here were 
nonetheless quieter than most we'd seen up to now and the 
shops were correspondingly more mundane, but still more 
spectacular than any that would be seen in Suburban 
shopping centres. 

"There's an empty bench," I said indicating one facing 
across the road at the stream of traffic roaring by. 
"Let's sit down."

"Good idea," agreed Beta. 

We sat on a hard plastic bench between a waste-paper bin 
and a signpost, much defaced by pen-knives and decorated 
with arcane graffiti. "Jim Loves Julie" read the graffiti 
between my knees. We set Una between us, but she leaned 
heavily on Beta's shoulder and stroked her arm idly while 
talking not so much to us, or to anyone, but for the sake 
of talking.

"I've lost all my pride. You do, you know, when you're at 
the bottom of the heap. I've done almost anything to 
survive. Begged, borrowed and even stolen. You have to. 
You've got to eat. You just want food or something to 
drink all the time. It fills your thoughts. I never thought 
eating would be so important before, but now that and 
sleep are the two most significant things in my life. If it's 
not where to get food, it's where to lay my head at night. 
You can't believe! I envy the wealth of all the people who 
pass by as I sit begging on the street with a cup or empty 
sweet box. I just see them as sources of income. I hate 
them when they don't put even the smallest guinea or 
crown in my box. Why can't they help more? I say. And 
when they give me money I'm grateful, sure, but I think 
why don't they give me more? What can a guinea buy you 
in the City? What can even a hundred guineas buy you?"

"Not very much by the look of it," I remarked, looking at 
the prices of three or four guineas marked on discarded 
sweet papers on the ground beneath my feet.

"The money I get in a day's begging in the City would be 
plenty in Unity, but then it's all gone. A cup of coffee in a 
cafe, if they'll even let me in, a few rolls, perhaps some 
clothes. When there's only food and sleep to look forward 
to, you particularly cherish sleep. It's cheap and readily 
available, even if it's taken me a long time to get used to 
sleeping rough. At first I couldn't sleep at all. I ached all 
day long from the pressure of the pavement beneath me. 
And I'm so vulnerable too. A lone girl with no friends in 
the midst of an enormous unfamiliar city. Men always try 
to take advantage of me. Despite me being pregnant! But 
I'm a nice girl. I'm not like that! But that's just not 
sufficient for them all, as you saw with that disgusting pig! 
God! I hate him! Why me? Why do even law enforcers 
think that I can be treated with such brutal disrespect? I 
hate him! I hate the City! I hate everything and everyone!"

She paused and then suddenly burst into a flood of tears. 
Beta put her arm around her, and then looked up at me. 

"Isn't there somewhere better than here to sit? It's not very 
comfortable or private."

I looked up at the signpost. The image of a striding man 
marching in the direction of the City Park looked quite 
promising.  I mentioned this to Beta. 

"Parks are very relaxing places in the Suburbs. It's much 
better than sitting here with all these people jostling by."

Beta readily agreed, so we persuaded Una to stand up and 
we walked slowly along the street in the direction indicated 
by the signpost. As we proceeded, we passed more shops 
and a few department stores, but what I thought 
particularly odd was the number of large television screens 
lining the exterior of the buildings. They all featured  
different stations, but all showed similar images of suited 
people talking to other individuals down padded 
microphones. I pointed this out to Beta.

"Is television all you can think of?" Beta upbraided me 
harshly, but she raised her head and looked up at the 
images. "Oh! It's the Election results!"

"The Election?" I remarked. I'd totally forgotten the big 
event of the day. "Is it now?"

"Well, it's already taken place you know. I didn't vote of 
course - I wasn't registered in Lambdeth - but I'd have 
voted Green. Did you vote?"

"No. I wasn't anywhere near the Suburbs. Who do you 
think has won?"

"Well, let's find out. You don't mind, do you Una, if we 
watch the Election Results?"

"No, of course not. Of course not. Though it won't make 
any difference to me who's elected. All those different 
parties. They're all the same, aren't they?"

Beta looked as if she would like to disagree, but she 
restrained the urge and instead stood by a tree with Una 
leaning heavily on her shoulder and me standing beside 
her. Many pedestrians also stopped in their tracks and 
gazed at the television screens, where on all of them 
different newscasters of different species in similar attire 
faced the camera with faces admixed with the excitement 
and solemnity of the event. The television screen we were 
nearest showed two characters, one a cobra with glasses 
and the other human. 

"We are now authorised to announce the results of the 
General Election," the cobra spoke slowly and reverently. 
Behind him was an inset picture of several flags of 
different colours and the images of significant politicians, 
one of whom I recognised as President Chairman Rupert. 

"They said they'd give the results at midday," whispered 
Beta excitedly.

"It's been an exciting and hectic Election," the newscaster 
continued. "The most important there has probably ever 
been. An Election which has seen opinion polls swing 
widely from side to side, up and down, and topsy-turvy. An 
Election which has seen the active campaigns of the Red 
Party and the Blue Party overshadowed by the 
controversies surrounding the Illicit Party and, more 
usually for General Elections, the Black Party. An Election 
which has seen the White Party cornered again and again 
for a firm statement of policy and ideology, and has 
marked the increasing significance of the Green Party." 
Beta slightly squeezed my arm at that brief mention. 
"However, it is official. The results have come in and we 
are able to announce them. So, Gilbert, what are they?"

The other newscaster raised his head from the piece of 
paper he had in front of him. "Thank you, George. Yes the 
results are in. Results which signify the final disu



	13

nification of the Coition Government. The full details will 
be given later as it is complicated to explain the method of 
calculation in the Single Transferable Vote system. The 
main outcome is as follows. In the first round the Blue 
Party gained 30% of the vote and in the previous electoral 
system would have been the dominant party of the Coition 
government. The Red  Party gained 26%. On vote 
reallocation, however, the Red Party gained votes 
predominantly from the second preferences of the Green 
and Illicit Parties, whilst the Blue Party gained votes 
chiefly from the Black and White Parties. The final result 
is that the Red Party has triumphed in the Election with an 
overall reallocated total of 53% of the vote, against the 
Blue Party's 47%. I repeat. The Election has been won by 
the Red Party!"

Other television station announcers had been less 
circumlocutory in declaring the result, and choruses of 
cheers and moans broke out all along the main street before 
we had any idea whose victory had prompted the response. 
On the whole, it seemed that those who favoured the 
victory marginally outnumbered those opposed: a figure 
perhaps reflected by the curious scaled down percentages. 

"This has not quite been the decisive victory the Red Party 
may have hoped for. It is still in a weak position, although 
it now has a mandate which will enable it to succeed the 
Coition Government. Our cameras now take you to the 
Central Polling Office to hear from the Prime Minister 
designate." 

The image on the television screen echoed, in curious 
uniformity, the same picture as all the others on the 
main street, where successful candidates stood on a 
platform surrounded by computer screens and a crowd of 
hostile and enthusiastic observers. It was clear that some 
disruption in the crowd was holding up the proceedings, in 
which fruit and flour was being thrown onto the platform. 

"A Red Party victory!" Beta exclaimed. "Who'd've thought! 
I suppose they'd've been my second preference as well. I 
wonder what difference that will make."

"None whatsoever!" opined Una sceptically. "Whichever party 
is in power, whatever government, everything will remain the 
same!"

"I can't see how that can be!" Beta countered automatically 
but, reminded of Una's plight, decided not to pursue her 
argument. "However, less of politics. Shall we continue to 
the Park? I don't want Una to get caught up in all the 
revelry!"

Indeed quite a lot of celebration accompanied us as we 
walked along the street. Those who favoured the result 
were evidently making the most of their joy, in a chorus of 
screams, yells, hooting cars, raised clenched fists and a 
snowfall of ticker-tape and confetti which showered on our 
heads from the windows of the tall buildings high above. 
Horses charged by through nearly stationary traffic 
neighing praise to the Red Party, sometimes carrying flag-
waving carousers on their backs. Red flags were waved in 
triumph. Blue flags, Green flags and Black flags were 
waved in defiance. We dodged around a particular nasty 
fight between some velociraptors in black shirts and a pair 
of horses. An elderly elephant wearing a blue rosette stood 
transfixed by the side of the road, seemingly unable to 
comprehend the results. A pair of hedgehogs wearing 
bobble hats and green wellington boots looked rather 
embarrassed by the side of a banner optimistically 
proclaiming the success of the Green Party. 

"I don't think many people in the Suburbs will be pleased 
with the success of the Red Party," I commented to Beta. 
"Most people there would've voted for the White Party or 
the Blue Party. In fact, I don't think a single person would 
ever confess to voting Red. How is it that they managed to 
win?"

"It's obvious, isn't it!" replied Una, taking more interest in 
the Election than her apparent cynicism would suggest. 
"The Red Party are the party that more than any other 
claims to represent the interests of the poor, the 
dispossessed, the hungry, the disenfranchised, the put upon 
and the discriminated against. Since there are rather more 
people like that in this country than anyone else, the real 
mystery is why the other parties have done so well. There 
aren't that many people who'd be classified as rich enough 
for representation by the Blue Party."

"So you believe that people are voting entirely for self-
interest," Beta said. "The poor vote for the party of the 
poor. The rich for the party of the rich..."

"The racists for the party of the racists. The apathetic for 
the party of the apathetic. Of course! People only ever do 
anything if they see something in it for themselves."

"But don't people vote for what they think is best for the 
country? Don't they support the causes they believe are 
going to be best for everyone?"

"Dream on!" sneered Una weakly. 

She was still leaning heavily on Beta and clearly found it 
quite difficult struggling against the maelstrom of political 
supporters. The crowds thronged the streets up to the very 
entrance to the City Park, which was graced by two high 
ornate gates, supported by tall fluted pillars topped by 
the statue of a rampant horse. We eased our way through the 
crowd and into the park which after only a few paces seemed 
many leagues distant from the City surrounding it.

In all directions ahead of us was a garden landscape of 
unexpected beauty and magnificence. Oaks, sycamores and 
beeches dotted well-tended lawns bordered by tarmacked 
paths and signposted at every junction. The shiny reflection 
of the sun beamed at us from a lake in the distance, whose 
calm surface was broken only by swans and small boats. 
Park benches, small statues, decorative flower beds and 
ornate lamp-posts dotted the park at discreet distances from 
each other. There was a sprinkling of decorative buildings, 
including an open bandstand where a brass band was 
entertaining a gathering of deck-chairs and the odd 
snoozing music lover. The distantly seen towering heights 
of the City seemed somewhat unreal and unthreatening. 
The park was remarkably quiet despite the constant roar of 
traffic noises and the exultation of voters from outside. For 
the first time all day I heard the more peaceful songs of 
birds darting about in tall trees and felt a more calming 
breeze on my face than that given off by passing traffic.

"Ohh! This is lovely!" exclaimed Beta. "I didn't imagine 
there was anything like this in the City. I don't know why 
anyone ever goes anywhere else!"

"Not so much to eat here," replied Una. "Nice to sleep here 
during the day, but very dangerous at night."

Beta looked compassionately at the pregnant girl. "We'd 
better find you somewhere to rest. How about over there 
under that big oak by that statue?"

Una nodded, so we slowly ambled across the lawn towards 
the tree, past the bandstand where moustachioed men were 
playing a mixture of songs old and new to a relaxing 
psychedelic beat. A couple of horses grazed nearby, their 
tails swinging in time to the rhythm. As we approached, it 
became increasingly obvious that what had seemed like a 
giant statue of a lion was in fact a real lion, if a rather large 
one.

"I hope he's not fierce!" remarked Beta. "If he is, he'd eat all 
three of us in next to no time! Perhaps we ought to find 
somewhere else to sit."

"I think it might be someone I've met before," I remarked. 

As I suspected it was indeed Lord Arthur. If anything he 
looked more bedraggled than before, his large muzzle 
gazing mournfully at the shadow of a park bench with his 
paw spread out in front. He raised his head and saw the 
three of us approach. He seemed listless at first. Then he 
stood up, appearing to recognise me, towering high above 
us, trailing his apparently lifeless tail behind him. He 
walked slowly and unsteadily towards us, really not 
appearing nearly as fierce or imposing as a lion is supposed 
to be.

"Welcome! Welcome!" he greeted us. "You are the young 
man I met so recently in another city, aren't you? What are 
you and your delightful friends doing here in the City 
Park?"

"We were looking for somewhere to rest Una here," I 
explained. "We saved her from being abused and as you 
can see she's very heavy with child, so we came to the most 
restful place we could find."

"An excellent idea. Most excellent," the lion agreed. "So 
relax with me under the shade of this magnificent tree. I 
insist. I would really appreciate the company. After the 
events of the last few distressing weeks, which have 
reduced me to nearly the status of a pauper, I need all the 
friendly company I can find."

He heralded us towards the tree where he had been lying, 
and we sat in its shade by the very distinct imprint Lord 
Arthur had left on the grass. Beta steadily eased Una down 
to recline on her back and stare straight up at the sky. The 
bulge of her belly distended out from the inadequate 
restraints of her ragged clothes and glistened in the 
sunlight. Beta sat next to me, while Lord Arthur eased 
himself down onto the trampled lawn.

"It's been a bad day for me!" the lion said sadly. "Another 
terrible day. Yet another business sold. Yet another last 
remnant of a financial empire lost. My last stake in the 
financial district - all thirteen hundred storeys above and 
below earth lost to a rapacious pair of hippogriffs. They'd 
already bought my department store, Arthur's, in the plush 
New City district. My final stake in the City. For hardly 
enough to pay off a quarter of my creditors. All those 
trillions of guineas of potential wealth gone forever. I'll be 
bankrupt before the week is out, I tell you!"

"Are you having money problems?" asked Beta politely.

"You could say that!" Lord Arthur exclaimed. "It's been one 
humiliation after another. And to crown it all ... But 
perhaps there is hope ... The celebration. The cheering. 
The Election results I presume!" His ears twitched through 
the threadbare mass of his mane at the distant sound of 
klaxons and megaphones. "Tell me. What was the result, 
my dear?"

"A victory for the Red Party."

"Damn!" swore the lion. "Damn! Damn! Damn!" 

He lowered his head, overcome by the news and closed the 
enormous lids of his eyes. He exhaled heavily several times 
as if to contain the strength of his feelings, his enormous 
back arching with each breath. He then raised his head and 
looked at Beta apologetically. 

"Excuse me for my profane language, my dear. But it really 
is the worst ... the worst possible ... news! My downfall is 
secured now. No government led by the Red Party would ever 
express sympathy for me. The Blue Party: I had hope there. A 
Blue Government and I may have been saved. Any other party 
and there was the faintest glimmering of hope. But no Red 
Government would see the need, the urgency or even the 
desirability of bailing out a bankrupt trillionaire who in his 
time has been the very icon of material success and 
economic power! I am now no better than your pregnant 
vagrant friend in the eyes of the government, and I expect I 
will be treated with exactly the same lack of sympathy. 
This is indeed a black day for me, and for all those who 
have accumulated such colossal wealth during the long 
years of vacillating rule by the corrupt and indecisive 
Coition Government."

"How wealthy were you?" Beta asked.

"Incredibly so," Lord Arthur replied sadly. "I just had no 
idea how many trillions I boasted. For a while I was the 
wealthiest person on this planet. Surely you have heard of 
the power and wealth of Lord Arthur? Richer than the GNP 
of most countries! More powerful than the Coition 
Government and able to pull the strings of any government 
with just the smallest trickle from my colossal coffers. 
Able to buy politicians, judges and the power of the media. 
A wealth and power that was not always used, I hope, in 
pure material gain but never, of course, against my 
interests. I was the subject of millions of printed words, of 
thousands of newspaper inches and of hundreds of 
magazine covers. Princes, magnates and the heads of 
churches were at my beck and call. No single person had 
ever been as powerful nor as wealthy before me!" 

"How have you come to lose it all?"

"Misfortune. Imprudence. Fate. Stupidity. I don't know. So 
many different reasons. So many possible causes. My 
downfall has attracted nearly as much attention as my rise. 
I have never been poor. My family was wealthy, and 
wealth had been in our genes for countless generations. 
There have been times of fluctuating wealth over the 
centuries. First from tin, then wool, but by the time I came 
into my inheritance on the early death of my father the 
wealth of our family was mostly in trade and shipping. My 
genius, if I can be so immodest, was to take advantage of 
lucrative openings in heavy industry, manufacturing and 
finance. I was so far ahead of my competitors I could be 
complacent. My multinationals were big and powerful enough 
to be free from the taxation and punitive legislation of 
any one country.  I rode slipshod through the world's 
taxation and every country's laws: often forcing through 
tax advantages and even constitutional changes when it 
was profitable to do so.

"Sure, there were those who protested at the growth of my 
business empire, but usually markets were just begging to be 
taken over. They would even go out of their way to woo my 
assistance in the hope that I would support their failing 
enterprises (often, I hesitate to admit, enterprises which 
had failed due entirely to my own manipulation of the 
markets). Whatever the initial reaction - hostility or 
friendship - the end result was the same. The companies were 
absorbed into the general Arthurian corporation or left 
nominally independent but in actual fact nearly as much 
owned by my corporation as any other. My market share in the 
City rose and rose, until I was unassailable. My competitors 
could only look at Lord Arthur plc with envy. They knew there 
was no way they could topple me from my perch.

"Undoubtedly, some tried. A woman of some passion and 
impressive business acumen first by persuasion and then 
later by much more aggressive means managed to build 
quite a powerful company from the ruins of a once 
powerful food chain. She became an active competitor in 
the international arena. At one stage it seemed that 
where my economic advisers were moving in for the kill, 
so too were hers, and not always unsuccessfully. She 
managed to muscle in extremely successfully into the 
spice and marijuana industries, where I'd never been that 
successful, and took quite sizeable stakes in heroin, 
furs and fisheries. Her downfall, and my success, in this 
trade war, was due to her arrogance. She was never content 
to simply cream off the profit from her acquisitions. She 
tried to bring them under rigid control. No company likes 
to lose its identity. I had always followed the axiom that 
the main purpose of business is to make money, not to pursue 
a crusade. Her business empire suffered from employee 
dissatisfaction and manager buyouts. But then I shouldn't 
crow too much about my relative success. She isn't doing too 
badly these days while virtually my entire empire has 
collapsed about me. 

"Being the unchallenged leader of the business world was a 
very heady affair. I only belatedly became aware of just 
how much wealth I had. Of course, I'd always been believed 
that I was innately superior, but the proof of it was 
something different. True, my progress had been troubled by 
a local problem in which a section of my slavery and popcorn 
industry had bought itself out of the main corporate 
umbrella. I was very ill advised. I had treated this section 
of my industry in just the same unsubtle way that had marred 
my main competitor, who'd already had her fingers burnt on 
the same venture. Other than that, and a bit of disruption 
from the silk underwear unions who'd demanded parity of pay 
with coal-miners, I had a fairly untroubled dominance of world 
business.

"Perhaps my downfall was that it had been too easy. I 
began to believe my own marketing propaganda. I was 
truly Number One and as Number One likely to remain so. 
Nobody would ever lose their job through preferring an 
Arthurian product over a rival. I made sure of that. Whatever 
I touched turned into gold. This was reflected in my personal 
life. Despite the quite austere and very proper image I 
presented to the world, I indulged in secret in all sorts of 
vice. Drugs, sex, loud music, gross perversion, ostentation 
became my life. Probably why I haven't aged quite as well as 
I ought to have done." 

Lord Arthur looked ruefully at the threadbare patches in his 
tawny fur. 

"However, the rule of business is never to confuse private 
vice with public virtue, and I'm afraid this is an axiom I 
often nearly forgot. It certainly bred an attitude of 
arrogance and carelessness which led to some very unwise 
investments. I was acquiring businesses through leveraged 
buyouts and greenmail which with more forethought I should 
have left well alone.

"However, I can see in retrospect that my worst vice was 
really complacency. Having such an overriding dominance over 
your competitors breeds that. You think you can afford 
luxuries beyond the reach of prudent economics. My companies 
became famous as good employers: providing staff with the 
very best working conditions and pay available. It was 
considered a privilege to work for an Arthurian concern, and 
people clamoured to do so. 

"Unfortunately, I didn't pay very much attention to the 
quality of work in relation to the rewards provided for it. 
It has only recently become apparent that the biggest drain 
on my resources was the actual incompetence and sloth of 
employees who siphoned colossal amounts of money on the most 
dubious business expenses, awarded themselves fabulous 
bonuses and generated no net profit for the company 
whatsoever. I was in a sense being bled dry, while other 
companies were not only exploiting markets like the 
automobile industry, oil, avionics and the cinema I hadn't 
really thought about much, but muscling into markets like 
steel, shipping and opium where I'd always been the market 
leader. The combination was lethal, but I just dismissed it 
as a temporary blip at the time.

"My complacency was partly cracked during the savage 
trade wars I was involved in. Subsidiaries of my company 
were attacked by hostile bids from Second & Third 
Empire Investments, MicroElectronics and Black & 
Brown. Some of their acquisitions were very nearly 
successful and the massive cost of retrieving the 
subsidiaries from take-over required a lot of damaging cuts 
in other operations and borrowing an enormous amount of 
money from the United Standard Bank, a debt that 
continues to haunt me now. In the conflict, I had to lay off 
large numbers of staff, run down some of my concerns and even 
mortgage off some of the profitable concerns. My only 
satisfaction is that these trade wars were ultimately won by 
those companies with the greatest economic muscle and business 
confidence including my own, and although it led to my 
position as international number one being surrendered to 
newer companies, I succeeded in thoroughly ruining 
Second & Third and MicroElectronics who became subsidiaries 
of United Standard.

"However I was saddled with enormous debts in excess of 
my conglomerate's income; a bloated bureaucracy; and a 
dependence on heavy industry, shipping and solid fuel at a 
time when these businesses were really not doing so well 
any more. I attempted to buy myself out of trouble. I 
invested heavily into financial institutions, started my own 
high technology and robotics concerns, financed films and 
expanded automobile production. Some of these ventures 
were very successful, but generally the money I was piling 
in was not reaping the returns I'd hoped for. Indeed, I was 
asset stripping at a frightening rate. I pulled out of 
heroin, forestry, space travel and slavery altogether. My 
travel company was reduced to only a few City-based agencies. 
And my debt was piling up higher and higher. At the same 
time I was making no concessions to my declining wealth in 
the salaries and perquisites I offered my employees, and 
continued to gamble fortunes at the gaming tables, sometimes 
losing billions of guineas in a single evening. My habits 
were becoming more, not less expensive, and were now an 
appreciable drain on corporate reserves.

"Soon enough the inevitable occurred and I am now 
approaching bankruptcy. I've sold off so many capital assets 
to cover debts that I have hardly any assets from which to 
make fresh capital. I also foolishly sacked my old and 
trusted economic advisers for a new set who made me do crazy 
things: like holding off all investment altogether; putting 
more money in advertising and promotions than the returns 
could justify; dropping core businesses to concentrate on 
peripheral concerns vulnerable to the vicissitudes of a 
fluctuating Stock Exchange; and building expensive tower 
blocks in the City which are still left empty and may even 
have to be pulled down. The whole thing came to a head and 
the last few months have just been terrible! Everything 
I struggled hard to build has come collapsing down on me 
like a house of cards. Every day is spent divesting myself 
of yet more assets to cover the interest on debt repayment. 
It won't be long now until I am totally ruined!"

Lord Arthur raised up his heavy head and arched it high 
into the sky, revealing the full magnificence of his tawny 
throat. He opened his mouth in a silent roar revealing teeth 
at least as long as my fore-arm. He lowered his head down 
towards us and stared thoughtfully at Una, who was lying 
motionless on her back, her hands supporting the base of 
her enormous belly. 

"Has your poor friend got anywhere to stay? She will be 
giving birth within days."

Beta leaned over to Una and stroked her matted hair. The 
pregnant girl made no response. 

"You think it is that serious?" said Beta. "I really don't 
know anything about pregnancy! And no, I don't believe she 
has anywhere to go." She leaned over and gazed into Una's 
eyes. "Where are you going to give birth? Have you got a 
bed reserved in a hospital?"

Una stirred and looked up at Beta most piteously. 

"No," she mouthed. "No." She coughed, causing her belly 
to shake with the taut pressure of her exhalations. "They 
won't accept me. They haven't enough beds. Not for people 
who don't have homes in the City. They turned me away. I 
asked, but they told me to go. They didn't want my sort 
there, they told me. Not my sort, they said. I'm just not 
worth their attention."

The lion stood up and strode a few paces towards Una. He 
looked down at her, his muzzle yards above her face. I 
feared that if he licked her, his tongue would totally engulf 
her, and his teeth did not look at all agreeable. 

"The poor child needs help," he said. "Do you not have 
anywhere to take her?"

"We've only just arrived in the City," I answered. "We 
don't really know our way around or what to do..."

"Yes, it can be very confusing for you if you've never been 
here before. I have only recently come to see any of the 
City from anywhere other than through the windows of my 
limousines, and even with my appreciative size advantage I 
find the City intimidating. So many people! However, if 
you like, I can help. I still have some wealth. I can ensure 
that the girl receives expert medical attention or at least a 
bed for the night. Judging from her ragged appearance, I 
imagine even that would be an unfamiliar luxury. Once I 
despised vagrants and beggars. I would brush them to one 
side with a twitch of my massive tail. But now I am so 
nearly one myself, I can sympathise more. I shall see what I 
can do for her."

"That would be wonderful!" exclaimed Beta. "What do 
you think of that Una? Lord Arthur here will look after 
you. He'll make sure you're alright!"

Una turned her head to one side and looked at the lion with 
more interest. She seemed only half aware of the world 
around her, and her smile was a mere flicker across her 
thin face. 

"That would be nice."

"How do you feel about bringing a child into the world?" 
the lion asked Una compassionately.

"It's a mistake. I'm sure of it. A total mistake. I'd've had an 
abortion if I'd known how. The world is such a horrible 
place. I know that now. Why should I wish to burden 
another soul with it? So many people! So much suffering! 
So much crime, violence and abuse! Not nearly enough for 
too many people! And it's not as if I am having the child by 
choice... The bastard who raped me! I hate him! I hate him! 
I just hope I won't hate his child." 

Una closed her eyes and lay back again as if exhausted by her 
tirade. 

We sat silently for a few moments. Lord Arthur was clearly 
embarrassed by Una's display of despair, which must have 
put his own suffering into a different context. In the 
distance, a pair of horses cantered cheerfully by: one of 
them supporting a red flag in his teeth and the other 
neighing joyfully at him. The distant rhythm from the 
bandstand could be heard over the general faint roar of City 
traffic. The tree's leaves rustled gently in the early 
afternoon breeze, its short shadow moving slowly around 
and away from us, so that the bruises on Una's legs were 
now more visible in the crisp clear light.

"Well..." commented Lord Arthur. "I hope I haven't bored 
you too much with my history. It troubles me so much 
these days. But I still have business to attend to. 
Unpleasant business, too, but not business I can avoid. The 
results of the Election are unlikely to have done me any 
favours. My creditors are going to treat me with even less 
sympathy than before." He lowered his head down to look at 
Una. "I'll take the poor child with me. She can rest in my 
mane. It may be thinning, but there's quite enough of it to 
keep her warm and comfortable."

Lord Arthur crouched down on the grass, and with some 
difficulty Beta and I struggled to get Una onto her feet and 
then raised her high enough for her to clamber onto the 
lion's shoulders. Beta secured her by tying the long tawny 
hair about her so that she would not slip off. Una sat 
upright, looking rather wary, her belly partly hidden by the 
mane and her bare blackened feet sticking out at peculiar 
angles on either side. 

"Are you all right?" Beta wondered, as Lord Arthur 
gradually rose himself up onto his legs and stood at full 
height, his head high above us. Una's small distant face 
smiled at us bravely as she replied too indistinctly for us to 
hear. 

"She'll be fine," the lion assured us. "I'll take her to a 
comfortable hotel room and I'll get some excellent medical 
attention. Don't you worry!" 

With that he strode off towards the exit of the park leaving 
us together in the shade of the tree. Beta was still very 
concerned about Una's fate, and hoped that we had done the 
right thing in letting her leave with Lord Arthur.

"There's nothing we could do," I assured her. "She must be 
better off than in the streets or even in the park."

"I hope you're right," Beta reflected as we stood up. We 
ambled through the park towards the City outside: along 
the paths, past abstract sculptures, grazing horses, suited 
office workers eating their sandwiches and children 
playing on the swings and slides; and then once again 
plunged ourselves into the urban milieu.	

	14

"Xenana!" shouted Beta in surprise. "I didn't expect to 
see you after so long!" 

I was somewhat taken aback by Beta's exclamation; and 
looked ahead along the marbled floors of the shopping 
mall we were in to the subject of Beta's greetings. It  was a 
woman of about Beta's age, standing beside the glass 
sheets enclosing a small fountain scattered with tiny crabs 
and fish: her pale image reflected on the plate glass of a 
saddlery emporium. Like Beta she wore no clothes, but 
unlike her this did not evoke an appearance of naturalness. 
She was festooned with bangles, rings, necklaces, earrings 
and jewellery. Her lips were bright red with lipstick. The 
very prominent application of eyeliner made her eyes 
unusually striking. Her hair was totally shaved off, and not 
only on her head. She teetered on black leather platform 
boots that raised her an extra six inches off the ground, but 
she was still shorter than me and not much taller than Beta. 
She held a cigarette in her forefingers and desultorily 
stroked her chin with her other fingers while inhaling.

"How super!" Xenana exclaimed. "How jolly super! I 
would never have thought it possible I'd ever see you in the 
City. And in a mall like this!"

"We were just looking at the shops. We could never afford 
to buy anything here! It's so expensive. The prices are 
simply Brobdignadian!" 

The prices may have been high, but Beta's wonderment as 
we had wandered through the marbled, windowed and 
laminated mall had also been for the comprehensive range 
of goods on offer. There was everything for every species 
and every taste. There were imported suits, obscure 
gramophone records, antiquarian books, fancy horse-wear, 
dinosaur eggs, buttered croissants, white chocolate and 
computer games. We would stand in front of the windows 
outside the shops or simply wander in and gaze in awe at 
the video images and material goods that saturated them. 
It was sometimes difficult to tell amongst the mirrors and 
windows whether we were in the confines of a store or in 
the general walkway. Bright artificial light illuminated 
everything. Wherever we went we were followed by a sometimes 
annoyingly indistinct and sometimes annoyingly disruptive 
wallpaper of music ranging from the ambient and the 
classical to the irritating and the banal. At intervals we 
came across chairs or benches, fountains, statues, clock-
towers, garden beds, wooden bridges or glass elevators 
which promised further delights on other floors. We 
pursued a series of tall escalators up and down and around 
a never-ending series of shoppers' paradises, occasionally 
approaching the glass ceiling protecting the mall from the 
elements outside. The air-conditioning pumped out by the 
shops made it much cooler inside the mall than the warm 
sunny day outside would have one expect it to be.

"You certainly don't dress any flipping different to at 
home!" Xenana commented.

"I don't see any good reason why I should," Beta retorted. 
"But your appearance surprises me. When you left the 
Village you said you'd never walk naked again and here 
you are..."

Xenana laughed. "Ohh, Beta! Your naivete is so 
wonderful! There is a blinking world of difference between 
the nudity of the Village and the current fashions in the 
City. But don't let's quarrel! It's super to see you. 
Absolutely super!"

The two girls embraced. 

"I wish you hadn't shaved off all your hair," commented 
Beta sadly. "It was so beautiful!"

"You mustn't get too attached to such ephemeral things, 
Beta. But who is your friend? He doesn't come from the 
Country, does he?"

"No, he's from the Suburbs," Beta explained, who then 
introduced me to Xenana: a good friend of hers from the 
Village who had left to live in the City as soon as she was 
able. "You don't regret it yet, do you?"

"Not at all!" Xenana claimed. "After living here, I just don't 
see how I could ever live anywhere as slow and uneventful 
as the Village!" She glanced at her cigarette butt and 
noticing that it had burnt down to the filter tossed it to one 
side. "I'm glad you've come to the City. It's a great place! 
Are you staying long?"

"We don't know! We only arrived last night. But, what 
about you, Xenana? What are you doing these days?"

"Oh, all sorts of things. I don't have a proper job as such, 
but I get enough work to see me through jolly well. I help 
out at a record store where they sell white label twelve inch 
vinyl. I sometimes work at clothes shops and alternative 
book shops. I do some bar work some evenings or just help 
out at night clubs. I sometimes do a bit of my own business 
- selling things I buy in cheap outside the City for less than 
you'd normally pay for them here. A bit of entrepreneurism 
if you like. There's no shortage of ways to earn money in 
this place if you know people. And believe me, Beta, I 
know people!" Xenana's broad grin threatened the fabric of 
her lipstick, clearly delighted with her social success. "I 
know so many flipping people! When I lived in the village, 
I just didn't think it possible that you could know so many, 
so very many of them. Even when I first arrived here and it 
all seemed so frightening - you know, the tall buildings, the 
crowds, the traffic, the constant rushing around - I didn't 
believe it was possible to know so many people. And now I 
just do!" Xenana giggled for joy and slightly bounced up 
and down. "I've arrived you see, Beta! I've arrived! I'm as 
much part of the City scene as anyone else. And that's a 
great buzz! It's the biggest high you could ever have!"

"I'm glad to see you're happy here," Beta remarked. "You 
always said you'd do better in the City. Do you meet many 
others from the Village here?"

"Oh absolutely flipping millions of them, Beta! People are 
flooding into the City from the Country every day. I'm sure 
that's one reason why there are just so many people living 
here. And you can't blame them. There's so much more 
here than in the Country. If you can't get a job in the City 
and make it in whatever you want then where can you go? 
And the scene here is so wild. It's where you can really get 
into the groove!" Xenana fished her hand into the ethnic 
leather handbag that dangled decorously over her shoulder 
and pulled out a cigarette case and lighter. She proffered 
cigarettes in our direction, not really expecting us to accept 
them, put one into her mouth and lit it theatrically. "But 
come back to my bedsit. I insist! You can't just meet me in 
the City and not visit my home. I can get us something to 
eat if you like."

Beta and I were easily persuaded, and followed Xenana 
through the maze of shopping aisles to the City streets 
outside. With Xenana leading the way, the mass of people 
and traffic was no obstacle at all, although it was 
impossible to remember the details of a route which took 
us through a series of quiet side roads, small parks, cobbled 
gas-lit antique shopping streets and finally via paved 
walkways, past swings, slides and a small river, to some 
tall apartment blocks sporting names such as 
Equestrian House, Cardiovascular Villas 
and Xanadu Mansion. However exotic the building's 
title, they were essentially all identical towers heights of 
punctuated balconies, mostly wholly anonymous and with 
doorways guarded by a row of named buttons and intercom 
grills.

"Home Sweet Home!" announced Xenana pushing open 
the door to Bodhisatva Heights, after using a 
complicated series of keys and punching the keys of 
encrypted locks. We followed her through the heavy door 
which slammed behind us, sucking dust into the foyer from 
the busy street outside. Xenana attached another key to her 
mail box and opened it to reveal a sudden cascade of 
unsolicited mail relating to financial opportunities, 
holidays abroad and local window-cleaning services. She 
sorted out one single manila-enveloped letter and deposited 
a kaleidoscope of brightly coloured mail into one of the 
overflowing plastic rubbish bins lined up on wheels just 
opposite the green battered metal mail boxes. "It's only a 
bill!" Xenana commented, placing it into her handbag. She 
scanned the clear metal sliding doors of the lifts where 
angular numbers mutated in illuminated displays to 
indicate the floors that the lifts were currently passing by. 
"I'm on the fourteenth, so we'll have to take the lift." 

We waited for several minutes as the lifts descended, then 
rose and then descended again, but one finally arrived on 
the ground floor where a small purple pony with a very 
long tail trotted out smelling lewdly of perfume. She 
pursed her heavily lipsticked lips at us and trotted on, 
waggling her buttocks lasciviously from side to side. 
Xenana smiled indulgently. We clambered into the 
escalator to be joined by a hefty crab wearing a large black 
hat and an unfiltered cigarette who took up more than half 
the space. The numbers displayed above the door 
transfigured from 0 to 14, and the escalator doors opened 
to free us from the claustrophobia of the tiny room, to pace 
along a  narrow corridor, past the constant thump of audio 
systems emanating from behind the doors that lined the 
corridor, and then, after another ritual of key-turning, we 
entered Xenana's bedsit.

I had never seen such a small home before in my life. Even 
Beta was astonished by how cramped it was, and she'd 
already told me how much smaller Village homes were to 
those in the Suburbs. Most of Xenana's room was 
dominated by a single bed, surrounded by the surfaces of 
furniture serving one, two or three different purposes. A 
shower unit stood in one corner, from which jutted out the 
porcelain of a sink or washing basin. A microwave oven 
stood underneath a television screen and a small chair was 
squeezed just behind the door and had to be moved every 
time the door was opened. Xenana seemed very proud of 
her home, however. She clambered over the bed to spread 
the ragged curtains to let in the slant of the early evening 
sun, and proudly displayed a view of other tower blocks, 
some of which being so much more monstrous than the 
others must have been in the financial district. She then 
switched on the audio system positioned at the head of the 
bed, and the speakers scattered about the room emitted an 
insistent heavy percussive rhythm sprinkled with samples, 
vocals and electronic doodling.

"It wasn't easy to get this bedsit!" Xenana explained. "It 
was flipping hard! And it's so expensive as well. About a 
thousand three hundred guineas a week! And that's cheap 
for a bedsit as well appointed as this so close to the City 
centre. Most of my money goes on paying rent! But it's 
worth it. Most of the time I've been in the City I've had to 
sleep on friend's couches or in their beds. I just never got it 
together to rent a place of my own. But now I have. And it 
really is super! I'm absolutely independent. I can do what I 
like. And I've got the whole of the flipping City to groove 
in!"

Beta was still reeling from Xenana's admission of the 
bedsit's expense. "More than a thousand guineas a week. 
That's seventy or eighty thousand guineas a year! You 
could buy the whole Village for much less than that!"

"You get used to these sort of expenses after a while," 
Xenana commented, sitting down at the head of the bed. 
"Is it any wonder the country's in such a mess when you've 
got such ridiculous price disparities! But now I'm jolly 
used to it. Anything priced with a number with less than 
two zeros isn't worth doodly squat."

Beta and I sat cautiously at the foot of the bed which 
bounced with a life of its own after the introduction or 
removal of any weight. We twisted our bodies round so we 
could face Xenana who was lighting up another cigarette. 
The room was already infused with the smell of nicotine 
and of somewhat sweeter substances the nature of which 
was hinted by a scratched mirror on its side, a few torn 
shreds of cardboard and the blackened neck of an 
exaggeratedly bent spoon. 

"What do you do in the City, Xenana?" Beta wondered.

"What don't I do, Beta?" Xenana boasted. "There's just 
everything to do that you could possibly hope for. It's just 
one endless round. Once I tried to keep a diary, Beta. You 
know like we did when we lived in the Village. I thought, 
there's so much excitement in my life, so much that's new 
and groovy, I'd better get it recorded. But clubbing, 
partying, all the boyfriends I've had (and not always 
serially), the bingeing, the orgying, the indulgence...! Soon 
keeping a diary just got out of hand. I was a week out of 
date in making an entry. Where was I? What the heck was 
the guy's name? What had we consumed? I just couldn't 
remember. It was all a haze. And then I let it slip by a 
month. And when it gets that bad - you can't remember 
anything you blinking well did a month ago. In the City a 
week's nearly a lifetime. And a month's nearly an eternity! I 
can't even remember what was fashionable a month ago. 
Was it long hair, short hair, curly hair, no hair? Was it 
platforms, stilettos or flats? Was it shorts, minis, jeans or 
crinolines? Was it monetarism, millenarianism, 
communism or eco-awareness? It all blurs into one grey 
rush of motion. All you know is that you had a groovy 
time. The drugs were absolutely fabulous! The vibes were 
out of sight! The sex was simply super! You just keep to 
the rhythm, and let the rhythm flow!"

Beta seemed a little puzzled by Xenana's words. "I don't 
really understand more than half of what you say now," she 
remarked with a weak laugh. "But I'm still very glad you're 
enjoying yourself in the City."

"And you will too!" remarked Xenana, stubbing out her 
cigarette in an ash tray and leaping up. "I'll get us 
something to eat and then I'll take you to the Cancer 
Club. I got a few free tickets one of my boyfriends gave 
me. It's really kicking. The jam is really wild. You'll enjoy 
it."

She opened a few cupboards where cans of food were 
carefully stacked one above the other in the very little 
space available, and pulled out a combination of cans. She 
then opened them with an electric can-opener and with a 
deft combination of cooking rings and micro-wave cooker 
she managed to prepare quite a reasonable mushy meal in 
which all pretence of subtlety was totally engulfed by 
spices, curry and rich sauces. However, both Beta and I 
were extremely hungry. 

There were several hours from when we'd eaten until 
Xenana felt it right to head off to the night club, but this 
time drifted away idly and lazily as Xenana chatted about 
her life in the City, the boyfriends she'd had, the drugs 
she'd taken and the more amusing or entertaining anecdotes 
of her new life. Occasionally she listened politely as Beta 
talked about life in the Village. How there were plans to 
redecorate the Village Hall. How some of the small-
holdings were trying out a new breed of heifer. The trouble 
some of the horses had given in demanding higher rates for 
their services. 

It was clear, however, that Xenana wasn't really that 
interested and took the opportunity of rolling marijuana 
infused cigarettes as Beta was speaking. The air in her 
room soon filled up with thick smoke which irritated 
my eyes and made me extremely dozy. In the background, 
Xenana's choice of music began to take on shades of 
meaning and relevance that had hitherto seemed rather 
hidden in an aural wallpaper of noise and rhythm. I lay 
back on the bed, while Xenana continued her account of 
City life, occasionally being nudged as she passed a reefer 
across to me. I made an attempt to be fairly abstemious. I 
noticed Beta had refused to touch any of it, and any drug 
other than alcohol was extremely rare in the Suburbs. It 
certainly wasn't sold across the newsagents counters as it 
was in the City.

It was very late when Xenana finally took us to the Night 
Club, but the City, however, had clearly not gone to sleep. 
The streets were brightly lit and although less crowded 
than during the day, they were far from barren. Xenana 
flagged down a horse-drawn carriage and asked the horse 
to take us to the club which he gladly did, chatting as he 
went on about how there were too many foreigners in the 
City these days and how the change of government to the 
Red Party spelt disaster for small businesses such as his 
own. As we trotted along, I observed how much the life on 
the City streets had changed from the day time. Although it 
was cooler at night, there were many more women dressed 
in very few clothes and quite a few more than I'd seen 
before dressed like Xenana in virtually nothing and their 
scalps shaved to the skin. Gangs of youths sauntered along, 
yelling randomly at other pedestrians and dressed in 
peculiarly dandified clothes contrasting with a partiality for 
working-man's boots. A gaggle of what I at first thought 
were women, but then recognised as men dressed up as 
women, emerged in a giggling cackling crew from one of 
the many wine-bars, restaurants and pubs that lined the 
roads and appeared more prominent at night when the 
shops were closed and security bars obscured their 
windows. 

The Cancer Club was no different from the outside to the 
many other Night Clubs we'd passed en route. The exterior 
was emblazoned with inviting lights in blue and red neon, 
with the illuminated image of a crab flashing on and off 
over the doorway. Xenana tripped out of the carriage, paid 
the horse for his services and strode boldly to the door 
where a large aggressive-looking crab was standing, 
clicking his claws in tune to the distant pulse of music 
emanating from within. Beta and I hastily hurried behind 
her, aware that in comparison to her and all the other club-
goers we looked rather too obviously like non-
sophisticates. I had thought that Xenana's appearance was 
relatively unusual or at best an extreme representation of 
City fashion, but judging from the bare flesh, the shaved 
heads and very prominent make-up adopted by both the 
men and women entering the Cancer Club, her appearance 
was not at all remarkable.

"Yeah, Xenana! 'Course you can! And your friend and her 
boyfriend too!" sniffed the crab doorman amiably. "You 
didn't really need the invites at all. Keep them for another 
night!" 

We followed Xenana through the heavy door and up a 
staircase spangled by little lights, along a corridor 
decorated with images of exotic animals and into an 
enormous dance hall which was far from full but fairly 
lively. Music similar to that which Xenana had been 
entertaining us in her bedsit boomed out distinctly and 
deafeningly from massive speakers dotted about the place, 
and the spectrum of single coloured lights beaming from 
all directions somehow failed to properly illuminate a place 
where visibility was obscured by mirrors, floor-clinging 
clouds of smoke and the long shadows of the guests. There 
was dancing on dance-floors which were positioned all 
about the place and where people, many dressed like 
Xenana, were gyrating, gesturing and gesticulating in full 
abandon. 

The centre-piece of all the attention was a pulpit on 
which a disc jockey was energetically busying herself 
on a collection of turntables, electronic equipment and 
stacks of vinyl and compact discs. Generally her head was 
face down, a bald pate facing to the audience, 
concentrating on what next to play. Then she would raise 
her face, perspiration visibly illuminated by the powerful 
beams, and look out at the audience as if surprised that 
there were any there. Not all her audience were dancing. 
Several were sitting on stools and chairs around the several 
bars or near the cafeterias serving convenience food. 

Xenana sat us down on a comfortable black leather sofa 
looking down on a dance floor occupied by a sideways-
dancing crab and a sinuously shaking snake. She rushed off 
to the bar, which was wholly composed of mirrors and tiny 
bulbs, leaving Beta and me to chat as best we could. To 
make ourselves heard, we had to lean quite close to each 
other and shout in our ears. On a sofa nearby, a gibbon 
with a hypodermic needle was carefully injecting himself 
in an arm bandaged tight by a handkerchief, while his 
companion, another gibbon, inhaled on a clay pipe shaped 
like a funnel, giving off great clouds of dark smoke. 
Xenana returned after a few minutes with three bottles of 
beer, each with a lemon inserted in the opening where the 
metal top had been wrested off. She handed us a beer each. 

"I hope you don't mind," Xenana shouted at us, bottle in 
hand, "but I've just seen a jolly good friend of mine over 
there with his mates. It's absolutely ages since we last met. 
You don't mind if I go off with him do you?" Beta shook 
her head. "That's groovy! You'll find oodles to do here. 
Dancing, boozing, food! Everything! Just get on down! I'll 
see you later!"

With that, Xenana disappeared off into the dark shadows 
leaving us rather unsure of ourselves in a quite intimidating 
claustrophobic environment. I wasn't knowledgeable 
enough about the music to be able to dance to it: an 
ignorance shared with Beta when I suggested to her that 
perhaps we ought to dance.

"I'd like to! But not to this!" 

This was probably appropriate as the disc jockey had very 
much increased the beats per minute of the music, which 
was cut with frantic samples and disconcertingly frequent 
breaks in the tempo and melody. The dancers became more 
frenetic with their movement, pumping the air with their 
fists, kicking their feet out like mules and shaking 
perspiration down from their foreheads onto the 
increasingly damp patches on their chests. 

"Is there anywhere quieter do you think?"

We eased ourselves out of the sofa and wandered around 
the perimeter of the night club that was beginning to get 
full now it was getting well past midnight. The place was 
much larger than I'd imagined. When I thought we'd come 
to its edge there was yet another dance floor on the other 
side of a glass pillar or up some sparkling steps. But 
eventually we found a quieter bar where the music was still 
principally electronic but resembled more the sound of 
waves battering against the shore than that of a pile driver 
battling with a road-drill. We sat with our bottles of beer 
on stools at the edge of the room regarding the clientele, 
who were generally rather less strikingly dressed than 
Xenana or others on the main dance floor.

A penguin waddled towards us with a bottle of beer held 
tightly in a black flipper and his other flipper pressing a 
large hard-back book against his chest. He stopped by the 
bar-stool and looked rather askance at the distance between 
himself and the counter where he could rest either his beer 
or his book.

"Do you want some help?" asked Beta, in perhaps a louder 
voice than she needed as we were no longer in such a very 
noisy environment.

The penguin eyed Beta a little suspiciously, but appeared to 
conclude she was unlikely to cause any trouble. 

"Yes, that would be very welcome, thank you!" he said 
cautiously, allowing Beta to take his beer and book and place 
it on the counter while he pulled himself up onto the stool 
in a feat of avian ingenuity and sat opposite us around the 
circular plastic table. "You're new to the City aren't you?"

"Yes," I confessed. "It's all very strange..."

"...And confusing!" Beta added.  "Especially in this Night 
Club. It's nearly two o'clock and, rather than quieter, the 
place is just getting busier and busier! Don't people in the 
City ever go to bed?"

"Oh they do!" the penguin assured us. "They just get up 
correspondingly later. The City never sleeps, they say, and 
in some ways it gets more awake as the hours pass by."

"Are you a frequent night-clubber?" wondered Beta. 

The penguin's appearance certainly didn't have a great deal 
in common to Xenana's, except perhaps for his nudity, the 
fashionableness of which was somewhat undercut by the 
tartan scarf he wore around his neck.

"It's a place to go at night," the penguin replied cryptically. 
"I'm a post-graduate student at the City University which 
means that I am under no pressure to get up in the 
morning."

"What are you studying?" I wondered.

"I'm researching the famous novelist, Oscar Xavier 
Peregrine, for my doctoral thesis," sniffed the penguin, 
indicating the novel he had entitled Winchester Revisited 
with the author's name occupying nearly as much space on 
the cloth-covered page as the title. "Are you familiar with 
his works?"

"Not at all," I admitted. "What sort of novels does he 
write?"

"Did he write," corrected the penguin. "Oh all sorts. There 
can't be a genre he didn't attempt and master. He was a 
genius of eclecticism and a master of all styles. Oscar 
Peregrine started his literary career before graduation from 
university in Lambdeth with Porcelain and Diapers, the 
first of a series of gritty, naturalistic novels based on his 
intimate experiences of poverty as a student (which I can 
fully empathise) and the grim world of his working class 
childhood. In this, and following novels, such as Torn 
Upholstery and Desolate Days of Memory, Peregrine 
struggled hard to capture the essential grimness of life: the 
dirt underneath the fingernails, the grass growing through 
cracks in the concrete in the backyard, the sheer ghastliness 
of the ignorance and stupidity manifested by some of the 
working class. He captures a world of bare-knuckle 
boxing, dog fights, solvent and child abuse. 

"These works soon established a strong reputation amongst 
serious critics, although his books sold in the tens rather 
than the thousands and he had to survive on government grants 
and sponsorships. These are the years in which he married his 
first wife who committed suicide by swallowing a rolling 
pin and had to care for their triplets by himself. These grim 
years are well illustrated in his books at that time." 

"Why didn't he write books that people might want to 
read?" Beta wondered.

"A question his publishers often posed to him. But of 
course he was writing to satisfy his literary muse, not to 
pander to the base tastes of his public. However, the 
demands of his creditors and the death of his second wife 
who was chewed up by a defective meat mincer persuaded 
him to write more commercially profitable books. He was 
particularly upset that the critics had criticised his novel, 
Misery is My Only Friend, as being too pessimistic and 
making rather depressing reading. He then wrote a number 
of pornographic novels under certain pseudonyms such as 
Cynthia Fox, Fanny Truman and Monica Temple. They 
were hailed as classics of the genre and sold in enormous 
quantities from the top shelf of book shops at railway 
stations throughout the world. It is only recently that it has 
been established that Peregrine was the author of  
Knickers for Free, Sex Supermarket Sausages and 
Confessions of a Prostitute's Maid. Up until now no 
connection had been made between the sudden 
improvement in Peregrine's material and psychological 
welfare, his marriage to a part-time prostitute and the 
release on the market of pornographic novels with a 
fondness for the grittier details in their characters' 
environments.

"Peregrine's more literary works took a turn away from 
naturalism to a kind of inner monologue where from the 
beginning to the end of his novels there was no external 
reference to a world beyond the ramblings of the central 
character. In these novels, time seems to stretch out 
endlessly, with details becoming larger and larger. Whole 
paragraphs might concentrate on accounts of blowing the 
nose or scratching the ear. Whole chapters may involve 
nothing much more than walking from the front door of a 
house to the front gate. These novels regained Peregrine's 
reputation amongst the literary critics who praised him for 
revealing the depth and scope of minutiae, but he didn't 
really gain any commercial success under his own name for 
books like Breaking Wind and To The Bus Stop, until he 
combined this new style with his skills at writing 
pornographic literature and with his novel, Bump and 
Grind, managed to sell in substantial quantities under his 
own name. This is the account of the sexual congress of a 
couple on a single afternoon, which in Peregrine's story 
takes rather longer to read than it could possibly have taken 
to happen.

"Peregrine was clearly very encouraged by the success of 
this novel, and this encouraged a great change of direction 
where he started writing a series of science fiction and 
science fantasy trilogies. His Swords of Andromeda 
trilogy featured wizards, hairy-chested heroes, large 
breasted heroines, large doses of mysticism and the 
meaning of life, and became a classic of the genre. The 
books are incredibly thick and in places unreadable as he 
became rather obsessed with neologisms. In places it is 
quite difficult to know what is supposed to be happening as 
every noun and most of the verbs were invented by 
Peregrine. His Gannium Arsenide trilogy is set in a future 
dominated by homosexual drug-pushers and computer 
games, and he set himself the difficult task of 
understanding a sub-culture of which he had only the 
vaguest previous knowledge. This was why for a period he 
and his fourth wife, later to die of inhalation of hydrogen 
peroxide and MDMA, became rather more famous for their 
drug-taking excesses than for their literary output.

"He was later to receive treatment at one of the best 
detoxification units in the City, where he returned to more 
overtly literary novels. His novels now struggled to 
penetrate beneath the veneer of vocabulary and syntax to 
get at the deeper and more profound meanings of life. In 
his novel Having, he retains conventional English but the 
plot is randomly organised and events occur in deliberately 
haphazard fashion with regards to their normal temporal 
sequence. In What, he takes English sentences and 
reorganises them, so that the sentence may begin with 
present perfect verb and finish with the subject noun. In 
Xbldwq, Peregrine abandons the conventions of language 
altogether, making this undoubtedly the most difficult of 
all his books to read. Few of his neologisms contain 
vowels in expected places and few of the words are 
anything but invention. Many critics accused Peregrine of 
self-indulgence, but now most agree that this may indeed 
be the man's masterpiece. It stands as a statement of the 
impotence of language against the pressures of an 
impossible world.

"Peregrine took the criticisms to heart however and 
abandoned his project to write a novel composed entirely 
of the letter X. Instead, he started work on his unfinished 
masterpiece, Winchester Revisited, in which, to a certain 
extent, he returned to a more naturalistic style of writing. 
This book tries to incorporate everything within it. There 
are great themes of love, death, war, peace, crime, 
punishment, pride and prejudice. There is the clash of 
sword, the didacticism of religious discourse, great 
mythological symbolism, digressions on feminism, poetry, 
politics and sport. The book brings in characters and 
themes as immense as those of any book. Each page is a 
towering structure of carefully crafted style, beautifully 
drawn characterisation, vivid dialogue, and, yet, it is 
unfinished. It is barely a tenth the length that Peregrine 
would have desired. A mere fourteen chapters long: even 
though they still comprise well over two thousand closely 
printed pages."

"Why didn't he finish it?" Beta demanded.

"His sixth wife killed him with a dictionary. We now know 
that she was a homicidal maniac who feasted on aborted 
foetuses. In any case, he was making very slow progress 
with it. He would constantly write, revise and rewrite every 
page, every paragraph and ever word of the novel. He 
wanted it to be perfect. He worked from early morning 
until late at night, pausing only to eat sandwiches and go to 
the toilet (chores which he reputedly resented). So now all 
we are left with is an unfinished canon of work and a 
bottomless source of material for doctoral theses." 

There suddenly erupted from the bar, a very loud neighing 
and clicking of claws. We turned our heads round to see 
several young people dressed in dark green collarless suits, 
rather similar to those I'd seen in the town of Rupert. 

"Illicit Party!" sniffed the penguin disdainfully. "Since 
they've been around, they've been nothing but trouble. I 
don't know much about their ideology. In fact, if you ask 
me, I don't think they really have an ideology at all. 
They've just got a leader and an excuse to cause trouble. 
Just look at them!"

A large crab held a spaniel by locking his arms behind him, 
while a horse taunted him and insistently pressed a hoof 
against his chest. The spaniel was wearing a tee-shirt 
proclaiming Go To Bed With a Red. The horse shoved 
his muzzle malevolently against the spaniel's face, eyeball 
to eyeball.

"So you Red bastards are going to change things, are you? 
Rob the rich and feed the poor, will you? More like raise 
the flipping taxes and turn the country into a glorified 
trades union! You might think you're going to flipping 
change things, but not before we do a bit of changing you 
first, you ugly bastard!"

"I didn't say anything!" protested the spaniel as one of the 
aggressors spat in his face. "I'm just wearing a tee-shirt, 
nothing more!"

"I distinctly heard you bad mouth me!" exclaimed a young 
jackal wearing a large button emblazoned with Chairman 
President Rupert's face. "You told me that the Illicit Party 
was scum and didn't deserve to win the Election. You said 
that the Reds were going to flipping wipe the floor with the 
Illicit Party."

"I never! I never!" gasped the spaniel shaking his muzzle 
from side to side. "I wouldn't! I'm a pacifist! I don't believe 
in violence!"

"Don't Believe In Violence..." repeated the crab hitting the 
spaniel forcefully on one side of the face, forcing his head 
to reel back, blood dribbling from his nostrils. "Don't 
Believe In Violence! Yellow Red scum!"

The bar speedily emptied while these representatives of the 
Illicit Party tormented the spaniel. The bar steward had 
disappeared and no other staff could be seen. 

"We'd better get moving!" remarked the penguin softly. "These 
Illicitists look like they're gunning for trouble."

"Why's that?" whispered Beta helping him down from his 
chair and handing him his book.

"Election disappointment, I suppose. Hatred of all the other 
parties. In fact the Illicit Party, like the Black Party, is a 
rather violent lot on the whole."

"Did I hear you bad mouth Rupert and the Illicit Party?" 
asked a small pony wearing a Rupert badge on his harness 
and a green beret on his head.

"Not at all!" the penguin said carefully. "I was simply 
saying ..."

"You're a flipping Red too, aren't you?" the pony repeated 
pushing his muzzle against the penguin's face. He glanced 
at the book that the penguin dropped. "And Red 
propaganda too! It's you bastards who're going to bugger 
up this country..."

"I'm not a Red!" insisted the penguin as the pony pushed 
him back against the wall. 

Beta glanced at me fearfully, unsure whether to interfere. 
The decision however was made by the jackal who had been 
punching the spaniel in the face and left him on the floor 
for his equine companion to kick with his hooves.

"If my friend says you're a Red, you're a Red!" the jackal 
stated emphatically poking the penguin in the chest. 
"You're a flipping Red. And your flipping friends are Reds, 
too, I guess!" He snarled at us and was soon backed up by a 
group of his companions who loomed over us. "You're all 
Reds! And we're going to kill you!" He thumped the 
penguin very hard on the face with the book and left the 
penguin in a pool of blood where the pony feebly prodded 
him with his hooves.

"Illicit Bastards!" shouted a group of gorillas in black 
leather outfits decorated with swastikas and iron crosses. 
"You making trouble again at the expense of the pacifist 
Reds! You just don't know what a real fight is!" 

One gorilla unravelled a long chain from around his waist 
and flicked it aggressively on the ground. 

"Come on lads! No trouble here, eh?" spoke the large crab 
we'd met at the door accompanied by some bestial 
acquaintances. "Let's just make our way home before the 
police arrive, eh?"

"Don't you flipping count on it!" snarled the jackal pulling 
out a flick-knife from a pocket and brandishing it. 

"We better run!" I cautioned Beta urgently. 

We took advantage of the stand off between the three groups 
to race down the stairs and onto the main dance floor, leaving 
the penguin and spaniel groaning in pools of blood. We hadn't 
left a moment too soon, as a terrific yell erupted as we ran 
away followed by the crash of large bodies impacting 
against each other. A stool flew through the air a few yards 
ahead of us and smashed against a mirrored post. Glass 
shattered in an explosion of shards, so we ran the faster. 

While we ran in one direction, young people of all species 
were running in the other direction towards the scene of the 
conflict: several carrying knives, broken bottles and even 
guns. We found ourselves in the main dance floor where 
the music was still pounding out loudly, but emptying 
rapidly. Most people were picking up their things and 
leaving. The exits were jammed with people struggling to 
get out. 

"Thank goodness I've found you!" exclaimed Xenana 
running towards us with some very similarly dressed 
friends. "What's going on? Why's everyone leaving?"

"There's a big political fight, I reckon," one of her friends 
remarked. "The Illicit bastards have been spoiling for one 
all day. I saw a few really aggressive looking people. Like 
they were looking for a flipping fight rather than a good 
time!"

"It was where we were," Beta breathlessly replied. "They 
attacked this penguin we were talking to. They beat him up 
really badly!"

"Come on, Beta! We're getting the heck out of here!" 
Xenana cried. 

Then just as we were about to run to the exit, some very 
loud bangs rang out in rapid succession. This was followed 
by a frantic chasing from the exit to our direction as 
horses in black leather outfits came galloping in carrying 
some very ugly small men dressed in black on their backs 
waving guns and clubs. 

"More Blacks!" someone shouted.

Beta and I ran off to a chink of light in the distance that 
turned out to be an emergency exit that had been opened. 
Behind us the violence was getting worse, illustrated by 
loud crashes and what may have been the wholesale 
destruction of the record decks judging from the abrupt 
manner by which the music came to a scratchy end. We 
panted in the cool air outside, along with others similarly 
frightened and worried.

"Where's Xenana?" wondered Beta looking around her. 

There was no sign of her, but we didn't feel safe in such 
close proximity to the Night Club, from which came a 
cacophony of screams, shouts and commotion. We were 
soon running down dark alley-ways framed by towering 
buildings, occasionally illuminated by the light from 
windows above or the neon lights of smaller night clubs 
and wine bars that were still open.

Eventually we were far enough away from the Cancer Club 
to consider ourselves fairly safe from attack, but now we 
had the inevitable worry about where to sleep for the night. 
The answer was actually fairly evident as we passed people 
huddled up in doorways or inside cardboard boxes. The 
street was the only hotel we knew that wouldn't turn us 
away, so we reluctantly searched for somewhere to sleep in 
the alley-ways less uncomfortable than most. 

We eventually found a pile of cardboard boxes behind what 
might well have been a shop during the day, judging from 
the exotic nature of some of the rubbish. We nestled in 
some artificial fur toys broken free from a box and tried to 
sleep in the sinister and haunting night sounds of the City. 
Even now, there was a constant roar of traffic emerging 
from nearby streets. Occasionally hoots, screams and other 
nocturnal noises interrupted our sleep. Beta huddled close 
to me for company. She was unquestionably upset by the 
turn of events.

"I'm so frightened!" she whispered, hearing the howl of 
wolves. "I hope we're going to be all right!"

I nodded, grateful for the intimate closeness of her body 
and fearing every sound we could hear. The rustle of 
rubbish, the whistle of wind through metal fire escapes and 
the distant sounds all had a sinister edge to them. It was 
also not that warm, although Beta appeared to notice the 
cold rather less than I.



	15

On awakening, the alley in which we had been sleeping 
seemed if anything rather less inviting in the early morning 
light. I looked over to Beta who was still sleeping. Clearly 
she was rather less accustomed to the comfort of modern 
mattresses, duvets and electric blankets than me, and even 
without clothes to wrap around her had succeeded in 
slumbering through the chill night air and the now rather 
more insistent, if distant, roar of traffic. We were far from 
alone: a family of horse-shoe crabs was dozing fairly close 
to our elbows even though I had been totally unaware of 
their presence until then. A scrawny goat was 
wandering down the alleyway towards us, poking his 
muzzle into the waste bins and pulling out unappetising 
items of food and chewed them in his mouth with little 
discretion and less relish. I watched as the goat gradually 
approached us, and nudged Beta to wake up.

She stared at me through a bleary film of sleep and smiled 
sadly. "The second night of sleeping rough!" She 
remarked. "We mustn't make this too much of a habit."

"Indeed not," I agreed, standing up and helping her to her 
feet. "What we need now is breakfast."

Beta yawned, blinking her sleep-swollen eyes. "That would 
be very welcome!" She glanced up and down the alley, 
where the goat was now joined by a ewe with a 
pronounced limp and a rolled cigarette dangling from her 
mouth. The two of them nuzzled through the dustbins and 
black plastic rubbish bags. "Where shall we go?"

I didn't know any better than Beta, but we followed the trail 
of narrow back-roads past others who were waking up 
from a night of uncomfortable rest. I had never before seen 
such a sorry collection of ragged sleeping bags and 
unravelling blankets, any one of which, nonetheless, would 
have been extremely welcome when I was trying to sleep. 
Eventually, we emerged into an area of much wider and 
busier roads. However, it was apparent that we were in a 
quite different part of the City than the one where we'd 
arrived the previous day. 

What had most impressed us when we had come off the 
train was the grandeur, scale and opulence of the City. 
Everything was so shining, bright and modern. Here, 
however, the atmosphere was noted more for its poverty 
and dereliction. Although the roads were busy, this was 
mainly of vehicles drawn by sheep or goats or ancient 
bicycles. The cacophony of bicycle bells and occasional 
klaxon swamped the roar of car engines which in any case 
belonged to vehicles that were very old, rusted and barely 
roadworthy. The uneven pavement was constructed of 
badly cracked flagstones and potholed by menacing holes 
where black water festered from past rain showers. Along 
the kerb were the occasional lamp-posts, some standing at 
peculiar angles to the horizontal and many with wires 
dangling loose from vandalised lamps.

The buildings shared the same general air of dereliction. 
Many shops had boards covering the windows or were 
rimmed by sharp icicles of glass. Those windows that were 
still intact were protected from vandalism by panels. The 
places where people lived were equally as unwelcoming 
and decrepit. The buildings were not nearly as tall as most 
of those we'd seen the day before, but still much taller than 
any to be found in the Suburbs. 

All the walls were luridly decorated by aerosol graffiti 
which in imaginative graphic letters and interesting 
flourishes said nothing either comprehensible or pertinent. 
RamRods. Claw Killer. Pretty as Sugar. Some 
graffiti were more understandable and complemented the 
faded Election posters for the Red, Black and Illicit Parties. 
Reds Roger. Blacks Suck. Cats Out. Rivers of 
Black. Every inch of wall underneath and between the 
thickening and peeling coat of posters was splattered with 
aerosol paint, and most posters were obscenely defaced.

"I don't feel very welcome here," shivered Beta, huddling 
up close to me. "I don't like the way people are looking at 
me."

The goats balanced above our head on unsteady 
scaffolding, the small crabs in overalls scattering by my 
feet and the chimpanzee sitting idly on the stairs all 
appeared more intent on their own thoughts than on us, but 
now that Beta had put the thought into my mind it did seem 
to me that we were followed by suspicious eyes as we 
walked along. A gang of baboons in black leather outfits 
and motor-cycle helmets blocked the way as they strode 
slowly along. As we overtook them one scowled extremely 
menacingly at me, sending a bolt of static through my 
cheeks.

We stopped for breakfast at a ramshackle van parked 
beside the remains of a demolished building enclosed by a 
ring of high electric wire and boards warning people not to 
enter the site. More ominously were the silhouetted 
illustrations of a figure being hit by lightening and the 
unsubtle warning Danger of Death. Two or three 
vultures ignored the signs and perched on top of what had 
once been the main entrance to a large building, where 
they were smoking some exceedingly long cigarettes and 
playing idly with flick knives. 

Breakfast was cheaper than we had become accustomed to. 
We each had coffee in paper cups which were difficult to 
hold without spilling some of the hot tasteless liquid and 
scalding our fingers. We shared a couple of white bread 
sandwiches stuffed with brown sauce, onions and a very 
fine sliver of cheese. The whole breakfast came to just over 
fifteen guineas.

We surveyed the district from the corner of the demolition 
site, across a road junction controlled by a very busy 
octopus in a police uniform, to the distant sight of the taller 
and grander buildings of the City. Although they were 
clearly within sight, they seemed very distant and remote. 
Peeling Election posters were everywhere, some blown by 
the wind across the grimy unwashed streets against 
doorways and into the alleyways which led off the main 
streets at regular intervals. A collection of lambs and kids 
were gathered outside a school, wearing baseball caps put 
on back to front and words ornately shaved into their 
fleeces. A small square of grass was locked in behind 
railings in which a few sparrows had gathered around a 
statue of an eminent hadrosaur and idly played cards near a 
hamster in a threadbare overcoat slumped in a puddle of 
vomit and urine.

Beta pointed at the tall buildings in the distance, while 
chewing at a mouthful of obdurate dough. "It's incredible 
to think that the City has such great variety! There's so 
much wealth over there while here everything is squalid 
and rundown."

"I hope you're not putting down the flipping City?" 
abruptly interjected a large raven with a flat cap on his 
head. "You blinking yokels, you come from the blooming 
Country and all you can flipping well do is flipping 
complain. I'm City born and bred, me! And I'm proud of it. 
There's nowhere in the world as good as what the City is!"

"I wasn't saying that I didn't like the City..." protested Beta 
looking down at the match stick protruding from the corner 
of raven's beak. 

"Yes, you was! I heard you! Blinking ingrates, you Country 
people. If it wasn't for us in the City working hard and 
making money all you Country people would know it. You 
don't bring sweet fanny adams into the realm. How can 
you? Everything in the Country is just so blinking cheap. 
Cheap in price and cheap in quality. It's us what bring in 
the wealth with all our banks and business and things."

"I was just saying that it was strange how much wealthier 
that part of the City is compared to this part."

"Whyn't you say? That's different. A totally different bowl 
of lard, as they say.  Yeah, over there is where the nobs 
live. They're the ones with all the blinking money. And 
what do they leave us, the workers? Not fanny adams, 
that's what! They've got all that money and all those 
blinking tall buildings and snooty shops and we're left with 
all the slums. Well, now we've got the Reds in government 
at long last and those blinking nobs had better look out. 
We'll get their hundred thousand guinea carpets, their 
million guinea clothes, their ten million guinea houses. It's 
all for the blinking workers now, ain't it!"

"That ain't quite what the Red Party said they'd do in their 
manifesto, John," remarked a billy goat in an ill-fitting 
sports tracksuit and large soled running shoes. "That ain't 
what they said they'd do. It might be what you want them 
to do, but it ain't what they said they'd do. But God in 
Heaven, I wouldn't mind it if it was, you know what I 
mean? I wouldn't say no to some of the other slice of the 
pie, me. I work hard all me life, you know what I mean, 
and I never ain't got nothing for it. And there are those like 
Her blinking Maphrodite what do nothing and get loads of 
dosh. I'd like some of the action, I can tell you."

We left the goat and raven debating and walked along the 
road in the general direction of the tall buildings, looking 
forward to the return to the relative comfort of the more 
touristic City. We passed a pack of hyenas who were 
feasting on some rotting meat, left outside a butcher's shop 
which had suffered from very severe vandalism. The more 
literate graffiti Meat Is Murder was sprayed around it, 
an opinion not shared by the hyenas. One raised his head 
from the antelope carcass he was feasting on, blood 
coursing down his jowls, and glared at us malevolently. 
Although it was unlikely that either Beta or I would 
consider challenging him for a taste of the red and pink raw 
flesh, he appeared to be warning us off just in case.

We passed by the steps of a tall apartment block even more 
derelict than most but not boarded up or chicken-wired. 
Most windows had lost their glass but several people were 
idly leaning out, regarding the world going by. A babble of 
audio systems resonated from inside, broadcasting very 
aggressive songs in which no shortage of profane or 
obscene words were expressing a philosophy of hatred 
towards women and police officers, and a worship of drugs 
and guns. Several people lay in the sun on the steps staring 
blankly into space and making no effort to converse with 
each other.

We walked on looking for somewhere to sit down and rest, 
preferably without spending any money. There were none 
of the benches or parks that had been around the previous 
day, although more people were sitting about; but they did 
so on the pavement or on the steps leading up to their 
homes. 

There suddenly erupted an outburst of noise that didn't 
emanate from an audio system, although it echoed the same 
aggressive sentiments. I couldn't see the source of the 
shouting until Beta prodded me and pointed several storeys 
up a metal fire-escape that wound perilously around the 
steep walls. A black ram with magnificent horns and 
RAIDERS shaved into his fleece was facing up to a group 
of coyotes in baseball jackets and sharp knives. There was 
no actual violence, but a great deal of shouting, much 
peppered with sexual allusion. 

We hastened on down the road, past women of all species 
languorously strolling along with no apparent purpose. 
They wore a thick coating of makeup, revealed much of 
their breasts, legs and genitals, and on occasion got into or 
emerged from the car doors of remarkably slow drivers. 
One car slowed down near us, and the man driving it stuck 
his head out of the window and yelled at Beta. 

"How much, lovie? What's your rate?" 

"What do you mean?" asked Beta automatically, not 
slowing her stride.

"What d'you do? 'O' do you? D'you do 'A'? 'F&S' at all?"

"I don't know what you mean?" 

"Don't come the old C.T. with me, lovie! I just want to 
know what you're offering."

"Nothing! Nothing at all!" gasped Beta, suddenly 
understanding him and grabbing my hand in a gesture of 
attachment. "I'm not offering anything to anyone!"

The driver sneered, and drove forward to another woman, 
dressed in nothing but black stockings and a woollen scarf. 
This woman immediately responded to his enquiries by 
leaning her arms on the window of the car door and 
negotiating with him.

"We walk with a swagger. And we walk with a grin. If 
there's any flipping trouble, we're the first ones in!" 
chanted some young people marching towards us carrying 
banners. "We Are The Illicit Boot Boys!"

The banners carried signs with such single word slogans as 
Rupert, Truth and Illicit. Some more elaborate signs 
depicted characters with blood streaming from recently 
demolished faces over such slogans as Smash The Reds! 
and Reds May Rule But They Haven't Won! Their cries 
and shouting broke their doggerel rhythm into a chaos of 
shouts in which the words Truth and Rupert were most 
prominent. It briefly came together with the chant: "Tee. 
Ah. You. Tee. Aitch. We need the Truth and the Truth 
needs us!"

"It's those horrid Illicit Party people again!" Beta remarked 
fearfully. "But what is this about the Truth?"

I told Beta about my visit to the town of Rupert and the 
President Chairman's speech where he urged the Illicit 
Party to seek the Truth. While I was explaining, the 
procession came ever closer. We stood to one side and let 
the march go by - partly from fascination and partly 
because groups of individuals were detaching themselves 
from the main body and harangued anyone who appeared 
fair game for their attention. From windows above our 
heads, some individuals were chanting anti-Illicit Party 
slogans, though it was not possible to ascertain from which 
political bias. This criticism earned the culprits a hail of 
beer cans and stones which in some cases hit their targets 
and smashed the windows of the rooms where the cries had 
come from and more often quite different ones.

Not all those observing the parade were opposed to it, 
however. Some cries were demonstrably in support. 

"This Rupert seems rather popular with some people," Beta 
commented thoughtfully.

"Illicit Worker!" shouted a large ram carrying a pile of 
newspapers with one held up to display the image of 
President Chairman Rupert underneath the banner 
headline: Election Tragedy. Illicit Party 
Cheated of Near Victory. "Read how the Red 
Party fiddled the Election. Find out how the Red 
Government will bring this nation to crisis."

"No thank you," said Beta politely.

"And why not?" challenged the ram, who had the face of 
the koala shaved into his fleece and a plethora of Illicit 
Party buttons pinned all over. "Don't you want to find out 
the truth of the Election? Don't you want to hear how the 
President Chairman will lead us all to the ultimate Truth?"

"Well...," hesitated Beta, perhaps considering the Truth. 
"No, not really!"

"You don't believe all the Red propaganda do you? Only 
the Illicit Party can save this country. Or save the world for 
that matter? Only the Illicit Party has a truly radical and 
workable solution to the problems of the City's budget 
crisis. A policy tried and tested in the Illiberal Socialist 
Republics. A solution which by wresting control from the 
factionalism of Red, Black, Blue and White and 
centralising it in one single non-political authority under 
the ideological guidance of central government would 
solve at a stroke the indecisiveness and waste that 
characterise the City. A solution which would distribute 
the wealth from the richer parts of the City and spread it 
amongst the poorer districts. Do you think the Red 
Government with its policy of even greater decentralisation 
of local government decision-making could really solve the 
problems that exist?"

"I don't really know..."

"It's all in the Illicit Worker! How Rupert will wrest control 
of the financial market from the chaos, anarchy and greed 
of the City institutions and establish a single unitarian 
authority. How Rupert is encouraging all supporters to 
pursue the Truth and how that will resolve - at a stroke - all 
the world's great problems. How education will become 
focused like a laser beam in an overall strategy involving 
the cooperation of the media and the libraries. How the 
Religious fundamentalists, and their liberal sympathisers 
and apologists, who threaten to drag this nation back to the 
dark ages will be proscribed for the greater harmony. How 
abuse of sexual rights and freedoms will be countered by a 
moral and ethical crusade to bring back order to the 
relationships between ram and ewe, billy and nanny, man 
and woman. How the nation will become unified into the 
greater glory of the Illiberal Socialist Republics, eventually 
to become part of the United Illiberal Socialist Empire 
under the President Chairman's sole authority. Aren't you 
interested in the Truth or Justice? Only ten guineas a copy."

"We can't afford it," I argued.

"Five guineas, then. Two guineas? Here have it for 
nothing!" 

The ram handed us a copy and marched onto a group of 
crabs cowering timidly under the shadow of a large poster 
for hoof cleanser. Beta took the newspaper, which was 
printed on very thin paper and the ink of which was 
already splodging her hands.

She turned the pages of the Illicit Worker, while the parade 
finally passed by drawn up in the rear by a large mass of 
sheep bleating Rupert's name insistently and 
monotonously, with single letters of his name shaved in 
sequence in their fleece. This would have been more 
impressive had the sheep stayed in more rigid order, but 
they were instead proclaiming RUPRTE, THRUT and 
ILILCIT. The newspaper featured many illustrations of the 
President Chairman and rather fewer of any one else. These 
others looked either nondescript or rather aggressive, and 
were all proclaimed as either heroes or martyrs of the 
Illiberal Socialist cause.

Most of the articles were directed against the other political 
parties and had rather more to say about what was wrong 
with their opinions, views and manifestos than on what 
was right about the Illiberal Socialist Party's. It was 
difficult to believe that the Red Government was really 
advocating universal castration as part of a policy of male 
emasculation. The Blue Party also seemed unlikely to be 
quite as enthusiastic in reintroducing slavery as the paper 
claimed. I particularly found bizarre the notion that the 
White Party was arming secret militias in the Suburbs for 
the planned overthrow of the state. Although there was a 
great deal about why the true Illicit Party supporter should 
join the crusade for the Truth, spearheaded in his historic 
speeches by the President Chairman himself, there was 
rather less about what it might be or where it may be 
found. It also seemed to gloss over what it was the Illicit 
Party intended to do with the Truth were it ever found. 

Beta looked at the black ink that had thoroughly stained 
her hands. "Uuurrgghh!" she gasped. "Can you look after 
the paper? Perhaps we can read it later somewhere."

I nodded, took the paper, folded it up and put in my pocket. 
The parade was now out of sight and the street had 
returned to its earlier calm, leaving a debris of stones, beer 
cans and broken glass amongst the other litter along the 
kerbside.

It was at that moment I noticed the Gryphon whom I had 
met at the borough of Rupert hiding in the shadows of a 
doorway on the other side of the road. He saw me, raised 
his eagle eyebrows in surprise and strolled across the road 
towards us.

"I take it you saw that dreadful rabble of Illicit Party 
followers, young man," commented the Gryphon flapping 
his ears vigorously. He nodded at Beta. "Hello, m'dear. I 
hope you don't mind my speaking to the both of you so 
unintroduced. I met your good friend at a bus station 
recently. I am really quite disturbed by the fanaticism and 
intolerance shown by these ill-bred youths. I thought 
behaviour like that had died out many years ago. What do 
you think?"

"They seem horribly violent and aggressive," Beta 
commented. "I didn't like the way they threw stones at 
those who disagreed with them."

"And that's apparently not all they do to people they take a 
dislike to. It may only be hearsay of course, but I gather 
that they practice torture in the Illiberal Socialist Republics 
to get people to confess to the most outrageous crimes, that 
they send enormous numbers of them to die in labour 
camps in horrific conditions and that no opinion is legal 
which contradicts the wisdom of their President. Can you 
believe that such barbarity still exists in this day and age! 
And what is even worse is that young people, like those we 
saw passing by, want to introduce Illiberal Socialism to 
this country. I imagine they rather look forward to being 
the ones who will carry out the torture and murder."

"The Illicit Party didn't win the General Election, though," 
I remarked.

"No. That's something to be grateful for. Although there 
was little danger that they would. And I'm glad they didn't 
do any better than they did: coming fifth place in the 
leading six parties. Now we've got a Red Government. Not 
that I voted for them. But I suppose it was inevitable they 
would win. And I don't think, taking everything into 
account, that it's such a bad result. As you can see, the Red 
Party has a lot of natural support in inner city slum areas 
like this. The surprise I suppose is that the Red Party didn't 
poll any better than they did. I imagine too many people are 
wary of being governed by the likes of the people hanging 
around here. Don't they look a sorry shower!"

He gestured, with his claw, at the citizenry leaning out of 
windows, slumping against walls or lamp-posts, or, at their 
most active, idly kicking the empty beer cans left behind by 
the Illicit Party march.

"So, young man," speculated the Gryphon, "you have travelled 
on to the City. Do you expect to find the Truth here?"

"We'll have a good look for it!" Beta said supportively.

"You too!" gasped the Gryphon. "I still think you're 
wasting your time. I'm visiting the City on a short 
exchange visit to Oxymoron High School, just around the 
corner from here. It's an enormous school compared to 
what I'm used to. Over fifteen hundred pupils. And not a 
school uniform in sight!"

"Are you a teacher?" enquired Beta, who had never needed 
to wear a school uniform in her native Village.

"Yes, m'dear. But it's quite a different matter teaching 
here. There really isn't any discipline. The pupils answer 
back and have no respect for their elders and betters. 
Furthermore, my colleagues have no sense of purpose or 
mission in the noble art of pedagogy. To them it is just 
a job. The worst is that the pupils are given no sense of 
direction. There is no emphasis on spelling, multiplication 
tables or Classics. What sort of adults will these children 
become if they can't spell? What sort of world do these modern 
educationalists want where the fundamentals of education 
are sacrificed for freedom of expression, creativity 
(whatever that is!) and universal tolerance? However 
desirable these objectives may be, surely that is not what 
education is for!"

"Perhaps in parts of the City like this, there isn't much need 
to spell correctly or to quote Aristophanes?" Beta 
suggested.

"Nonsense! However impoverished the pupils - and some 
of them are appallingly poor - there is always a need for a 
good grasp of the basics of grammar and arithmetic."

The Gryphon brushed his beak with a claw and unruffled 
his wings. He gave them an impressive shake that 
threatened to lift him off the ground, and then let them fold 
again on his back. 

"Are you going this way?" he asked pointing along the road in 
the direction we were walking. I nodded. "Do you mind if I 
accompany you?"

We had no reason to object, so the three of us strolled 
along a road which became steadily less salubrious as we 
progressed. Many buildings were now in such a state of 
dereliction that it was astonishing they hadn't totally 
collapsed in on themselves. There was no shortage of 
people living there, behind hard plastic screens and wire 
fences. I was quite grateful for the Gryphon's company who 
made me feel much safer by virtue of his size and his 
ability to fight off any attack. Youths stared at us darkly 
from beneath rusting fire escapes and by the graffiti-
adorned pillars that once supported ornate porches. The 
traffic had become lighter, and much of it was pulled by 
very haggard ungulates dragging sheets behind them which 
collected their droppings.

We came to a bridge by the bank of a dark brown canal 
which wound along the edge of the road and separated us 
from the backs of some forbidding red brick buildings 
where individuals of considerable ingenuity had succeeded 
in spray-painting a quite impressive density of obscure 
graffiti. One particular message in block letters dominated 
over the others, broadcasting the unpleasant message: 
GOATS GO HOME! BLACKS RULE O.K.!

"Goodness only knows where the goats are supposed to 
go," sniffed the Gryphon. "The City is as much their home 
as it is any other species. And look at the water! Have you 
ever seen - or smelt - anything so revolting?"

In the brown water was a shopping trolley resting on one 
side, a pool of green algae intermixing with oily scum and 
a few disconsolate ducks bobbing unhappily about on the 
surface. The smell was truly unpleasant. It was difficult to 
identify just what made it so disgusting, and it wasn't at all 
smothered by the floating sheets of newspaper, detergent 
bottles and cigarette packets on its surface. On the bank 
was a motley collection of ragged and ageing citizens 
slumped on the filthy ground around a brazier or crouched 
in the dark mud. There was a swan more grey with filth 
than white; a sheep who had lost all its fur and festered 
with very raw looking sores; a collection of crabs huddled 
together more for company than warmth; an eryops up to 
its chin in slimy canal water; and a few foxes scavenging in 
unpromising piles of rubbish decomposing in the early 
morning sun.

In amongst all this squalor was a tall gentleman with a long 
beard, hair grown halfway down his back, wearing a long 
cloak and gown which despite the filth remained a 
sparklingly inappropriate golden tawny. He was carrying a 
large flask and a stack of plastic cups, which he doled out 
to the supplicants. He carefully poured some of the flask's 
contents into a cup from which rose a thin column of white 
steam. He also handed out bread rolls which were greedily 
devoured.

He saw the three of us standing, and with an apologetic 
comment to the sheep he had been serving, strode towards 
us on his sandaled feet. He smiled welcomingly at us in 
such an infectious manner that it was impossible not to 
smile in return.

"I take it that you're not poverty stricken?" he remarked 
amiably.

"No," smiled Beta good-humouredly, "but we certainly feel 
poor in the City. Everything is so very expensive."

"It certainly is. Especially to someone like you, who I 
surmise comes from the Country. But if you have nothing, 
then that nothing is the same if a cup of tea costs a farthing, 
a crown or a guinea."

"Do you belong to some kind of charitable trust?" the 
Gryphon wondered. "There certainly is a great need for 
such services in the City. It's a wonder people manage to 
survive at all in this filth and squalor."

"No, I don't," smiled the gentleman. "What I do, I do 
because I wish to. There are many charitable organisations 
in the City, as there are elsewhere in the country, and I 
have the highest possible regard for them. However, one's 
commitment to those in need does not end at giving to 
others to do the task. But I fear that whatever I do makes 
only an insignificant contribution to alleviating the great 
poverty that exists here in the midst of so much plenty." He 
indicated the tall buildings in the distance.

"Shouldn't the government be doing what you're doing?" I 
wondered.

"I dare say they should. The role of government of 
whatever political colour is to ameliorate the conditions of 
those in its charge least able to look after themselves."

"Are you a Red, then?" asked the Gryphon. "If so, you 
must be pretty pleased at the results of the General 
Election."

"I have no real interest or involvement in the political 
process. There are good people of all political and religious 
persuasion, and to concentrate on the virtues of one party 
over another is not the best way to serve the plight of the 
needy."

"Surely, that's rather naive," argued the Gryphon. "The 
Black Party and the Illicit Party don't have very 
constructive attitudes towards the poor."

"I have no opinion. What matters is the goodness and 
virtue of the individual. True lasting and significant change 
is not made solely by political policy. There are many in 
both the parties you mention who have good intentions, 
however perversely the parties they advocate may represent 
them."

"I just don't believe that political solutions have no value," 
Beta objected. "Surely if the wealth of the very rich was 
better distributed, or if the government put more money 
into stimulating the economy of poor areas, or if things 
here weren't so expensive ..."

"I don't deny that," smiled the gentleman conciliatorily. 
"All that you say is no doubt true. But it takes time for such 
political changes to take place, and it were better that they 
were not too firmly associated with one political 
persuasion over another if they are so undoubtedly for the 
common weal, as otherwise they risk being reversed by any 
future complexion of government. In the meantime, the 
part to be played is not to talk but to act. And action is all I 
know or care about. Now, if you may excuse me, I have 
work to do!"

With that, the gentleman returned to the mass of poor 
people to whom he was doling out tea and bread. We 
watched him for a few minutes. Beta remarked that we 
ought to join him, but the Gryphon vetoed the suggestion.

"I just don't believe that we as individuals can make any 
appreciable change at all," he sniffed. "At least not in this 
capacity. The best way I can help people is in my role as a 
teacher, not by working as a volunteer canteen assistant."

Beta nodded reluctantly, so we left the canal and continued 
along the main road. The canal ran alongside it for several 
hundred yards, and offered the potential of quite a pleasant 
walk. However, the appalling potpourri of stenches did not 
make it one now. The canal was occasionally bridged by 
functional iron and redbrick bridges, sometimes coated 
with weeds and moss.

"One would have thought that the City Council would do 
something about the atrocious state of the streets round 
here," sniffed the Gryphon disparagingly. "They forever 
complain about the lack of central government funding. 
They say that it is set at national rates which take no 
account of the much greater costs in the City than 
elsewhere in the country. If that were true, surely the 
Country would be benefiting disproportionately well, 
considering their much lower costs."

"Won't things improve as a result of the General Election?" 
wondered Beta. "Won't the Red Party invest more money 
in areas like this?"

"I daresay they will - but there's an enormous amount of 
work to do. The City Council says that if life in the City 
was any more attractive than it is, it would simply 
encourage yet more people out of the Country and 
condemn them to homelessness and despair in a City 
unable to cope with the numbers already here."

"Quite a few people have left my Village for the City," 
admitted Beta. "Like my friend Xenana. Off they go, 
leaving the Village short of farm workers and young 
people, and making it much more difficult for the rest who 
are left behind. They want all the things you can have in 
the City. And the City looks so glamorous on television. 
You just don't imagine it could be as rundown as this." 

The canal came to an end, and the road became impassable 
to all traffic as it crowded with market stalls selling fruit 
and vegetables, video tapes, counterfeit goods and clothes. 
The Gryphon mentioned that he was near his destination, 
which were the local education authority offices housed in 
a tall concrete building protruding rather incongruously 
from the midst of the old and dilapidated buildings that 
otherwise composed the district. He hurried off, his wings 
flapping behind him while we negotiated the gaps between 
the stalls.

The air was full of the cry of market traders anxiously 
selling their wares. It was difficult to believe that anyone 
would want to buy some of the things on sell. There were 
worn out slippers, part used school exercise books, plastic 
trays and towels featuring crudely painted pictures of such 
City sights as Her Maphrodite's palace and a very tall 
column crowned by a giant sheep. One stall sold badges, 
posters, magazines and books all associated with the Illicit 
Party. The store-holder was a young goat with a green beret 
and large boots strapped to his hooves. There were quite a 
few customers gathered around the stall to buy badges or 
tee-shirts adorned by Rupert's ubiquitous face. Another 
stall was selling icons and religious crosses beside which 
was a large chimpanzee nun shouting rather insistently: 
"The End is Nigh! Read the Word of the Lord and Gain 
Salvation!"

We dodged past a camel walking by with a sandwich board 
advertising Cut-Price Jeans on either side of his 
hump. A large crow was selling records from a small van 
the sounds of which easily drowned out the calls of the 
market traders and shuddered through my body from my 
toes up. 

"It's filthy here!" commented Beta, looking down at her 
legs now spattered with oval splashes of grime and the 
soles of her feet now almost totally black. "I hope we 
can find somewhere I can wash. I feel like such a tramp."

When we reached the other side of the market, we could 
see that we were now not at all far from the taller and more 
grand buildings of the City. 

Beta sighed in relief. "I'll be so much happier to get away 
from all this poverty. It's so depressing!"

The roads were now more evenly paved and 
correspondingly more congested. The vehicles passing by 
were newer, more modern and much more powerful. We 
walked alongside buildings still occasionally decorated by 
graffiti, and Beta was pleased to see a small ornate fountain 
at the side of the road, where water was dripping from the 
minuscule penis of the statue of a small boy. We paused by 
the fountain for a drink of the metallic-tasting water and 
for Beta to wash the dirt off her filthy feet. 

While she stood on one leg, leaning against a post to keep 
her balance, I saw the tall and unmistakable shadow of an 
enormous lion ambling aimlessly along the pavement. He 
was far too large for the traffic and pedestrians to avoid, 
but both consciously tried to do so. Only a distant sense 
prevented him from causing severe local damage by treading 
on the parked cars and dislodging lamp-posts. His step 
seemed quite unsteady. His head was mostly bowed down. And 
his paws carelessly crunched up waste-paper bins and black 
plastic rubbish bags. 

"Lord Arthur!" gasped Beta, steadying herself on both her 
feet. "But no sign of Una!"

Beta waved at the lion as he came closer. He didn't appear 
to recognise us until he was barely yards away, and I was 
afraid he would tread on us and crumple us into the same 
twisted mess he had just left a child's plastic tricycle. He 
halted in his tracks and his sad bleary eyes gazed down at 
us. He shook his enormous head, hitting his mane against a 
street lamp and shattering it into small fragments which 
tinkled down beside him.

"Good morning," he said wearily and somewhat vaguely. 
"Hello. We meet again!"

"Hello," greeted Beta, with some concern. "Where's Una? 
Where's the girl we saw you with yesterday?" 

"Lost! Totally lost! Like everything else: lost! Never to be 
found again! My fortune! My empire! My life! Lost! There 
is nothing more for me! Nothing left for me. I am no longer 
the great and magnificent Lord Arthur, king of all I survey. 
Even my holdings in this part of the City - such paltry 
worthless possessions too! All lost! Gone forever! And so 
humiliatingly!"

"Do you know where Una's gone?" insisted Beta.

Lord Arthur ignored her question, appearing not to even hear 
it. "Since the Election, it has been as I said. In less than 
twenty four hours it has been disaster. Tax officials hounding 
me. Debts I owed from fifteen years ago return to be repaid. 
All my employees made redundant and on terms which leave me 
with nothing. Nothing! Which is what I am now! Nothing. To be 
sneered at by petty criminals, to be turned away from the 
doors of fair weather friends, to be mocked by the jackals in 
the media. Everywhere I turn: humiliation, defeat and insult. 
I am not the lion I was. I may tower high above the miserable 
ungulates and crustaceans of the City, but I am now no 
better than them. No longer wealthy. No longer powerful. 
A bankrupt with a legacy of debt greater than most nation's 
Gross National Product which will haunt me for the rest of 
my days. My family disown me. My colleagues disown me. 
I am nothing more than a pauper."

"Do you know where Una is?" persisted Beta.

"Una? The pregnant girl?" wondered Lord Arthur. "No. To 
be honest, I don't. I have lost everything. She is just one 
more thing I have lost. I should never have changed my 
advisors. I should never have been tempted to make quick 
rapid gains at the expense of core businesses and allow my 
business's credit to become so debased. I shouldn't have 
gambled away so much of my wealth. I shouldn't have 
frittered so much on the pursuit of worthless pleasure. My 
yachts, my fleet of Ferraris, my collections of priceless art, 
my several homes scattered all about the world. All gone!"

He opened his mouth and gave vent to a truly terrifying 
roar which caused several citizens to run away in fear and a 
car to hit into the back of another that had applied its 
brakes in sudden alarm. He shook his mane ferociously, 
smashing the glass of several windows, snapping off a flag 
staff jutting out of a building and bending the lamp-post he 
had recently damaged. His tail swung from side to side, 
smashing a shop window and sending a cyclist flying 
sideways onto the bumper of a passing car.

"It's over. It's all over!" he cried in despair. "The Arthurian 
empire is now just a legend. One that I trust will always be 
remembered. One that will not be judged to harshly by 
history, I hope. To join the procession of great businesses 
which have preceded it. Now to be plundered by the Red 
Party vultures, the gangsters of organised crime and the 
banks. Perhaps as people look upon my great works they 
will not feel that it has all been in vain. It has had its great 
moments. I may have been guilty of great crimes and 
malpractices in my years as a tycoon. I may have become 
famous as much for my vices and my readiness to sue for 
libel as for my fabulous wealth and the comfortable 
working conditions of my City employees. Time will tell. 
Only time will tell!"

Then, without even the hint of a farewell, he continued on 
his lumbering confused way in the direction of the market 
we had left, muttering to himself and occasionally shouting 
an incoherent cry of rage and frustration.



	16

Perhaps it was because the buildings were no longer so 
rundown. Perhaps it was because cars were diverted from 
the pedestrian walkways. Perhaps it was the general 
atmosphere of festivity generated by the flashing neon 
lights and holographic posters. Whatever it was we felt 
much more comfortable walking in the district we were 
now in, despite it being much more crowded. There were 
theatres on all sides: old buildings much more ornate in 
their design than the magnificent tall ones in the financial 
district, but largely obscured by hoardings, flashing lights 
and critical acclaim couched in quotation marks and 
qualified by the name of a national newspaper. "Truly 
Breathtaking!" "A Magnificent Achievement!" "You need a full 
box of hankies for this one!" All such praise showered 
on plays with names like The Butler's Underpants, 
Venezuela! and The Brothers Karazomov. There were cinemas 
in similar buildings framed by a necklace of neon with bold 
letters and enormous posters for films for which this was 
the 'World Premiere', or which had already grossed trillions 
of guineas, or which starred hugely famous people or their 
close relatives. There were films with titles like The Lion, 
The Goat and the Wardrobe, Candy's Butt, Death Vomit XVI and 
Turd Sensation (A Musical Adaptation of the work of De Sade).

There were classical plays, children's cartoons, grand 
opera, ballet, experimental theatre, pornography, silent 
movies and musical comedies. The choice was as truly 
impressive as the prices to actually view any of these 
productions. Sixty guineas to see a film and nearly two 
thousand guineas for a seat in the opera house. We could 
not afford to see any of them. In any case, it was still not 
midday and most theatres and cinemas hadn't yet opened 
for business, although the booking offices were invitingly 
so.

We sat on a bench in a paved square. We had been walking 
all morning, and Beta was eager to rest the pavement-
hardened soles of her bare feet. Cinemas and theatres 
ringed us on all sides, interspersed with cafes, games 
arcades, Virtual Reality emporia and shops selling such 
tourist goods as top hats with I Love The City written 
on them, fluffy toys modelled on Her Maphrodite and 
postcards featuring the many sights of the City.

"Where do we go now?" wondered Beta. "Wherever it is, I 
hope we can find something to eat. I'm still very hungry."

I nodded, and looked sadly down at my feet. Our time in 
the City had not been particularly productive with regard to 
finding the Truth. I pondered the wisdom of having come 
somewhere so large and expensive, and especially of 
having brought Beta along. She had undoubtedly made my 
time in the City much more pleasant than it might have 
been otherwise. She was good company and the more I saw 
of her the more attractive she became. I was losing my self-
consciousness of being accompanied by a naked woman - 
but in the City there was so much variety and weirdness 
that Beta and I were equally unremarkable. As much so as 
the lion chatting amiably with a lamb at the entrance to Her 
Maphrodite's Royal Theatre. Or the goat singing sea 
shanties, a cap laid down for passers-by to leave money, in 
front of the statue of a celebrated thespian. Or the flashing 
holographic image of an ankylosaurus dancing with an 
eland above a baroque building where a ballet was being 
performed.

Or, indeed, the sight of a woman striding towards us in a 
voluminous green and golden dress, a corseted waist, long 
brown hair pulled up into a massive bun and secured by a 
massive golden hairpin, and a very revealing cleavage. She 
was waving her arm enthusiastically and cheerfully. I 
recognised her as the Actress whom I'd met on the bus to 
Lambdeth. She greeted us both. I returned her greeting 
while Beta looked up shyly. 

"Golly gosh! Fancy meeting you here! I thought you were 
visiting Lambdeth and here you are in the City! And with 
your beautiful girlfriend. Hello, there! What's your name?"

"It's Beta. And I'm not his girlfriend! We're just friends."

"Well, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. Still I jolly well 
expect a girl as pretty as you must have an awful lot of 
boyfriends, mustn't you? There can't be a man in this world 
who wouldn't find you terribly attractive."

Beta was plainly disconcerted by the Actress's directness. 
"I don't know about that. Anyway, I don't have a boyfriend. 
I'm a virgin."

"A virgin!" exclaimed the Actress with genuine 
astonishment. "I've heard of those. I thought they were 
virtually extinct."

"Well, I'm one. And I don't think it's anything to be 
ashamed of!"

The Actress sensed that her manner didn't accord with Beta 
and frowned. "Whatever you think, Beta dear. Standards of 
behaviour vary so much, don't they? Anyway, you don't 
mind if I sit down. These shoes are absolutely killing me!"

She lowered herself on to the bench beside Beta. Her dress 
bloused out to reveal an assortment of under-dresses, slips, 
garters and the shoes which had inflicted her with pain. 
They were brilliant white and very tight with square heels 
and toes, and adorned with golden buckles. 

"So, what do you think of the Election result? Flipping 
wonderful, isn't it! I was terrified the blooming Blues 
would win or even the Whites, but, as it is, the Reds have 
triumphed. A Red Government! No more Coition 
nonsense. No more of a government noted for noise, sweat 
and activity, but productive of absolutely no results of any 
flipping use to anyone. My comrades and I celebrated all 
night flipping long! Did you two celebrate? Or did you 
vote for some other party?"

"We didn't vote at all," I admitted, "and although we were 
out at a night club in the evening we weren't really 
celebrating anything."

"Is that because you wanted the Whites or the Greens to 
win? Don't worry, I can accept that not everyone supposes 
a Red Government is necessarily good - but I tell you: 
you'll soon realise how much you've been deceived by all 
the Black, Blue and Illicit propaganda."

"I didn't particularly mind the Red Party winning," Beta 
elaborated. "They may even be the best choice for me and 
my Village. But there's so much violence their victory's 
caused. We witnessed a fight at the night club between 
supporters of the Black and Illicit Parties. They virtually 
destroyed the place. They assaulted innocent people, like 
this penguin we were talking to ..."

"I hate the Black Party! And I hate the Illicit Party! They're 
not political parties either of them. They're nothing more 
than excuses for thuggery. And heaven help us if they ever 
gain power! The Black Party would repatriate everyone 
with a foreign surname. They would exterminate the Cats, 
the goats and most sheep. They would declare war on all 
our neighbours. They would ban trades unions, imprison 
my comrades in the Red Party and probably the Green 
Party as well, and ban any literature they didn't approve of. 
Modern art, modern theatre and modern architecture would 
be totally repressed. All that would be left would be a 
flipping parody of a Grecian Utopia with slavery, tyranny, 
warfare and universal intolerance. People like me and 
probably both of you would be deemed unacceptable and 
would face the stark choice of a firing squad or 
deportation. If the bastards were ever that flipping 
considerate!" 

The Actress paused, overwhelmed by her tirade, and 
scanned the square with a broad grin. "This is home from 
home to me," she declared. "The bright lights of the theatre 
and cinema. Such excitement and so much to see."

"Are you performing in a production at the moment?" I 
asked.

"Indeed, I am," the Actress replied.  "I am that most envied 
of things: an actress who is hardly ever out of work. I have 
my agent to thank for that, and some astute role choices in 
the past. I can't complain that I am not proud of all the 
roles I've played. An actress must compromise to make a 
living. I may never have been a leading star. My name may 
not yet be one of those highest in the billings. But my name 
has been in lights. And it has been on posters in every 
underground station in the City. I'm currently appearing in 
The Lion of Naples at the Royal Court Theatre."

"What's that about?" I wondered.

"It's a sixteenth century play set in Naples where everyone 
plots against everyone else and everyone gets killed in the 
end. It's a classic of its sort. It's been updated a bit for the 
modern audience, of course. The violence is more graphic, 
the sex is more explicit, there is a great deal of nudity and 
it is staged in modern dress. But I'm told it remains very 
faithful in spirit to the original. There is an attempt to give 
it modern relevance by casting the lords and ladies who do 
most of the killing and plotting as members of the Blue 
Party, and the clowns are cast as comrades of the Red 
Party. My own role is the Lady Pudenda: a double-
crossing, hypocritical member of the aristocracy who is 
poisoned in the fourth act. You ought to see it."

"I don't think we can afford to," remarked Beta.

The Actress nodded sympathetically. "No, I suppose in all 
honesty you couldn't. It's a shame really. It's a stirring 
production and got excellent reviews in Time Off, The 
New Statesperson and The Lion Hunter's 
Quarterly Review." She looked around her at all the 
productions there were on. "It is indeed a shame to be in 
the cultural heart of the City, and not able to afford to see 
anything. There's My Pyjama Cord Is Missing, a 
farce in which there are many hairy bare knees, 
innumerable improbable coincidences and a starring role 
for Henry the Bisexual Sheep. Then there's the play, The 
Black Death, a savage attack on the racist, sexist and 
militaristic policies of the Black Party staged by The Red 
Flag Theatre Company in which the cast wear cardboard 
boxes on their head and carry bicycle pumps instead of 
guns. Or you could see Bedtime Blues, a musical 
based on Le Recherche de Temps Perdu, noted for its 
athletic dancing and catchy songs."

"It all sounds fascinating," admitted Beta.

"Or there are the films. The Blood of Uranus, a 
science fiction film made on a very small budget where the 
aliens are sheep dressed in black plastic bags and the space 
ship resembles a fountain pen attached to a firework. Come 
Dancing, an erotic drama noted for both its sexual 
explicitness and the incredible skill the cast demonstrate in 
remembering their lines. Or there's the current film by the 
famous director, Anthony Schwarzhof, which combines a 
roller-coaster of non-stop action and special effects with a 
poignant social message regarding the dreadful state of 
housing in the City and reflections on nihilism: Nothing 
Doing! Or perhaps opera or ballet is your taste? There's 
everything here, and no reason to ever be bored." 

"I just don't think we feel up to seeing a play or film," Beta 
remarked. "We're both very tired. We had to sleep in an 
alley-way last night and we've been walking all morning."

"Oh! You poor things!" exclaimed the Actress. "I had no jolly 
idea! You need somewhere to sit and relax. Look! I'll take 
you to a nearby pub and I'll buy you both a drink. What do 
you think?"

"You're very kind, but I don't really think ..." began Beta.

"Don't make excuses! I insist! I want to prove that not 
everyone in the City is unwelcoming! Come on, let's go. 
The Half Man is very congenial."

We were about to respond to the Actress's offer when we 
were distracted by shouting and yelling from a corner of 
the square. A group of people, including a few aggressive 
rams, charged into the square waving banners portraying 
Chairman President Rupert pursued by baton-wielding 
police. Some threw sticks and stones at shop windows and 
cinemas, and pushed into those unwary pedestrians who 
hadn't already prudently dispersed. Some threw beer cans 
and stones at the police who protected their faces with their 
arms and pushed forward as best they could against the 
onslaught. It was certainly no longer safe to stay where we 
were.

The Actress sprung up onto her feet. "Come on! Run! It 
looks jolly dangerous." 

As if to underscore her words, a beer can arched through the 
sky towards us and clattered to the ground just yards away. 
Beta and I ran with the Actress out of the square, as more 
and more police and Illicit Party supporters flooded in. 
Barricades were already being constructed from overturned 
benches, security fences and motor scooters. A large horse 
cantered past neighing Rupert's name over and over again.

We dashed down the nearest road along with tourists and 
others chattering excitedly as they fled. The Actress made 
certain that we remained within sight of her, which was not 
at all easy in the general crush. Any humour in the retreat 
was abruptly shattered by the loud smash of a plate glass 
window by an excitable ram who was wilfully battering 
his head into it. Fragments of glass showered in our 
direction. "Kill the Reds!" "Red Party Out. Out. Out. 
Rupert In. In. In." came chants and cries from behind.

The Actress hastened us along narrow passageways, past 
small cinemas showing films like Anal Intrigue, 
Piss On Me and The Fists of Fu Manchu. We 
sprinted past crowded pubs, cafes and book shops, and 
then through the doorway of a tall building proclaimed by 
huge letters as THE HALF MAN. We dashed up a flight of 
carpeted steps to pause, panting and gasping, at the doors 
of two elevators. 

"This is the way to the pub!" the Actress announced, 
through the gasps of her shortened breath. "We should be 
perfectly safe up there. What was going on, do you think?"

"Illicit Party people," gasped Beta. "We saw some this 
morning in a different part of the City. They were causing 
trouble there as well."

"Trouble! That sounds like them. All they want is to cause 
trouble. I guess they just want to destabilise the new Red 
Government. I hate the bastards. As bad as the Black Party 
- only without an ideology. Well, here's the lift. Let's get 
in!"

The velvet padded elevator shot up from the ground floor, 
the neon numbers of the display rapidly ascending in 
sequence. "It's a nice pub. Quite famous," advertised the 
Actress. "Good strong beer and plenty of it. The food's 
quite good as well if you fancy some. Don't worry, I'll treat 
you!"

Beta was reluctant to accept favours from a woman whose 
remarks about virginity she was still smarting from, but she 
had lost the spirit to reject the offer. "We're very hungry," 
she admitted.

The escalator opened onto a commodious red velvet 
lounge in which there was a large oak bar lining one wall 
and already quite a few customers. The Actress selected 
some seats by the window and dashed off to the bar. While 
she was away, Beta and I looked down at the City below. 
We were a tremendous height above the streets. The lift 
indicator had reached the number 162 when the lift had at 
last arrived. There were some buildings of about the same 
height or higher towering over others, many concentrated 
together in what we assumed to be the financial district. 
Cars drove by in a snake-like procession of ant-sized 
congestion. The sun was high in the sky and cast very short 
shadows onto the traffic. A small helicopter passed above, 
and below there was a swirling of hippogriffs and 
pterosaurs. Several blocks away a large gorilla carrying an 
enormous plastic shopping bag was clambering up a 
building.

The Actress returned with three pints of cider on a tray and 
a matching number of menus. "Jolly splendid view, isn't it! 
The City seems so much more manageable when it's seen 
on such a small scale. Now, here's the selection of food. 
Don't worry about the cost. Money's no object to me: I get 
paid very well. I'd recommend the lamb and they do a lion-
sized mixed grill. I hope you like cider. I'll warn you: it's 
quite strong."

She sat down and extracted a silver cigarette case from a 
small handbag hidden amongst the folds of her enormous 
dress. She selected a very fat cigarette which she lit with a 
petrol lighter, and grinned as it issued a rich sweet-
smelling odour. She inhaled very deeply, expressing slight 
startlement as it triggered a response in her.

Beta and I spent several minutes reading the menu and 
making our choice; something becoming progressively 
difficult after a few sips of the cider and a few inhalations 
of the Actress's rich tasting cigarette. When we'd made our 
decision, the Actress attracted the attention of a lioness 
waitress who was hovering about the pub in a pinafore and 
hat and taking customer's orders.

While the Actress spoke to the lioness, a rather loud bang 
suddenly erupted from outside. It was far too loud to be 
attributed to a car engine backfiring, and immediately drew 
the clientele to rush like moths against the window. Beta 
and I gazed down at a column of smoke rising from behind 
some smaller buildings in the middle distance. For a 
moment, we could assume that its source was a bonfire, but 
then the air was pierced by the clamour of alarms as 
ambulances, police cars and fire engines descended on the 
scene from all directions. It was fascinating to watch the 
traffic part to let these vehicles squeeze by. I pointed this 
out to Beta. "It's the fastest way to get through the City, I 
think!"

Beta frowned. "How can you joke like that? If there are 
ambulances then someone must have been hurt. Or even 
killed!"

"Beta's right," remarked the Actress thoughtfully. "If we 
can see so much smoke from up here, then it must have 
been a very large explosion. It's probably destroyed a 
building or at least damaged it pretty badly. It might be a 
car explosion. Or perhaps something left in a wastepaper 
bin. I can't be sure, but I'd be surprised if it were a 
coincidence that the General Election brought the Reds to 
power and that so many Illicit Party people are running 
amok in the City. I reckon it's the flipping Illicitists who've 
done that. So much for their flipping commitment to 
democracy!"

The lioness waitress stood to one side of us. "I think that 
might be Lambdeth Square, where the theatres are. There 
won't be many plays on this evening if it is!"

"I certainly hope it isn't!" exclaimed the Actress, inhaling 
deeply on the thick stub of her cigarette. "I'm supposed to 
be on tonight!" She sat down pensively in her chair behind 
which was the picture of the Half Man after which the pub 
was named: the rear view of half a man whose open chest 
was packed with revellers.

We sat beside her as a fleet of small helicopters and 
winged monkeys flew past the building towards the source 
of the smoke. 

"I hate the Illicit Party," restated the Actress. "What 
do you think, Beta dear?"

"They're not well-known in the Village," Beta admitted. 
"They're a very new political party aren't they?"

"And getting frighteningly popular in some sections, I'm 
afraid. They scare me. This Rupert might look jolly 
harmless, but then nobody would suspect a flipping koala 
of being a tyrannical despot. I think his bite is actually 
worse than his bark. Some of the reports coming from the 
Illiberal Socialist Republics are jolly distressing. Socialists 
and sympathisers tortured and assassinated. Trades 
Unionists jailed or murdered. Freedom of speech and 
expression totally banned. It'd be flipping dreadful if this 
country were to ever get like that. I just hope the trouncing 
that lot got in the General Election will be enough to kill 
the party off."

"Why are they so upset about the Red Party winning the 
election that they'd riot and blow things up?" wondered 
Beta, as the waitress arrived with her order of vegetarian 
cottage pie, turnips and swede. 

The Actress smiled at the waitress as her own order of 
lamb chops, roast potato and green salad was placed on the 
table in front of her. "I'm sure it's not the Red Party as such 
they object to, but it's a jolly convenient excuse to use all 
the generations of propaganda levelled by the wealthy and 
influential against them. They wouldn't have such an easy 
target, I suppose, if the Blues or the Whites had won. They 
just want to cause trouble. That's all. Disruption for its own 
sake!"

"What is it that people object to about the Red Party?" I 
wondered.

"Loss of vested interests, basically. The Red Party is 
concerned with fairness, equality and justice. It doesn't 
want to see some people so much better off than others and 
others so poor. It's wrong that some starve and others have 
too much. What the Red Party intends to do is stimulate 
the economy by creating jobs, increasing the relative 
wealth of the poor and giving everyone an equal chance in 
life. The Red Government will give this country the 
direction and purposiveness that has been squandered by 
years of blooming Coition misrule."

"I take it you're a supporter of the Red Party?" Beta 
remarked.

"Fully paid up and have been for as many years as I can 
remember!" the Actress boasted.

"Does that mean you're a socialist?" I asked, chewing on a 
sausage from my sizeable mixed grill.

"And jolly proud of it! I've been a socialist from as soon as 
I was old enough to tell the difference between good and 
evil."

The Actress finished her meal and emptied her glass in a 
few rapid gulps. She glanced at her wallet, pulled out a five 
hundred guinea note and without a word strode across to 
the bar where she paid the bar steward, a lion in a smart 
black suit and bow-tie. She chatted with him while Beta 
and I sated the rest of our appetite and sipped on the strong 
cider. The food, drink and smoke made me feel quite light-
headed. I also felt very comfortable sitting on the velvet 
seat next to Beta, who was pushing the last of the mashed 
swede onto her fork, and raised it to her mouth. I was very 
pleased with Beta's company and gratefully contemplated 
her beauty.

The Actress wandered back with a broad smile. "Well, I 
must be on my way. I have rehearsals to attend. You don't 
have to come with me. Rest here as long as you like!" In 
truth, we were too relaxed to follow her, so we nodded at 
her amiably as she meandered over to the pair of elevators 
past the ornamental palm, the statues of Greek goddesses 
and a display of colourful gladioli.

	17

Reaching out ahead of me, I picked up the glass of cider, 
lifted it to my mouth and sipped it while contemplating 
Beta who was clasping her glass in front of her breasts. I 
was indeed very fortunate to be with a woman so truly 
beautiful, I mused, boldly resting my arm over her bare 
shoulders. I was delighted that she didn't resist my 
approach and indeed returned the affection by placing a 
hand on my thigh. She gazed up at me and smiled: "It's so 
nice to be off the City streets. I couldn't bear to live here. 
It's so noisy. So polluted. And ever so busy. I can't believe 
we'll ever find the Truth here. We should leave the City 
and search elsewhere."

I nodded, restoring the glass to the table. "We haven't seen 
anything here that even resembles the Truth," I admitted. 
"The City may have everything else, and it seems to have it 
in abundance. But you're right. The Truth must be 
somewhere else."

Beta pointed at my nearly empty glass. "Don't hurry your 
drink! I like sitting here, high above the City and on these 
comfortable seats. It's so much more relaxing." 

The atmosphere was certainly that, as much a result of 
what we'd consumed as in anything inherent to the 
environment. A group of baboons excitedly debated 
politics opposite us. A spider monkey was leaning on the 
bar and talking to the bar steward: a lion dressed in a 
tuxedo who was cleaning the inside of a pint glass with a 
small towel. A group of australopithecines was playing 
darts in the far corner. And  standing at the bar, looming 
high above everyone, was a very tall figure in a long green 
overcoat carrying a tri-cornered hat in his enormous paws. 
His bright button eyes scanned the bar while he waited to 
be served.

He saw Beta and me, and broke away, still clutching the 
hundred guinea note he had been gesturing idly towards 
nobody in particular. He lumbered past the baboons, 
slightly brushing against an especially aggressive one who 
might have challenged the teddy bear had he not been so 
enormous.

"Why hello, young man! And with a young lady. Your 
wife, perchance?"

"No!" disclaimed Beta, snapping her hand from my lap. 
"We're just friends."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made such a brash 
presumption. Well good afternoon, young lady. My name 
is Hubert. I met your friend a few days ago at the castle of 
a friend of mine..."

"Do you mean Tudor?" asked Beta, recalling my account 
of the occasion. "Yes, I've known Tudor for a long time. 
He's a frequent visitor to my Village. My name is Beta." 

She leaned forward, requiring me to reluctantly withdraw 
my arm from her shoulders and shook what she could of 
his columnar paw.

"I was just buying myself a drink. I'll buy you some too, if 
you like. What are you having? Cider, isn't it?" 

Then, before either of us could protest that one pint of the 
potent brew was sufficiently intoxicating, he lumbered back 
to the bar and this time the bar steward served him quite 
promptly. Hubert returned followed by the lion carrying a 
tray of drinks which his paws were ill-equipped to manage. 
The lion thoughtfully fetched a particularly large sofa in 
which the teddy bear could sit in relative comfort, and then 
returned to his conversation with the spider monkey, who 
was rolling a cigarette on the bar surface.

"So!" remarked Hubert after imbibing a long draught of 
cider. "Like me, your quest has brought you to the City. 
Unfortunately, I am having little success in my search for 
relics of the Great Bard. I trust your endeavour is 
proceeding more profitably? Is your friend accompanying 
you?"

"Yes, I am," Beta affirmed. "We've not been any more 
successful than you. We seem to do nothing but wander the 
streets and get horribly lost."

"Isn't that always the way? The feet get very sore, but if the 
end is honourable then it must all be worthwhile. As they 
say, it is the travelling, not the arriving, which makes the 
journey. Yesterday, I spent many happy hours in the City 
Library reading the original texts the Great Bard has left. 
He was greatly influenced by mysticism. He attached great 
significance to prime numbers, like seventeen, seven and 
one. He believed them to be symbolic of great truths as 
they are irreducible but become the basis of all other 
numbers. Much of his poetry revels in the fundamental 
properties of number and what it reveals of the world. It 
should be remembered that in his era there was little 
thought or knowledge of fractal geometry, curved space or 
different degrees of infinity. Just imagine what he would 
do now with concepts like the Godel Number, the 
catastrophe theory or the Mandelbrot Set. How that would 
have inspired him!"

I sipped at the cider and allowed my arm to once again lie 
unresisted over Beta's shoulders. 

"Was it only numbers which inspired him?" she asked.

"He was also excited by concepts of circularity and cyclical 
behaviour. He often compared life to the sine wave or the 
sphere. He claimed that life has neither beginning nor end. 
One is merely the prelude to the other. He was also 
fascinated by such concepts as the twelve houses of the 
heavens and the twelve cycles within twelve of the Chinese 
calendar. He believed that all patterns revealed the basic 
meaning of life, and often modelled his poetry on exact 
rhythms and structures borrowed from numerology, astrology, 
the I Ching, the Tarot and the harmonic scale. To study the 
Great Bard is to learn much not normally associated with 
poetry."

Hubert was drinking his cider very rapidly which was 
appropriate for such a large individual. We had barely 
drunk down an inch of our glasses when his was emptied. 
He wiped his mouth with the back of his paw. 

"Zounds! That was a drink I needed. Much as I enjoy being in 
the midst of the hustle and bustle of the City, I much prefer 
the Country where the air is fresh and where people have more 
time for company." 

He stood up and looked down at the City below where a wisp of 
smoke was still rising from the site of the recent explosion.

"I shall be leaving the City tomorrow morning, but I have a 
number of things to do this afternoon. However, it has been 
charming to meet the two of you. Give my regards to 
Tudor should you see him." 

With that, the teddy bear lumbered out of the bar and into 
the lift which was only just large enough to accommodate 
him and a pair of macaques shadowed by his enormous 
great coat. 

"That was certainly brief!" remarked Beta. "But Hubert's 
quest must be inspiration to us."

"Indeed," I agreed, squeezing Beta's shoulder and finding 
comfort in just sitting so close to her. 

We relaxed together for a while, drinking our ciders and 
watching the company in the bar. Not a great deal was 
happening. A chimpanzee had joined the spider monkey and 
the bar steward, and was gesticulating wildly about 
something that had excited him, his long arms stretched 
high above his head. A group of ring-tailed lemurs was 
playing a noisy game of dominoes in a far corner, watched 
by a pair of tarsiers. A television beamed soundless images 
of fighting and violence probably taking place in the City. 
A juke box was playing loud percussive electronic music, 
punctuated by what sounded very much like religious chants.

The alcohol had a pronounced effect on my bladder as well 
as on my mind, and I soon felt the need to relieve myself. I 
drank the last of the cider, and lifted myself up. It was only 
when I was on my feet, I became aware of just how much I 
had been affected. Everything was disorientated and I was 
feeling distinctly unsteady. 

"I'll just go to the loo," I heard myself say.

"I must go too," Beta said, drinking most of what she had 
left and wobbled uncertainly to her feet. I supported her 
with a hand as she nearly stumbled over a step. We made 
our way in the direction signposted Toilets across a 
floor that seemed much more extensive than it did when we'd 
arrived and through a door that led down an interminable 
corridor through fire door after fire door, leading to metal 
plaques adorned by silhouetted figures which made clear 
which further series of doors was intended for me and 
which for Beta.

After relieving myself, I studied the reflection in the mirror 
of someone I barely recognised. It was almost a shock to 
see myself as others might see me, and I wasn't sure I 
particularly liked the sight. I blinked and shook my head in 
the hope that my reflection might improve, but it remained 
much the same. I shrugged my shoulders and stumbled out 
into the corridor where Beta was waiting for me.

"Let's get going!" she said adamantly, pushing open a fire-
door that led into a corridor which looked exactly like the 
one we'd come from, but I couldn't be exactly sure through 
the haze in my mind. Beta however pushed ahead, and I 
followed her past rows of fire-extinguishers and elegant 
portraits.

"I'm sure it didn't take as long as this to get to the 
lavatory!" I remarked, a little puzzled. 

"I think you may be right," agreed Beta, pushing open a 
door to the side marked quite clearly PRIVATE, but 
which she seemed to think for some reason was exactly the 
right door to venture through. On the other side was a tall 
escalator leading upwards where a window of sunlight 
shone brightly on the uppermost steps. "Does that lead to 
the roof, do you think?"

"It certainly looks like it," I commented. "A strange place 
to have an escalator, though."

"Shall we go up?" giggled Beta adventurously. "I wonder 
what the view's like from the very top of this building."

"I wonder," I agreed, alcohol-emboldened. "Shall we find 
out?"

Beta giggled again, and placed her foot on the lowest step 
of the escalator, which suddenly jerked into life on 
detecting her presence and began moving upwards. I trod 
onto the step behind her and boldly held her round the 
waist as we ascended and the window of sunlight came 
steadily closer. I could smell Beta's hair under my nose and 
felt it dropping down over my arms and to below her waist. 
I squeezed her waist slightly, and she turned her head 
round and grinned welcomingly.

The sun flooded down from a sunny blue sky, accompanied 
by smells of flowers, grass and fresh air. Towards the top, 
we squinted in a bright beam of light speckled with 
hovering specks of seed. From above we could hear the 
chorus of song birds and the occasional squawk of a 
peacock. There was also the distinct splash of falling water 
and the rustle of a breeze through the broad leaves of the 
spreading trees. As we surfaced, we discovered ourselves 
in a magnificent garden of water-falls, springs, fruit trees 
and grass. A lion was sipping at a pond-side beside a tiny 
fawn. A delicate gazelle gambolled joyfully near a large 
rose bush. A pachybelodon was scooping up weeds from 
one end of the pond. Several birds of paradise flew across 
from tree to tree, watched on by colourful howler monkeys 
and marmosets. We stepped off the top of the escalator - 
which stopped the moment we were no longer on it - and 
looked around us with amazement.

"I certainly didn't expect to find anything like this at the top 
of the Half Man!" Beta exclaimed, wandering through the 
long uncut grass, her hands idly pulling off clouds of seed 
from dandelions.

The top of the escalator from which we had emerged now 
appeared more like a hole in the ground and the City very 
distant indeed. Instead of the roar of traffic, the air 
resounded with the sounds of joyous living. I wondered 
where the garden might end. It appeared to stretch 
interminably in all directions, or at least as far as the odd 
trees and pagodas that were scattered about. None of this 
disturbed me at all. The effects of drink, I imagined. I 
glanced around to find Beta, but I couldn't see her at all. 

"Beta! Beta!" I called out, disturbing a toucan that crashed 
out of a tree. "Where are you?"

"Here! Over here!" she called, hidden behind some trees. 

I chased around them only to see her run off towards a 
gazebo beneath a tall beech. I ran after her as she dodged 
behind it. When I got there, she immediately started 
running again, laughing childishly, her long hair flowing 
behind her and her naked body not at all out of place in the 
luxuriance of the grass and the heat of the sun. For several 
minutes we chased after each other between the trees and 
bushes, around the ornate ponds and the buzz of caddis-
flies, past the waterfalls, behind the pillars of curiously 
neglected ornamental buildings and knee-high through 
wild grasses. I was much more unfit than Beta who was 
much more accustomed to the outdoor life, and was soon 
short of breath and sweating profusely in the bright midday 
sun.  

"It's beautiful here!" exclaimed Beta, strolling up to me as 
I panted and wheezed in the shadow of a tall apple tree. 
"You wouldn't believe that there was anywhere like this in 
the City."

I nodded, slowly recovering from my exertions. "It's a 
lovely garden."

"My! You are hot!" commented Beta, stepping up closer 
and feeling my forehead with the back of her hand. She 
started to unbutton my clothes. "You certainly don't need 
these things in this heat. I don't know why you have to wear 
them all the time." 

Her hands carefully unbuttoned, unclasped and unzipped me, 
smiling at me in a very inviting and mischievous way. I 
stretched my arms out, took Beta by the shoulder and 
pulled her unprotesting body close to my breast and her 
face up to mine. My chest was bared to the sun and I 
pushed off my shoes and trousers from about my ankles with 
clumsy motions of my feet. 

"You're very hot!" repeated Beta with wonder, as I pulled 
her face towards mine, my tongue entered her mouth, one 
hand grasped her back beneath her long green hair and the 
other lower down about her buttocks. I kissed her in a spurt 
of action and excitement which Beta more than 
reciprocated. She momentarily pushed me off and 
examined me with a face illuminated by passion and 
shrouded by loose strands of her long hair. 

"I'm a virgin, you know," she whispered unnecessarily and 
plunged her tongue back into my mouth, pulling my 
underpants down to my knees with a decisive tug and 
grasping the back of my neck with a free hand. 

Beta's body wholly engulfed my senses: her smell, her taste, 
the warmth and softness of her skin. Her gasps and my own 
drowned out the sounds of chorusing doves, chirping frogs 
and rustling leaves. Only the warm breeze on my naked 
back and the stab of blades of long grass as we descended 
to the ground in a close huddle of flesh and motion served 
to remind me where we were and that the world consisted 
of other things beside Beta, her unresisting body and her 
tender caresses. 

I don't know how long we were together, lost in passion 
and lost to the world, but eventually our senses 
reawakened. We lay together, naked in the grass, my 
clothes scattered about widely and loosely, our arms 
around each other, viscous liquids clinging to the hair of 
our legs and the top of our thighs, and the sun blazing 
down on us with supreme indifference. A magpie clucked 
in the tree above us, a small lizard dashed behind a rock 
and in the distance we could hear the chortle and chatter of 
gibbons. I pulled Beta forward and gave her a shy but 
tender kiss on the lips. 

"How do you feel?" I asked.

Beta looked down ruefully at her pubic hair and extracted a 
long blade of grass. 

"I don't know," she admitted. "Different, I suppose. Just 
different!" She leaned over and pulled me towards her. "Why 
do you people from the Suburbs and Lambdeth wear clothes? 
It's not just to keep yourself warm, is it? You look so much 
more natural as you are."

I smiled, unable to explain why, even now, I felt a great 
desire to climb back into the clothes I'd discarded. It 
somehow seemed inappropriate to remain naked, now that 
I was steadily sobering and our lovemaking was over. I 
gazed longingly around me, trying to discover my 
underpants, when I noticed a sandaled foot in the grass 
and above it a long tall golden gown. I hurriedly and 
embarrassedly covered my genitals with my hands and 
prodded Beta. We raised our heads towards the owner of 
the sandals.

It was the bearded gentleman we had met earlier that 
morning serving food to the wretches by the canal. That 
place seemed so remote here in the garden. What could he 
be doing here? He still had an infectious welcoming smile, 
but he spoke to us with a seriousness that belied his 
apparent joviality.

"What may I ask are you doing here? Are you aware that 
you are trespassing?"

I jumped to my feet ensuring that my hand covered my 
crotch. "We didn't expect there to be a garden here. We got 
lost on the way back from the toilet and found our way 
here by mistake. We didn't mean to do anything wrong."

Beta stood up as well, far less abashed about her nudity. 
"It's very beautiful here. It's probably the loveliest place 
I've ever been to. Surely you aren't surprised that we should 
want to come here and enjoy ourselves."

"Enjoying yourselves in the delights of nature in more 
ways than one, I should think. But less of this. You may be 
trespassers and in my capacity as gardener I may have to 
advise you to leave by the way you came, but at the same 
time I must also extend my welcome to you. You must 
realise, however, that this garden is not meant for the 
curious tourist."

"It's in a very strange place," Beta remarked. "Right at the 
top of a skyscraper, a few floors above a pub. How can a 
garden like this be here?"

"It just is," the gentleman remarked folding his arms. "I'm 
glad however that you are so appreciative. I work hard to 
tend this garden. It's not as easy as you would think. It has 
to be both natural and tamed. It has to be beautiful and 
slightly wild without becoming unmanageable and 
disorganised. Fortunately, nature does most of the work for 
me. I merely prod it in the direction I wish it to go. Isn't 
nature a wonderful thing?"

"Indeed it is!" agreed Beta, admiring the landscape. "It's 
ravishing. It must be wonderful to work here!"

"That I can't deny," the gentleman assented nodding at a 
tree shrew that had leapt onto his shoulder and gazed up at 
him quizzically. "There can be no other occupation more 
rewarding."

"And you also give alms to the poor," I reminded him.

"Indeed, I do. It is but small duty. It gives me as much joy 
to give to those in need as it does to tend the growing 
flowers, the young lamb, the mischievous lion-cub and all 
the others in the garden." He looked up at the sky with a 
wistful expression, a gust slightly lifting up his long hair, 
and sighed. "If only everything in the world were like this. 
But it cannot and should not be. All I can do is tend the 
small corner of it to which I have access."

"Who owns the garden?" I wondered. 

Beta put an arm around my waist while the gentleman 
answered. "The same person who owns the Half Man and 
the rest of the building from which you emerged. He's quite 
a recluse. Although I've worked here many years I don't 
think I have had the pleasure of meeting him once, though 
his memos specify exactly what he wants done. All I know 
of him is the print of his word processor and the wax seal 
he attaches to it. But I don't worry too much about 
questions like this. Why should I ever need to meet him 
and what would I do if I did?"

"We're in the City searching for the Truth," Beta explained. 
"If there's anywhere in the City where the Truth can be 
found surely it would be here in amongst all this beauty 
and plenty. If there's such a place as paradise, this much 
surely be it. Do you think we'll be find it here?"

The gardener laughed indulgently. "The Truth? Here! 
Goodness, no! This may seem like paradise, but you won't 
find the Truth here. Or at least if it is here, I've never come 
across it."

"Do you know what the Truth might be?" I wondered.

"If I knew that, I would tell you. Like many people I have 
my ideas, but they are mere speculation. I'm sure that the 
Truth does exist. There must be some fundamental kernel 
of truth and reality in the Universe, and if it is called the 
Truth, so be it. Underneath the vicissitudes of perception 
and prejudice there is a core to being which when found 
must be incontrovertible and just right. However, what can 
this Truth be? It has to be something which is true at the 
very smallest distances, less than the width of a quantum 
particle where velocity, position and direction are totally 
uncertain, to the very reaches of infinite time and space 
where our meagre existence seems so immensely trivial. It 
has to be something which goes beyond the illusions of the 
senses and also constitutes the ethics, aesthetics and 
purposiveness which are so important to all sentient 
beings. It must contain all that exists and at the same time 
be a total abstraction of them. Yes, there must be a Truth, 
but I don't know what it is. I am indeed flattered that you 
might imagine that something as beautiful as this garden 
might be the Truth - but please don't confuse the pleasant 
and desirable with the Truth. I fear that it may not be as 
agreeable as you would like it to be!"

"So the Truth isn't here!" sighed Beta. "That means that if 
we want to find it, we'll have to leave."

The gardener smiled sternly. "I'm afraid you will have to 
leave the garden anyway, whether the Truth were here or 
not. However much you may wish to stay, you are not at 
liberty to do so. I hope you have success in your 
endeavour, but it is not one I would wish to pursue."

"Why not?" I wondered.

"I really don't believe that knowledge of the Truth is either 
desirable or necessary. There is no need of a grand scheme 
for people to know that they should treat each other with 
justice, fairness and kindness. More is to be gained by 
acting to change things for the better in whatever humble 
capacity one can than by searching for something whose 
discovery will probably cause more conflict than it resolves 
and disappoint rather more people than it will please. With 
so many disparate opinions of what the Truth must be, held 
with such adamant conviction by so many, its discovery is 
unlikely to be universally acclaimed."

"Are you advising us to abandon our search?" Beta asked 
sadly.

"Not at all! I am merely expressing why I would not pursue 
it. However, I would advise you to leave the City and direct 
your search towards the Suburbs."

"The Suburbs?" I asked, flabbergasted. "Is the Truth in the 
Suburbs ...?"

"...and not in this garden?" echoed Beta.

"I don't know where the Truth is. That is not the advice I 
am giving. All I know is that the search for the Truth 
initiated by President Chairman Rupert and followed now 
by very many of his supporters, and many others who are 
not, is directed towards the Suburbs. I don't know why. It 
may be that there is a perverseness in the Illicit Party which 
attributes the Truth to the least likely of places. Or it could 
be that it is indeed there. That it is for you to find out. And 
by going to the Suburbs you would at least eliminate one 
possibility."

"The Suburbs!" I exclaimed again. This seemed too bizarre 
to be true. I had left the Suburbs to find the Truth, and now 
I was told to return. Were my travels of the last few days 
altogether wasted? And why should I find the Truth in the 
Suburbs now when it had totally eluded me before? 
Despite his unchanging smile, the gardener didn't appear to 
be joking.

"Well, I must advise you to leave now," the gardener said. 
"The exit is where you emerged." He pointed at the very 
top of the escalator, just visible past a small pond where a 
lion was frolicking with a gorilla, and where some 
monkeys were playing. "I wish you a fruitful quest."

With that, the gardener strolled off, his golden gown soon 
lost in the golden expanse of grass, accompanied by several 
small animals which capered at his feet, circled his head or 
hopped off and on his shoulders. I waited until I was sure 
he was out of sight, before I uncovered my groin and 
hunted for my clothes through the grass. I eventually found 
them, but not in an order in which to put them back on. 
Beta assisted me, clearly still finding them unnecessary. 
She leaned over to kiss me as she handed me the 
underpants, the very last item we found, which had 
somehow got caught on the lower branch of a small bush.

"Now we go to the Suburbs!"

"Yes, I suppose we do," I said. "Or rather, in my case, back 
to the Suburbs." 

I was disappointed at the prospect of returning to a place 
of such ordinariness and calm. After my travels, the Suburbs 
was surely going to be an incredible anticlimax. However, 
part of me rather welcomed the idea. The Suburbs was my home. 
I knew my way around. I was safe and secure. And I would no 
longer have to sleep in smelly alley-ways or dodge fights in 
night clubs. I also contemplated the very pleasant prospect 
of introducing Beta to family and friends, and fretted about 
their inevitable difficulty coping with the presence of 
someone who dressed as she did and had no understanding 
of Suburban life.

We wandered back to the escalator, hand in hand, the early 
afternoon sun beating down on our crowns, the 
unspeakable beauty of the garden overwhelming our senses 
and imparting a levity of spirit which we knew would soon 
be brushed aside once we were back in the busy City 
streets. We trod on the first step of the escalator which 
started moving downwards, just as it had earlier moved 
upwards, and descended down, our spirits correspondingly 
descending as it did so.



	18

Soon we were again wandering the City streets admiring 
the tall centuries-old buildings in the district around the 
Half Man. The garden and its earthly delights couldn't have 
seemed further from the growl of slow moving traffic and 
the crush of innumerable pedestrians. The mid-afternoon 
sun shone down from a sky only occasionally enlivened by 
the odd fluffy cloud. 

Beta paused outside a grand imposing building, perhaps two 
or three hundred years old, distinguished by a large 
triangular stone motif of a woman and an ape carrying 
geometers and telescopes supported by tall fluted pillars. 
A statue of a woman stood high on a pedestal at the 
entrance whose simple cloth garment dropped sufficiently 
to display her rounded breasts and most of her upper 
torso. She gazed up at the sky while clutching a large 
abacus in her arms as if it were a musical instrument.

"What kind of building is this?" Beta wondered, standing 
in front of the statue and staring up at the forbidding array 
of windows that dotted the limestone exterior. "It's not a 
museum or art gallery is it?"

I pointed at a large carved stone on which were sitting 
several chimpanzees and a macaque, all wearing white 
overcoats and surrounded by a scattering of books.  A 
small chimpanzee wearing glasses dangled her feet over 
the enormous carved letters: THE ACADEMY. Smaller 
letters beneath displayed the rest of the title: of Social 
and Physical Sciences. 

"The Academy?" mused Beta. "I've heard of that. It's 
the centre for research and development for the entire 
country. It deals with science, philosophy, religion, 
economics, and almost everything else there is to know 
about. Shall we have a closer look?"

We strolled past the statue to the foot of the marble steps 
leading up to the building, which we ascended reverently 
and peered through the wide open doors of the main 
entrance into a massive hallway. 

"It's as vast as the interior of the Cathedral!" gasped Beta. 
"No wonder it's got such a venerable reputation." 

"And unlike the reputation for superstition of a cathedral, it 
has one for Truth and Knowledge!" commented a young 
woman in her late twenties, who, like the chimpanzees 
outside, wore a long white coat that reached down to her 
knees. She scrutinised us through a pair of thick spectacles. 
"Good afternoon. My name is Pandora. Pandora 
Serenissima. I am an official Academy guide. My function 
is to escort visitors around the hallowed corridors of the 
Academy, and my services are provided by the Academy 
free to anyone who wishes to take advantage of them."

"That's very generous," I remarked.

"The founders of the Academy believed that the fruit of 
the work pursued within these walls should be available 
to all. They regarded Truth and Knowledge not as a patented 
commodity to be hidden from sight and accessible only to 
the few: so unlike the elitism practised by the various 
religions. If you so wish, I shall gladly take you on an 
escorted tour."

"That sounds a wonderful idea! What do you think?" Beta 
asked me.

I looked around the quite monstrous proportions of the 
central hallway that still by no means reached the very top 
of the building. Ahead of us a wide marble staircase led 
up, floor by floor, past balconies and small windows, from 
which could be glanced the occasional silhouetted figure or 
the back of a computer screen. At the very top was a huge 
archaic clock whose roman numerals were perfectly visible 
even from this great distance. On either side of it stood 
plaster figures of scantily dressed women carrying more 
instruments of measurement and calculation. A pendulum 
dangled from the domed ceiling and swung backwards and 
forwards some six yards above our heads. There was a 
general bustle of people, many wearing white coats like 
that favoured by Pandora, but others sporting a mix of 
tweed and corduroy.

"The Academy was not built in a day," Pandora recited, 
beginning her duties without waiting for my response. 
"This enormous building has grown up steadily, room by 
room, floor by floor, from its very modest beginnings many 
centuries ago. Its original purposes were associated with 
biblical interpretation and astrology - activities which 
continue to be performed but attract very little in the way 
of grants and celebrated throughout history by the 
construction of grandiose monuments. Some of these can be 
seen in the Academy's gardens where they still perform their 
outmoded purposes of capturing solstice sunlight in baskets 
and randomly throwing sticks. However, as science and 
knowledge has grown, so too has the Academy to its modern 
grandeur, advancing vertically upwards storey by storey, 
and expanding sideways by the steady acquisition and 
appropriation of adjacent buildings. This process is set 
to continue for as long as business and government award 
grants for the many different branches of research pursued 
by the Academy."

"What has this research produced?" wondered Beta.

Pandora laughed. "Just look around you! Look at the City. 
Look at the Academy. Look at the cars, the trains, the 
computers and all the modern conveniences. All that is the 
result of work pursued here. Without it there just wouldn't 
be a modern society. It's all technology driven. And that 
technology didn't come from nowhere. It was produced by 
the work for which the Academy is famous. We would still 
be crossing the seas by sailing ship, toiling with quill 
and papyrus, freezing in winter and living from day to day. 
There would be no television. No space exploration. No 
computers."

"But don't plenty of people still live like that?" objected 
Beta. "In the Village we still don't have many of the 
benefits you talk about."

"That's a political problem. That's not the fault of Science. 
As I see it, and of course I speak as an individual rather 
than as a representative of the Academy, Science provides 
and Politics distributes. One should not confuse the two. 
Science in itself is blind. The knowledge the Academy 
brings can be applied in countless ways. It can be for the 
universal good and it can rain death and destruction down 
on us all. That isn't the fault of Science. That is the 
fault of political systems."

"Shouldn't the Academy be working towards the common 
good?" Beta persisted.

"That is a political decision. It's not one for the Academy to 
be concerned with. It is here to provide enlightenment and 
knowledge. And doesn't that in itself have great intrinsic 
worth? Why should the Academy be troubled when its 
brief is simply to uncover the great truths of the universe? 
That is its purpose. And that is what it does well. If we 
didn't know such things: why then we would be no better than  
primitives who lived in simple self-sufficient communities!"

"But I come from such a place," Beta argued. "We don't 
find any real need for Science there."

"Nonsense!" sniffed Pandora. "Simple principles such as 
crop rotation, efficient harnesses for horses and good 
agricultural implements all come from Science."

"But hasn't Science brought a lot of problems to the 
world?" I asked. 

"We now know that it's as nothing compared to the 
destruction that the natural world can wrought. In any case, 
look at all the uncountable physical, mental and health 
benefits Science has brought through medicine, arts and 
economic growth. Nobody could deny that we are all 
healthier as a result of antibiotics, inoculations and body 
scanners. We now know so accurately what the causes are 
of pollution, economic crisis, starvation, disease and 
warfare. We now know exactly how to improve everyone's 
lot."

"Then why are so many people so poor and ignorant?" Beta 
asked.

"Politics. People. Stupidity. That's all. Science can't be 
blamed for its misapplication. We may know how to solve 
the big problems in the world, but it takes political will to 
apply it. The Academy wasn't built as a political institution, 
and that is just and right. The fine work done here is 
available for everyone, and if the result is nuclear bombs, 
cruise missiles and ozone depletion: then so be it! It is for 
government, whether Red, Coition or Illicit, to make the 
crucial decisions." 

We followed the guide as she strode forward on her flat 
shoes and up the marble staircase past election posters, 
already peeling now their use was expended. There were 
almost equal numbers of them for the Red and Illicit 
Parties. We strode along a balcony, peering down on the 
vast hallway, along which occasional stalls were selling 
political literature. One was covered with pictures of 
Chairman President Rupert and his marsupial face featured 
prominently on the tall piles of green books.

"The Illicit Party seems to be very popular here," I 
commented.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Pandora mused, as if she had never 
considered this before. "I can't answer why. Politics is not 
my subject. But there are many people in the Social 
Sciences department who might know. Would you like to 
speak to one of them?"

"That sounds interesting," Beta replied. She grimaced at a 
poster of Rupert outside a door and crudely painted graffiti 
which read: Beware! Red Traitor! next to a cartoon of 
an inoffensive orang utan in an ill-fitting denim jacket.

"We are in the Social Sciences department now," Pandora 
continued, as we turned off the main balcony and walked 
along a corridor of ornate wooden doors marked by black 
plaques on which names of Professors and Doctors were 
printed in White below their specialisations. These 
included Modern Politics, Mediaeval Housing Policy, 
Sociopathology, and Racism, Sexism and Ideological 
Correctness. "I must confess it's not an area of study with 
which I'm terribly familiar. It all seems very inexact to me. 
I'm sure that it has provided the world with great insights: 
but I fail to see how such widely disparate opinions can be 
held without there being some sense of incoherence. How 
can Economics be considered a science if there are so 
many widely different interpretations as to what generates 
economic growth or even what economic well-being 
actually means? However, I'm sure Professor Schwarz will 
be able to enlighten us."

She stopped outside a door where the professor's name was 
displayed just above a poster of President Chairman Rupert 
and the single word: TRUTH. His department was known 
as Contemporary Sociopoliticoeconomics of which he was 
the Professor Emeritus. She knocked on the door and on 
hearing a response she pushed it open to reveal a large 
study in which the walls were covered by shelves upon 
shelves of books and a few more posters featuring the face 
of the President Chairman. A relatively elderly gibbon sat 
in a leather chair wearing a tweed jacket, smoking a pipe 
and reading a large book. He glanced up at us and an 
indulgent smile peered through the clouds of smoke 
emanating from the pipe.

"Good afternoon, Pandora. Showing more visitors around 
the Academy? And who have we here? Welcome. Welcome. I 
always enjoy entertaining visitors. And why, Pandora, 
have they thought it desirable to come and see an old 
ape at study?"

"This young lady was asking questions about the apparent 
popularity of the Illicit Party and I thought you would be 
the obvious candidate to answer her questions..."

"...As I am a card-carrying member of the Illicit Party, no 
doubt? But I am really quite a recent convert. For many 
years I confess my political views were unashamedly 
socialist, but I have in recent months found much to 
persuade me to switch my political allegiance. And now, 
rather than celebrating, I am rather disgusted by the victory 
of the Communist and Anarchist Insurrectionists in the 
General Election. This is a catastrophe of the first order which 
justifies any action of reprisal or civil disobedience." He 
lowered the pince-nez which attached itself precariously to the 
end of his flattened nose. "I take it that from where you 
originate the Illicit Party has not gained the significance that 
it is gaining elsewhere. Perhaps you are unaware of the clarity 
of vision and the solid scientifically verifiable ideological 
basis of Illiberal Socialism?" 

"Well, yes," admitted Beta, standing by the side of a large 
globe of the world while the gibbon took another puff from 
his hooked pipe. "We've seen a great deal of activity from 
the Illicit Party while we've been in the City. A lot of it 
seems to be very destructive and antisocial."

"If the ends are justified then so too are the means by 
which to attain it. What this country - and every other 
country on this planet - needs is strong government blessed 
with a clear vision of where it wants to go and not afraid to 
do what is necessary to get there. A party with an ideology 
that understands the need for strong central power vested 
in one person - in this case that of President Chairman 
Rupert. An ideology set on the discovery and prudent 
application of the Truth. A party firm and unwavering in 
its ideological purity, but flexible to change that same 
ideology in every possible detail to further its ends and 
the greater good of the people of the Illiberal Socialist 
state. A party which recognises the necessary links between 
careful monetary management and strong defence, and does 
not kow-tow to the malevolent socialist and liberal policies 
of trades unions, intellectuals and artists."

"I just don't know what it is that the Illicit Party 
represents," Beta wondered. "All we've seen of it is 
violence and intimidation."

"In the right place, these methods of political persuasion, 
along with indoctrination, terrorism, assassination and 
kidnapping, are all integral to the pursuit of far-reaching 
and irreversible change. Let us not be shy about this. 
Political change is not a painless process."

"But why Illicitism?" I asked. "Why should I support 
Rupert's party rather than the Red, Black or Green 
Parties?"

"The Illicit Party is the party of the resolution of antitheses. 
It is a party which has the boldness to adopt the best of 
political ideologies long thought of as opposites. A party 
which adopts the traditional Communist policies of economic 
centralisation; political control through Party infiltration 
at all levels; and an end to the dominance of the working 
class by the petit bourgeoisie. A party which also adopts the 
Black Party policies of racial purity, dictatorship and the 
militarisation of civil society. A party not afraid to 
sacrifice jobs, personal freedom and pluralism to economic 
growth, progress and pragmatic dogmatism. No other party 
offers so much and can reconcile so many apparently opposing 
views."

Pandora laughed. "I really don't understand you social 
scientists! Only you could possibly believe that it is 
possible for a doctrine to be two things simultaneously. 
Aren't there reasons to support the Illicit cause that might 
be more persuasive to the scientist?"

"Historical necessity," answered the gibbon, with a wild 
look of triumph, thrusting his pince-nez into the air while 
resting the leather patch of his elbow on the desk. "The 
study of Sociopoliticoeconomics has proved that all 
political change comes about because it is necessary and 
unavoidable. As society changes - whether through 
technological innovation or military conquest - then its 
ideological underpinning must also change. I am convinced 
that the inevitable and unavoidable consequence of the 
changes in our highly complex society demands the 
adoption of an ideology which seeks to reduce these 
complexities to simple and undeniable concepts such as 
those pursued by the Illicit Party. Power. Truth. Wealth. 
What simpler goals of government and social change could 
there be? A society freed of the baleful influences of Cats, 
intellectual dissidence, pacifism and religion. A society 
cleansed of the evils of homosexuality, feminism, modern 
art and uncertainty. A society focused like a laser beam on 
the greater good revealed by the Truth."

"I still don't see how it is historically necessary that Illicit 
ideology should dominate," Pandora objected. 

"It just is. Society is a complex interweaving of social, 
political and economic factors, and political parties 
succeed best when they represent the purest essence of its 
nature. No party better reflects our modern society than the 
Illicit Party. Consequently, the Illicit Party will and must 
take power. But don't listen to arguments of political 
necessity alone. Think also of the desirability of Illicit 
government. The purpose of government is to facilitate the 
greater good of the society it represents. That greater good 
can best be measured in terms of economic indicators and 
territorial extent. What Illicitism promises, - and has 
delivered in the Illiberal Socialist Republics, - is 
economic strength as proven by its copious statistics of 
production and productivity, coupled with an unashamed 
hunger for extraterritorial acquisition. The combination of 
aggressive centralised economic policies with an equally 
aggressive military stance equals the best method of 
political and social advance, at the expense only of the 
cancerous elements of society which most deserve to be 
cauterised."

After leaving Professor Schwarz's study, Pandora led us to 
an elevator and beckoned us inside. "So much for Social 
Sciences!" she remarked. "If we'd spoken to Professor 
Biyad we'd have learnt why pragmatism is the sole purpose 
of government. Or to Doctor Rosso why, as society is a 
thoroughly mutable phenomenon, it is impossible to 
properly understand it. I'll take you up to the Physical 
Sciences department where differences of opinion are on a 
much smaller scale."

The doors of the lift opened and we were in corridors quite 
obviously more modern, where the doors had no handles 
and the names of the occupants were written on small LED 
displays just by the side. "This is where true knowledge is 
acquired. Here and on the many storeys towering high 
above us. Here are studied the eleven dimensions of the 
universe; the fractions of the Avogadro number; the 
metaconsistency of fractals; the curvature of time; the 
instances of dark matter; and other such crucial subjects 
upon which has been built our current prosperity and 
happiness."

"I don't really understand how that is," Beta objected. "I'm 
sure my life hasn't been that much improved by knowing 
that space and time bend under gravitational force, or that 
the entire universe was originally just a perturbation in 
infinity. I'm sure that my life would be just as happy and 
profitable if I thought the world was as flat as a pizza, only 
six thousand years old and that the moon was made of 
green cheese."

Pandora laughed. "What an absurd idea! The fact you 
know that these things aren't true tells me that you surely 
can't be serious. Without a knowledge of quantum 
fluctuation, time reversal and solid light how could our 
society possibly exist?"

"I'm afraid I have to agree with your guide there," remarked 
the equine voice of the Unicorn whom I'd met a few days 
earlier in Gotesdene and who appeared from behind us. He 
trotted along on his dainty cloven feet, radiating an 
apparent golden sheen reflected off his horn and mane. He 
lowered his head slightly, shook it from side to side, and 
then levelled it to meet his eyes with ours. "Good 
afternoon, again, young man. You have indeed travelled a 
long way in your search for the Truth. Do you hope to find 
it here in the Academy?"

"I'm not sure," I admitted. 

"It certainly seems a more likely location than the Suburbs, 
where I gather the Illicitists are heading in their own quest. 
I would have thought that a place like the Academy, where 
so many brilliant minds are gathered in the whole-hearted 
pursuance of different aspects of the Truth, would be a far 
more likely place to find the Truth than streets and avenues 
of semi-detached houses and manicured lawns."

"What are you doing here?" I couldn't help asking.

"Well, I'm not here on a quest like you," the Unicorn 
laughed. "And your young lady friend? Are you also 
seeking the Truth with our Suburban friend?"

Beta nodded shyly, clearly in some awe at the sight of the 
Unicorn. "I don't know if we'll find it here. It does seem 
such a big place."

"Yes. If the Truth were here, you could spend a very long 
time finding which room it was hiding in. No, I'm here as a 
guest of the Academy's scientists because of the rather long 
term perspectives I have on historical events. It's amazing 
just how much interest they find in the things I've seen or 
witnessed. What was the weather like in the eighteenth 
century? Did Francis Bacon write King Lear? Did the 
Mediaeval Chinese use silicon chip technology? Was Crete 
anchored in the Atlantic ocean? How big was the ozone 
hole after Mount Vesuvius exploded? All fascinating 
stuff."

"I dare say there are scientists interested in you as an 
individual," remarked Pandora admiringly. "You've lived 
such a long time, haven't you?"

"A very long time. Well, samples of my genes have been 
studied to exhaustion and my horn is forever having to 
struggle to replenish the samples scraped off it. Some 
people still question whether I even exist. Some argue that 
I am extinct and others that I am physically impossible. 
And some even say that as a mythological beast I shouldn't 
be here at all. It's all very interesting. I sometimes wonder 
myself if I exist. What do you think?"

"You look - and feel - real enough to me!" Beta remarked 
running her fingers along the length of the Unicorn's very 
firm horn. 

"Well, appearances can be very deceptive you know. It 
could be that I am indeed not real. That I am nothing but 
the product of generations of imagination, thrown together 
from elements of different animals like elands, lions, 
horses and goats, and turned into a symbol of hope and 
nostalgia. It could be that I am real and that none of you are 
real. That this guide here is nothing more than an 
astrological motif. That you, my dear, are only a fantasy of 
incongruity in a modern age. And that my Suburban friend 
is nothing but a vehicle for everyone else to reflect their 
existence through his nullity. It could be that the City is 
nothing more than a mythical location in a mythical 
modern age."

"That's nonsense!" laughed Pandora. "There are no doubt 
levels of scale and abstraction in which one can doubt the 
solidity of real life. But if there is anything of which I am 
certain it is that I exist, and it would seem absurd to me 
that the world around me didn't exist. How can any sane 
person deny this? It is on this fundamental premise that all 
empirical research is built and the foundation on which 
science and technology is based."

"I don't believe that the world could possibly be such a 
complex and frightening place if it weren't real," Beta 
elaborated. "I know it all sounds pretty fantastic: all this 
stuff about parallel universes, fragmented spacetime and 
multidimensional moebius bands. But I'm sure that it is as 
real as we are. And you as well, I'm sure."

The Unicorn tossed his head from side to side, as if 
shaking off the suggestion of his lack of reality. He raised 
it and addressed me again. "So, how do you like the City? 
I'm glad to see that you took my advice and came here after 
leaving Gotesdene. It's very different from the Country, 
don't you think?"

I nodded. "It's difficult to believe we're in the same realm. 
How can there be so much wealth here and so little in the 
Country? And things are so expensive here! How can that 
be?"

"I'm sure there are people in the Academy who could 
answer your questions far more authoritatively than me. 
Isn't that so?"

"Indeed, there are many experts here who have thoroughly 
studied the disparities of the City and the Country in all 
sorts of disciplines," confirmed Pandora. "There are 
Economics professors who argue that the cause is the 
greater degree of economic activity in the City creating a 
disproportionate amount of wealth, which reinforces itself 
by creaming off all surplus economic activity from the 
Country to satisfy its requirements for labour and 
resources. There are Sociologists who say that the City is 
the natural product of the need for people to gather in large 
units thereby concentrating greater opportunities in the 
areas of greatest population density. There are 
Archaeologists who would argue that the City is the 
manifestation of civilisation and without it there would be 
no science, no technology and no culture. There are 
Political Scientists who warn that the concentration of 
wealth in the City is a danger as it bleeds dry the resources 
of the Country to feed its needs, and that eventually the 
process must result in an event in which the Country 
collapses economically and drags the City down with it. 
There are others who say that the City is merely a phase of 
society and that eventually the process will go into reverse 
and that the City will become depopulated and units of 
production will shift into the Country as technology 
removes the economic advantage of geographical 
proximity."

"I daresay there is a theory for every individual working in 
the Academy!" hinnied the Unicorn. "However, I spend a 
great deal of time in the Country - as I do in the City - and 
it worries me how the Country can survive as it is for very 
much longer. I fear that it is fast gaining all the detrimental 
side affects of City life and precious few of its benefits. 
And as long as those in the City remain so apparently 
wealthy (even if their money buys so little) then those 
living in the Country will feel increasing resentment. And 
while there is mounting dissatisfaction there is also a real 
risk of major social upheaval."

Pandora smiled. "Perhaps, if we're discussing the City and 
the Country, we should be in the Geography department 
rather than the Physical Sciences. I live in the City. There 
seem to be quite enough problems here without needing to 
worry about the Country. A lot of it is just economic 
activity. Nothing in the City can keep pace with it."

"Things do change very fast in the City," the Unicorn 
agreed. "I can barely recognise some parts of it from the 
last time I visited. Green fields become housing estates. 
Slums become industrial parks. Railway stations become 
supermarkets. Department stores become multi-storey car 
parks. And the pollution! It seems to change all the time. 
Once it was coal smoke and ordure. Then it was petrol 
fumes and nuclear radiation. Now it seems to be noise and 
ultraviolet light. My head just fills with the smells, sounds 
and stress of the City: clogging up my nostrils and leaving 
black grease between my cloven hooves."

"Where does all the pollution come from?" wondered Beta 
naively.

"Ultimately it comes from the Country and from abroad," 
the Unicorn replied. "The raw materials are imported into 
the City and converted into petrol, polystyrene, 
newspapers, plastic bottles and street lighting. This in turn 
is discarded as waste - sometimes solid, sometimes liquid, 
sometimes gas, and sometimes as specks of dust floating 
above the street. Then I don't know what happens to it all."

"It gets returned to the Country," Pandora answered, 
without a hint of irony in her voice. "That's where all the 
rubbish heaps, nuclear dumps and sewage farms are. You 
don't want all that foul stuff polluting the City, do you?"

"So, it gets returned to where it came from in a different 
form to how it was sent," Beta mused. "I suppose that's 
only fair. Perhaps it can be sent back to the City later."

"Only if it's cleaned and made properly sterile," sniffed 
Pandora dismissively. 

"The City may be a very stressful place, but I love it," the 
Unicorn added. "It's such an exciting place. The world 
would be a sorrier place without it. This is where all the 
culture is, where all the shops are, where all the money is. 
It has to be somewhere, and this is it. I see the City growing 
and growing. Expanding by acquisition and growth. Rather like 
this Academy. The buildings grow ever taller. More and more of 
the Country is sacrificed to accommodate the hunger for land. 
Roads penetrate deeper and deeper into what were once pampas, 
dense forests and marshland. And as it expands, the City's 
heart becomes increasingly derelict as yesterday's 
technology becomes today's industrial wasteland."

Beta frowned. "Are you implying that the City will 
eventually swallow up all the Country?"

"I can't see that happening at all!" laughed Pandora 
sceptically. "There's an awful lot of Country. And big 
though the City might be, - and bigger still as it may well 
be in the future, - it couldn't possibly expand that much."

"You say that," the Unicorn argued sadly, "and there must 
be truth in what you say. The City needs a world beyond it 
to survive. But I've seen the City double and double 
generation after generation. I remember when all this 
didn't exist: the tall buildings, the busy roads, the night 
clubs, the underground trains. I remember when the City 
was just a small village of Celtic peasants fishing in the 
river and hunting mammoths. I've seen the City grow to be 
a small town, and then grow ever bigger, swallowing up 
other villages and towns, paving the dirt-tracks with tar 
macadam, laying railway tracks through ancient palaces 
and digging underground sewerage canals beneath 
cathedrals. I've known places famous for picturesque 
waterfalls and herds of wildebeest which are now buried 
under skyscrapers, underpasses and flyovers. If the City 
does indeed grow at its present exponential rate then 
surely, by all the rules of geometric progression, this nation 
will become just one vast City from border to border, from 
shore to shore and from deep beneath the ground to high 
above the sky."

"That can't happen!" Pandora objected. "Before then the 
whole edifice would have to collapse. It can't expand too 
far or too fast without exceeding all the available 
resources, and stretching its ability to service its needs 
beyond its capacity to do so!"

The Unicorn nodded sagely. "I'm sure you're right. I'm sure 
you're absolutely right! However, I'm hungry. Would you 
like to join me for a meal in the Academy's excellent 
restaurant?"

Beta protested about the cost, but the Unicorn dismissed 
her objections. "It's no problem to me to afford it," he 
assured us. 

Pandora and he led us along a series of corridors and down 
several storeys to the refectory which was a large hall of 
tables, chairs and an extensive counter serving sandwiches, 
snacks and hot meals. A few people were scattered about the 
tables, many wearing white coats, and chatting over coffee 
and biscuits. We selected some sandwiches and drinks at the 
counter and the Unicorn paid the barbary ape serving at the 
till. We sat down at a table, with the Unicorn standing to 
one side, chewing on clumps from the trough of hay he'd 
ordered for himself.

"So, young man, do you think your visit to the Academy 
has brought you any closer in your search for the Truth?" 
he asked, strands of hay drooping from his lips. "Or do 
you think that the Illicit Party is correct in seeking the 
Truth in the Suburbs?"

"I'm not sure," I replied thoughtfully. "We haven't actually 
found the Truth here, and I get the impression that there 
is too much disagreement amongst the distinguished professors 
and academics as to what the Truth may be, for it to be 
likely to find it here."

"In any case," Beta interjected, "we were advised by 
someone we've recently met to follow this Rupert and 
search for the Truth in the Suburbs. We were told that there 
would really be nothing lost by doing so."

"Indeed not," agreed the Unicorn. "Though it does seem 
the most unlikely place in the entire universe for it to be. 
And aren't the Suburbs exactly the place from which your 
search began? What point is there of retracing your steps?"

Before I could answer him, we were approached by a 
chimpanzee in a white coat carrying a clipboard and with a 
pencil protruding from the chest pocket. 

"Ah! There you are!" she exclaimed to the Unicorn. "I was 
hoping I'd meet you. I'd like to introduce you to a colleague 
of mine, Doctor Dixhuit, who would like to discuss your 
observations of Mediaeval crop rotation." She indicated a 
colobus monkey. "Could we possibly trouble you for a few 
moments?"

"Certainly you may," replied the Unicorn amiably. 
"Anything I can do to further the cause of knowledge." 

He bid the three of us farewell and trotted off out of the 
canteen between the two simians.

Pandora observed him leave, and then turned towards us 
with a small frown. "Excuse me, but am I right in 
understanding from your exchange with our artiodactyl 
friend that you two are searching for the Truth just like 
those fanatics from the Illicit Party?"

We nodded. "It seems a very worthwhile pursuit," Beta 
explained.

"Indeed it is," our guide agreed, "but not one I would have 
thought to be pursued merely by wandering about. All of 
us in the employ of the Academy are seeking the Truth, but 
none of us would seriously contend that it can be discovered 
just by walking about the City or even the Suburbs. The Truth 
is a much more abstract and intangible entity, and its 
eventual discovery is much more likely through the process of 
scientific enquiry."

"How does that work?" Beta wondered.

"Quite simply by the process of postulating a hypothesis 
and demonstrating its truth or falsity. The Truth by its very 
nature is something which must lend itself to logical proof. 
It must be something for which there can be ultimately no 
countervailing hypothesis which can be proved to also be 
true."

"But isn't science to do with observation and 
experimentation rather than pure logic?" Beta persisted.

"Naturally. If a hypothesis is true, it must be possible to 
demonstrate its truth by reference to the real world."

"Is it necessarily the case that the Truth can be shown to be 
true by such means?"

Pandora raised an eyebrow. "What a bizarre idea! Are you 
suggesting that the Truth is in some inexplicable way 
divorced from the real world of scientific enquiry? Can you 
be seriously implying that the Truth is not ultimately a 
physical and actual attribute of the universe? What else 
could it be?"

"How can that explain love, beauty and morality? Where 
are the ethics of a simple mathematical equation? Where is 
emotion or feeling in a Truth like that? Where are passion, 
ecstasy, desire and hope? Where is the possibility of love?"

"What do you mean by love?" wondered Pandora, seeming 
genuinely puzzled by Beta's repetition of this theme. "Love 
is nothing more than a biological process evolved in social 
animals for group cohesion and sexual bonding."

"That doesn't seem right!" objected Beta, holding my hand 
and looking defiantly at Pandora. "Love is the expression 
of the strongest and most positive feeling there can 
possibly be. It fills the mind, the body and the soul, and 
changes our perception of everything. Don't Christians, for 
instance, say that God is Love?"

"That's nothing but theological nonsense!" sniffed 
Pandora. "However, I wouldn't confuse love in the 
religious sense, which is both promiscuous and 
indiscriminate, with the carnal love which I suspect you 
have indulged in. Am I right in assuming that you are not a 
virgin?"

Beta blushed, and squeezed my hand rather more tightly. 
"What did you say?"

"Are you a virgin? Or have you indulged in physical and 
carnal activity?"

Beta shook her head slowly and a little guiltily looking 
down at the table and the plate in which the crumbs of her 
sandwich were scattered.

"It is then no wonder that you have such a strange and 
unscientific view of the world. I have never felt the need of 
diverting my energies away from the pure and wholly 
absorbing search for scientific Truth with such disgusting, 
nasty and bestial activities as copulation. What kind of 
person would I be if I allowed myself to indulge in such 
unrefined and unconstructive activity?"

Neither Beta nor I had expected such an outburst from the 
guide, and an uneasy silence prevailed while Pandora 
sipped her tea and Beta looked down at her plate clearly 
very upset at her admonishment, but still tightly gripping 
my hand. Pandora finished her tea and put down her plastic 
cup.

"Well, it's been nice meeting you," she said in a polite but 
cold voice. "I wish you the best in your futile search for the 
Truth, though it would have been more profitable for you 
to support rather the research of the Academy than the 
fantasies of a foreign dictator."

With that Pandora left, and Beta and I sat together in the 
expanse of the refectory. We felt somewhat ill at ease 
sitting there after our small lunch and dressed so very 
differently from the academics gathered around.

"Pandora must be wrong with what she says about the 
Truth. It couldn't be the Truth at all if it wasn't also Love," 
bravely insisted Beta.



	19

Two or three furlongs from the Academy, the road 
became much wider and the traffic much lighter. On either 
side of us were large buildings built in an earlier age with 
towering flags outside and guarded by uniformed figures 
armed with submachine guns and very uncompromising 
expressions. A few large, quite splendid, cars were parked 
alongside the pavement in which sat figures wearing 
peaked caps and dark jackets. A young woman in quite 
flimsy clothes was escorted into one of the cars by a 
retinue of proud looking roosters, one of whom held the 
door open as she bowed her head to enter. She waved at the 
roosters as the car pulled off, driven by another woman in a 
peaked hat and uniform, and they waved back to her. When 
the car had moved out of sight, the roosters turned around 
and marched stiffly back through the open gates of one of 
the tall buildings, respectful salutes following them as they 
strode by. The gates were secured behind them, and we 
saw the plaque outside which was for the Democratic 
Republic of Fowls. A tall standard reared above us from 
which waved a flag in the slight early evening breeze 
featuring the silhouette of another rooster and a rising sun.

"We must be in the ambassadorial district," I remarked to 
Beta, who was treading in some discomfort on some flakes 
of corn that must have been thrown on some passing 
dignitary.

"Indeed, we must!" Beta agreed, peering up at the opaque 
windows and the grandiose murals above the massive 
doorways. "There seem to be all nations here. The Illiberal 
Socialist Republics. The United Canine Republics. The 
Virgin Islands. And isn't that the Kingdom of the Cats!"

She indicated a particularly grand building in front of 
which stood a sentry box manned by a tall Cat in 
traditional dress, wearing a bright array of blue, red and 
green, a large feathered hat, and a quite incongruous 
submachine gun. Above the sentry box were a cruel array of 
electric wires and spikes and a monstrous scarlet flag 
featuring the idealised face of a Cat wearing a large gold 
crown. To the left of the sentry box was the figure of a 
young woman lying helplessly on some steps, long white 
hair smeared with filth and quite clearly seriously pregnant.

"It's Una!" gasped Beta. "What's she doing here? I thought 
Lord Arthur was looking after her!"

"He didn't seem like he could look after himself, let alone 
anyone else, when we met him this morning!" I remarked.

"You think so?" wondered Beta ingenuously. "Anyway, 
we must help Una!" 

She ran ahead and caught up with the girl who was quite 
oblivious to her attention, as Beta put her arms around the 
thin shoulders barely covered at all by the filthy shirt 
she'd somehow acquired and bent her head over to examine 
her face. I walked up to them, feeling as always rather 
redundant in this show of concern and charity.

"How is she?" I asked, studying her haunted pale face and 
the eyes that barely saw me or even Beta. Before my 
companion could answer, Una burst into a frightening cry 
which seemed to emerge somewhere from deep inside her 
belly and struggled gutturally into the air. Her body 
shuddered in frightening spasms and rivulets of 
perspiration ran down her cheeks.

"She's in obvious pain!" Beta diagnosed dispassionately. 
"I think she might be about to give birth!"

"What here? In the street?"

"Well, where else? Unless you have a better idea?"

"Shouldn't we call for some help?" I wondered rationally, 
quite terrified of the very notion of Una giving birth on the 
filth covered streets of the City with none of the attention 
from midwives, hospital lights and high technology that I 
associated with giving birth in the Suburbs. I looked at the 
large swollen hump on Una's otherwise painfully thin 
frame and fancied I could see it erupt in painful spasms as 
she yelled yet again under the impassive stare of the Cat 
guard.

"Try the Cat Kingdom Embassy," Beta advised, pulling 
Una's heavy figure onto her  knees and resting her bare 
buttocks on the dusty pavement, a leg sprawled out to offer 
the pregnant girl additional support.

"The Embassy?" I queried, looking helplessly at the less 
than promising sight of the Cat guard who had barely 
blinked at all at the sight of this poignant scene. I couldn't 
deny the logic of Beta's suggestion, so I strode over to the 
guard and asked him if it were at all possible for the 
Embassy to let us in, call an ambulance and for Una to be 
cared for by expert hands.

"No," the guard said gruffly. He glanced at Una and Beta, 
moving only his eyes and not his head at all. "It's more than 
my job's worth!" he added apologetically and at a much 
lower volume. "You could be terrorists. Illiberal Socialists 
who want to bomb the Embassy. Canine Sympathisers. 
Rooster Separatists. I just can't be sure."

"But you can see that we're none of those things!" I 
pleaded. "You can see she's pregnant and in pain."

"It could all be a dastardly ploy!" the Cat continued, but 
not very convincingly. "She could be a virgin for all I 
know, just pretending to be pregnant."

"But couldn't you at least ask someone inside if we could 
come in?" 

The guard glanced at Una again, and winced slightly, 
clearly affected by the girl's plight. He looked up and down 
the road and then nodded very slightly. 

"I'll ask," he promised in a low voice. "But I can't promise 
you anything."

He turned around and marched to an intercom at the gate 
entrance, above which a small camera lens was 
purposefully revolving and focused on me as I stood back 
in its gaze, watching Beta with some concern trying to 
comfort Una with mumbled comments and occasionally 
glancing up at me with wide-eyed optimism. I really held 
very little hope that anything positive could come of this, 
and was already eyeing other buildings in the hope that 
they might be more forthcoming in their assistance. I was 
rather surprised, in fact, when, after what seemed like 
nearly twenty minutes, the guard approached me, his 
submachine gun lowered, and purring with pride.

"The Ambassador himself - His Honour the Ambassador, I 
should say - has deigned to permit you and your friends 
access to the Embassy," he announced with distinct relief. 
"Apparently he knows you from somewhere, sir. You must 
be a much more senior person than you appear to be."

It was then that with a flurry of activity that took Beta 
and me quite by surprise, a group of hens in white coats, 
clucking with concern and anxiety, hurried from the doors 
of the Embassy and through the gates which automatically 
opened as they approached. They sympathetically lifted 
Una up by their wings onto a stretcher and carried her away 
through the gates and up the steps into the tall building, 
with Beta and me following behind.

"I was sure they'd help," Beta confided, taking my hand in 
hers. "Surely, they couldn't just leave Una suffering as she 
was." 

I didn't wish to disillusion Beta's great faith in feline 
nature by informing her that it was most likely more to do 
with the fact that I'd met the Ambassador a few days earlier 
at a party. We ascended the steps, leaving the guard to his 
duties and entered a large reception area full of large 
leather sofas and lit by an enormous chandelier. Una was 
borne away through an ornate door, and we were bid to sit 
down on one of the sofas by a bare-headed Cat in a black 
cloak carrying a portable computer in his paws and purring 
reassuringly. 

We sat down in the immensity of the room which was adorned 
by enormous portraits of the King of the Cats and opposite 
a long desk where a hen was busily typing in front of a 
monitor and a young Cat with a blue waistcoat stood behind 
her, regarding us with a slight frown. Another Cat sat in a 
chair opposite us with bandages around his face and a paw 
in plaster hanging from a sling. He barely stirred as we 
entered and stared fixedly behind the desk at the motto in 
Ancient Greek which hung below a shield supported by rampant 
Cats that was carved in wood by two large flags.

There followed a fresh flurry of activity as the Cat 
Ambassador I'd met at the Party entered the room in his 
finery accompanied by other Cats hardly any less 
ostentatiously dressed than him. He strode over to Beta and 
me, and we stood up to meet his outstretched gloved paw. I 
shook it and distinctly felt his velvet pad and the distinct 
impression of his claws through the fine leather.

"I am very honoured that you could help our friend..." I 
said.

"The honour is mine," the Ambassador said modestly. "My 
people have always believed that it is our duty to give 
assistance where assistance is required. And in any case, it 
is always a pleasure to assist a friend of Zitha's and her 
father." He took Beta's hand and squeezed it with some 
firmness. "And this is your delightful wife. She clearly 
does not come from the same part of the country as you, 
judging from her dress. What is that district called again? 
The Suburbs, isn't it?"

"Yes, your honour," I answered.

"The Suburbs?" reflected the Ambassador. "Since I last 
met you, I have heard so much more about it. All of a 
sudden, it appears to be such a newsworthy place. So many 
thousands of your people are congregating there for some 
reason. Is it a holy place, by any chance?"

"Not that I know of, although the Suburbs are famous for 
their relative tranquillity"

"That must be the cause of their sudden popularity. Since 
the General Election yesterday, there really does seem to be 
a distinct lack of tranquillity in your benighted country. I 
really don't understand it. I thought this Election was 
intended to somehow lessen the tension and disorder in this 
land, and yet it appears to have made it much worse. It is 
certainly no advertisement for democracy and only makes 
my conviction firmer that our nation - the Kingdom of the 
Cats - is so much the better for having opted for a 
government of Regal Authority, despite the clamour of 
those even in our own soil who agitate for mob rule. Still, 
if a General Election can result in a government by 
communists, anarchists and pagans, it is perhaps no wonder 
that there is so much discord. Your Red Party was almost 
the worst possible choice. They could never attain power in 
my nation."

"Do you not like democracy?" Beta wondered.

The Ambassador mewed slightly as if in pain. "It is not for 
me to express my opinion of how other countries choose to 
organise their affairs. If, for whatever misguided and short-
sighted reason, your polygeneric, multicultural nation 
wishes to adopt a government driven by unpredictable 
swerves of government from right to left, red to blue,  and 
up to down, then so be it. It is not a course of action the 
Cats will ever take. We are blessed by a tradition of royal 
dictatorship sanctioned by the Lord God Himself, whose 
name must never be taken in vain. In our happy tradition 
we can be certain that the wisdom and sanctity of His 
Majesty will ensure the best for our species - blighted 
though it might be by unworthy and undoubtedly 
illegitimate holders of the title in the long history of our 
kind. And now more than ever, as our traditional home is 
besieged by the Puritan Dog Republics, the Rooster 
Rebellions, the Mouse intifada and the hostility of the 
godless, and aptly named, Illicit Party, it is necessary for 
our people to hold firm to a tradition of strong and 
uncompromising government that stays true to the Feline 
Cause and the Divine Right of Kings to Rule."

"Why do the Dogs and Mice so dislike the Cat Kingdom?" 
Beta asked.

"Who can say? Envy, I imagine. The Dogs are so poor at 
governing themselves, they can't bear to see an efficient 
government and an efficient economy in such close 
geographical proximity. If the Canine Republics were so 
perfect then why do so few Dogs from the Cat Kingdom 
ever want to live in them (and we give them plenty of 
encouragement and opportunity to do so!) and why are 
these Dog Republics always at war with each other? 
Labrador against Husky. Terrier against Spaniel. Lap Dog 
against Wolfhound. They're always at it! In fact, if they 
stopped fighting each other and crippling their economies 
with their stupid puritan practices they'd probably be quite 
an appreciable foe to the Feline Kingdom. And the Mice, - 
and the Roosters who're also a bit of a nuisance in our 
country, - are just as bad. The Mice are particularly bad. 
They couldn't organise a cheese orgy, let alone a whole 
country. They're just lazy good-for-nothing ignoramuses 
who are much better at civil disobedience and rioting than 
they could ever be at the much more difficult task of 
government and administration. Always running around 
squeaking and complaining. They just don't appreciate 
what a gigantic favour is being done for them to be 
governed by a truly sane and tolerant government such as 
that exercised by His Royal Highness."

The Cat Ambassador gestured his paw at the sofa. "Don't 
feel obliged to stand. Sit down and tell me how it is that 
you happen to be here so far from where I met you last. 
What brings you to the City and of course to the 
Embassy?"

Beta and I sat down, and the Ambassador sat on a sofa 
opposite us. He flourished a paw irritatedly at his assistants 
who with a series of low bows and gestures bid their 
farewells and departed, with the exception of one who was 
carrying a portable pocket computer and sat on another 
chair beside the Cat in bandages.

"We're here in pursuit of the Truth, sir," Beta replied. 

"The Truth?"

"Yes," I elaborated. "We're on a search for the Truth which 
took me to the Party at which I met you and has since taken 
me across the Country to the City."

"And this Truth, is it not the same entity that is currently 
being sought by the Godless Illicitists when they are not 
actively persecuting Cats like our poor confederate here?" 
asked the Ambassador gesturing to the Cat in bandages. 
"How can anything even indirectly associated with Rupert 
and his accursed lawless band of racists possibly be of any 
worth?"

"I was searching for the Truth before I heard of Rupert's 
interest in it," I answered. "I just thought something that 
promised so much must be worth pursuing."

"I see," mused the Ambassador. "Well I'm sure your quest 
can only be from the highest and most worthy of motives, 
however misguided and unconstructive it may be. The Truth 
and what it represents is really not something upon which 
I am at all qualified to speak. Concerns of such a 
metaphysical level rarely impinge on my role as Ambassador 
and spokesperson of my Kingdom. My task is to represent 
the King and his government in as best a way I can, and to 
serve the interests of the Feline people. The King has no 
stated opinion or policy regarding the Truth, but were he 
or his ministers to adopt one I would strive to present it 
to your nation in the best light possible. However, my own 
opinion, for what it is worth, is that this pursuit for 
the Truth which is currently directed towards your Suburbs 
seems to be nothing but a very dangerous destabilising 
influence for your nation after the General Election."

"What do you mean by that, your honour?" Beta wondered. 
"How can the search for something which promises to 
answer all the great and profound questions of all time and 
bring prosperity and happiness to everyone possibly be 
anything but good?"

The Ambassador pulled a glove off one of his paws and 
scratched an ear beneath the brim of his enormous hat 
closing an eye in apparent pleasure and contemplation. 

"I am surely not the first person to remark that causes, 
however honourable and worthy they may at first seem, are 
often perverted towards ends which are wholly 
contradictory to their original purpose. I am automatically 
suspicious of any cause embraced by that accursed koala, 
but even were it a Cat (unless it were the King himself) I 
feel that my considered response would be scepticism and 
wariness. What do you think will actually be gained by so 
many people, - and not just those from the Illicit Party I 
believe, - pursuing the Truth? And from where has this 
notion come that the Truth can be found in your Suburbs? 
If you come from the Suburbs yourself why then did you 
not find it there, rather than travelling so many leagues to 
the City?"

"It just hadn't occurred to me that the Truth could possibly 
be found in the Suburbs. It seemed quite the most unlikely 
place to find it. And in any case I wasn't at all sure what the 
Truth might be."

"And do you have a better idea now of what it might be?"

"Not really," I admitted. "Plenty of people have told me 
what they think the Truth might be, but there seem to be as 
many different opinions as there are people."

"As few as that!" the Ambassador observed. "I find it 
incredible that such apparently intelligent people as 
you and your companion should believe that the Truth 
were some kind of physical entity of absolute and 
undeniable tangibility. In my experience, the Truth, or what 
element there is of it that is relevant for the business of 
conducting a sane and honourable life, is a shifting mutable 
concept that changes according to the whims of expediency 
and fortune. On occasion, that which is most demonstrably 
correct can also be the worst of all possible actions. 
For instance, almost all of us would believe that the 
murder of another person can only be wrong. However, when 
there is a war, of which our people are much experienced, 
such a naive attitude can only be disastrous when confronting 
a belligerent foe, and can only bring great misery to the 
defending side. So too is the conduct required against those 
who from one perspective are merely demanding their rights, 
such as the Mice and Roosters who populate my Kingdom. To 
treat these people as if they were worthy of respect and 
deserving of equality with the Cats whose inalienable right 
to the land is nearly universally recognised will invite 
nothing but further discord to the Kingdom. And I feel that 
this pursuit of the Truth, which is undoubtedly pursued by 
many such as yourselves for the most honourable and virtuous 
of ideals, is nothing more than another blow to the stability 
of your state and could well capsize the whole edifice."

"How can the pursuit of something good be anything other 
than good?" Beta objected. "Surely nothing could ever be 
improved if people only acted according to what seemed 
best at any particular time? Surely there must be motives 
for actions which are more than those determined by 
circumstances?"

"Absolutely not!" the Ambassador stated firmly. "At any 
one time there can only be one object or mission, with 
many different aspects. This mission has to be pursued 
with extreme prejudice if it is to ever succeed. The value of 
any actions within the pursuit of that mission can only be 
evaluated by how far it furthers that particular mission, 
although should the object of endeavour be changed then it 
will be necessary to comprehensively review all previous 
actions in the light of that revision. In our Kingdom, the 
state exists as the extension of the King, whoever that may 
be at any one time. The purpose of the state is therefore to 
further the objects and fancies of the King, wheresoever it 
may lead, and by extension the greater good of the King's 
subjects who by the principle of the Divine Duty to Serve 
are best served by whatever is in the best interests of His 
Majesty. My task and that of all my compatriots is to serve 
the King as best we can, irrespective of how apparently 
inconsistent this may seem over time and irrespective of 
how vastly different one King's policies may be from 
another. My actions can only be judged according to how well 
they accord with the King's desires, and in that lies all 
the Truth that there ever needs to be."

"I just can't believe that the Truth can change according to 
the complexion of the King and his policies!" Beta 
objected. "The whole value of the Truth is that it is 
eternally fixed and can never change. How can something 
be wrong one day and right the next just because the King 
says so?"

"In your case, neither being a subject of the King nor a Cat, 
the rightness and wrongness of your actions are determined 
by other factors, although I will judge them quite 
differently. The Truth is wholly relative and depends 
entirely on the perspective from which it is viewed and in 
whose interest it is pursued. However, I mustn't detain you 
forever with my own philosophical musing. You are no 
doubt more concerned in the welfare of your pregnant 
friend." The Ambassador stood up and gestured to his 
secretary who also stood. "Please feel free to wait here 
until further news comes from our medical staff who are 
currently sparing no pains in seeing that your friend gives 
birth with the minimum of pain and the maximum of 
appropriate attention. My staff will notify you as soon as 
there are any significant developments."

With that, the Ambassador and his secretary strode off 
through a large oaken door which closed behind them very 
securely, leaving Beta and I sitting together with the 
bandaged Cat. Beta was agitated with concern for Una's 
welfare and disturbed by the Ambassador's unsympathetic 
attitude towards our search. She picked up one of the 
glossy magazines that were left on the table for visitors 
to read, but neither she nor I could really concentrate on 
them. They all featured copious pictures of the King of 
the Cats, dressed in a startling array of clothes and 
posing in magnificent surroundings busy in condescending 
to his own people or to representatives of other 
nationalities. The text extolled the virtue of the King, 
his deeds and words in ways that made me feel rather 
impoverished that I had somehow passed most of my life 
in utter ignorance of his great wisdom and fitness to 
govern. Those articles not glorifying the King were mostly 
just advertisements for the great business opportunities 
provided by the Kingdom, its phenomenal economic 
growth rates (somehow personally overseen by the King), 
its vibrant and exciting traditional culture, and the 
attractiveness of its tourist resorts.

Beta put down the magazine she'd been scanning - The 
Royal Times - and looked at me with a frown. It was open 
at a glossy picture featuring a very international set of 
tourists enjoying the sun in the company of some Cats and 
served drinks by a retinue of hens. "I do hope Una's 
alright? I hope the medical staff understand the differences 
between a human birth and a Cat birth. They won't be 
expecting her to give birth to a litter of blind hairless 
kittens, will they?"

"Of course not!" I robustly reassured her, but nonetheless 
feeling less than sure myself now that the notion had been 
put into my head. 

We waited for several hours in the foyer while the 
Embassy staff changed at the turn of their rotas and the 
bandaged Cat was led away by a young lady in a long 
white tunic into one of the rooms to which we had no 
access. In the meantime, Beta and I read the literature 
rather more thoroughly than we would have preferred, and 
I built up a picture of the Cat Kingdom as being very happy 
and stable and which would indeed be paradise if it were 
not for the disruptive elements within its borders and the 
necessary strain of defending itself from the aggressive 
Canine Republics. One article attempted to explain the 
conflict from what purported to be the perspective of the 
Dog, but its main thrust was that they had been 
comprehensively misled by their government and seditious 
propaganda to not fully understand how what was good for 
the Cat Kingdom was necessarily good for them. There 
were also articles eulogising wealthy Cats living abroad 
who had donated so much of their wealth and prestige to 
the Feline cause.

"What can be happening?" agitated Beta. "I do hope Una's 
alright!"

As if in response to her worries, a door opened and a Cat in 
a long white coat entered the reception area. He surveyed 
the room, and, on seeing us, strode towards us.

"I take it you are waiting to see how your friend is," he 
remarked. 

He sat down on the chair where the Ambassador had sat and 
leaned across to us. 

Beta also leaned forward, her long hair cascading onto the 
table in front and a bare arm supporting her weight: "How 
is she?" she pleaded.

"She's fine. It wasn't a particularly difficult birth by human 
standards, though rather more painful and awkward than it 
would have been for a Cat. She has a male kitten - sorry, 
baby. What you humans call a boy. She's recovering quite 
well considering the uncomfortable circumstances 
surrounding it. I take it that you are going to take her 
home?"

"I'm afraid not," I confessed. "Both of us are strangers to 
the City and Una doesn't have a home. In fact, we don't 
even know where we'll be sleeping tonight."

"I see," mused the Cat doctor. "Well, I'm sure the Embassy 
will be able to assist you, seeing as you are such good 
friends of the Ambassador. I will have to ensure that 
suitable arrangements are made." He mewed slightly and 
glanced at a watch which he pulled out of a coat pocket. 
"However, I'm sure that you would both like to see the 
happy mother. We've cleaned her up a bit: she was utterly 
filthy. I don't believe she's been properly scrubbed for a 
very long time. If you would both like to come with me, I'll 
show you the girl, Una."

The doctor stood up and we followed him through the large 
oak door and along a series of broad well-carpeted 
corridors lined with huge portraits of the King and rather 
fewer of his regal predecessors. His path led us eventually 
into a large room clearly put aside for medical services in 
which there were a number of hens and a young woman in 
a flimsy white dress making notes while reading figures 
from the colourful computer screens. Beneath a battery of 
dimmed lights and mechanical apparatus sat Una in the bed 
holding a pale blue baby in her arms and smiling at us 
wanly. Her hair had been washed and was now a very pale 
white, and her eyes sparkled a quite vapid blue. All the dirt 
had been taken from her face but nothing could disguise 
the painful thinness of it nor of her arms. She was wearing 
a plain white hospital gown, but most of her body was 
hidden under the bedsheets.

"It's a boy!" she affirmed. "A little boy! Brown eyes just 
like his father. And ever so small! Just look at the tiny 
hands." 

The baby was clutching and unclutching his fists and 
looking around the room with utter incomprehension and 
curiosity. He wasn't a very prepossessing sight: his neck 
barely seemed capable of supporting the weight of his 
head and his legs curved around in a small ball beneath  
him.

The young lady approached her, and took the child from 
her hands with a smile. 

"We'd better tuck him up, don't you think?" she remarked 
kindly. "He's a bouncy little thing! Perhaps one day a 
man will come along into my life and I will have a 
beautiful boy like yours." She looked at me. "Are you 
the father?"

"No, he isn't!" snapped Beta jealously. "We don't know 
who the father is."

"Oh! I see," the young lady replied frowning with a tone of 
implicit reproach, turning around and delicately placing the 
child in a cot by the side of Una's bed. She smiled again at 
the new mother. "You can see the baby from here. He's 
provisionally named Number Nineteen, but I'm sure you'll 
want to give him a better name as soon as you can." She 
tucked the baby in under the sheets, and then hastened off 
out of the room, as did all the other medical staff, leaving 
us alone with just a hen sitting on a chair in the corner 
reading a newspaper.

"How was it? The birth, I mean?" Beta asked anxiously, 
sitting on the edge of the bed and taking one of Una's pale 
thin hands in her own. "The doctor said it was quite 
painful."

Una nodded. "It was certainly that! I thought it would 
never end! I thought I was going to die! Nobody ever told 
me that giving birth was as horrid as that. I'll never ever 
have a baby again. Not as long as I live! Even the 
painkillers they gave me hardly made any difference. But 
I'm sure that it was a better birth than it would have been 
had I been left in the street. I'm so grateful that you were 
able to persuade the Embassy to let me in." She glanced 
over at her baby whose eyes were closed and looked 
content in the cot. "And now I'm a mother. I don't know 
whether I should be happy or what I should feel. I mostly 
just feel relieved that it's over. You can't believe how much 
this pregnancy has worried me. I was so utterly distressed. 
Out in the streets of the City, sleeping on rubbish, begging 
for a few guineas, trying to avoid harm. And now I'm here, 
in this beautiful room, looked after by all these doctors and 
nurses. I was even more worried when I saw that most of 
the nurses were hens. Surely they couldn't understand 
human pregnancies. They lay eggs, don't they? But the 
midwife was that woman who was here, though why she's 
working amongst all these Cats and Hens I don't know. But 
she was able to make sure that I gave birth all right. She 
kept me pushing and pushing, until my baby, Number 
Nineteen, came out covered in slime and with that long 
cord dangling from his belly button and leading into my 
very stomach."

"But at least it's over now!" Beta said reassuringly, 
squeezing Una's hand tightly.

"That part's over, maybe. But now I've got to be a mother. 
And a mother without a home, without a hope and nowhere 
to go!"

Una looked down at her stomach with a deep sigh and 
smiled grimly. She and Beta held hands in silence for 
several minutes, while I hovered about in the background 
looking at Una's sleeping baby with some discomfort. He 
seemed so helpless and pitiful, his little fists clutched in 
front of him and his body forming such a small bulge under 
the blankets.

"We've assigned a room to you two," suddenly announced 
a white Cat in a long black coat reaching to his ankles and 
his face obscured by a large black floppy hat who came 
into the room carrying a clipboard. "It's just along the 
corridor. Shall I show it to you?" 

His request seemed more like an order than a request, so 
Beta and I bid Una farewell and followed the Cat to a large 
room dominated by a four-poster double bed. The room 
was extremely well-furnished and clearly intended for 
people used to rather more luxury than were either of us. 
There were several portraits of the King on the walls, and a 
television which featured film of the King and various 
other well-appointed Cats in an incomprehensible 
ceremony involving a curious array of sharp instruments 
and some unidentifiable meat. However, the aspect of the 
room which most attracted Beta was the gleaming 
porcelain of the en suite bathroom, to which she retreated 
as soon as the Cat had left.

I sat on the bed revelling in its comfort and contemplating 
the events of the day, while Beta could be heard splashing 
around furiously in the bath, cleansing herself of the filth 
of two days wandering the City and two nights sleeping 
rough. Despite the luxury of the surroundings and my 
anticipation of the pleasures of the night ahead, my 
thoughts were troubled by reflections of my continued 
search for the Truth and my return to the Suburbs, where I 
would once again be in a much more familiar, and, I 
imagined, more predictable, milieu.



			20

"Una must be wondering where we are," remarked Beta 
as she lay on the bed, my arm around her shoulders and 
traces of sweat still pasted to her brow. "We must see how 
she is."

"Must we?" I asked reluctantly. I'd become very 
comfortable on the bed, lying so close to Beta's warm 
naked body in the bedroom's luxurious surroundings.

"Yes, we must!" said Beta firmly, snatching herself from 
my arm and standing up by the side of the four-poster bed. 
"Get your clothes on, and we'll go and see her. She's just 
down the corridor!"

I did as I was told and followed Beta as she padded along 
the thick carpeted corridor past the large portraits and 
paintings to Una's room. It was opposite a splendid portrait 
of the King holding a pair of scales and sword, presumably 
showing him as the source of Justice in his Kingdom. We 
gingerly eased open the door to see Una very much awake, 
and chatting idly to the Hen who was still sitting there. She 
smiled as she saw us enter. Beta rushed to her side, and I 
sat on a chair just by the bed next to the cot where her baby 
was sleeping.

"How are you feeling?" Beta asked with some concern. 
"Better I hope?"

Una nodded. "I feel so battered and torn. As if my entire 
insides were pulled out of me. Which I suppose they have 
been. He's still sleeping isn't he? The baby, I mean."

"He looks like nothing could ever wake him up," I 
commented, glancing at the small blue huddle, his fists 
close to his face, breathing softly and slowly.

"It's so difficult to believe I'm a mother now. What will 
people in Unity think of me now I wonder? Or Rupert as 
it's now been renamed. Perhaps they'll treat me better. I can 
just hope."

"What's your home town like?" wondered Beta, sitting on 
the edge of the bed and grasping Una's hand in her own. 
"It's in the Country isn't it?"

"Yes. Leagues away. It was a long and arduous journey 
from there to the City. It's quite an ordinary town, I 
suppose. Nothing very unusual about it to look at. There's a 
town hall, plenty of churches, a cinema, a few 
supermarkets and a lot of countryside surrounding it. If you 
visited it, you'd probably not come away with any great 
impressions, although of course there are some old 
buildings and a nice cobbled square to remind you of its 
long glorious history. I believe there'd been some sort of 
battle fought there, years ago. The Battle of Unity. It was 
rather important I think in deciding the political structure 
of the country. But it's very different from the City, and not 
just because it's such a smaller place. It's a lot less liberal. 
There's no homosexuality, no pornography, no alcohol and 
no football. All those things have been banned in the town 
as a result of legislation passed absolutely hundreds of 
years ago, by different complexions of local government. 
And even though nobody really knows why they were 
made illegal, nobody's ever thought of changing it. Or 
those who have probably just left the town to live 
somewhere else. So, it's a quite dull place to live in, but 
quite peaceful as well. There's none of the crime and 
violence you find in the City."

"Did you enjoy living there?" asked Beta to encourage 
Una to keep her thoughts off her present predicament.

"No. Not really. I always wanted to leave. Like most 
people, I suppose. But there are jobs there in local 
businesses and factories, so I suppose many just stay there 
for the work. I thought it was really boring. And quite 
oppressive really. Like most parents in Unity, mine were 
very strict, and there wasn't a great deal I was allowed to 
do. Seeing boys for instance was very much discouraged. 
My father works in the courts. He's some kind of solicitor, 
and well respected in the community. My mother works 
part-time in a factory where she weighs chickens before 
sealing them in plastic and then attaching labels. They 
wanted me to grow up a respectable girl: not the slut they 
think I've become. They had no sympathy at all when I ever 
suggested I might like to leave Unity and live anywhere 
else. Like most people in the town they believe that the 
world beyond is a kind of bedlam of alcoholics, drug 
takers, prostitutes and criminals. And after having lived in 
the City for so long, without a home and in the gutter, I 
can't say that their fears were wholly unfounded.

"Most people, whether girls or boys, have to serve in the 
local militia for a year when they leave school. I've no idea 
why. Unity isn't at risk from invasion from any other town, 
and most districts of this country don't find the need for 
such an obligation. I've been fortunate not to have had to do 
that. All that parading and marching and physical exercise. 
Standing out in the town square for hours, whatever the 
weather, and costing the town I don't know how much to have 
a disciplined force of adolescents who do nothing more 
constructive than build irrigation trenches, gather in 
harvests and guard the town hall from imaginary enemies. As 
a girl, I wouldn't even have had the relative fun of learning 
how to use guns or to fight. I would have been expected to 
prepare meals, make beds and wash clothes. It was not 
something I was at all looking forward to: and I'd long ago 
resolved to leave Unity before I was called up. As I have. 
But not at all in the way I'd have chosen.

"However, it makes some strange sense in Unity. 
Everything is so well regulated. Even without the national 
service, it's almost a military regime. School was just the 
same. These horrid tight uniforms I had to wear from the 
moment I started at primary school. You didn't wear a 
school uniform, did you?"

Beta shook her head. "No. I didn't have to wear anything at 
school. And neither did the teachers."

"Your village must be a lot more liberal than Unity, I can 
see that. My uniform was an ankle length skirt and a blouse 
with a high collar which almost strangled me. And it had to 
be very hot for us to be allowed to take off our jackets. We 
had to wear these ugly hats, the same colour as our 
uniforms, which covered everything but our plaits. The 
boys had to wear uniforms as well, but theirs weren't nearly 
so tight or restrictive as the girls'. We had an hour of 
assembly every morning, where we had to endure a moral 
sermon. When I was first at school, this would have been a 
Church of Unity sermon, but now it would be something to 
do with Illicitism. No other religions were permitted in the 
town besides the Church of Unity which had been founded 
by some really puritanical people hundreds of years ago. 
Often, the school sermons were nothing more than an 
excuse to damn all the other religions and faiths. Part of the 
doctrine was that only people in the true church had any 
chance of salvation in the day of Judgement, and that God 
had already decided whether we were to be saved at the 
moment of our Conception. This meant that the whole 
process of family planning was horribly complicated and 
involved the active blessing of a minister from the Church. 
It was a wonder anyone ever had any children at all.

"There were several hours of physical education every day, 
much of which took place after hours. I hated that. My 
Sports Master, a large cockerel with a wooden leg, was 
quite savage with those he thought were shirking. And that 
more often than not was me. I'd be slapped with a clout 
from his heavy wing if he saw me showing less enthusiasm 
than I ought as I fell over in the mud while playing hockey 
or girls rugby. He wasn't the worst by any means. The 
Moral Standards teacher was particularly fierce and rather 
sadistic. And the Physics teacher was always scathingly 
sarcastic if I made a mistake, which I often did. I was really 
no scientist, and I showed no inclination to ever be one."

"You seemed to have had a fairly dismal education," I 
remarked.

"Wasn't there anything at school you actually enjoyed?" 
wondered Beta.

"I enjoyed Art. I was quite a good artist, I think. It was the 
subject in which I most excelled. And our Art teacher was 
very sympathetic. She was quite unconventional by Unity 
standards, though she'd probably seem extremely 
conservative in the City. She wore pretty silk scarves and 
let her hair hang loose.  Most of the teachers actively 
disapproved of her, and I imagine the parents did as well. 
She gave me a lot of encouragement. Even giving up some 
of her free time to help me in any painting or sculpture I 
was working at. It was when I was being creative I felt 
most fulfilled. It allowed a release which was mostly 
suppressed in every other activity.

"The school had very strict rules on the kind of Art we 
could be exposed to or work on. It had to be one of 
sculpture, painting or drawing, and it had to be 
representational. Only people, plants, objects and sceneries 
were permitted. Abstract expressionism, collage, 
surrealism, impressionism and the use of other materials 
were expressly banned. It was also expected to be 
celebratory of life as it was in Unity, and never even 
implicitly critical of it. My fairly negative views confronted 
my teacher with a dilemma. She was obliged to ensure that 
my portraits displayed expressions of proprietary and 
dignity appropriate to the status of whoever I was 
portraying and to suppress any experimentation in content 
or materials. But when we were alone together she showed 
me pictures of the more modern art you can find in the City 
and in the Art Gallery just outside the Suburbs. It was a 
revelation to me to see sculptures that hinted at physical 
reality, rather than explicitly expressing it. Paintings that  
made no attempt to represent photographic reality. Art 
that used found materials, technology and industrial 
detritus. And Art that dealt with political and social 
issues, that showed naked bodies, that depicted 
aspects of the world in its less salubrious aspects. At first, 
I was baffled. How could this be Art? I asked myself. But I 
had somehow opened a door of opportunity and ‘sthetic 
expression I'd just never suspected was possible, which 
seemed somehow much more profound than what I had 
previously known, and there was no way to close that door. 
I worked privately on my own pieces, using modern 
techniques to express myself, but I had to hide them from 
everyone, including my teacher and most especially my 
parents.

"They were not keen on my enthusiasm for Art. They 
considered it a waste of time and effort. Anything of no 
apparent utility was anathema to them. In fact, they were 
quite angry when they learnt of my ambition to leave Unity 
and attend Art School in Lambdeth. This embodied two 
sins for them, both contemptible: the pursuit of vain 
worthless endeavour and exposure to the sinful world 
beyond Unity's borough boundaries. They didn't actually 
forbid me from studying Art at school: its only virtue in 
their eyes was that it was the sole subject in which I 
excelled and could help me graduate from school with 
sufficiently high grades to be a satisfactory marriageable 
proposition. However, they did coax me to take a more 
active interest in science and mathematics. These were 
worthwhile pursuits as they were so evidently to do with 
the real world."

"Didn't you enjoy science?" Beta asked.

"Not at all. Even though I studied them diligently. The way 
they were taught was so joyless. It was all equations, laws 
and facts. It was a process of learning how something was 
meant to be according to a stated axiom, how it was expressed 
according to a particular equation and then solved by a neat 
juggling of figures. Specific gravities. Integrals of 
parabolic curves. Enzymes and subcutaneous fat. It all seemed 
so dull and boring. It also seemed so remote from the real 
world, even though that was exactly what it was supposed to 
be about. All those strange elements with horrible smells in 
laboratories. All those measurements of what was supposed to 
happen which were always wrong, however accurate the 
measurements, if they contradicted the calculated result. I 
just couldn't relate to it at all.

"I much preferred going to the cinema or theatre than 
studying science. There was only one cinema in Unity, and 
plays were only staged occasionally at the theatre which 
was mostly used for functions. I know now how very 
limited was the selection of plays and films permitted in 
Unity, but they seemed relatively adventurous at the time. 
They presented a doorway to the world beyond Unity. A 
doorway most definitely not present on local television and 
radio. The world beyond seemed so exciting: full of 
opportunity and promise. And throughout my adolescence 
that was where I wanted to be. Anywhere in fact than 
Unity." 

"Did you have any friends at school who shared your 
views?" Beta wondered.

"I had very few friends. We were supposed to report any 
antisocial behaviour or persuasions, and so it was very 
difficult to make friends in the way which is so natural and 
ordinary here in the City. This was further complicated by 
all the political changes that were taking place in Unity."

"Political changes?" I asked.

"Yes. The way the Illicit Party took power in Unity. In fact 
it's not even called Unity any more, though I find it really 
difficult to think of it by its new name of Rupert."

"Rupert? But I was in a place called Rupert just a few days 
ago where I saw the President Chairman address a rally. 
Was that the same place?"

"I suppose it could have been. But then there are so many 
towns, villages and boroughs called Rupert now, it's very 
likely it was somewhere quite different. Was it a very hilly 
district, surrounded by forestry and an enormous lake?"

"I didn't see any hills," I admitted. "It was very flat open 
countryside."

"Then it must have been a different Rupert. It seems every 
place that has adopted an Illicit local government has 
honoured the President Chairman by naming itself after 
him. It seems odd to me that anywhere would choose to 
name itself after a foreign marsupial dictator, but then I 
never really warmed to Illiberal Socialism. In fact, I just 
don't understand it at all. The Illicit Party didn't take power 
suddenly. It was originally banned, along with the Red and 
Green Parties, but a few Blue Party councillors converted 
to Illicitism, claiming that the policies of their original 
allegiance didn't really represent their ideals or those 
pursued in Unity. Being in the majority group of the 
council with the White Party, they unbanned the Illicit 
Party, and exerted pressure to ban the Black Party which 
represented the local opposition. Then some of the Black 
Party candidates converted to the Illicit Party, and the 
White Party councillors found that they were no longer 
members of the leading group. They became the official 
opposition, which they remained until they too were 
banned and physically expelled from the town.

"At first the change of local government made little 
difference. After all, everyone in Unity was a member of 
the Church of Unity, and the council's policies were fairly 
consistent with that. There were some changes. A Rupert 
Youth group was formed and a lot of my fellow pupils 
joined it. They began wearing dark green overalls, Illicit 
Party armbands and Rupert badges on their breast. 
Although, it contravened the strict school uniform rules, 
the authorities found that enforcement of the policy for 
these individuals was quite impossible, as so many 
teachers and parents themselves started wearing Rupert 
suits. And, of course, the fact that the Rupert Youth could 
wear different clothes encouraged others to join. Pictures 
of Chairman President Rupert began appearing 
everywhere, and, bit by bit, more and more streets, 
buildings and institutions renamed themselves after Rupert 
and the causes of the Illicit Party.

"The local government instituted all sorts of apparently 
popular new decrees. The Illicit Party struck a very 
sympathetic chord in the people of Unity, even though no 
one ever seemed sure what it really represented. At first, 
we were told that Illiberal Socialism was merely the 
political expression of the Church of Unity, but if this was 
so why did the council close the churches, ban religious 
assembly and order the burning of all bibles, hymnals and 
prayer books? The object of morning assembly seamlessly 
mutated from the affirmation of faith to the promulgation 
of political propaganda. A Party official, a tall Rooster 
whom nobody had ever seen before, would strut and rant 
on the school stage, inciting us to shout our praises of 
Rupert and his causes. Political education classes became 
compulsory, where we had to read the Illiberal Socialist 
Worker Daily and digest long dull and impenetrable 
articles, which seemed to be full of the most ridiculous 
contradictions and assertions. Cinema and television now 
only showed films imported from the Illiberal Socialist 
Republics which were either very violent and vindictive or 
horribly dull.

"The other pupils seemed to love all this stuff, and I felt 
increasingly isolated. I was picked on for my lack of 
devotion to the Illiberal Socialist cause, and soon, like 
everyone else, I had to adopt a Rupert suit myself. At first, 
it was quite liberating to wear these baggy loose-fitting 
overalls, but it was just one uniform replacing another, 
with the difference being that it was unwise to wear 
anything else even when not at school. The curriculum was 
modified to reflect the change of government and Art 
classes were now made even more restrictive. The only 
acceptable subject was the portrayal of President Chairman 
Rupert and the only criterion of excellence was how noble, 
gracious, wise and virtuous the depiction. If you've ever 
tried painting or drawing a koala you'll know that this isn't 
the easiest task in the world. The most popular pose, and 
the one we were most encouraged to depict, was of Rupert 
gesturing into the mid-distance, his chin slightly raised, 
surrounded by admiring followers in standard issue Rupert 
suits."

"Didn't anyone dissent against all this?" Beta asked.

"Yes. Some. Not many. They were either expelled or 
incarcerated. At the very least they could expect to lose 
their jobs. Worryingly, the definition of dissent kept 
changing. At first it meant demonstrations, protests or 
circulating seditious material. Later it came to include not 
wearing a Rupert badge; not hanging a portrait of the 
President Chairman in the house; reading or owning 
proscribed literature and not remembering the lyrics of In 
Praise of Rupert and the Truth. Most people were either 
active in the Illicit Party or were applying for membership: 
an honour which became more elusive as demand for it 
grew. Those who were Illicit Party members had all sorts 
of privileges and responsibilities denied to everyone else, 
and so everyone wanted to join.

"I didn't like Illicit Party members at all. They were never 
anyone I liked. In fact, the party consisted mostly of bullies 
or conformists or just the horribly petty. These are 
probably the very attributes the party most likes and I was 
sure that my application for membership was doomed from 
the very start. In any case, I only applied on my parents' 
insistence as they were worried that otherwise I might be 
denied the benefits of a good education. My father told me 
bluntly he didn't want any daughter of his to be thought 
unworthy of the privilege. So every day after school, I 
obediently attended these tedious meetings where we were 
favoured with extra indoctrination, and allocated all 
the boring messy jobs that those who were already Party 
members didn't have to do any more. Putting up posters. 
Selling copies of The Illiberal Socialist Workers Daily 
and The Truth. Collecting funds door to door.

"Paul, my mentor, as he was called, was a tall, not 
unhandsome, boy from the year above me, whose wealthy 
parents had made their fortunes from the egg retail 
industry. He seemed rather more pleasant than the other 
Illicit Party mentors, and I considered myself very lucky in 
having him rather than the others. He smiled readily and 
sometimes made jokes about the Illicit Party which were 
very nearly disloyal. He subscribed enthusiastically to the 
Illicit Party's views on Cats, Communists, sexual deviants 
and modern artists, believing that they should all be strung 
up and tortured. Indeed, one of his less engaging features 
was his tendency to detail exactly what horrible torments 
he would be quite happy to administer himself, if need be, 
on such reprobates. He relished the power his Illicit Party 
membership had given him, and was quite immodest 
regarding his conquests of women.

"I soon very much regretted having him as my mentor as 
his sexual ambitions became more obvious and he 
expressed them more forcefully. He told me of the various 
girls he'd made love to, what they had done and how good 
it had been. I wasn't at all interested. I had very definite 
principles regarding relationships and I didn't want to be 
considered just a casual lay. I had been inculcated that any 
sexual liaison outside of legal matrimony was prima facie 
wrong and fully justified the rather severe sentences that 
Unity (and now Rupert) attached to the crime. I also knew 
that it was always the woman rather than the man who 
would be regarded as the erring partner. He was very 
insistent however. He made plain that my likelihood of 
becoming a Party member was very much contingent on 
satisfying his desires. He variously accused me of being 
frigid, sexless and a bitch. He told me that women were 
devised to serve men's desires and that my reluctance 
showed that I had none of the qualities demanded of 
members of the Illicit Party. I had never read or heard 
anything relating to Illiberal Socialism that said that 
women were obliged to have sex with men whenever it 
was demanded, but he dismissed this. It was obvious, he 
said, that I hadn't gained a proper understanding of the 
spirit of the ideology or mastered its more intricate 
interpretations.

"After a while, he seemed to lose interest in me, having 
started a relationship with another Party member also 
blessed with relatively wealthy parents, and who was also 
one of the most strict and doctrinaire of the female party 
members. I sometimes speculated whether she permitted 
Paul the carnal satisfaction he believed was his right, but if 
ever anyone gave the impression of being frigid it was she.

"One night, after school, he told me to come with him in 
his car to an outlying district of the borough where there 
was a perceived need for more posters. He packed the car 
with piles of posters with Rupert's face and single word 
captions like Justice, Plenty and, strangely, Unity. I had 
no reason to suspect his motives. I had often been in his car 
before, as had his other party applicants. He always 
enjoyed showing off his affluence and hated walking. We 
were soon out of the town, and up in the hills. I had no idea 
where this village was, but in a vague way I had been 
looking forward to the journey, as I had so rarely been out 
there by car. I was a little worried when, high up the hill 
and far away from the town or, indeed, any village, he 
slowed the car and pulled it into a layby. And then, it was 
there, in the evening air, with the sound of frogs chirruping 
in a nearby brook, and with no one to hear my screams that 
he..."

Una abruptly stopped. A tear was dripping down her cheek, 
and her eyes stared out in horror. 

Beta squeezed Una's hand and smiled kindly. "You don't have 
to go on, you know. Not if you don't want to."

Una shook her head, squeezed her eyes tight, but more 
tears squeezed free. "Paul is my baby's father. He forced 
himself on me. He slapped me when I resisted. He pushed 
himself on top and tore off my clothes. He ripped them into 
rags. He pushed his way into me. Brutally. Savagely. It was 
loathsome. It was painful. I hated him. I hated it. I shouted. 
I struggled. And then it was to no avail. Nothing more 
could be done. It was over. He got dressed and while I was 
crying and sobbing, he got back into his car and drove 
away. Not that I would have contemplated ... ever ... 
whatever the distance home ... ever getting in that car with 
him again!"

Una paused as more tears streamed down her cheeks while 
Beta silently comforted her by squeezing her hands in her 
own. Beta was clearly appalled by Una's account, but was 
unable to say anything which could properly express her 
feelings. 

"It must have been the worst day of your life."

"And so it was. Up until then! I just lay in the grass out of 
sight of the road for I don't know how long, numbed and 
soiled. Eventually, probably because it was getting quite 
cool, I picked myself up and spent a futile twenty minutes 
looking for my knickers which Paul had ripped off, but 
they were nowhere to be found. I had the distressing 
fantasy that Paul had kept them as a souvenir of his 
conquest. My clothes were in a terrible state. He'd torn the 
fabric quite badly, and however hard I tried I couldn't 
recover my modesty at all. The front kept falling down. But 
in a sense I didn't care. I was so defiled that modesty 
seemed an unnecessary luxury.

"I walked along the road not knowing where I was going, 
and with no thought of a destination. It was dark, lit only 
by the stars and the crescent moon, and only the occasional 
headlamps of cars illuminated the road. I walked and 
walked, muttering to myself constantly, cursing Paul, 
cursing the Illicit Party and cursing myself. I don't know 
how long I'd been walking. Hours maybe. Paul had taken 
me to a very remote part of the countryside. There were 
fields, hen coops and stretches of road spookily 
overshadowed by trees.

"I passed several houses, farms and cottages, wondering 
whether to knock on the door and plea for assistance. I 
recognised that at some stage I'd have to do this if I were 
ever going to find my way home. But they were all so 
forbidding and I was so frightened of what they would 
think of me in my state of distress and immodesty. 
Eventually I decided to take the chance and approached a 
small house, isolated in the hills, and one of the few not 
named after Rupert or one of the Illicit Party icons. I think 
it might have been called Rose Cottage or something else 
relatively harmless. There were lights on, shining through 
the curtains and illuminating the flowerbeds outside. I 
hesitated on the doorstep for many minutes, and then with 
a burst of reckless courage I pressed the doorbell and 
waited for a reply.

"One came fairly soon, from a man in his thirties who I 
was pleased to see was not wearing a Rupert suit (quite an 
unusual sight by then). He looked at me with a puzzled 
expression while I stared at him totally unprepared for 
what to say. I had somehow imagined that I would know 
instinctively. It was obvious to him that something was 
wrong, but he was also not sure how to respond. At last, he 
asked: 'How can we help you?' on which cue I burst into 
tears and blubbered incoherently.

"'You better come inside,' he remarked kindly, opening the 
door wider and letting me enter. A woman in a loose 
flowery dress (another rare sight) appeared in the hallway 
and, after scanning me, asked the man: 'What is it? What's 
wrong?' The two of them started discussing me, as I tried 
as best I could to cover my breasts with rags of Rupert suit 
that stubbornly refused to stay in place. At last she 
announced: 'Well, she can't just stay here!' and I was 
escorted into their living room and sat down on an old 
armchair just by the unlit fireplace. I looked blankly around 
me, just happy to be out of the evening chill and to be with 
sympathetic people, however unconventionally dressed.

"I gradually became aware of my surroundings. The 
pictures of landscapes, the photographs of exotic places 
and a refreshing lack of portraits of Rupert. The couple 
who owned the cottage sat down on their sofa, and I 
observed for the first time a third person standing by a 
book case and looking at the pages of a book which did  
not have the ubiquitous dark green binding of Illicit Party 
literature. I'd never seen a woman like her before, though 
of course she wouldn't look at all out of place in the City, 
nor indeed in most of the country. She was a black girl, in 
itself unusual, with an enormous mass of black curly hair, 
wearing very tight shorts and a brief singlet which revealed 
the whole of her navel and the curves of her waist. She was 
a friend of the couple who owned the cottage, she came 
from Lambdeth and her name was Anna..."

"Anna!" I exclaimed. "Is it the same Anna? The one I was 
with two nights ago, Beta?"

My companion frowned. "If it is, she's certainly changed 
her appearance."

"That would be entirely consistent." 

"Do you know her, then?" Una asked, bewildered. "How 
strange! She was the first person I'd ever met from outside 
Unity. She was so unconventional and her attitudes so 
liberating and refreshing. Her language was peppered with 
expressions I'd never heard before and she had an air of 
self-confidence women in Unity just never have. She put 
down the book on Law and the Modern Fowl, and 
approached me. She asked me questions sympathetically 
but very bluntly, and very soon pieced together what had 
happened to me. 'You poor girl!' she said again and again. 
'How absolutely jolly horrid it must have been!'

"She managed to steer conversation away from my 
predicament and talked about life in Lambdeth and how 
different it was in Unity. It was odd to hear opinions about 
Unity, and the Illiberal Socialist government, and the way 
things were done, that were so unashamedly critical and 
also so much in accordance with my own. I felt a kind of 
liberation in all my misery. There were other ways of 
seeing and doing things, and there were places where this 
was normal. I giggled at her disrespectful comments on 
President Chairman Rupert and how ridiculous the koala 
looked with his grandiose gestures, his ankle length 
overcoats and his broad hat. She made sarcastic comments 
about Illiberal Socialism: how it never seemed to be sure if 
it was right, left or centre, but was always authoritarian and 
dogmatic. The couple nodded in agreement with her, and I 
became aware that I had somehow stumbled across a house 
of covert dissidents who I'd always been told were the most 
abominable and despicable of all people.

"I also noticed that they were sipping a strange clear liquid 
from curiously delicate glasses and that an open bottle of 
the substance was sitting on the table. I associated it with 
the strange smell on Anna's breath, and felt a frisson of 
wickedness as I realised that they were partaking in illegal 
substances: in this case, white wine. I had learnt that 
alcohol caused people to behave in the most frightful and 
violent ways, but my hosts seemed nothing but wholly 
civilised.

"I was beginning to relax, when the doorbell rang. The man 
stood up, quite startled. He anxiously hid the bottle of wine 
in a cupboard. He and his wife then went into the hallway, 
closing the door behind them. Anna stayed with me, 
holding my hands in hers, occasionally stroking them. 'I 
wonder who it could be at this time of night? More 
visitors, perhaps?' she mused. The door reopened and the 
woman appeared again, looking rather agitated. 'It's the 
police!' She whispered firmly. 'They'd been informed that a 
partly naked woman had been seen walking the road near 
here and they're asking everyone what they know anything 
about it. But then they saw that Jacob and I aren't wearing 
Rupert suits, and don't have a picture of the koala in the 
hallway, and now they're asking all sorts of questions...'

"The door opened again, and the man entered rather 
sheepishly with three police officers, one of which was a 
Rooster. The rest was just an unremitting nightmare. They 
identified me as the woman who'd been immodestly 
dressed and I was immediately arrested for indecency and, 
more seriously, disrespect to the Illicit Party for allowing 
my Rupert suit to get into such disrepair and losing my arm 
band. The couple owning the house were arrested for being 
revolutionary seditionaries, alcohol traffickers, possessors 
of illegal literature, and a whole host of other crimes,  - 
some of which seemed to be based more on idle fantasy 
than from any evidence that I could see. They were even 
charged with having encouraged me to dress immodestly. 
Anna was also arrested, but as she came from Lambdeth 
even the police decided it was futile to press too many 
charges, although they were very rude and abusive to her.

"From then on, the nightmare just deepened. Anna was 
expelled. The couple who owned the cottage were put on 
trial for a preposterous litany of crimes. And I ... I was 
totally humiliated. I wasn't likely to be executed, as seemed 
quite likely for Jacob and his wife, but the crimes I'd been 
found guilty of just seemed to pile on me. I was guilty of 
association with seditionaries, use of alcohol, promiscuity 
and indecency. Then, while imprisoned in a police cell 
with a woman accused of adultery, and denying it 
vehemently, other charges were directed at me. Paul gave 
evidence of my promiscuity and of my shamelessness in 
seducing him away from his betrothed for the satisfaction 
of my base lustful cravings. His fiancee even came into my 
cell for the sole purpose of spitting in my face. Pupils from 
my school gave evidence of my anti-social views and my 
lack of enthusiasm for the cause of Illiberal Socialism. I 
was supposed to have been stirring dissent amongst my 
fellows. My paintings, drawings and sculptures were 
deemed proof of a seditionary and unacceptable 
disposition. Not only those I had done before the town had 
converted to Illiberal Socialism, but even those since. I had 
failed to portray the high standards of propriety and dignity 
associated with the great President Chairman. The fact that 
my Art teacher was now serving a jail sentence for 
distributing illegal literature and corrupting minors 
became evidence of how far from vindication I was.

"My parents were not at all supportive. My mother even 
said that she'd always suspected that I wasn't worthy to be a 
daughter of her husband. She said some very hurtful things. 
This became particularly bad when I was not only 
diagnosed as no longer being a virgin - and therefore guilty 
of the crime of pre-marital sex - but also pregnant. My 
father slapped me forcefully on the face, cutting the inside 
of my cheeks against my teeth and making me spit out 
blood. My mother declared that my father and she had 
decided to disown me. 'A slut like you can never truly be 
our daughter!' 

"As a minor, I couldn't be executed or imprisoned for my 
crimes. Being pregnant, I couldn't be caned, lashed or put 
in the stocks. So at my trial a couple of months after I was 
arrested, the court reluctantly decided to expel me from the 
district of Rupert for the rest of my life: a punishment they 
believed severe enough for me to atone for the severity of 
my crimes. I stood in the dock, between two police 
officers, tears running down my cheeks from the 
humiliation of the horrid things that had been said about 
me, hardly hearing the actual sentence through a haze of 
fear and worry. The magistrate sat in his Rupert suit 
beneath an enormous portrait of the President Chairman, and 
gave a long and unflattering account of me and how I 
represented the kind of scum that the district had throughout 
its history tried to excise, and that my expulsion could only 
be welcomed by right-thinking townspeople. I gazed up at the 
idealised portrait of Rupert which depicted him holding a set 
of scales in which enemies of Illiberal Socialism such as Cats 
and Anarchists were shown tipping off and falling into what 
appeared to be the flames of hell. And it was to there that 
I felt I was now consigned!"

"And so that's how you came to be in the City when we 
met you?" I asked. "You had been expelled and you made 
your way there."

"Yes. Where else could I go? I thought that here at least I 
could start a new life. But it wasn't an easy journey from 
Unity. Quite a few hundred leagues separate the City from 
my home town, and I had very little money. In fact, I had 
nothing but the Rupert suit I was given to wear and some 
basic possessions: now long since stolen. I travelled by 
foot, by hitch-hiking and by clambering onto the wagons of 
freight trains. I lived by begging and very soon even had to 
sell my body just to have enough to eat. I travelled through 
many different boroughs: some much more friendly than 
others. I stayed for a month in Lambdeth, which gave me a 
foretaste of life in the City, and which compared to Unity 
seemed quite urban enough.

"By the time I'd reached the City I was quite noticeably 
pregnant, and I had already suffered more than I'd believed 
possible. I had slept in barns and deserted hen coops, often 
sharing with other animals usually much better prepared 
for sleeping rough than me. The only beds I slept in had 
been those of men who were paying to have sex with me, 
often quite perversely because I was pregnant, rather than 
despite it. I had lost and gained clothes and possessions. I 
was hungry, filthy and ragged. I had expected the City to be 
big, busy and full of buildings and monuments of 
splendour and size. I hadn't expected so much poverty. 
When I had learnt that even the poorest people in the City 
earned thousands of guineas a week, I thought that 
everyone in the City was phenomenally rich, and hoped to 
gain some of this bounty. But I hadn't realised just how 
very expensive the City is, and I soon came to learn that 
my pregnancy, my vagrancy and my lack of friends 
discriminated against me in the City just as much as it did 
everywhere else.

"For the wealthy, the employed and the tourist, there is 
much to recommend the City. It has none of the petty 
tyranny of Unity. People can say and do pretty much what 
they like. For those like me, the City is sheer hell. I soon 
regretted coming here, but where else was I to go? At least 
I could beg and uncomfortable though they may be there 
are places to sleep at night where you risk assault, but are 
usually just left alone. The parts of the City I spent most of 
my time were not those that I would ever have chosen to 
visit as a tourist. I slept in derelict building sites, deserted 
houses, park benches and railway stations: often just to be 
evicted by police or by those who reckoned they had better 
rights to sleep there than me.

"I learnt about aspects of the City no one had ever told me 
about. The crime and violence. The gang warfare between 
the different species. Bird against reptile. Rooster against 
Sparrow. I learnt to identify which districts were 
effectively out of bounds to humans like me. Districts 
where it is dangerous to walk at any time of night and day. 
Districts where there is casual violence and gang warfare. 
Districts as small as a block or as large as a whole borough. 
There have been nights where I've sheltered behind cars as 
gangs fought with machetes, submachine guns and flick-
knives causing unspeakable harm to each other. I've seen 
people killed. Sometimes suddenly in a blaze of gunfire: 
often randomly directed at a street full of people 
presumably in retribution for similar horrors against the 
perpetrators. Sometimes slowly in horrifying agony: 
screams echoing around the streets and people walking by 
not wishing to look too closely in case they too attract 
attention.

"The violence became worse the closer it came to the 
General Election. There are many gangs who have adopted 
political allegiance to one party or another. There are gangs 
which support the Black Party. They dress in black, often 
in leather, and direct their hatred against particular species, 
particularly Cats, and more often other races of the same 
species. The hatred expressed by spaniels towards terriers, 
white humans against brown ones, mustangs against 
ponies: it's senseless and obscene. There are gangs which 
support the Red Party, the Blue Party, even the White and 
Green Parties. I don't believe the gangs even know or care 
what the political parties they supposedly support actually 
represent. They're just another badge of membership to set 
themselves apart from other gangs. 

"What horrified me most, however, was how so many 
gangs now seem to support the Illicit Party. And these are 
the gangs which seem to be the most violent, the most well 
armed and the best organised.  How did that happen? And 
do any of them have any idea what it would be like for 
them to actually live in an Illiberal Socialist society? I soon 
came to fear the Illicit Party gangs more than the others. 
They were the ones who clung most jealously to their 
territories, who would be most likely to organise political 
demonstrations and who soon became most famous for 
their use of grenades, mortar bombs and semtex. In one 
case I heard of, but thankfully never saw, an Illicit gang 
managed to invade a Red Party gang stronghold, and, 
unlike the usual practise of a symbolic victory marked by a 
few murders and a quick retreat, they methodically 
massacred every single member of that gang, apparently 
using some pretty horrible methods of torture not to gain 
information but simply to inspire terror and what they call 
respect."

"That sounds horrible!" gasped Beta. "Don't the police do 
anything to stop it?"

"They're mostly totally impotent. And they're pretty corrupt 
as well: often themselves involved in the organised crime 
that goes on in the City. I never got involved in gangs at 
all. I'm a foreigner to the City. Gangs only recruit from 
amongst those who're born here. It's safer for them. But I've 
suffered from the crime. I've had everything I've had stolen 
not once but several times. Whenever I have anything, it 
gets stolen! I've been attacked - totally randomly and with 
no provocation. I've been raped several times. My 
pregnancy has been no defence at all from any kind of 
abuse. I have lived a life of begging, prostitution and even 
petty theft. I have been maltreated, abused and threatened. 
The City is most definitely not paved with gold. I've only 
known the very occasional guinea that gets dropped onto 
the cracked and shit-covered pavements. The City has not 
been kind to me, and I cannot be expected to be kind about 
it!"

"...And then we met you!" smiled Beta with as much 
reassurance as she could. "But surely we haven't been the 
first people who've shown you kindness?"

"No. You haven't. I've met many kind people. Not just 
those who throw me money as I beg: even some of those 
who have paid for my sexual services haven't been too 
ungenerous. There have been people who have extended a 
helping hand. Given me a hostel bed for the night. Given 
me money. Just taken the time to speak to me. Helped me 
after I've been beaten or raped. Enough people to remind 
me that kindness and goodness exists everywhere. But 
what can they do? They can't afford to help me for very 
long. They haven't the money or resources."

"But Lord Arthur has the resources and power. He helped 
you," Beta reminded Una.

"Lord Arthur? The enormous lion? Well, yes, he did help 
me. He took me away with him on his back out of the park 
where we met him into the wide streets of the City. That 
would probably have been fun for me if I'd have been in a 
fit state to appreciate it. People and cars just parted like 
waves to let him pass as he strode carefully along the 
avenues to the hotel where he was staying. And a very 
impressive hotel it was too. I'd often passed hotels like this 
in my wanders. I may even have raided the waste bins of 
that very one. Towering high above everything: enormous 
suites and servants everywhere. The furnishings were gilt 
and sparkling. The carpet was piled high in luxury. As we 
entered the hotel foyer, we were descended upon by 
countless minions who attended to Lord Arthur and on his 
instructions whisked me off with great care and attention to 
his hotel suite, high above the City. The maids were most 
solicitous of my health and it seemed they couldn't do 
enough to help me and make me as comfortable as they 
could. I was fed with a very full and appetising meal, 
which was fortunately not too rich for my weakened state, 
my body was cleaned and my filthy, fusty clothes were 
replaced by crisp clean laundry-smelling ones. 

"I was laid in a large double poster bed: the most 
comfortable bed I had ever been in and incredibly welcome 
after so many months of sleeping on the hard pavement 
surface. The room was especially large to accommodate 
the lion. The room was as large as one of those in an art 
gallery: able to allow Lord Arthur space to pace back and 
forth in front of the wide windows while talking to himself 
and barking out instructions to the maids. He promised me 
so much. He said he would get expert attention to ease my 
pregnancy. He said he would see that I would have a home 
to stay in after I had given birth. He said that he would 
atone for his neglect of the poor and needy by treating me 
in a way that would compensate for the many millions of 
lives he had directly or indirectly ruined. 

"Most of all, however, he spoke about himself. And most 
of what he said was rambling, incoherent and quite clearly 
not said with me as the listener in mind. He cursed the Red 
Party for coming into power. He cursed the banks for not 
extending his credit when he needed it most. He cursed his 
advisers. He cursed himself. As he droned on and on, I 
dozed off to sleep, occasionally awakened by a growl or a 
subdued roar. Even in all that opulent splendour, my chief 
concern was for my baby and the occasional pain it caused 
me as he struggled inside me. 

"I never spoke to the lion again. My afternoon and night 
alternated between deep and fitful sleep. Sometimes I was 
awake for long enough to see if it was day or night. The tall 
buildings of the City surrounding the hotel seemed much 
less forbidding now that I was elevated so high above the 
streets. I saw them lit by the high afternoon sun, and then, 
seemingly not long after, they were looming shadows lit by 
rectangles of lighted windows. It was then that I realised I 
was again sharing the room with Lord Arthur who was 
stretched out on the hotel floor, almost like an enormous 
kitten and not nearly as formidable as when he was awake. 
I smiled to myself, content that I was secure, and slept 
soundly until late this morning.

"However, I was misled. I wasn't going to become Lord 
Arthur's charitable concern. I was woken, not as I'd hoped 
by the sound of one of the maids in a smart apron and hat 
carrying a breakfast tray, but by very rough shakes and the 
unsympathetic: 'Wake up, you slut! Wake up! It's time you 
cleared out of the room!'

"I opened my eyes to look at a stern tall Rooster in a 
uniform surrounded by some rather threatening uniformed 
staff. 'Wassat?' I asked, not really believing the dramatic 
change of treatment from the day before. 'Where's Lord 
Arthur?'"

"'He's gone! And so's his credit! He's not paid for the room 
and not likely to do so either. You can't pay for him, can 
you?'

"I shook my head. I had nothing. I was pushed out of bed 
and only allowed enough time to get some clothes on 
before being roughly escorted down the back stairs 
reserved for servants, and out by the rear entrance into an 
alleyway of rubbish bins and wastepaper, just between the 
hotel and some law courts. The staff who escorted me, 
carrying me off the ground by my shoulders and only just 
mindful of my pregnancy, showed very little of the respect 
and courtesy the staff had expressed the previous day. They 
didn't disguise any of their contempt for the 'pathetic old 
bankrupt' they considered Lord Arthur to be. I came to 
realise that they considered me to be some kind of whore 
that the lion had brought into his room for some perverse 
sexual activity, and that they had seen enough of this 
kind of activity not to consider it at all unusual, even 
if it didn't soften their disgust for it.

"So, I was back in the streets. My baby was kicking me 
from inside. And the City was just crowding in on me. All 
I wanted was somewhere to rest, but wherever I went was 
wrong. I was always pushed on by someone or something. 
And I suppose that's how I came to be in the 
Ambassadorial district when you met me. I've no idea how 
I got there! I was in such a haze! Everything was so unreal! 
The only thing I knew was the pain I was in!"

"But you're here now!" said Beta comfortingly. "You're 
safe and sound! All you need now is to go to sleep and rest. 
Everything will be all right."

"I hope so!" exclaimed Una, desperate to believe Beta. "I 
do hope so! I would so like my baby's first days to be ones 
of comfort and security." She raised her head and glanced 
at her child asleep in a pose of utter abandon. "I hope that 
after all I have been through there will yet be a happy 
resolution!"





	21

Physically, Beta and I were much more refreshed after our 
good night sleep in a bed, but the benefits of that slowly 
dissipated as we stood for over an hour at the slip road to 
the busy motorway junction not far from the embassies. 
Our thumbs hopefully gestured at the cars and lorries as 
they sped by, but none showed us any sympathy.

"How much longer must we wait?" sighed Beta plaintively. 
"Surely one of these hundreds of cars must stop!" 

A car trundled by slowly, looking likely to stop, but it drove 
by loaded down by the luggage piled high on its roof. A 
van covered with Illicit Party slogans shot by, its occupants 
sticking their heads out of the window to jeer and gesture 
rudely at us. Beyond the slip road was a vast junction of 
roads where cars and trucks hurtled along totally oblivious 
to our presence.

Then, just as hope was diminishing to its lowest ebb, an 
extremely long stretch limousine, which had just sped by, 
suddenly stopped and parked on the hard shoulder a 
furlong ahead of us. It was driven by an alsatian with a 
peaked cap and uniform. The door opened slowly and the 
monstrous form of Hubert emerged rearwards, still in his 
enormous overcoat. He urgently beckoned us, and we 
obediently ran towards him.

"I thought it might have been you!" he remarked. "I had 
just about time to tell the chauffeur to stop. Where are you 
heading?"

"The Suburbs!" I said breathlessly.

"Back home again. And with your young ladyfriend. So 
you've been persuaded by that Rupert chap that that's 
where you'll find the Truth! My friends aren't quite going 
that far, but I think we'll be able to take you some of the 
way. Get in the car!"

We needed little prompting, and followed Hubert into the 
limousine. However large it had appeared from the outside, 
it seemed even larger inside. Large enough indeed to 
accommodate a rhinoceros, a hippopotamus and a rather fat 
man in addition to Hubert and ourselves. The chauffeur 
turned his muzzle round to look at us, and seeing that the 
door was closed, he manoeuvred back on to the slip road.

"These are friends of mine I met in the City," Hubert 
announced to the company. "They're both good friends of 
Tudor, the chap I told you about."

The hippopotamus wore a tee-shirt that just about managed 
to cover most of her belly sporting the cryptic message 
The Balance of Justice, and a pair of floral shorts. The 
rhinoceros wore an open denim shirt, studded with buttons, 
and checked trousers. The City was written above the 
crown of the broad brimmed hat he wore. The man rested 
a camcorder on his bare hairy knees, and wore a striped 
shirt, shorts and a very similar hat sporting the words I 
Love Her Maphrodite. He examined me steadily.

"Hey, don't I know you!" he announced. "The Suburbs 
ain't it? You gave me directions to the Centaur Hotel? Just 
a few days ago. You remember?"

I nodded, although it was difficult to recognise someone I'd 
met so briefly in the dark. "Yes, that was me."

The fat man grinned triumphantly: "This is the guy who 
gave us that map. We never stayed in the Centaur after all. 
A real tacky dive it was. We stayed in the Horse and 
Hounds, a real traditional place. My name's White and 
these are my pals Wayne and Wilma." The two 
pachyderms nodded their heads.

"The Suburbs?" Wayne, the rhinoceros, asked. "A real 
dead joint, that. We ain't never going there again. But 
you're heading there, ain't you?"

"That's right," Beta replied. "We're hoping to get there 
before this evening."

"You look real weird for a gal from the Suburbs, honey," 
Wilma, the hippopotamus, remarked. "The gals there 
dressed real dull. I mean, real dull! But you gotta come 
from somewhere, ain't you!"

The limousine was now accelerating smoothly into the rush 
of motorway traffic. Lorries rumbled by, and we were 
overtaken by fast cars driven by sales representatives in 
shirt sleeves with their jackets hung ostentatiously from a 
coat-hanger by the rear passenger door. Beta and I were 
squeezed next to each other against the rhinoceros and 
opposite the others. Our companions truly dwarfed us.

"My friends are from Phaedra. They're on holiday here," 
Hubert explained. "They're all great enthusiasts for the 
works of the Great Poet."

"Well, not just him, Hubert hon!" the hippopotamus 
elaborated. "We're real enthusiastic about all the history 
and tradition in this land of yours. There ain't none of that 
in Phaedra. Very nearly doodly squat. We ain't been around 
for as long as you guys. You got everything here. I've 
gotten real impressed by it. How can there be so much 
history in one country? That's what I'd like to know!"

"Not everything's so goddamn fine here, though!" the 
rhinoceros interjected. "I ain't seen so many peasants and 
proles in my entire life! Ain't you guys got any civic pride? 
Your City's a goddamn cess pit in some places. Every few 
metres you stumble over a beggar or tramp. There ain't 
nothing like that back home."

"Your country doesn't have the social problems we have 
here," Hubert remarked. "You're all much better off."

"You're goddamn right!" agreed White. "Wayne's right, too. 
You should clear those bums right off the street, so's 
decent people ain't pestered. And what a shambles your 
General Election was. I ain't ever seen such an amateurish 
affair. Those riots and demonstrations! That ain't 
democracy. That ain't what I'd call democracy anyhows. 
We had a real bad time in all that hoohah."

"Yeah, honey," agreed Wilma. "There was this pack of 
dogs campaigning for your Red Party..."

"I thought they were Black..." White interjected.

"Well, whatever! Goddamn bunch of extremists. Real 
nasty they were. This goddamn aggressive collie looked 
like it'd really go for me, didn't it? There ain't nothing 
civilized in them people. Not in any one of them. There 
ain't no extremists in Phaedra. There ain't no place for 
them. And that's 'cause we got a real democracy. A 
democracy based on a bedrock constitution of justice and 
fairness for all."

"I really can't agree with you, Wilma," remarked Hubert 
diplomatically. "We have a true democracy here. Our 
problems are not with the electoral system alone. It's 
because central government is so undecided it has lost 
control, and everything is governed locally. That's why the 
Coition government dissolved itself in favour of whichever 
party gained the most votes in the General Election..."

"And what do you get!" snorted the rhinoceros. "The 
goddamn Reds! You've gotten yourselves a Commie 
government now, ain't you! It'd be better for you guys if 
your Blue Party took over. Even them Blacks would be a 
better bunch."

"You've gotten the worst you could get!" agreed White. "I 
liked the bunch that run your Suburbs. There mayn't be no 
life there at all, but at least things run well. That's what you 
guys need. A good sensible practical government. Not a 
bunch of Commies. You guys are gonna be digging for salt 
in gulags before you know it. It's gonna be one perpetual 
revolution after another as the different Commie factions 
fight each other. It ain't gonna be no goddamn picnic. 
You'd never get Commies in power in Phaedra. We got it 
better sussed. The longer I've been here the more I'm glad 
we live in Phaedra however much history and tradition you 
guys got."

"Your constitution is quite different," Hubert argued. "In 
this country, institutions and practices have evolved over 
time. There's never been a master plan. It's just changed 
gradually from a feudal to a modern society. Phaedra's 
never been anything but modern. Your constitution was 
consciously and meticulously planned. It has so many 
checks and balances it could never fall into the chaos that's 
happened here."

"You're goddamn right!" agreed the rhinoceros. "There 
ain't no chance of that. Our constitution is Phaedra's pride 
and joy. Like a pair of scales, it is. Balancing all the 
possible extremes and gravitating towards the centre. We got 
two political parties, not like your six or twenty or 
whatever it is. Two parties is all you need. After all, you 
don't want more than one lot in power at any one time. And 
the way our constitution is set up, one lot can't expect to 
be in power for very long before the other guys come in. 
And when the Fat party hold the presidency, you can be 
goddamn sure the Thins have got the Senate or Congress. 
There ain't no way that one lot can have it all their way."

"They do say," argued Hubert, "that there really isn't much 
difference between your two main parties. That they hold 
pretty much the same opinions and the real difference is 
which businesses pay money into which party funds. In fact, 
people from one party cross over to the other bewilderingly 
often."

The rhinoceros snorted, while White smiled superciliously. 
"There ain't no goddamn truth in that, Hubert, old chap. 
There ain't no truth at all. We been Thins all our lives. We 
wouldn't dream of giving the other guys any support at 
all..."

"Though we did support President Elvis in the last 
Presidential election, didn't we, honey?" objected Wilma.

"That's different. Elvis is a Thin at heart, even though he 
did stand as a Fat. No, Hubert. We welcome disillusioned 
Fats into our fold with open arms. The more the better. 
And we ain't gonna close our door for nobody. If any of 
those Fat guys see the light, then that's okay by me. And 
just as there are Fats who go one way, there's the odd 
renegade Thin who goes the other. I was real disgusted 
when Senator John-boy defected to the Fats. And mid-
office too. We ain't had no chance to elect him out, when 
we'd just gotten him elected. That was real goddamn 
sneaky!"

"What are the differences between the two political 
parties?" wondered Beta.

"All the difference in the goddamn world..." snorted 
Wayne.

"...Except when there's bipartisan support." elaborated 
White. "But there's a heck of a lot of policy differences. 
The Fats put taxes up and increase government spending, 
while the Thins cut taxes and reduce government spending, 
except on defence which the Fats increase and the Thins 
cut, and adjust revenue collection accordingly..."

"...So it all amounts to much the same thing," said Wilma. 
"Which demonstrates how well our system of checks and 
balances works. That's why the symbol of Phaedra is a pair 
of scales held by the Hound of Liberty. As long as 
everything is balanced and nothing extreme get the upper 
hand, then you've got stability, progress and prosperity."

"It could be said," Hubert continued to argue, "that it's 
because of your prosperity that you have such a stable and 
balanced system of government."

"Yeah, sure!" Wayne agreed. "But it takes a good strong 
system of government to keep that prosperity. Okay, in 
Phaedra we got more of everything than you got in your 
country. We got more oil, uranium, steel, silicon, 
chemicals and all than you got, and we got the businesses 
that make up for anything we're short in operating in other 
countries. There's a heck of a lot of Phaedran businesses 
trading in the financial sector of the City, for instance. And 
when I look at the guys here who can't get nothing for 
thousands of guineas in the City, but are as rich as heck in 
the Country, and all your beggars... Well, there ain't no 
comparison. You need a strong currency like the Phaedran 
riyal, not a mickey mouse currency like you got."

The car abruptly slowed, and the hippopotamus and Hubert 
very nearly fell on top of us, which would have been 
severely injurious. Wilma and Wayne must have each 
weighed at least a ton. The rhinoceros peered out of the 
window: we were no longer on a wide motorway, but on a 
single hedge-lined carriageway.

"And that's another thing. The difference between your 
Country and your City. We ain't gone hardly a hundred 
kilometres and it's like you've gone back a century in time. 
This ain't no way to run a modern road system. I reckon it 
ain't gonna be many more kilometres till this road's just a 
goddamn dirt track."

"The Country can't afford the expense of motorway 
construction," Hubert explained.

"There's always some goddamn reason or other, ain't 
there!" snorted Wayne. "It's gonna be a real crawl from 
now on, ain't it!"

Indeed, he was right as the car stopped periodically at 
traffic lights, railway crossings, and at one point to allow 
by a herd of ground sloths and water buffalo being guided 
across the road by border collies. However, Beta and 
Hubert looked more relaxed than they had in the frantic 
activity of the City. Beta took my hand in hers, and pointed 
out to me such things as windmills and farm cottages.

The conversation paused for several leagues, picking up 
speed between towns and villages, and then slowing down 
as we passed through them. Occasionally, we passed sign 
posts pointing behind us towards the City, and, less 
frequently, ones indicating the Suburbs. At long last I was 
returning home.

In one town, the limousine stopped for rather longer than 
normal. We peered through the windscreen at the shops 
and houses of a fairly ordinary looking town, flags flying 
from windows and very ordinary people wandering by. 

"What the goddamn heck's happening!" White exclaimed. 
"Why've we stopped?" He leaned over to the chauffeur. 
"What's the goddamn delay?"

The alsatian apologetically turned his head round. "I don't 
know, sir. There appears to be some sort of demonstration 
or march ahead. All the traffic's stopped. There are plenty 
of police!"

A long stationery queue of traffic stretched ahead of us and 
a police officer, a tall mastiff in a peaked helmet, walked 
towards our car and bent over to talk to the chauffeur who 
wound down his window.

"There's trouble ahead, I'm afraid, sir. We're advising 
everyone to turn round and leave the town. We'd be much 
obliged if you did so too." 

"What goddamn trouble is that?" demanded the rhinoceros.

"We're not absolutely certain, sir. Some trouble makers we 
think. Hooligans. Shops are being broken into and smashed 
up. Innocent people are being beaten up. We don't wish to 
alarm you, though, sir. We have it all in hand." 

He then righted himself and continued walking along the 
line of traffic behind us. Several cars had already turned 
around a full semi-circle and were driving back past us.

"I just can't believe your goddamn country!" cursed White. 
"There ain't nothing but chaos and anarchy." He leaned 
over to the chauffeur. "Well, what are you waiting for, 
man? Ain't you gonna be turning round too?"

"I fully intend to, sir," the alsatian replied. "But this car is 
very long and I need a very wide turning circle. I shall 
manoeuvre just as soon as it's physically possible."

"Pah!" snorted Wayne. "In Phaedra, cars like this ain't 
considered long at all. You just ain't got the road space in 
your country for decent sized cars at all. Most of your cars 
are less than four metres long. That ain't nothing!"

The hippopotamus looked alarmed. "I don't like what I can 
see up ahead. Do you see that smoke? And those youths. 
They don't look too friendly!"

"Youths?" wondered Wayne. "What youths? Oh my god! 
There's hundreds of them! They must be the hooligans that 
cop was telling us about."

The street ahead of us was swollen with a massed and very 
ragged band of young people who were marching in our 
direction. They were throwing stones and garbage at shop 
windows. The Police officers confronting them were 
hopelessly outnumbered and ill-prepared. Several banners 
were raised in the air illustrated by President Chairman 
Rupert's face and sporting words like TRUTH and 
JUSTICE. 

"It's the Illicit Party again!" exclaimed Beta. "Wherever we 
go they cause trouble and smash things up!"

"What's that?" demanded Wilma. "Who are these louts?"

"They're from the Illicit Party. We saw them marching and 
causing riots in the City. We didn't think they'd do the 
same here, so many miles away. They started a fight in a 
night club we were in. And one in the theatre district as 
well!"

"Oh yeah! The theatre district!" remarked White. "We 
heard there was trouble there. It was a goddamn shame. 
We'd bought these tickets to see a musical in Lambdeth 
Square or Unity Avenue or someplace. It was gonna be a 
setting of the Great Poet's poems on metaphysical longing 
and the justice of God, with people dressed up as poodles 
and roaches. We were really looking forward to it we 
were..."

"There's some mighty fine songs in that musical." Wilma 
interjected. "We got the CD in the old country. A Rose 
Would Be Finer Far it was called. Real catchy tunes. I'd 
been humming them for weeks. I was thinking it'd really 
perk me up!"

"Yeah, real good night out it was gonna be. We'd been 
looking forward to seeing it for ages, and Hubert was 
gonna be there as well. But it was cancelled, and so too 
was very nearly every goddamn show in town. The whole 
area was ringed off with plastic tape, and there were 
goddamn police everywhere. There'd been an explosion or 
something, as well as some kind of riot. You guys really 
ought to do something about this Illicit Party. In Phaedra, 
they'd not even be allowed to put candidates forward in an 
election. Goddamn thugs!"

"They're getting closer!" shrieked Wilma. "Those police 
ain't gonna stop them, are they! Hey, driver, ain't you able 
to move yet?"

The chauffeur turned his head round, looking quite alarmed 
himself. "Just a moment, madam. I'm just waiting for the 
car ahead of me to move."

"That ain't good enough!" Wayne ordered. "We don't care 
whether you scratch the paintwork. You turn this goddamn 
car round now! Those goddamn maniacs look like they're 
gonna do a heck of a sight more damage than you're likely 
to do."

"Yes sir. I will," assented the chauffeur, obediently starting 
manoeuvres which almost immediately caused obstructions 
to everyone else. In the process, the car soon obstructed 
both carriage ways, had risen onto two sets of pavements 
and very nearly crashed into a lamp-post. It then stopped 
very awkwardly in the middle of the road, unable to turn 
further because of the positioning of other vehicles both 
ahead of us and behind. On one side was the road leading 
out of the town and on the other was the sound of violent 
commotion, the sight of angry protesters and a row of 
police edging steadily back towards us, increasingly 
overwhelmed by the demonstration.

An empty beer can collided on the car's bonnet and 
clattered down onto the pavement. The cars who had also 
turned round were hooting at us to move out of the way so 
that they could also follow police advice and exit. As we 
sat there, helpless in the traffic, the police officers turned 
tail and fled in our direction. One, a dalmation, had lost his 
helmet and had blood running down his muzzle onto the 
deep blue of his uniform. The hoot and cacophony became 
ever louder.

The chauffeur reversed further, crunching the rear head 
lights against a door to a house and very nearly pushing it 
in. Then with an agonising turn of the steering wheel, the 
car span round, a headlamp shattering into the base of a 
lamp post, before breaking free and pulling off. As it did 
so, police officers scrambled over the cars ahead of us 
while aggressive youths leapt over the same cars after 
them, terrorising the passengers. The town receded behind 
us while the cars we had been obstructing became wholly 
overwhelmed by rioters. A plume of smoke rose from 
behind them.

When the town was completely out of sight, the chauffeur 
drove down a road which within only a few miles lost its 
metalled base and crumbled into rough cobbles. Despite 
the limousine's excellent suspension, we were thrown 
roughly from one side to another. We were quite definitely 
in the Country.

"Hey, driver!" commanded Wayne. "You stop this 
goddamn car now. We ain't gonna take no more of this. 
We've gotten battered about enough. We don't want the car 
to be totally bust."

"But this is the only other way to get where we want, sir."

"We don't goddamn care!" chimed in White. "We'll go 
somewhere else. Anywhere. There are plenty other historic 
sites in this goddamn country."

"But what about your guest, Hubert, sir? He specifically 
desired to visit the historic tomb stones of Philately."

Hubert leaned forward to the driver. "I can walk there, 
driver. Please do what my friends say and stop the car."

The car abruptly drew to a halt at the entrance to a field, 
and we all disembarked, including the driver, Wilma, 
White and Wayne. The driver examined the damage caused 
to the car, while Hubert and his Phaedran friends chatted 
with us by a hedge delimiting a field of mastodon grazing 
on tall luxuriant grass. There was quite extensive damage 
to the car's headlamps, a nasty dent on the bumper and 
dents on the roof which must have resulted from the 
projectiles that had cluttered onto the car as it drew off. 

"Well, Hubert," said White apologetically. "It's a goddamn 
shame we gotta drop you and your friends out here in the 
Country, but there ain't nothing we can do about it!"

"Any more kilometres of this goddamn dirt track, and I'm 
gonna be black and blue for the rest of my goddamn days, 
Hubert honey!" exclaimed Wilma. "I ain't never seen 
nothing in my life like those hooligans. What do they think 
they're gonna goddamn achieve? Nothing like that could 
ever happen in Phaedra. We got asylums for guys like 
them!"

Hubert sighed. "I am indeed very sorry that your visit has 
been so badly marred. I have never before seen such 
violence and insurrection. I can but hope that your visit 
from hereon is not going to be further troubled."

"Illicit Party, ain't they?" mused Wayne. "I ain't heard of 
them before, and I sure hope I ain't gonna hear about them 
again. We're gonna head back to the firm where we hired 
the automobile and just hope our insurance covers 
disasters like this. Look at the goddamn state of it! I'm sure 
that driver could have done a better job in getting us out."

"He was only doing the best he could," Hubert said in his 
defence.

"Sometimes the best ain't good enough!" sniffed White. 
"Well it's been mighty swell seeing you again, Hubert. I 
just hope you get to see this grave or whatever you're 
looking for. Me? I think I might be quite glad to get out of 
your goddamn country alive." 

White and his pachyderm friends squeezed back into the 
limousine when the chauffeur had finally reversed it, and 
they trundled off over the cobbled road, leaving Hubert 
with Beta and me. Hubert waved farewell, using a lace 
handkerchief he'd somehow retrieved from his pocket, 
holding his tri-cornered hat to his chest. When the car had 
turned the corner beyond a hedge and out of sight, he 
replaced his hat firmly on his head and sighed.

"Your journey and mine coincide for several leagues more. 
You will do me an honour should you accompany me."

"The honour is surely ours," Beta replied, graciously. 
"You've been more than generous to us. And anyway we 
don't even know the way to the Suburbs from here."

"In that I can be of assistance. My quest for relics of the 
Great Poet has provided me with a nearly unsurpassed 
acquaintance with all corners of the Country. There are few 
who know its contours and permutations better than I."


	22

"Characteristically fresh and invigorating!" exclaimed 
Hubert drawing in a deep breath of Country air, as we 
stood on a hill overlooking fields and moorland. "It's only 
when I am in the Country I feel truly myself. I am sure that 
it was in contemplation of wide open countryside as this, 
with nothing but an expanse of blue sky above him, that 
the Great Poet drew his greatest inspiration."

Beta nodded in agreement. "It's so beautiful here. Away 
from the City, its crowds and its pollution. Look at those 
daffodils over there. Simply hundreds of them! And those 
puppies playing around in them. Such innocence. Such joy. 
Don't you think it's wonderful?"

She squeezed my hand, and I could only agree that the 
fields and meadows  stretching out ahead of us presented a 
truly inspirational view. I breathed deep, taking in the scent 
of pollen blown from the wild grass, and carried in 
vaporous clouds over the larger tussocks, past a grazing 
antelope and onwards over the rolling hillocks as far as we 
could see. 

"The Great Poet wrote a great deal about the Country," 
Hubert mused. "Again and again he returned to it, 
especially in his romantic period. For him the Country was 
always a thing of beauty, to be admired like a painting. He 
believed that art should aspire to capture that great beauty: 
something he tried and succeeded, in his odes, sonnets and 
vignettes. Ode To A Caterpillar. Reflections on the First 
Frog Spawn of Spring. The Scorpion on the Rose Petal. 
Fertility Carried in the Air. The Shepherd and his 
Sheep Dog. Works of Art which will be remembered long 
after the last turf of soil is embalmed in concrete and the 
last green field becomes a supermarket car park. But for 
now, let us just enjoy the beauty that is left. And curse the 
onward march of progress which threatens to eliminate 
such innocent beauty and to turn the air into an ozone-free, 
carbon dioxide rich and sulphurous poison."

The giant teddy bear bound surprisingly swiftly down the 
hillside, with Beta and me chasing after him, our hands 
clasped together. When we caught up with him, under the 
shade of an enormous tree, clasping his tri-cornered hat in 
one paw while patting his forehead with a silk 
handkerchief, I confessed that I had no great appreciation 
for the Great Poet while I was at school.

"In fact, I'm afraid it all seemed rather irrelevant and 
somewhat boring."

"That is the great tragedy of our time," mused Hubert 
reflectively. "There is no longer the inclination to reflect on 
the great insights of poetry. There are too many distractions 
from day-to-day things which appear more pressing and 
relevant, although there can be nothing in the world more 
deserving of our attention than a well-crafted phrase or a 
skilfully expressed trope."

"I really enjoyed poetry at school," countered Beta, "and 
although the Great Poet wasn't really my favourite, I could 
see that his poems were really very good." 	

"It's the fault of state education!" grunted Hubert. "What 
else could it be? After so many years, the Great Poet's 
oeuvre has lost its freshness for the children of the 
Suburbs, tempted away by motor cars, videos and fast food 
take-aways from the most profound insights ever yet 
attained by any one person. Perhaps, too, a familiarity of 
landscapes as beautiful as this engenders the reflection and 
contemplation required to enjoy the delicate and exquisite 
flower of great poetry."

"I'm sure that is so," affirmed Beta. "I am much more 
inspired by poetry here in all this fresh air than I could ever 
be in the City."

We strolled through green open fields, past herds of deer 
and sheep to a long level hedge separating us from fields in 
which mammoths and glyptodonts were grazing. The 
hedge led to a wooden gate and stile, on which sat a collie 
chatting to a scorpion. They paused when they saw us, and 
greeted us politely.

"Good morrow, my friends," greeted Hubert amiably. "It's 
a fine day, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, sire," agreed the collie unenthusiastically. "It 
is a day which best pleases my herd. The wind is light and 
the sun shines. No rain to chill their bones. But too much 
of this weather and my crops will surely suffer, and then I 
shall be cursing such days as this."

"Surely, it is best to simply enjoy good weather when one 
can," Hubert remarked.

"Aye, such advice is fine when weather is well tempered. 
My stock enjoys it and my vineyards too, even if my 
potatoes would like more rain. But such is my living, sire. 
The weather can never be wholly perfect."

"And now you are no doubt ruminating on the results of 
the General Election. How does the victory of the Red 
Party bode for you? Ill, I suspect, for a taxpayer such as 
you who has all the responsibility of man management."

The collie barked slightly. "On the contrary, sire. The Red 
Party victory was much welcomed by farmers throughout 
the Country. They had my vote and that of all my 
neighbours. It is only the very wealthiest farmers who had 
much to benefit from the Blue Party gaining power. For far 
too long the Country has been neglected, and only the Red 
Party, and perhaps the Green Party, has ever explicitly 
endorsed a policy to redress the balance between the City 
and the Country. The Blue Party talk about encouraging 
wealth creation, but it is for the benefit of yon City folk, 
not for them as have to till the land and furrow the soil. 
The Red Party has promised to direct government 
subsidies to farmers and manipulate the markets in the 
Country's favour."

"I thought the Red Party represented the interests of 
only the poor and down-trodden," Hubert argued. "How 
can that be true of you Country people, living here in the 
midst of such plenty, generated from the wealth of the 
soil?"

"Beauty is all very well, sire. You gentlemen have such 
fanciful ideas of how good life is for us in the Country. 
And your fancies have brought us folk few favours, if you 
don't mind me saying so. We might enjoy living in the 
Country, and this is where we have chosen to live, but we 
want practical help. Our produce is made and sold at 
Country prices, not City prices. Not the prices you City 
folk are used to. Us folk, we talk in farthings, pennies and 
shillings. City folk talk in hundreds and thousands of 
guineas, but pay us for our produce only as little as they 
can. The Red Party promise to reward us better for our 
labours and to even the score more in Country folk's 
favour."

"What the Red Party promises and what the Red 
Government delivers are two different things. Surely, you 
will be just as neglected by the Red Government as you 
have been by the Coition Government before it."

"That I can't say, sire. The Red Party has been in power 
not yet two days. But already they have sent representatives 
to our homes to explain how the new system of 
government subsidies and investment will work, and how 
it will be paid for by the higher prices charged for our 
labours. I fancy, sire, the Blue Party or the White Party 
would not be so forthcoming on our behalf. The Country 
has been exploited for many years by the City, the Suburbs 
and the financial institutions: taking from us, loading us 
with debts we can never repay, offering us advice which 
ruin our crops and squander our resources for short-term 
gain, and telling us that we should learn from them and 
disregard hundreds of years of practical experience. The 
Red Party, however, have sensible and practical ideas 
which they seem committed to put into practise."

"I must say," Hubert remarked, apparently dumbfounded, 
"I had never thought to see the day when the anarchists, 
communists and socialists would rule the Country with the 
apparent consent of the farmers."

"Anarchists? Communists? I don't hold to them at all, sire. 
But that isn't what us Country folk find attractive about the 
Red Party. It really matters not what turn of cloth these Red 
Party folk affect to wear. What matters is that they provide 
us with stable markets for our produce, an incentive to 
farm and sell, and don't treat us like Country bumpkins 
with no nonce nor sensitivity. Political ideology is not what 
concerns us Country folk. Ultimately what we want is 
results, and if the Red Government provide these, then we 
shall be satisfied."

As we resumed our way across the fields, Hubert mused on 
the collie's remarks. "Such lamentable disregard for 
ideology and policy! Do these Country people not see that 
the interests of the traditional proletariat constituency of 
the Red Party and those of the peasant will inevitably 
clash?"

"But aren't the people who work in the Country much the 
same as those in the City," argued Beta. "They all want a 
good living for the work they do. Aren't you just confusing 
workers with the work they do?"

"One is defined by one's employ," remarked Hubert. "But 
here we are in the midst of beauty. Look at all these green 
fields. That one being ploughed by that robotic tractor 
over there, for instance. And, goodness me, what does that 
large Formica sign say?"

He pointed over a meadow where deer were frolicking with 
rabbits and skunks to an imposing sign reading: Sold To 
The Lambdeth & Houndswich Mutual Assurance 
Society. Behind it was a field that had been left to 
neglect: wild grasses and thistles crowded inside, more 
than waist high and blowing about in the faint breeze. A 
rusting hulk of a tractor and savage guard dogs were 
surrounded by many acres jealously guarded by barbed 
wire and thorn bushes. 

Hubert waved his massive arm. "That collie was wrong to 
say that the City and its financial institutions take no 
interest in the Country. Here, if proof were needed, is 
evidence of the investment and resources ploughed back 
into the Country. It is not all one-way traffic."

The meadow extended until it reached a line of deciduous 
trees, weeping willows and bull-rushes on the banks of a 
gently running river where water rats, otters and frogs 
played in the water and a family of swans glid by in stately 
procession. The bank was too steep for us to approach the 
water closely, although Beta wanted to wash the mud off 
her feet. A sign warned us that fishing was strictly 
prohibited, but this didn't trouble some beavers sitting on 
the bank who were dangling their fishing rods in the 
flowing current.

"Ah, we're approaching the lake where my journey ends," 
Hubert remarked. "The latter years of the Great Poet's life 
were spent there in a very pleasant cottage, now a museum 
managed by the Great Poet Trust of which I am proud to 
claim membership. He spent many pleasant hours by the 
shores of the lake, and of this river too, I am sure, inspired 
by the patience and skill of the kingfisher, the elegance of 
the striding heron and the occasional sight of the plesiosaur 
that lives there. It was there he consolidated his 
numerological theories of nature, humour and history. A 
theory famously illustrated in his series of Lake Sonnets, 
twenty-two in all, which encapsulate the delicate balance 
of nature, art and culture. I'm not so sure he would be so 
enthusiastic about many of the wares now sold in his last 
refuge which purport to his legacy."

"What are they?" I wondered.

"Pottery mugs embellished with his face. Tee-shirts 
enriched by his poetry. Fluffy toys. Rich chocolates. Soft 
drinks. Sticks of rock. There is no limit to the merchandise 
sold supposedly celebrating his poetic greatness. There are 
even plans afoot to construct a Great Poet theme park, and 
I have read bowdlerised 'popular' editions of his more 
accessible works. There may even be a television cartoon 
series based on his epic poem Spectacles Lost. There can 
be no limit as to how his legacy can be debased in the 
pursuit of an ill-gained farthing."

The river meandered about, occasionally bowing around 
and almost cutting itself off, and gradually getting wider. 
And then, around one of its many bends, the river rapidly 
emptied into a lake many leagues across and ringed by 
small hills. There was a village at one end of the lake, by 
which bobbed several small boats. The buildings were all 
very modest, bar a large white hotel decorated by 
prominent letters raised above its roof which even from 
this distance quite distinctly read The Great Poet Hotel. 
A boat sailed across the still waters embellished by the 
words: The Great Poet Tours Ltd. The sun's reflection 
shimmered in the middle of the lake occasionally shattered 
by the leaping of trout and the splash of low gliding 
pterosaurs. A well-worn path led towards the small town 
prominently signposted The Great Poet's Cottage, 
while another path in the other direction led to The 
Suburbs, amongst other places. 

"So, this is where we part," commented Hubert. "I wish 
you well on your quest, but I hope that this Rupert does not 
mislead you when he says that the Suburbs is where you 
will find the Truth. I really do not trust this Rupert or any 
of his followers. They do not seem a gentlemanly breed to 
me. But here at least there is little evidence of his 
unmannerly supporters."

The giant teddy bear lumbered off towards the small town, 
while Beta and I followed the lake in the other direction. It 
was a warm afternoon, the air brushed pleasantly against 
our faces and water lapped lazily against the shore just by 
the path. Dragon-flies buzzed about in the rushes. Trout 
and pike swam lissomely by, close to the surface and 
unworried by the swooping pterosaurs. Deer, dogs, badgers 
and even a diplodocus stood on the shore and sipped the 
cool clean water. The path was dusty and dry, and we were 
wary of treading on the scorpions and thistles that 
flourished in the aridity.

"It's so hot!" exclaimed Beta, and then without pausing, as 
she had no clothes to remove, she strode into the lake until 
it was up to her waist and propelled herself into the water 
with some forceful breast-strokes. She swam nearly a 
furlong out, turned round and shouted. "Come on in! It'
s lovely in here. It's really not that cold."

I nodded, and shyly shed my clothes, after confirming that I 
was being watched by no one, of any species, cautiously 
laid them where I could see them from a distance and 
walked out slowly into the water. It seemed very cold to 
me, but when the water was deep enough I ignored my 
shivers, crouched down and swam out to catch up with 
Beta. We hovered around each other looking at the hills 
and the Great Poet Hotel.

"It's lovely here, isn't it?" Beta exclaimed. "This is where I 
want to live. In the Country. Surrounded by beauty and 
fresh air. As far as possible from the traffic, the noise and 
the chaos of the City. What could possibly be better?"

Without waiting for my response, she kissed me on the 
lips, chuckled and dived into the water, her long wet hair 
trailing behind as she slid in, and splaying over her 
shoulders when she surfaced a yard or so ahead. 

"They say the Country is poor. But they must be wrong. 
However many trillions of guineas people may have in the 
City, it is they who are poor to be deprived of all this 
beauty, and we in the Country who are truly rich. What 
price can be attached to nature at its very best?"

Not far from where we were swimming was a picturesque 
open-air cafe on the water's edge served by a gruff looking 
bear, offering a limited but appetising selection of hot food 
at prices we had no difficulty in affording. For only a few 
groat we had a meal of ploughman's lunch and pastie, 
seated on an unsteady wooden chair in the cafe garden in 
front of an enormous bench, with the accompaniment of 
warm beer, gnats, dragon flies and the occasional bee. We 
faced towards the lake, the sun high above the water, as 
ducks flew overhead and a rowing boat struggled by.

Beta leaned over to kiss me. "Oh! It's so beautiful! Surely 
the Truth is here rather than in the Suburbs. Why don't we 
simply abandon our search and settle here?"

Beta was persuasive, but I was disinclined to abandon my 
quest after having come so far and now being so near 
where our goal promised to be. I was about to reply when 
the atmosphere, previously so peaceful and becalmed, was 
disturbed by four young people in the utilitarian outfits that 
Una had called Rupert suits. Two were Jack Russell 
Terriers with green berets sporting a badge depicting 
Rupert's face, one was an enormous scorpion with a sleeve 
for each of his four arms, and a trouser leg for each of his 
remaining four limbs, and a young female spaniel who had 
decorated her beret with a long pheasant's feather. They sat 
around a bench nearby, and shouted their orders to the 
bear. 

The spaniel noticed us watching them with trepidation, our 
food eaten and our beers half-finished. She greeted us 
amiably: "Are you also off to seek the Truth, comrades?" 
Beta nodded silently. The spaniel's three companions 
ignored her as she ambled towards us on her hind legs, 
more intent on their own involved and raucous 
conversation. "We're going to the Suburbs, too. It seems 
everyone is. And not just Illiberal Socialists! People from 
all over are congregating there. Thousands of people are 
going there. By foot, car, train or aeroplane. It's so 
exciting!"

"It's odd that so many people are going to the Suburbs," I 
remarked. "It's not usually a place where people want to 
go."

"It takes the great wisdom and insight of the President 
Chairman to recognise that it is exactly where to find the 
Truth. Only he could have identified its true location. And 
only he could have inspired so many to trek there, so soon 
after the excitement of the General Election. The Red 
Government are broadcasting propaganda telling people 
not to follow this great quest. They say that there are 
already too many people converging on the Suburbs, and 
that it is ill-equipped to cope with it. This proves the 
malevolence and incorrectness of Red Party ideology. They 
wish to deny everyone the opportunity of collaborating in 
the quest for the Truth: the one most ardently and 
assiduously pursued in all history. Are you members of the 
Illicit Party?"

Beta shook her head. "It's not very popular where I come 
from."

"That's a great shame. The Illicit cause has many barriers 
and obstacles to overcome in its relentless march to power. 
The vile and false propaganda of our enemies in the Red, 
Blue, White, Black and Green Parties has misled many 
who would surely all follow the cause if they were better 
informed, as are those of us in our woodland borough of 
Rupert. My sincere hope is that the pursuit of the Truth 
will converts many more to Illiberal Socialism. So many 
have followed the great marsupial and seek the Truth in his 
wake."

She glanced back at her companions who were staring at 
her and us silently with what might be either friendly 
curiosity or hushed enmity. Beta looked rather nervous as 
she hastily drank her beer and stood up. "Well, it's been 
nice talking to you, but we must be on our way!"

"Yes. Refreshment first. And then on with the struggle!" 
the spaniel said approvingly. 

She scampered back to her friends whose questioning of her 
didn't appear at all amiable, as we strode briskly out 
through the cafe gate and back onto the track. A crossroads 
pointed the way to innumerable destinations: Honeysuckle 
Wood, Cowslip Meadow, Dandelion Green, and, less rustically 
the Suburbs. This route led away from the lake through 
bracken and heather, over a ridge between two hills. We 
looked behind at the cafe where many others wearing 
Rupert suits were arriving and transforming the peaceful 
ambience of the lake with their greetings and shouts. As we 
climbed, we could hear them singing to the 
accompaniment of marshal music blasting forth from 
portable sound systems.

"I thought we'd have got away from the Illicit Party in the 
Country!" Beta exclaimed. "But here they are! Surely 
they're not all going to the Suburbs."

It seemed that they were, because when we ascended the 
brow of the ridge and looked over we were astonished to 
see a caravanserai of banners and flags being borne by 
countless people in Rupert suits marching along the 
meadow grass and bracken. They formed a long procession 
straggling on endlessly through the valley towards the 
distant roofs and church steeples of the Suburbs ahead. 
Even from this distance, we could hear the odd snatches of 
political chants and singing. All species were represented: 
sheep, dogs, ostriches, titanotheres, gremlins and 
hippopotami. We stood on the ridge, uncertain whether to 
continue or turn back.

"I don't want to meet up with all those people!" Beta 
exclaimed. "What happens if they get violent like they did 
in the City yesterday and in that town this morning? I 
wouldn't like to get mixed up in that!"

"What shall we do? We can't go back because there are 
more of them in the cafe, and they'll soon be coming out 
and heading in this direction. And if we go forward we 
can't avoid the procession."

"We'll go through the woods over there," Beta decided, 
pointing at the woodland that ran along one side of the 
valley. "It's a diversion, but at least it's in the right 
direction."

We skirted up the valley side towards a stile that entered 
into the wood, marked by a painted yellow arrow for the 
benefit of country ramblers. The heather and gorse gave 
way to long grass which brushed against our knees. 
Meadow flowers, like cow parsley and nettles, were being 
grazed by the occasional elk or aurochs. We clambered 
over the stile and onto a well-worn path fringed by dry 
rotting undergrowth. It was much cooler in the woods as 
the sunlight allowed through the gaps in the foliage 
amassed in only small patches on the forest floor. Bluebells 
and daffodils gathered in huge bunches where there was 
enough sun for them to flourish. A couple of dogs wearing 
berets had forgotten their ideological pursuits and indulged 
together in more carnal ones in a small clearing, their 
Rupert suits discarded haphazardly about them. Beta 
averted her eyes and nervously grasped my hand.

"I hope we won't come across too many more Illicitists," 
she remarked. 

Fortunately, we did not. The woodland life was unconcerned 
with any quest. Deer huddled in the darkest shadows of the 
wood, staring at us guardedly and nervously. Squirrels, 
both red and grey, were running up and down the tall tree 
trunks. A pine marten rested high above our heads while a 
gaggle of monkeys swung through the very highest branches 
where the occasional owl perched imperiously on guard.

We soon forgot the threat of the Illicit Party and chatted 
idly about the things we had seen together and our 
expectations of the Suburbs. Beta had a remarkable sixth 
sense which enabled her to tread surely along the uneven 
path, never scratching her feet on the dry branches and 
twigs scattered on the path, avoiding the small mounds of 
faeces and the patches of nettles that had encroached onto 
the path. She sometimes wandered off into the wood to 
bury her nose in bluebells. As we walked, the trees 
changed in character as did the soil in which they grew. 
Their roots sometimes spread out over the path and gained 
anchorage on the most precipitous slopes.

We became aware of squawking and cawing from behind. I 
turned my head to see a flock of crows and rooks burst out 
from the highest trees and fly overhead. A stag and several 
hinds thundered by, followed by fauns, rabbits and skunks. 
An owl flew very close above our heads, the stroke of its 
wings brushing us with a breeze unusual in the stillness of 
the forest air. I glanced at Beta for an explanation for this 
sudden rush of activity, but her eyes were closed, her head 
raised and her nostrils sniffing the air. I sniffed too but 
could smell nothing more than the usual rich mixture of 
arboreal odours.

"What's going on?" 

"I don't know. It's not normal, whatever it is! You don't 
suppose it's something to do with the Illicit Party do you?"

I shook my head. "I can't say. But why were you sniffing 
like that? Could you smell something?"

"Well, yes," admitted Beta frowning. "Something like 
burning. You know, that smell you get on a log fire before 
it properly catches." She sniffed again. "Yes. There it is 
again. Stronger now. Can you smell anything?"

"Something. I don't know whether it's burning. Is there a 
fire or something? Perhaps we're near an encampment. 
They might be having a barbecue."

"That's possible," agreed Beta, walking on but still quite 
troubled. Squirrels dashed between our feet, and there was 
the loud crashing of tapirs running by in the foliage. Beta 
shouted at one of the tapirs: "What's going on?"

"Fire!" shouted the tapir, pausing momentarily. "There's a 
forest fire!" 

He picked up a gallop and disappeared.

Beta looked at me with visible alarm. "We'd better run!"

I agreed, and we raced through the woods, away from our 
still unseen enemy. It wasn't to remain invisible for long, as 
we came to the top of a ridge and could see the tops of 
trees burning red and yellow less than a mile behind us, 
crackling and disintegrating in flames which were leaping 
up from the lower branches. There was a sudden crash as 
one of the trees fell down in flames setting alight trees 
further ahead of it. The dry bracken, twigs and leaves must 
have been helping the fire in its progress. Beta and I 
hurried on, occasionally turning our heads around, to see 
whether the fire had caught up with us. Beta leapt over 
branches and skirted around hummocks with an agility and 
skill I didn't possess. I kept slipping over and banging my 
shins against the forest obstacles. 

I had no idea where Beta was leading us, but she seemed to 
know best which way to take, as she took forks in paths 
and cut across stretches of woodland which followed the 
same general orientation of all the other animals. Her sense 
of direction had not failed her, as we soon approached the 
glimmerings of light in a patch of wood through which we 
emerged from the arboreal shadow to the unbroken blue of 
sky in a meadow along a valley similar to where we'd been 
earlier. Beta didn't stop running even in the open, and, 
gasping, I followed her example, leaping over the gorse 
and heather, until we were more than a furlong from the 
forest edge. She then abruptly stopped, and, panting and 
coughing, I was grateful to do the same thing.

We sat on a large granite boulder surrounded by short 
moorland grass, and looked back at the wood. Forest life 
was emerging, blinking and coughing and panting in the 
perceived safety. Deer, wolves, boar, pheasants, all 
gathering in ragged groups and anxiously staring at the 
destruction of their homes and fearing for their families. 
From the forest came the aura of flames, the roar of 
forestry engulfed in fire and the crackle of burning 
leaves. A strong carbon smell wafted past us.

Not all observers were distressed. A crowd of individuals 
in Rupert suits were laughing and joking around a solitary 
tree. Some were actually throwing stones at animals who 
were struggling to emerge from the forest, forcing them 
back inside. 

Beta glared at them malevolently. "I wouldn't be at all 
surprised if they'd started the fire," she remarked. 

A family of ground sloths blundered free of the forest, and, 
ignoring the stones (as well they could), ran towards the 
Illicit Party supporters who dispersed laughing and jeering. 
A bear with severe burns on her fur was carrying a small cub 
in her paws. She lay it down on the ground, and growled 
viciously at the inquisitive stares of some roe deer and 
civets who were gathering around.

"We best continue on our way," Beta remarked. "There are 
probably more of those Illicit dogs somewhere. They really 
don't seem at all nice."

Still fatigued by my running, but not disputing Beta's 
wisdom, I followed her to clamber over the moorland, 
following a general diaspora of forest animals such as 
muntjacs, wolves, badgers, rooks and even rhinoceri.

	23

Psychologically and physically exhausted, we finally came 
within a furlong of the Suburbs, which stretched ahead of 
us as we mounted the ridge that hid the Country from the 
Suburbs and its people. Although Beta was rather less than 
enthusiastic at leaving behind green fields and forests for 
the neatly aligned houses on the square grid of Suburban 
planning, I felt a distinct warming. I was almost home 
again, at last.

In front of the rows of Suburban streets was the Art 
Gallery, a building I had never seen before but had often 
heard about, built at a time when the Suburbs had 
grandiose pretensions beyond its present status. It towered 
incongruously high above modest semi-detached roofs, 
built on a peculiar design that blended elements of many 
different ages and cultures in a bizarre heterogeneous mix. 
There were Corinthian pillars, Byzantine domes, Gothic 
towers, Arabic murals and, in the long approach in front, 
were statues sprinkled about of its garden lawns. A 
thoroughly modern Formica display attached to its Norman 
arch announced unnecessarily The Art Gallery. 

Beta gripped my hand tightly. "It's enchanting!" She 
gasped. "We must have a look. We've got the time, and 
anyway I need the rest. My feet are aching." She lifted up 
the sole of one, bent back and brushed off small grass 
leaves that had attached themselves there. 

I nodded. "I wouldn't mind the detour myself." So we 
crossed the field to the road, mounted a stile and walked 
along the spotless tarmac towards the gateway to the Art 
Gallery grounds. A pig was sitting in a chair wearing a 
dark navy blue uniform and a peaked cap. He raised his 
bowed head slightly as we approached, judged us to be 
harmless and dropped his head again. We ambled along the 
gardens, past antique lamp-posts regularly alternating with 
waste paper bins, by which were empty benches, each 
distinguished by a plaque donated by patrons of the Art 
Gallery. The statues on the lawn were as miscellaneous as 
the architecture. Some were of great antiquity, portraying 
nude men possessing incredibly muscular build and 
remarkably tiny penises, and naked women of graceful 
curvature and combs in their hair. Some were abstract and 
suggested forms and shapes, exquisite in themselves but 
remote from concrete reality. Some were composed of a 
jumble of materials that might have been found on any 
rubbish heap, but were put together in a harmony of shape 
and form.

There were very few people around. Beta remarked on this 
with a frown. "Surely such a large and splendid Art Gallery 
this should attract people from all over!"

I smiled. "I don't think very many people from the Suburbs 
are especially enthralled by Art," I speculated. "If this were 
the City, I'm sure there'd be very many more visitors." I 
looked around. "Still, it's not totally deserted, so it can't be 
closed," I commented indicating two eurypterids eating 
sandwiches on a bench and a family of pigs playing around 
a statue of an enormous scorpion whose tail was 
menacingly poised to strike. "There'll be more people 
inside, I'm sure."

However, after passing the pig seated by the Art Gallery 
doors hidden by the shadows of the tall Palladian pillars at 
the top of a steep rise of steps, there seemed to be a paucity 
of visitors inside the building's immense interior. Along the 
balcony ringing the entrance hall, a diprotodon was 
viewing a set of miniatures and a centaur was stretching his 
head up to look at a very tall statue of an eminent 
gentleman in a frock coat at the further end of the hall. The 
only other people were two very bored women sitting 
behind the glass of the museum shop amongst a collection 
of posters, post cards and fine art books. 

The hall was not empty, though. Its impressive space was 
adorned by statues, paintings and murals from all ages, in 
all styles and often of quite monstrous dimensions. Huge 
statues representing famous brontosaurs, scorpions, 
mastodons and psammeads were dotted amongst immense 
paintings of naked women, wealthy patrons, vases of 
flowers, triptychs of heaven, hell and purgatory, or 
Midgard, Asgard and Armageddon. Monstrous chandeliers 
swung above our heads supported by massively thick 
chains and the rear view of the outspread wings of an 
albatross in a dress suit.

Beta gasped. "There's so much here! Have we got time to 
look at it all?"

"We'll see as much as we can," I remarked, striding past a 
statue of Heracles cracking open a lion's skull with a rock, 
and underneath a Pop Art painting of the Mighty Thor to 
enter the smaller galleries beyond. Beta followed, her eyes 
darting this way and that, at the tiled murals, the luscious 
geometric carpets, the erotic statues of couples indulging in 
bizarre sexual gymnastics, and grandiose canvases marked 
by single massive brush strokes or an abstract mess of 
thickly dripping oil paints. The whole building had an aura 
of reverence and silence highly conducive to Art 
appreciation, locking out all mundane daily affairs. 

We walked through a series of corridors, admiring different 
species of Art, through a room painted black and 
containing only a single used and collapsed washing-up 
bottle, past a pile of loosely arranged bricks guarded by a 
panoply of security devices, and around a vista of videos 
featuring different views of the same uninspiring terraced 
house on different times of the day. Our eyes were dazzled 
by the sights, but our feet were aching more than before 
we'd arrived. So much for coming into the Art Gallery to 
rest.

We entered a smaller room than most, featuring modernist 
paintings and sculptures from the surrealist to the abstract 
expressionist, from op art to found art, from the 
photographic to the neoraphaelite. In the middle of this 
room stood a large canvass on an easel, behind was a man 
in his mid-thirties wearing a black beret, a purple smock, 
and very baggy black trousers. In one hand he held a long 
paint brush from which globules of paint were threatening 
to drop while his arm supported a palette kept in place by a 
thumb through a hole.

The Artist's long nose peeped out from behind the easel, 
and he scrutinised us coming in with one eye squeezed 
close and the other along the length of his arm and 
measured by his upright paint brush. "Good afternoon and 
welcome, fellow aesthetes," he greeted us. "You come to 
admire and appreciate the illustrious panoply of Art the 
Gallery is proud to display, I deem?"

"It's very impressive," I admitted. "There's so much of it, 
and so varied."

"Not varied enough, I believe," the Artist mused, lowering 
his brush. "Many fine and illustrious schools are 
mysteriously unrepresented. Great hiatuses in the grand 
diffuse tradition of representational art are hidden from 
sight. Where, for instance, are the metaconcretists, the 
neomodernists and the protoromantics? Why such paucity 
of quasisurrealists, aural art and brochure montagists? It is 
a disgrace they are not represented here. Schools of art 
which have emerged over the centuries - such as the 
Marxist school, the Feline expressionists and the 
heterodoxians - not displaying their great deserved worth."

"That's a lot of different schools of art!" exclaimed Beta. 
"Which do you practise?"

"All and every one," the Artist announced proudly. "I am 
willing to employ any style appropriate to the effect I 
visualise and which best encapsulates its ultimate Truth." 
He raised his paint brush again and scrutinised Beta. "You 
are a vision rarely encountered in these environs. A woman 
so unlike those from the Suburbs who most often venture 
into these galleries. I presume that the Country is your 
abode. Your bearing and dress is so typical and so worthy 
of pulchritudinous immortality. It would be an inestimable 
privilege and a precious opportunity were you to sit for me. 
Your composure inspires me. I crave to render you in oil: 
capture your essence, your inmost coherence and your 
deshabille. Grant me my wish, I beg."

Beta smiled, clearly flattered. "Do you want to paint a 
portrait of me?"

"Most assuredly so. Future ages and cultures must not be 
denied your beauty." He gestured towards a chair on which 
sat a bowl of chrysanthemums and daffodils. "Pose for me 
here and now. I feel the imperative to capture your soul on 
my canvass. Remove the vase and flowers. My still life can 
be completed another day."

"I'm not sure we have the time," Beta remarked 
uncertainly. She looked at me for guidance, but I nodded. 
The opportunity to rest my feet seemed desirable in 
itself. "Well, maybe we can. How long will it take?"

"Not long at all, I assure you," the Artist said, strolling 
towards the chair, picking up the vase and setting it 
carefully on the floor. "Sit here. Relax. You must agree. 
My muse must not be denied!"

Beta lowered herself into the chair, crossed her legs and 
rested her arms on the chair rests. I sat on the padded seats 
provided by the Art Gallery. The Artist walked back to his 
easel, removed the painting he'd been working on and 
carefully placed it against the wall. It was probably 
intended to be a portrait of the flowers that had earlier been 
on the chair, but except for a splash of yellow that might 
have represented the daffodils there was little in the 
viscous broad strokes and amorphous puddles of paint 
which at all resembled flowers or vases. It seemed nothing 
more than a random mess of oily paint.

"That's fine!" the Artist said approvingly, studying Beta 
with the aid of his paintbrush. "Now put on a more solemn 
expression. Remove the idle humour of your smile. 
Suggest more pathos and regret. Uncross and slightly open 
your legs. Lay one hand on the upper thigh. Place your 
other hand behind your exceptional bouquet of hair. 
Slightly tilt the ankle. Raise the wrist ever so slightly."

Beta obediently followed each of the Artist's instructions, 
adopting an increasingly uncomfortable and extremely 
unnatural pose. She ached with each more elaborate 
demand. At last, the Artist was satisfied, while Beta was on 
the verge of toppling off the chair and knocking over the 
vase.

"Perfect!" he said at last. "Uncompromising. Suggestive of 
idyllic rural grace. Beautiful. You shan't regret this." 

He laid his palette on the floor and picked up a large thick 
pencil which he used to draw on the canvass. From where I 
sat, it was impossible to see exactly what he was doing, but 
it appeared fairly random and uncoordinated. The pencil 
slashed backwards and forwards in large broad gestures, 
pausing occasionally for particular minutiae that seemed 
worthy of more attention. On occasion he raised his pencil, 
with the same gesture as with the paintbrush, to measure 
Beta's relative height and sometimes that of objects 
nowhere near Beta, including the doorway behind him and 
the neon lights above our heads.

"The paintings and sculptures here are very impressive," I 
remarked idly.

"You think so?" The Artist remarked. "True, they 
apprehend some of the rich tradition of Art but there is 
such a meagre representation of living Art. Art should be 
seen as it is, not preserved like fossils and antiques. Art is 
of the moment: vibrant and urgent. It should evoke the 
time in which we live in all its plurality, eliciting both 
poverty and opulence." He gestured towards a large 
canvass on the wall which consisted of a collapsed and 
rather worn bicycle tyre glued on to a mass of paint and 
random cuttings from women's magazines. "Like this 
masterpiece, which flaunts the very essence of our time."

"It does?" wondered Beta. "It doesn't look quite as 
impressive as some of the other paintings. Like that one of 
the pigs dancing in a field in the main hall."

"Pigs dancing in a field? Could that be Cannelloni, or is it 
Bratwurst? Such naive art of the Vermicelli school is the 
very antithesis of this Art. Whereas Puddle's classic 
mirrors to us the ineluctable chaos and complexity of our 
age, urging one to reassess ones very raison d'etre and 
revealing, satirically and subtly, our relationship with 
travel and the media, - the two main aspects of our age - 
both deflated in a swirl and posture of free thinking 
expression; the other is just an illusory image of a time that 
never existed and probably never will."

"But we saw pigs just like that playing around a statue of a 
scorpion as we came in," Beta objected, wearily holding 
herself in position. "I've never seen bicycle tyres splattered 
amongst paint and scraps of paper before."

"That is because you are a Country girl," explained the 
Artist. "In your idyllic romantic world, all is play and 
nature: so to you it seems unaffected. But to most people, 
deprived of tactile sensual pleasure, the deflated bicycle 
tyre is more real and more poignant. Particularly so in 
those City districts so poor that the motor car rarely 
encroaches. The most consequential and potent images of 
our time are urban and Suburban." He lowered his pencil 
and leaned back to admire the lines he had sketched on the 
canvass. He bent down, picked up his palette and brush, 
and stood back while contemplating where to place the 
first brush stroke. "Art is not intended to comfort. It should 
challenge, discomfort, undermine, re-evaluate and 
disassemble. Art should be a kick in the face, a punch in 
the groin, or a garrotting in the dungeon. It must hurt, 
disillusion, deconstruct and destroy. The beholder must 
reel in shock, cough in rage and splutter in incoherence."

"That's not the Art I like most," Beta argued. "I prefer Art 
to be beautiful, illuminating and enhancing."

"And what is more beautiful than that?" insisted the Artist, 
diagonally tracing a broad stroke of red paint across the 
canvass. "What enhances more than that which confronts 
rather than comforts? What is more beautiful than chaos, 
disorder and anarchy? No doubt you still subscribe to passe 
notions of beauty, expressed by elegance of shape and 
form, harmonised by balance between foreground and 
background, evoking geometric structures of simplicity and 
symmetry. Surely it is better to subvert such idealistic 
romantic notions, and capture the nonlinear, 
nonharmonious whole of our world."

"Shouldn't Art achieve more than that?" Beta objected. 
"Isn't it Science that should explore such things?"

"Au contraire," the Artist reacted. "The Scientist's role, and 
that of the Artist, is to see and describe. The two are 
identical. The difference is in the nature of that observation 
and description. The Scientist is analytical and rigorous. 
The Artist is impressionistic, abandoned and sensuous. The 
Artist and Scientist represent two aspects of the same 
Truth. The Scientist reduces the world to axioms, theories, 
hypotheses and definitions. The Artist exposes its greater, 
irreducible whole. While the Scientist's tools are those of 
matriculation and exegesis, those of the Artist's are 
imagination and technique. Remove the surface and 
turbulent disorder reveals its own resplendence and 
purpose."

"But not all Art is like that," I remarked. "Many of the 
contemporary pieces here are much more real and 
representational than you suggest."

"Quelle dommage! That is regrettably so. Too many Artists 
shy away from the deeper and more profound truths. They 
attempt to capture an unreal perfection of shape, form and 
purpose which illustrate how little they fathom the higher 
pursuit of Art. But, heureusement, there are sufficient who 
pursue a greater quest. Not just in the visual Arts displayed 
here in the rooms and halls of the Art Gallery; but also in 
the aural, theatrical and olfactory arenas. There are 
symphonies and concertos that dispense entirely with the 
need for musical instruments, notation or structure. Novels 
that have abandoned the imprisonment of language, 
syntax and punctuation. Plays that are random, 
uncoordinated and interminable."

"Won't they be rather boring?" Beta wondered, squinting 
her face in the pain of her posture. "How can a play 
possibly be worth watching if it has no plot or characters?"

"Isn't life just like that? Is it not just a directionless 
meandering from birth to death? All the structure that there 
is in life is that which is imposed on it by timetables, 
conventions and routine. Traditional theatre betrays its 
imperative for accurate representation when it suggests 
more form, structure and purpose than actually pertains. It 
becomes nothing more than yet another idealisation of a 
brutal, unpleasant Truth. Real theatre, like real visual Art, 
is that which shows the pointlessness, the waste and 
disorder of life: mundane, disorganised and, yes, boring. 
But boredom is an inappropriate response. Boredom is a 
state of mind which refuses to see the power and beauty in 
the tedious, the monotonous, the unstructured, the 
interminable and the anticlimactic. Boredom is only one of 
many possible responses. One can also feel annoyed, 
irritated, uncomfortable and somnolent. Just as one feels 
emotions of enlightenment, joy, rapture and purposiveness. 
When Performance Artists cover themselves in pig swill 
and excrement; ride around naked on tricycles many times 
too small for them; wallow in blood from fresh carcasses 
from the abattoir; lie under a mass of scorpions; or 
regurgitate nails and used condoms through their nostrils: 
then they are all capturing the ultimate essence of life, the 
universe and everything!"

"If such Art has the effect you say why is there not much 
more of a response to it?" I couldn't help asking. "Very few 
people ever seem to be that troubled by it."

"That is not true," the Artist assured me. "Although it is 
often said that indifference is the worst fate that can befall 
Art: in truth it is oppression and censorship which most 
bedevil it; even when it also results in some of the most 
profound oeuvres. And I am afraid the forces of intolerance 
and repression are even now gathering to suppress the 
finest flourishes of our culture. The religious bigots and 
fundamentalists damn nonrepresentational and 
experimental Art as contravening an imperative to 
celebrate the world. The Coition government often 
threatened to deprive Art of its lifeblood of funding. And 
now some of the parties who have set themselves up in 
opposition to the Red Government attack contemporary Art 
with a rare ferocity, as if politics were the only province of 
Artistic enterprise. The Red, White and Green Parties have 
always been ambivalent friends of Art. The Blue Party has 
criticised Art but never threatened to destroy it. 

"The Black Party shows no such ambivalence. Their very 
manifesto is a vicious diatribe of ignorant slander, 
demonstrating a deep and wilful misunderstanding. If there 
were a Black, rather than a Red, Government, no Art 
would be permitted which did not feature heroic figures in 
classical poses in simplistic tones and colours. Music 
would become a military march, theatre would become a 
hackneyed expression of propaganda and the great legacy 
of the Art of our century would be pulverised into its 
original components. The Black Party are danger enough, 
but they have been a force which has commanded little 
general support beyond their widely scattered racist 
strongholds. The danger, however, is exacerbated by the 
Illicit Party, about which I know little but what I do know 
is that their Chairman Rupert is no friend of Art. What is 
further alarming is that his excitable followers have 
displayed their vituperation and violence in a much more 
active and organised way than the Black Party have ever 
done. They disrupt exhibitions, firebomb theatres, 
wantonly destroy monuments and physically attack 
exponents of contemporary culture."

"There seem to be rather a lot of Illicit Party supporters 
heading towards the Suburbs," Beta remarked. "We saw 
thousands of them marching through the Country." 	

The Artist looked more than a little frightened. "Did you 
say that there are thousands of these hooligans marching on 
the Suburbs? Goodness! They could march on the Art Gallery. 
They could destroy it."

"Surely, they wouldn't do anything like that," I remarked, a 
little uncertainly. "They're coming to search for the Truth, 
not destroy buildings."

"It wouldn't be untypical of what we've seen of them," Beta 
disagreed. "Every time we come across them they pick 
fights and destroy things. If they could start that fire in the 
forest, why couldn't they do the same here?"

"It just doesn't seem very likely." I argued. "It doesn't seem 
possible that ..."

My sentence was abruptly truncated by a loud crashing 
noise from elsewhere in the Art Gallery. Beta, the Artist 
and I hushed to determine what the noise could be. The 
Artist took up a tense pose, his paintbrush held frozen in 
mid-air and his face a deathly white. Beta's pose was 
actually more relaxed than it had been for more than 
twenty minutes, but her expression was no less tense than 
the Artist's. I tried to imagine what the noise might have 
been, its echoes still reverberating down the corridors. It 
sounded too close to be an aeroplane, and the sky was far 
too clear for it to be thunder.

"I didn't like the sound of that at all!" Beta remarked.

"What was it?" the Artist asked.

"Perhaps it was ..." I started, but Beta abruptly shushed me, 
placing a finger over her lips and a cupped hand over her 
ear to gesture that we listen. I did so, and heard the distant 
noise of people running about and shouts that sounded 
inappropriately loud for a place associated with quiet 
contemplation. 

"I think we should get out of here!" Beta remarked. 

"I think you're right!" agreed the Artist cautiously, putting 
his palette down and placing his paint brush into a glass 
bowl by the side. "Whatever it was I don't know, and I 
don't want to find out. There's no ..."

As if echoing the Artist's fears there was another 
catastrophic crashing sound, louder than the first, 
accompanied by the distinct sound of smashing glass. 
There came a series of self-congratulatory shouts and 
yelps.

"Let's move!" Beta said, running towards me.

The Artist nodded, gazing mournfully at his canvass. Beta 
and I briefly examined his painting, which really resembled 
Beta no more than his previous painting resembled 
flowers. It seemed nothing more than random brush strokes 
over a series of pencil lines, in which it was just about 
possible to make out what were either Beta's eyes or her 
nipples. The Artist sighed: "It would have been a great 
work of art. One of my very best. It would have redefined 
beauty, and captured the very quintessence of rural 
innocence."

"It can't be helped," Beta said, unimpressed by the Artist's 
portrayal of her. "How do we get out?"

"There's only one way, and that's the way you came in," the 
Artist answered.

"Well, let's get going!" I said, grasping Beta's hand. 

We dashed out of the gallery we were in, with the Artist in 
tow, past canvasses and sculptures, towards the source of 
the commotion. We soon came across evidence of the cause of 
the noise. An abstract statue of what may have been a large 
pig was lying in several broken chunks on the ground, part 
of it projecting outwards through a smashed skylight. All 
the paintings in this gallery were slashed by knives, several 
almost to ribbons, and a pile of tyres which had previously 
been mounted in the shape of a submarine were scattered 
widely about.

"The vandals! The vandals!" cried the Artist in genuine 
distress. "What have they done to Paella's classic 
sculpture? And they haven't spared even the finest 
Plunkett. And that torn canvass is the famous Tropic of 
Scorpio by the great Spam! How can this have happened? 
Have they no soul?"

"Come on!" cried Beta urgently. "We've got to get out!"

She ran on, with the Artist dawdling behind, in shocked 
disbelief at the damage strewn ahead. A pile of bricks had 
been dismantled and its constituent parts used as missiles 
to crack glass cabinets, punch holes in paintings, smash the 
faces of sculpted children and to lie in a heap at the foot of 
a chipped and nearly unrecognisable statue of a naked 
woman. 

"It is the Illicit Party!" exclaimed Beta. "Look at that!" 

She pointed at some coarsely sprayed graffiti across a 
series of sketches of country scenes. Rupert Rules OK! read 
one. The Truth! read another. 

"They can't even spell!" remarked the Artist bitterly, 
pointing at the words sprayed along the length of a toppled 
statue: Death To The Avent Guard! "All this Art! All 
this Culture! Priceless! Immeasurable! Uninsurable! 
Destroyed forever! I hate the bastards who did this! I hate, 
detest and loath them!"

We ran down corridors, passing only one figure: a 
capybara sprawled apparently drunk by a frame that had 
been pulled to the floor and its canvass torn out and ripped 
into shreds scattered across the gallery. In another near 
encounter, we heard the sound of shouting, chanting and 
destruction coming from a gallery to one side as we dashed 
past without being seen. The Artist bent his head back and 
grimaced as a painting came crashing to the ground, and 
the glass protecting the surface shattered into jagged 
fragments. Our good fortune in avoiding any encounter 
with the perpetrators eventually came to an end, and this 
was when we entered the main hall where we at last came 
face to face with those responsible for the vandalism.

The enormous space which had before seemed cathedral-
like in its solemn majesty and timelessness, now resembled 
the aftermath of a hurricane or earthquake. Enormous 
statues, including one of a scorpion, lay shattered in 
fragments on the gallery floor. A statue of Superman stood 
beheaded over the shattered glass cabinets in which his 
head was now resting. A medi‘val triptych representing 
the temptation of Christ was covered with mud and had the 
javelin from one of the Spartan sportsmen embedded into 
its wooden surface. In amongst all this destruction more 
devastation was being wrought. A group of gorillas in 
black leather costumes were gleefully tossing antique 
pottery to each other. Three or four small dragons were 
tearing up the fabric of an enormous still life portrait of 
some flowers. Others were bludgeoning sculptures and 
paintings with the fragments of others. A stone club 
originally brandished by a stone Samson to demolish 
sinners was now being used to knock out chips from a 
monstrous statue of Snow White, whose face was now 
abused to an extent no human could possibly withstand. An 
array of video screens was smashed in by a large weasel 
brandishing the stone arm of a wart hog. 

The Artist stood transfixed in horror. "That was a priceless 
Grillade! That was Peccadillo's finest painting! That was 
the most important spiritual painting of the Parmesan 
School. And that mass of paper, wood and cardboard is all 
that remains of Eponymous Borscht's greatest 
masterpiece!"

"What shall we do?" I asked in more practical concern. It 
seemed unlikely we could get across the main hall 
unnoticed. 

"I suppose we'll just have to hope they're too preoccupied 
to concern themselves with us!" Beta answered 
optimistically. "But I don't really want to risk it."

We stood petrified in the shadows of the Art Gallery's 
columns, unable to go forward and equally unable to turn 
back. However, our indecision was resolved after not too 
long, less by choice than circumstance. A group of 
eurypterids, some seven or eight feet long, were throwing 
broken chunks of sculpture at an enormous abstract 
painting just above an arch, and although their aim was not 
generally very good, some of their missiles hit the canvass, 
causing fragments of heavily layered oil paint to crack off 
and fall as polychromatic stalactites to the floor. The Artist 
mumbled to himself with abhorrence: "Don't they know it's 
a priceless Schwarzstein!"

Then driven mad with Artistic rage, he burst out from 
where he hid and ran towards them. "Stop it! Stop it! This 
is madness! Stop it!"

The eurypterids stopped just as he had bid, but not out of 
respect. They turned round and jeered at him. He also 
attracted the attention of a group of hyenas who had been 
chewing up a wooden Madonna and a velociraptor whose 
vicious claw had been shredding a painting of some naked 
women having dinner in a pigsty. They surrounded him, 
laughing and jeering.

"Just stop it! Do you hear!" the Artist shouted bravely. 
"Don't ruin masterpieces which have survived hundreds 
and thousands of years. I beg of you! Leave them alone!"

"It's a flipping Artist!" laughed a hyena.

"A flipping avant-garde Artist, I bet!" sneered the 
velociraptor. "He's probably painted some of this stuff! 
What would the great Rupert think of that?" 

The dinosaur clouted the Artist on the face causing him to 
collapse to the floor and out of our sight underneath the 
jeering predators.

Beta looked at me in horror. "What are they going to do to 
him?"

"I don't think we should stay to find out!" I replied, running 
full pelt across the main hall, jumping over broken statues 
and glass. Beta ran behind me, and very soon overtook me, 
demonstrating again her better ability to run over and 
around obstacles. Our spurt took us through the main 
entrance, past the shattered glass where the shop had been: 
its books, postcards and posters spread torn all around the 
hallway. We darted down the steps, past the blood-stained 
body of the pig who had been guarding the entrance. His 
snout was a bloody mess and his coat was badly ripped. He 
snorted mournfully as we tripped down the steps, a pool of 
blood in front of him in which could be seen the image of a 
bearded figure in a halo reflected from the mural above the 
arch.

There were more Illicit Party supporters and others 
scattered about the Art Gallery's gardens, but they were 
milling about with rather less purpose, and even seemed to 
be in cheerful holiday mood. Some were idly sitting around 
a statue of a large bear which they showed no interest in 
vandalising, and rather more in eating their sandwiches. 
Beta and I ran along the pathway leading out of the Art 
Gallery, past the sleeping figure of the first guard we had 
met, still unaware of the malicious damage being 
perpetrated inside.

Once out of the Art Gallery grounds, Beta and I stood by a 
tall lamp-post beside an ornamental hedge, panting and 
hawking in the late afternoon sunshine.  

"That was horrible! Horrible! All that destruction! And 
who's to know what they'd have done to us if they'd caught 
us!" Beta said through short gasps. "I hope that's the last 
time I get a fright like that!" 

I nodded sympathetically and sincerely. "So do I!"

 



	24

Only a furlong from the Art Gallery, Beta and I were at 
last indisputably in the Suburbs.  In the early evening sun 
it seemed so much the peaceful haven I remembered it, 
sheltered by the weight of its very presence from the 
disorder and chaos that had pursued us since the Election. 
The avenues and streets were lined by a comforting array 
of lamp-posts and mature trees; the neatly trimmed  hedges 
and lawns guarded by plastic garden gnomes kept a decent 
distance from the pavement; and television aerials and 
satellite dishes decorated every roof.

"I can't believe the Truth is here!" Beta exclaimed. "I can't 
imagine anywhere less likely."

This was difficult to dispute. It was, after all, this very 
assumption which had originally persuaded me to leave the 
Suburbs and seek the Truth elsewhere. "It is where the 
Truth is supposed to be though!"

"Where do you suppose we ought to start looking?" Beta 
wondered, regarding a cat dozing idly on the doorstep of a 
semi-detached house. "Should we knock on people's doors 
and ask?"

I shrugged my shoulders. 

Song birds tweeted in the tall trees above our heads and 
swallows glid through the air. Then we heard a rumbling 
thundering noise which gradually became louder and louder, 
heralding a centaur in a jacket, suit and tie, galloping 
along the road and right past us without pausing to glance. 
Beta watched him disappear down a road distinguished by a 
red post box at the corner. 

"What was that?"

"A commuter returning home," I surmised.

"He seemed to be in an awful hurry!" Beta said, frowning. 
"You don't think he was running away from something?"

"Why would he be doing that? This is the Suburbs. 
Nothing ever happens here. If anything happens it's 
somewhere else. Not here. The most dramatic thing to 
happen here is when a bus is late or there's a power cut."

Beta nodded. "I'm sure you're right. It seems very quiet, I 
must admit." 

We strolled along, occasionally attracting stares from 
elderly women twitching lace curtains who had probably 
never seen anyone dressed like Beta in their streets. A pig 
in a three piece suit wandered by, carrying a newspaper and 
umbrella in one trotter, and a briefcase in the other. He 
stared at Beta from the corner of his eye, trying hard to 
disguise his curiosity.

Every road seemed much the same as every other, and we 
were soon lost in a maze of identical streets, cars parked in 
the drives of semi-detached houses and numbers on the 
doors, just above the vertical slit of the letter box, for the 
postmen's benefit. It was in one street much the same as the 
others we first saw signs that the Suburbs might not be quite 
as peaceful as we imagined. 

A few cars had smashed windscreens and the entrails of radios 
strewn over the seats and onto the pavement where the doors 
had been wrenched open. Dustbins were lying on their sides, 
with cereal packets, empty detergent bottles and discarded 
newspapers spilling out onto the pavement. We stepped over 
the rubbish, and past the crystal fragments of a car window. 
A newspaper raised itself up from the ground in a sudden gust, 
and billowed against a hedge. The pages divided themselves and 
scattered their separate ways on the herbaceous borders and 
heathers of a front lawn.

"Help me! Help me!" cried a voice from an upstairs 
window in one of the houses. We glanced up to see a child 
in a school uniform waving at us. "Call the police! Get 
help!"

"What's wrong?" shouted Beta, standing by the gate.

"We've been attacked! Robbed! It's horrible! My hands 
have been tied! I don't where Mummy and Daddy are!"

"We'll help!" said Beta determinedly, pushing open the 
gate and running up the drive to the front door, which we 
could see now had been forced open on its hinges. 

I followed her, and into the hallway where clothes were 
lying scattered about and a picture of a countryside scene 
had been violently thrown to the ground and broken across 
the back. An ugly red patch was smeared on the pale floral 
wallpaper and jagged fragments of a hall mirror lay 
splintered on the floor. I dashed up the stairs to where 
Beta was opening doors and looking inside. She 
disappeared into a bedroom marked by a tiny floral name-
plate, and I followed. Inside was the child, her hands tied 
behind her back, a hanky tied loosely around her throat 
where it had presumably been used as a gag and a fresh red 
and blue bruise beginning to swell under her eye. Her face 
was a mess of tears and her legs were tied together at the 
ankles and knees by sheets that had been ripped off the bed 
and torn into strips. The bedroom had all the paraphernalia 
of childhood - toys, videos, cassettes, clothes and comics - 
thrown all around the place. The doors of her cupboards were 
open and boxes of more toys threatened to fall out. A large 
poster of four young men carrying guitars and signed by each 
was torn across the middle.

"It was horrid! Beastly!" sobbed the girl as we undid her 
bindings. "These horrid people burst into the house while I 
was watching telly..." She pointed at a screen which had 
been thrown onto the floor, its wires pulled out and the 
glass shattered. "They hit me. They threw things around. 
They destroyed my teddy. Then they tied me up."

"Who were they?" Beta asked.

"I don't know! They all wore black leather. One was a 
horrid black hog with horrible horrible big fangs and a 
black beret. I don't know where Mummy and Daddy are. 
Why didn't they help me? Why didn't they stop them?"

"I'll ring the police!" I announced, doing what I believed 
was the best thing. 

I strode out of the bedroom into the hallway, wondering 
where the telephone might be. I pushed open a door on the 
opposite side of the landing and looked at another ruined 
bedroom. I saw a telephone sure enough, but smashed to 
pieces, the bare wire of its leads stretched across the 
room. This room was ruined just as much as the other. A 
wardrobe had been pulled over, framed photographs lay 
shattered about on the carpet and another television was 
destroyed. I heard a small moan from behind the bed. I 
strode round to find a middle-aged woman, half of her 
clothes ripped off, with bloodstains on her bared breast 
and a nasty gash across her face. Like her daughter, her 
hands and arms had been tied together, and her mouth was 
gagged by a silk scarf stuffed into it and trailing over 
her chin.

I pulled the scarf out. "Are you all right?" I asked 
pointlessly, as it was obvious she wasn't. "Is there anything 
I can do?"

The woman looked through me with a wild stare. "They 
raped me," she moaned. "They raped me!" 

I bent over to pick her up, but with a sudden spasm of 
violent energy she angrily pushed herself off. She collapsed 
back onto the side of the bed, a trickle of blood dripping 
from a reddened mouth. "They raped me. Raped me. Why? 
Why?" 

"Can I help in any way?"

"They raped me. Me! Raped..."

I backed out of the bedroom. The best course of action was 
clearly to get help. I ran down the stairs to look for another 
telephone: there must be more than one! And indeed there 
was. In the living room, but similarly destroyed and by the 
sprawled body of a man in a cardigan, slippers and 
polyester trousers, whose face lay in a puddle of blood 
studded with small white pebbles which I recognised with 
shock as being his own teeth. He hadn't been tied up like 
his wife and daughter, as presumably there hadn't been any 
need. I rushed out of the living room, too frightened to 
determine whether he was alive, and charged up the 
staircase to rejoin Beta who was comforting the school-
girl.

"What's wrong?" Beta asked as I entered. "You look 
terribly pale."

I didn't know how to answer. The image of the blood on 
the pile carpet amidst the smashed ornaments and furniture 
and loose scraps of paper were too clear in my mind. "The 
phones have been smashed!" I at last said. "We'll have to 
use a public telephone!"

The child nodded her head. "There's one just round the 
corner."

"We'll go there," I said with some determination. "All of 
us. Together!"

"Why all of us?" queried Beta with a frown.

I swallowed the bolus of spittle that was rising in my 
throat. "It's better if we all go!" I said with conviction. 
"We'll get the police. And an ambulance. They can sort it 
out."

"An ambulance? Why? What's happened?" Beta asked.

"We'd better go!" I repeated with urgency. "Now!"

"I don't want to go!" said the child. "I want to stay here! 
With Mummy and Daddy!"

I felt hopeless in my dilemma, but thankfully Beta assessed 
the horror of the situation with more clarity than the child. 
"We'll come back straight away. Don't worry! You'll be 
alright."

Reluctantly, the child agreed, and so we walked out of the 
house through the scattered ruin of her family's 
possessions, past the wreckage of the car and along the 
road, where we could now see that other houses had been 
attacked. I felt extremely disorientated. This could not be 
happening! This was the Suburbs. This was not right.

Inevitably, we found that the telephone box had been 
vandalised. The telephone had been wrenched off the wall, 
the glass windows of the red kiosk were smashed and a 
pool of loose change was scattered along the edge of the 
pavement. 

When the child saw the damage she burst into a fresh 
torrent of tears. "We'll never get the police! Why did they 
do it? What are they doing? And where's Mummy and Daddy?"

"We'll find another telephone box," said Beta soothingly.

"We won't! They'll all be smashed! It's not fair! I'm going 
back home! I want my Mummy and Daddy!" 

She then dashed off, her thin white legs flicking back and 
forth as she ran.

Beta looked startled. "We ought to chase after her!" she 
said, staring at me. "She can't be just abandoned!"

I couldn't deny the moral urgency of Beta's assertion, but I 
wasn't at all sure I knew what we could do. I was 
frightened of returning into the girl's home where her 
parents were in such a bloody state. However, I left such 
thoughts behind me as I dashed after Beta back where we'd 
come. We ran round the corner of the avenue where her 
home was, to see her screaming and running off at a 
tangent down a cul de sac to one side. She was soon out of 
sight, her sandaled feet pacing along a path between 
houses, and we saw what had frightened her.

I had never seen such ugly gargoyles before in my life, and 
certainly not in the Suburbs. And there were so many of 
them. Cruel faces, with vicious fangs and horns, wings 
protruding from the backs of some of them, destroying 
cars, smashing windows and shouting at each other. Most 
of the gargoyles were no more than three or four feet high, 
but one particularly ugly specimen, with the face of an 
eagle and savage long claws towered high above the others, 
whooping with joy at the destruction meted about him. 
Beta and I similarly turned about and dashed down the 
pathway, marked by a sign featuring the silhouette of a 
walking man.

We ran and ran through a maze of paths running alongside 
and behind the gardens of deceptively peaceful streets, 
having lost all sight of the child, and now much more 
concerned about our own safety and survival. At last the 
paths emerged into another avenue, much the same as the 
ones we'd left but thankfully lacking in any evidence of 
vandalism or violence. We paused by a telephone pole, 
leaned against a garden wall, and panted in short urgent 
breaths.

"Who were they?" Beta asked.

I shook my head. "I don't know. They don't come from the 
Suburbs. They must have come here looking for the Truth."

"They don't look like they were particularly interested in 
the Truth. Whatever they're here for, it's not to find the 
Truth. The only thing they seemed interested in was 
destruction!"

We walked on, unsure which direction to go and in any 
case totally lost in the grid of streets. It seemed here at least 
there was nothing to worry about, although when we tried 
to use a public telephone box to alert the police we found 
the lines were uncharacteristically dead. I put down the 
receiver with disgust.

"Surely, they must know what's going on!" Beta remarked. 
"All that couldn't be going on without the police knowing!"

My Suburban faith in the police persuaded me to agree 
with her, although I was troubled that an institution that  
normally cleared away the evidence of car accidents and 
suicides in the Suburbs with commendable haste and 
efficiency should be so absent when most needed. I 
nodded, and walked along with Beta, squeezing her hand 
tight as much to comfort myself as her.

It was then that we saw the figure of the Artist approach us, 
unsteadily wandering from side to side along a road that 
was mysteriously free of traffic. As he came closer we 
could see a bloody gash disfiguring his chin, caked blood 
on his upper lip beneath his nostrils and his smock badly 
ripped and revealing much of his hairless chest. When he 
saw us, he ran his fingers through his blood-soaked hair, 
and smiled weakly.

"They set fire to the Art Gallery! They burnt it down! All 
those masterpieces! All the Biriyanis, Tortellinis and 
Salamis! Destroyed forever! Unforgivable! Absolutely 
unforgivable!"

"Are you alright?" asked Beta with some concern. "We 
were terribly afraid they might have killed you."

The Artist bent his head down and despairingly clasped his 
forehead in his paint-splattered fingers. "I'm alright. I think. 
But the Art Gallery is totally destroyed. Everything! Up in 
smoke! Never to be seen again. The treasures of the nation. 
A priceless national heritage! Gone forever. Forever!"

"How did you escape?" I wondered.

"I don't know. I don't know at all. They were distracted I 
suppose: the vandals. They found something else to do. 
Perhaps it was some other thing they wanted to destroy. I 
was just left. On the floor. By the foot of what was left of 
Pork's Monument to Eternity. I just lay there, with my 
tongue on what used to be a tooth." He opened his mouth 
to show a gap in the front of his mouth where an incisor 
should have been. "I was in such pain. There was blood in 
my mouth. And my eyes. Seeping through my hair. I don't 
know where my beret is. I just lay there. I could hear all the 
destruction. It was horrible! Humiliating! And then I smelt 
smoke. I didn't know what it was at first. My nose was so 
caked with blood I couldn't smell very well. Then I saw a 
cloud of smoke waft over the Art Gallery. Then I realised. 
They were burning down the Art Gallery. Not content with 
what they'd done to the contents, they were destroying the 
entire flipping edifice."

"But you're alright," said Beta soothingly. "You're alive. 
They didn't kill you."

"I wish they had. My life is nothing now. Much of my own 
work must have been destroyed in the fire. I got up. There 
were still globules of blood dripping on the floor in front of 
me. But I got up. Somehow. I couldn't stand very well. I 
had ... I have such a horrible headache. But I crawled 
through the gallery. I don't know how. Over all the ruins of 
great Art. The Culture. The essence of civilisation. And 
then out of the Art Gallery. I saw flames behind me. 
Yellow, red, black flames. And smoke. But I got out. And 
then I ran and ran."

"Were many Illicit Party people there?" I asked.

"I don't know. I didn't look. There might have been. If they 
were, they weren't interested in me any more. I just ran and 
ran. And then I just fell on the grass and lay there. I was 
sick. So sick. I just lay in blood and vomit, with the smell 
of smoke from the Art Gallery. It billowed out of the 
entrance. Consuming irreplaceable classics. My own 
Untitled No. 24. My own Esoterica Divined. Even my 
Omega Psi: Surrender. All destroyed! Consumed by fire, 
now only a memory and never to be seen again!

"As I lay there consumed by misery and despair, I felt 
someone's hands on my back. I drew back, thinking it was 
another Illicit bastard. Or worse. But it was a centauress. 
She had come from the Country and had galloped to the Art 
Gallery for shelter. She was very concerned about me, and 
wiped off some of the blood from my face with a 
handkerchief. She knelt down beside me and told me why 
she'd been running away from the Country. There had been a 
fire in the forest where she'd lived, and she'd fled from 
it. She was very worried that her home might have been 
burnt down in the flames, but it was too perilous for her 
to return."

"That must have been the fire we saw!" Beta exclaimed. 
"Did she know what had caused it?"

"She didn't say. All she knew was that there had been a 
fire. But she said that she had seen many many of these 
people, Illicit Party, Black Party, and others who were not 
in any political grouping. There were dragons, wyverns, 
gargoyles, minotaurs, all sorts rampaging through the 
Country. People she had never seen before. She had no 
idea where they came from, but she told me that it was 
certain that they were en route to the Suburbs on this 
damnable quest for the Truth. She was terribly worried for 
the health of her foals who had been at school during the 
fire. She had no idea where she might find them, as their 
school is a long way from her home. Schools are scattered 
about thinly in the Country, and they travel there each 
day by bus. She said she had seen hundreds of these 
monsters and political activists descending on the Suburbs 
from all directions. They're all converging here and 
causing havoc wherever they go."

"Did she actually see any evidence of this?" I wondered.

"Oh yes! Yes, she had. Although she said that what they 
had done to the Art Gallery was the worst she'd seen. I 
looked back at the building where flames were bursting 
through the windows and yet there was no fire service to 
extinguish it. Where were they? What's happened? Has 
totally lawlessness, anarchy and chaos descended on this 
land?"

I reflected on the destruction we had just seen and had to 
agree that that was exactly what had happened. 

"Even here? In the Suburbs? How can this be?" the Artist 
bewailed. "The centauress said she had seen houses 
ransacked, farms attacked by gangs of grotesque monsters 
who were devouring all the livestock. She saw a pack of 
manticores attack a herd of sheep and tear them apart limb 
from limb. A smilodon was tearing at the throat of a young 
mastodon. And she even saw a tyrannosaurus swallow a 
pig whole in a few short gulps. She was understandably 
worried about her family and, of course, herself. Normally 
centaurs have no natural enemies except alcohol and 
mange, but even they can't cope with carnosaurs or 
dragons."

"Nor can anyone else!" Beta said, with a shiver.

"The centauress had galloped a long way before she came to 
the Art Gallery. She said she had no idea where she ought 
to go. Everywhere was full of gangs of these people. Not 
all of them were violent, she said. Some were like pilgrims 
looking for the Truth as if they were heading for Mecca. 
There were people of all sorts. Some from the City. Some 
from all over the Country. Many, of course, came by car or 
van, and there were dreadful traffic jams on the Country's 
roads which are really not designed for that kind of volume."

The Artist paused, and wiped his nose from which a fresh 
trickle of blood was emerging. He glanced quizzically at 
the red stain on the back of his hand. "The centauress was 
no doctor. She really couldn't do more than talk to me. And 
then she galloped off. Probably back to the Country. I 
decided to come to the Suburbs. This seemed the safest 
possible place to come. But before she left, she told me 
more about the foul things she had seen."

"What sort of things?" I wondered. 

"Like this car she saw being attacked in a village. It was an 
enormous car. Totally unsuited for Country roads. How it 
had ever got there, she couldn't say. Perhaps with so much 
traffic on the roads and all the police diversions it had 
simply got lost. All these Black Party people... At least 
I think they were Black Party from how she described 
them. All dressed in black leather, she said. They were all 
piling on top of the car. They were shaking the vehicle 
from side to side. And then the people inside got out. There 
was a hippopotamus, a rhinoceros and some others she 
said..."

"I think we know the car you mean!" Beta remarked. "Was 
there a dog as well and a fat man?"

The Artist frowned. "I don't know. I wasn't there. I can't 
remember whether she mentioned any other people. But it's 
not often you see such large pachyderms driving around in 
the Country. Most cars aren't big enough! But I remember 
she said there was a hippopotamus and a rhinoceros. And 
they were probably foreigners too, she said. They didn't 
seem at all sure what to do. Anyway, she didn't say very 
much. She simply said she had seen them come out of the 
car and try to fight off the vicious leopards and coyotes 
who were besieging it. Of course, that wasn't too difficult 
for big animals like them. At least not individually. And 
then she saw two allosauruses appear and the fight was a 
lot less even. The car was totally destroyed. I think she said 
that the people attacking it just pulled it completely to 
pieces."

"And what happened to Wilma and Wayne? The two 
people in the car?" Beta asked anxiously.

"I don't know. The centauress didn't say. Perhaps she didn't 
know. They may have got away for all I know. But without 
their car: that's for certain!"

We mused on the news for a few moments. Beta was 
clearly very upset by it, and squeezed my arm tightly to her 
side. "How can there be so many horrible things happening 
in one day? What's happening?"

The Artist sat down by the side of a wall, behind which 
could be seen the twitching curtain of a nervous occupant, 
distressed either by the sight of the Artist's wounds or the 
fear that he might inconveniently demand assistance. "I 
don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. I've stood 
at a bus stop for ages waiting for a bus, but none arrived. I 
don't know how I can find my way home. And I am 
trepidatious regarding any encounter with these monsters 
that have been unleashed into our midst."

We sat by the Artist who had become uncharacteristically 
silent, while nursing the unpleasant gash on his forehead. 

Beta squeezed my hand. "All these horrible horrible 
things!" 

While we sat there, we saw another familiar figure 
approach us, carrying a baby in a kind of pouch around her 
chest. It was Una walking along the street, looking 
nervously from side to side as if expecting to see some 
more horrors emerge. Beta stood up and walked into the 
middle of the empty road waving her arms from side to 
side. Una saw us, waved back and without increasing her 
stride headed towards us.

"How are you? What are you doing here? Why aren't you 
still recuperating at the Embassy?"

Una looked sadly into Beta's eyes, clutching her baby 
close to her breast. "I thought the Suburbs might be the 
place to come. Everyone else is coming here. They might 
be coming to find the Truth, but I thought I might come 
here, find a job, find somewhere to live, start a new life for 
me and my baby." She was wearing a long dress that was 
really a little large for her and came almost down to her 
ankles.

"How did you get here?" I wondered.

"Oh, I hitch-hiked. I went to this motorway junction 
carrying my baby and stuck my thumb out into the road. I 
didn't really care where anyone was going, but since most 
people were going to the Suburbs I thought it was the place 
to go. I didn't wait long. Less than half an hour, anyway. A 
van stopped. It was spray-painted all sorts of colours with 
lots of slogans on the outside, including 'THE TRUTH'. 
There were plenty of young people inside. They weren't 
from any particular political party or religious group, 
though they were mostly sympathetic to the Red Party. 
They were very glad anyway that they had won the 
Election. There was a girl with very long hair wearing a 
colourful thin cotton dress. Another girl with her head 
shaved wearing only a pair of black leather shorts. A man 
with short spiky hair, covered in earrings and studs who 
kept smoking all the time. There was a pig driving who 
also had ear-rings and a woolly hat over his head. They had 
heard about the search for the Truth, and decided to join 
the flow of people heading to the Suburbs."

"Why were they doing that?" Beta asked. "I thought it was 
mostly just Illicit Party people coming here."

"Oh, everyone's coming. Not just Illicit Party. I suppose it's 
something that appeals to a lot of different people: the 
Truth, that is. They said that in different ways they'd each 
been searching for the Truth already in the City commune 
they lived in. They'd sought for it through religion, 
mysticism and meditation with the assistance of gurus and 
paperbacks. It seemed right to them that they should be in 
the midst of all the excitement."

"And where are they now?" I asked, looking down the 
empty street.

"I don't know. I lost them. It took a long time to get to the 
Suburbs. There were a lot of cars on the road. It was a very 
slow long journey. A number of different vehicles are 
heading here: carriages, vans, cars, coaches, anything with 
wheels. I've never seen anything like it. When we got here, 
it was not at all obvious where to go. The pig drove us all 
around the place. The streets were very full, and almost all 
of them were full of cars parking in all the available 
spaces, blocking people's drives and on the pavement. 
There were all sorts of people wandering about. Some like 
the people in the van I was in. Some dressed in Rupert 
suits. Some in the sort of clothes that people in the Suburbs 
wear: I suppose they must have been ordinary 
Suburbanites. And then we saw these horrid monsters loom 
up in the street ahead of us!"

"Monsters?" asked Beta.

"I don't know what else to call them. Dwarves with faces 
on their chests. Things a bit like vultures and a bit 
like rats. Things with long cruel fangs and vicious claws. 
I've never seen things like that before in my life. And 
neither had the others in the van. These monsters chased 
after the van, and there really wasn't space to turn round. 
The driver reversed the van backwards, but there were cars 
behind us and we couldn't go back further. As the monsters 
approached, they were smashing other cars and really 
looked very dangerous. I don't know when the decision was 
made or whether it was wise, but the doors of the van were 
thrown open and we all ran out. The pig jumped out as 
well, but he was suddenly descended on by all these 
winged monkeys. I didn't want to look back. All I was 
interested in was my baby. I didn't want him to get hurt! I 
just run and run. Past all the damage that's been done in the 
Suburbs and the fires that have been started, and then I got 
here. It seemed nice and quiet. No cars. No chaos. And I've 
been wandering around here ever since."

"But why are you here at all?" Beta asked. "Why aren't you 
still in the Embassy?"

"The Cat Embassy? No. Haven't you heard the news?"

"The News?" I asked. "No. Why? What's happened?"

"The Cat Kingdom's being invaded. It started last night. 
There were rocket attacks on the capital city, Felis, which 
razed the Royal Palace to the ground and may well have 
killed the King. The Canine Republics with the assistance 
of the Illiberal Socialist Republics have declared war on 
the Cat Kingdom. There are Dogs and others overrunning 
the country. Mice and Dogs who live in the Kingdom are 
assisting the invaders. Cats are being slaughtered 
indiscriminately. It sounds really appalling! When the news 
broke at the Embassy there was total chaos. All the 
Embassy staff were running about. They didn't know what 
to do. No one really knows what's happening in the Cat 
Kingdom. It's all a horrid mess! There are radio broadcasts 
from Mice declaring their own republic. And there are 
uncorroborated reports that the Illiberal Socialist Republics 
are behind most of the worst violence."

"So what did you do?" Beta wondered.

"I didn't know what to do when I was first told the news. I 
hoped that maybe my plight would have made it easier for 
me. But a Cat came into my room and told me that they 
were abandoning the building. They'd heard that there was 
a likelihood that the Embassy might be attacked. In some 
of the other Cat embassies round the world, especially 
those in countries who are uncertain in their support for the 
Cat Kingdom, the embassies had been attacked and burnt 
to the ground by Dogs and Mice and others who have 
grudges against Cats. She warned me that it was probably 
safer for me to leave. The Ambassador had already left and 
has gone into hiding. She was very worried about her own 
safety. As she told me, however imperfect the Cat Kingdom 
and its King might have been, it had at least represented 
an internationally recognised force sympathetic to the 
Feline cause. She was frightened that the Feline diaspora 
would begin again. She was at least grateful that she 
wasn't living in the Cat Kingdom.

"That's why I left the Embassy, while all the Cats and the 
staff were shredding papers and erasing computer disks. 
There was an awful amount of panic amongst the staff, 
many of whom had already abandoned the building, and 
those left were worried about their jobs and probably their 
very lives. I was given this dress to wear - it was the best 
fit they could find - and this pouch for my baby, and then I 
had to go into the street again. It wasn't easy. I had to make 
my way through a crowd of desperate-looking Cats who 
were pressed against the gates and clamouring for 
information and advice, and some Mice and Dogs who 
were shouting abuse and throwing beer cans and stones at 
the Embassy and at the Cats. I was terribly frightened for 
my baby. I clutched him so close to my breast I thought he 
might suffocate."

"And that's why you decided to come to the Suburbs?" 
Beta surmised.

"Exactly. Where else could I go? The City's totally failed 
me. I can't return to Unity. I thought a borough famous for 
its peace, calm and stability was by far the best place to 
come. I'm not in the slightest bit interested in finding the 
Truth."

The Artist coughed weakly. His hand was cupped over the 
wound on his cheek which had started to seep a small 
trickle of blood. "I ought to be taken to a hospital," he 
remarked softly. "I could get lockjaw or gangrene if I'm 
untreated."

"Of course you should!" said Beta with alarm. "We should 
have thought." She glanced at me. "Where shall we go?"

I shrugged a shoulder helplessly. "I don't know. This part 
of the Suburbs is as unknown to me as it is to you."

"Well, we'll have to go somewhere," said Beta 
determinedly.

Una pointed back in the direction she'd come: "There's 
some shops and a post office I passed on the way here. 
Perhaps there'll be a hospital or something near there."

I nodded. "It's possible."

On that flimsy advice, we walked in the direction Una 
indicated, under a sky that was gradually filling with the 
first substantial clouds I had seen for several days, but 
occasionally let our shadows stretch to our side as we 
walked. Beta looked at Una's baby who was fortunately 
fast asleep and wholly unaware of his surroundings.

"Were there any awful things happening in the City like 
we've seen and heard about here in the Suburbs?" she 
asked.

Una stroked her baby's head and reflected. "Not as bad as 
here, I think. Not as far as I know, anyway. I think 
everyone's been leaving the City and coming here. Mind 
you, when I left the Ambassadorial district, I did pass by 
the Academy and there seemed to be some trouble there."

"What sort of trouble?" I asked. "Like at the Art Gallery?"

"Art Gallery?"

"It's been ransacked, firebombed, vandalised, ruined!" the 
Artist bewailed. "Masterpieces lost forever! A cultural 
heritage in smoke!"

"No, not as bad as that!" Una said with some concern. "Did 
they really do all that to the Art Gallery?"

"And worse!" emphasised the Artist.

Una raised her eyes in horror, but restrained herself to an 
account of what she'd seen of the Academy. "There was a 
demonstration outside. All sorts of people. Some throwing 
stones and books at the building. The police were guarding 
it, in riot gear. They were obviously prepared for things to 
get very disagreeable. Some academics were being led out 
of the building, their heads down and with police plastic 
shields over them to protect them from the missiles. I don't 
know why they were being attacked like that. Perhaps it 
was for their political views. I heard that a lot of academics 
came out openly on one side or another of the political 
spectrum during the Election. Perhaps that's what was 
upsetting the demonstrators. I didn't really want to find out 
more. I just headed for the nearest motorway junction."

The way ahead soon lost the deceptive calm we'd been 
enjoying. The road became full of disconsolately 
wandering people, carrying bags and suitcases, while all 
around them were the battered ruins of abandoned cars and 
vans. Most of the houses remained intact, although they 
had broken windows, damaged hedges and garbage spilt 
over their drives. Some of the houses, however, had 
suffered considerably worse than others: trails of smoke 
still rising through blackened and charred roofs and 
smashed possessions scattered over neatly mown lawns 
and tangling in the geraniums in the flower beds. 

There was no particular direction in which the mass of 
people were heading. Some were wandering towards us. 
Some in the same direction as us. Some had abandoned any 
pretence of going anywhere at all, and sat in huddled 
groups on their luggage by the roadside, their eyes wide 
open and their faces pale in disbelief and shock. Beta 
grabbed both my hand and that of Una, who seemed as 
much in need of comfort as either of us. We soon came to 
the grounds of a community centre, in comforting red brick 
and white painted railings. It hadn't escaped unscathed 
from the violence and destruction: many windows were 
smashed, a van marked Suburbs Community Project 
was lying on its side, wheels still spinning in the breeze 
which had noticeably picked up strength, and the walls 
were sprayed with graffiti which, amongst other things, 
declared that this was a Black Party Republic. 

In the grounds of the community centre was a huddled 
mass of dispossessed and miserable, sitting in groups on 
the grass, with cups of hot tea grasped in their hands and 
many with blankets around their shoulders. Presiding over 
all of this misery was the bearded gentleman whom we had 
met the day before in the City and who had advised us to 
come to the Suburbs in our pursuit of the Truth. He looked 
up when he saw us, and strode towards us over the legs of 
the homeless Suburbanites and their children. He handed 
the stack of paper cups and the tea urn he was carrying to a 
centaur who was helping him in his charitable work.

"Oh dear me! Dear me!" he said with sympathy, looking at 
the Artist and Una. "What a nasty gash! And such a 
helpless baby! Come inside the both of you!" He indicated 
the entrance to the community centre where a nurse was 
standing by a piglet who was playing with the remnants of 
a Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign. He put his arms 
around both Una and the Artist, and eased them in that 
direction. 

Before leaving, he smiled at us again with his infectious 
smile. "I'm so glad you were able to bring these poor 
unfortunates here. There are so many victims of this quest 
for the Truth. So many who've lost their homes or been 
maliciously and randomly attacked! I just hope that I can 
be of some small assistance to them in this their most 
urgent hour of need. I take it that you have come here to 
pursue your great idealistic quest."

Beta nodded. "But it seems so irrelevant now with all the 
awful things that are happening here. There hardly seems 
any point now to looking for the Truth any more."

The gentleman nodded, still smiling but with a concerned 
frown on his face. "I doubt that very many of those 
supposedly seeking the Truth are really here for any other 
purpose than to cause mischief. And a mischief which is 
inflicting so many casualties! But your pursuit of the Truth 
is an altogether more noble endeavour. It is not my place to 
advise you to do anything, but do not be unnecessarily 
disheartened by those who pervert a worthwhile cause. If it 
is something worth doing, then it is worth continuing 
despite the evils visited on so many in its name."

With that the gentleman led the Artist, Una and her baby 
up the small concrete staircase to the community centre 
entrance, where the nurse took the Artist from him and 
scrutinised his cheek with professional care and attention. 
They then disappeared inside the building, leaving us by 
the kerbside in front of several hundred miserable people, 
many in distressing silence broken by the muffled tears of 
the younger children.

In amongst all the people were others who were wandering 
amongst them, doling out comfort, sympathy and practical 
help. The centaur was bending down awkwardly to pass 
down cups of tea, a small dragon was distributing sleeping 
bags and a woman in denim shorts and tee-shirt was doing 
much the same with heavy grey woollen blankets. She saw 
us, and wandered towards us. It was the Actress whom 
we'd met in the City, sweating profusely from her exertions 
and with a dirty smudge across a cheek.

"Well! Fancy meeting you here!" she said, grinning 
broadly. "Well, not that surprising, I suppose, knowing 
about your search for the Truth. I don't suppose you've 
found it yet, have you?"

I shook my head. "We've not really given much thought to 
it since we arrived."

"Pity. It might end all this flipping senseless violence if 
someone were to find it! But I don't blame you for not 
thinking about it much. It's flipping grotesque, what's 
happening here. You wouldn't believe that the General 
Election would result in so much blooming chaos. It's a 
real crisis. I wonder if the government has yet declared a 
State of Emergency. They blinking well ought to! Look at 
all this! It's flipping disgusting, that's what it is!"

She turned around to view the people huddled on the grass. 

"These aren't the worst cases. They're all inside. Babies and 
children orphaned. People nearly dead from the vicious 
attacks they've suffered. Some people who've been nearly 
burned alive. Some who have lost their minds totally. That 
Rupert bastard certainly was inspired when he directed his 
thuggish followers to come to the Suburbs. The place is 
utterly unprepared and incapable of handling this kind of 
chaos. I didn't believe it was nearly as bad as this when I 
heard about in on the News, but then you don't do you? 
You hear of all these flipping awful things that happen in 
the world, but until you actually see it, you just don't 
flipping know the half of it."

"Why are you here?" Beta wondered. "Shouldn't you be 
performing in the theatre?"

"In The Lion of Naples? I suppose I would if I could. My 
theatrical career does usually come first, I must admit. But 
all the theatres are closed down, those that survived the 
fire-bombing yesterday, that is. I think only the cinemas are 
open, and not all of those. No, I saw the news about all the 
awful things that are happening in the Suburbs and 
immediately volunteered to help. It's only right, isn't it? 
I can't claim to be a socialist if I'm not prepared to help my 
fellow compatriot when I can. And anyway, I'd never been 
to the Suburbs before. From what I've seen of it, it can't 
always be like this. Most of the time, it must be jolly 
peaceful. Dead, in fact. And now look at it! Blinking 
awful!"

She stared across at the ruined semi-detached houses, the 
church with the weather-vane dropping by a wire down its 
steeple, the shops with smashed windows and mostly 
totally gutted of its stock, the shells of previously well-
polished automobiles and the garbage and rubbish being 
blown by the strengthening wind over the road. The 
evening sun was hidden behind the darkening clouds, and 
no electric lights shone from the windows of the 
surrounding houses.

"Are the Suburbs the only place which has suffered?" I 
wondered, feeling for the desolation that marked my home.

"Mostly yes, I believe. Mind you, it's only what I've seen 
on television and heard on the radio. Most of the worst of it 
is here. But there are other places that have got it quite bad. 
There's been an eruption of gang violence in some of the 
poorer parts of the City, for instance. That's not too 
unusual, of course. It has to be jolly bad for that kind of 
thing to be newsworthy, and with all this happening in the 
Suburbs and that invasion in the Cat Kingdom, it must be 
absolutely dreadful for it to even warrant a small mention. 
There are pitched battles between gangs of youths of 
different political and cultural affiliations all over the 
place. Housing estates have been burnt down, schools 
ransacked, shops looted. All that sort of thing. Almost 
normal in some parts of the City, I suppose. It's just the 
scale of it that's unusual. People have been machine-
gunned. Grenades have been thrown. It really does sound 
gross. And I daresay it'd be worse still, if so many people 
from the City hadn't left and headed here to the Suburbs."

"Are there very many people from the City here?" I asked.

"Not just the City, of course, but since more people live in 
the City than in the rest of the country put together, I 
suppose, yes, there must be. Some areas of the City are 
apparently almost like ghost towns; so many people have 
left for here. Particularly those parts of the City where the 
Illicit Party is particularly powerful. Inevitable I suppose, 
given that bastard Rupert's call for all his followers to 
come here. Although, as you probably have already 
noticed, there are a lot of people here who have absolutely 
nothing to do with the Illicit Party, supposedly looking for 
the Truth..."

"Yes," agreed Beta. "We've seen some very strange people. 
Monsters, gargoyles, all sorts. I've never seen people like 
that before!"

"I don't know where they've come from," mused the 
Actress. "I've not seen them myself, but I've heard about 
them from these poor blinking unfortunate survivors. They 
really do sound like something out of the ordinary, don't 
they?"

The Actress looked back at her wards, and then glanced 
down at the blankets over her arm. She puffed some air 
through her cheeks. "Well, it's been nice talking to you. But 
I've got work to get on with! Best of luck with your quest."

With that, she turned round and waded back through the 
kneeling and sitting crowds of Suburbanites distributing 
blankets to those who seemed most at need. Beta looked 
at me, with a troubled frown. She ran her fingers through 
her hair to clear it off her face, and pushed it over her 
shoulders. "I suppose we ought to carry on with our 
search?" she said with a faint hint of doubt.

I shared her doubt, but I couldn't think of any real 
alternative. I nodded, gently squeezed her hand, and then 
we walked away from the community centre in the 
direction which seemed least damaged and vandalised. The 
crowds of people gradually thinned. Families carrying their 
baggage trudged by, looking neither left nor right, 
immersed in their own misery. It was probably best that 
they kept their eyes distracted from the ruins of homes and 
motor vehicles they were passing by.

Some people just stood or sat by the roadside, abandoning 
any pretence of going somewhere. It was by a bus shelter, 
on the plastic seats provided, that we saw another familiar 
figure, still naked but shivering in the cooler evening air 
and with a distinct blueness about her shaved head.

"Xenana!" exclaimed Beta, running up to her childhood 
friend. "Xenana! What are you doing here?" 

A brief gap in the deepening cloud let in a shaft of 
weakening sunlight, illuminating a face with smudged 
mascara and fading lipstick gazing sadly up at us. "I could 
ask the same of you, Beta," she said, unable to prevent a 
smile creeping over her face as the shaft of sunlight 
disappeared leaving her again in the shadows. "Still with 
your boyfriend, I see. Did you come here for the fun as 
well?" 

She laughed haltingly and slightly hysterically.

"Fun? We didn't expect any fun!"

"I did! Or we did, anyway. We thought it'd be fun. Not that 
it's been any flipping fun at all!" She laughed bitterly. "We 
thought: the Suburbs, the Truth, all these thousands of 
people... Let's party! We all loaded into this car one of us 
had. We had some absolutely brilliant drugs, and we drove 
here in real party mood. Though it was no flipping party 
getting here. All that traffic! One long blinking traffic jam 
from the City to the Suburbs." She laughed again, caught 
herself and stopped abruptly. "And here we all arrived: all 
in the mood to party. I'd never been to the Suburbs before. 
None of us had! We'd no idea what to expect. We thought 
it'd be at worst boring, at best a good laugh. But it's turned 
out to be a real bad trip, and none of us had dropped any 
blooming acid!"

As Xenana launched into another badly tuned laugh, Beta 
sat down next to her friend, and put a comforting arm 
around her shoulder. 

"Where are your friends, Xenana? Shouldn't you be with them?"

"I'd love to be!" she exclaimed with another short bitter 
laugh. "They've got all the flipping drugs, if there's any left 
by now! But when we arrived there was just flipping 
nowhere to park. We crawled around the Suburbs for 
flipping hours - or what seemed like hours. We were 
getting really teed off. And then it was a flipping 
nightmare! I couldn't believe it!" She laughed again. "Out 
of flipping nowhere they came! Blinking dozens of them! 
Two dozen at least! I'd never seen people like them before. 
Real ugly things they were! Real monsters! Just like you 
see in flipping nightmares. Horrible horrible faces. Cruel 
fangs. Enormous claws. And laughing and shouting and 
cawing. We thought it might've been the drugs, at first. 
This can't be real! Have you seen these repulsive things?"

Beta nodded.

Xenana looked around her hopelessly. "I've lost my 
handbag. The worst of it I've also lost my ciggies. And all 
the reefers I'd rolled for the occasion!" She laughed again 
in a tone that was dangerously close to crying. "Hamid was 
the most blitzed. He must have taken something he'd not 
shared with the rest of us. In retrospect it's probably a 
blinking good thing he hadn't. He got out of the limo in a 
sort of stoned good-natured way. He stood there in front of 
all these dreadful things, like as if they were just naughty 
primary school children. 'Couldn't you like let me and my 
friends like just pass by?' he said. They looked a bit 
bemused themselves. They didn't expect people to talk to 
them like that. 'Hey, you guys. You can let us pass, can't 
you?'"

Xenana paused. She wrapped her arms around her as a gust 
of wind blew by raising Beta's hair up into the air and 
rustling through the dark foliage of the hedge behind us. 
Her eyes were wide open and a dark tear of mascara trailed 
down her cheek. 

"They didn't say anything. One of them - a cross between a 
pig, a horse and a spider - suddenly punched Hamid on the 
face. From inside the car I saw blood burst out of his nose, 
and smear down the windscreen as his head slid down. We just 
screamed. This wasn't a flipping joke any more! This was no 
blinking fun! We piled out of the car as fast as we could. 
I started running and running. I didn't flipping care about 
my handbag or my purse or any flipping thing. I just ran 
and ran! The monsters didn't stop. One of them grabbed Maria 
and I could hear her screaming and screaming while I ran. 
Their scales, feathers and claws made unbearable grating 
noises just like their hideous cackling laughs." She let 
loose a breathless winded bark of a laugh herself. "I don't 
know what happened to the others. As I ran all I could hear 
were the echoes of Maria's screams. They pierced through 
the air like the jagged edge of a saw. My stomach was 
churning, my chest was pounding and I was feeling jolly 
ill!"

"But you're alright now!" Beta said comfortingly.

"I can still hear Maria's screams. I can still see Hamid's 
crushed nose on the windscreen and all that blood and snot 
smeared there. It was a bad dream! The worst trip 
imaginable. But a real one! Not one in the flipping head!"

Beta sighed. "This has really been a ghastly day!"

"It has been! Everything bad is happening on one day. I 
blame the Election. It was alright before! Now, it's chaos. 
No flipping fun at all! Why are all the bad things 
happening at once? The News broadcasts we heard on the 
radio were jolly depressing: we just had to turn it off and 
listen to cassettes. The siege of the Academy. The theatres 
closing down. The war in the Cat Kingdom. There was 
even the news that the famous businessperson, Lord 
Arthur, had been shot..."

"Lord Arthur?" gasped Beta. "Shot? We only saw him 
yesterday, didn't we?"

"You know him, do you?" Xenana asked looking at us 
both. "Or knew him, I should say. I didn't know you moved 
in such illustrious circles! Well, he's dead now. It wasn't 
much of a news story really, coming after all the other 
things. It seems to be connected with his flipping enormous 
debts."

"How did it happen?" I asked.

"Don't ask me for details. I can't remember everything the 
flipping newsreader said. It seems that the lion mixed in 
some dodgy company. Some of his debtors were criminals 
of some sort. They're not the sort I suppose to accept it if 
you tell them you're flipping skint! They found him lying 
dead in some disreputable part of the City. He'd been shot, 
they said, but not before he'd been tortured or something: I 
don't know. As I say, he had some jolly dodgy friends!"

"Tortured!" gasped Beta, wide eyed with disbelief. 
"Tortured? How was he tortured? Did they say?"

"Probably. I don't know. I wasn't really listening. As I say, 
it was just one of the many flipping dreadful things 
happening today. I didn't know he was a friend of yours', or 
I might have listened with more interest!"

"Well, you can't stay here forever!" said Beta. "Shall we 
walk on?" 

Xenana nodded, stood up and accompanied us along the 
Suburban streets on her absurdly high platform boots. The 
wind picked up and it was becoming prematurely dark for 
this early in the evening. A strong gust blew dirt into 
our faces, and I screwed up my eyes.

"Uurrgh!" exclaimed Xenana. "What was that?" She 
glanced at a small drop of moisture that had landed on her 
arm. "Oh flipping no! It's not blinking raining, is it?" 

The pavement became speckled with dark spots on its 
otherwise dry surface. The drops became heavier and 
larger, and soon the ground was more damp than dry.

"Oh no! Oh no!" gasped Xenana with horror. "We're going 
to get soaked! And I've got flipping nothing to put on!" 

I was the only one of us at all covered, but this was totally 
inadequate as the rain picked up intensity and lashed into 
our faces. My clothes got more and more damp.

"Where can we shelter?" I wondered in alarm, seeing all 
the available dry spaces being crowded out by the 
bedraggled refugees. Only the especially stoical or too 
despairing to care stayed in the open air. 

Beta broke into a trot. "We've got to find somewhere!" she 
announced, as Xenana and I tried running in step with her.

"Perhaps in one of these houses!" suggested Xenana, 
pointing at the ruined shells of houses on either side of us: 
gardens scattered with rubbish beaten down by the rain, 
sodden newspapers pasted to the pavement and water 
beating against the carcasses of deserted cars. Without 
waiting for our assent, she dashed down the drive of a 
house, chosen merely for its proximity, and straight 
through the splintered timber of its front door. Beta and I 
veered after her, as the rain became even more intense, 
battering and bruising us as we ran, and penetrating 
my sodden clothes. 

We stood in the shelter of the hallway, amongst the detritus 
of recent destruction, looking through the curtain of rain 
beating insistently on the driveway, further battering down 
the broken stalks of flowers bordering the lawn, and 
dripping off a porch into a sodden puddle on the 
WELCOME mat. Another gust of wind drove us from the 
house's entrance and into its dark, unwelcoming interior. 
My feet crushed on broken glass and fragments of 
porcelain scattered around an upturned coat-stand. Beta 
and Xenana huddled together in the shadows by a smashed 
doorway, only the whiteness of their skin making them at 
all visible. I pressed the hall light-switch, but no lights 
came on. This was probably just as well, I reflected, as I 
didn't wish to know whether the dark smears near where a 
hall mirror had once stood were bloodstains.

"Your clothes are absolutely saturated!" Beta remarked. 
"You better take them off to dry!"

"What here? With Xenana here?"

"Don't mind me," she sniffed. "I can't imagine you've got 
anything that I've not seen before."

Beta approached me, carefully treading around the shards 
of glass, and took my hand. "Shall we sit in the living 
room? It's very gloomy, but there's a sofa." 

We pushed open the damaged door. Xenana hurriedly leapt onto 
the sofa which was about the only item of furniture not 
thrown over, but whose upholstery had a deep gash through 
which we could see a pale welling of foam.  A television set 
trailed across the room, glass scattered from its smashed 
screen. A standard lamp was wrenched nearly in half over 
the remains of an audio system. The keyboard of a home 
computer lay amongst the fragments of ornaments and 
books scattered about the floor. A gust of wind blew 
against the lace curtains which was all that protected the 
room from the torrential rain beating against the shattered 
uPVC double-glazing.

Beta carefully removed my clothes which damply clung to 
my skin and placed them on a dining room chair around 
the splinters of a dining table. I sat on an armchair by 
the wreckage of an array of book-shelves. "I'll see if I can 
find a towel," she said, walking towards the door. 

"You're not going to blinking walk round the house by 
yourself!" exclaimed Xenana incredulously. "There's no 
saying what you might flipping find!"

Beta hesitated, and then smiled at me. "We can't just shiver 
like this. We might catch pneumonia. I'm sure it's no more 
dangerous here than anywhere else. Do you want to come 
with me, Xenana?" 

Her friend shook her head. She lay back on the sofa and 
sighed. "Not now! I've only just made myself comfortable. 
Perhaps your boyfriend might be more foolhardy?" 

Beta frowned at me. I was shivering in the cool evening 
air, the dampness on my skin spreading through my limbs.

"I don't think so. We need a towel, and I'm sure I'll find 
one." 

With that she determinedly strode out, leaving me alone 
with Xenana, who yawned as she sprawled along the contours 
of the sofa.

"I can't be flipping bothered!" confided Xenana, when Beta 
had gone. "I'd rather just rest. Mind you!" She glanced 
around at the shattered furniture. "You don't think there 
mightn't be some ciggies left behind. I could flipping kill 
for a smoke! Perhaps they've got some dope!"

"I shouldn't think so," I remarked through my shivers. 
"Drugs aren't very popular in the Suburbs."

"Tuh! Typical. You Suburbanites aren't famous for your 
sense of fun." She scrutinised the devastation strewn about 
the room. "Still, I bet there's absolutely tons of decent stuff 
here, if we could only take it away with us. I'm sure 
whoever used to live here wouldn't flipping miss it. If 
they're still alive, that is!"

"You don't think they've been killed, do you?" I remarked, 
reflecting on the motionless, blood-stained body of the 
young girl's father.

"After what they flipping did to Maria and Hamid I 
wouldn't be at all blinking well surprised. And I bet some 
of this stuff's worth a lot. The bits that aren't broken that is! 
Perhaps we ought to just take as much as we can."

"That doesn't seem right."

"Nothing's flipping right today, if you ask me. Ah! Here's 
our fearless explorer."

Beta came in carrying three large towels, one she handed to 
me and one to Xenana. She rubbed herself down with the 
last one. "There's definitely no one here," she announced. 
"Whoever did all this damage were very thorough. Every 
room's in a terrible state. There are traces of blood in the 
kitchen, and knives and things thrown all over the place. 
It's horrifying." She glanced upstairs. "There's a bathroom 
here. And the water's still pretty hot. They must have had a 
full hot water tank before the electricity was cut off." She 
rubbed the top of her thighs with the towel, and remarked 
thoughtfully. "It seems a shame to waste it. I think I'll have 
a quick shower. Maybe that'll wash off some of the horror 
from all the gruesome things we've seen today!"

"Yes, you do that, Beta," Xenana agreed. "Just keep the 
door open so we can warn you if any of those horrid 
monsters come in!"

"I'll have to keep the door open to let some light in. It's 
terribly dark. And I'm sure it's not nightfall for an hour or 
more. It's the rain! And it's still pelting down."

We looked at the lace curtains, flapping in the wind, a 
puddle of water expanding just underneath the window. 
Beta sighed, and left us for a second time. 

Xenana continued her survey of the room, her eyes 
becoming more accustomed to the dimness. "You 
Suburban people are so rich. All this space and furniture. It 
makes my bedsit look so tiny. They say it's the City where 
all the wealth is, but I reckon it must be here in the 
Suburbs. You Suburbanites commute to the City every 
day, get paid City incomes but pay far less for anything 
than I ever have to. This is where the real luxury is. It 
makes you feel sick!" 

She buried her face in the white towel, rubbing off the last 
vestiges of make-up into a dark smeary wound. I patted my 
chest with my towel, discreetly holding most of it over the 
top of my thighs. Through the sound of beating rain, I 
distinctly heard another rush of water emanating from the 
shower. 

"Mind you, I'd never dream of living in the Suburbs. What 
sort of flipping life can it be? All these semi-detached 
houses! All the hedges, lawns and bowling greens: it's so 
flipping boring! I'd much rather live in the City. We've got 
everything there! It's the real world. Not some kind of 
sleepy backwater. I couldn't cope with the flipping tedium. 
I guess that's why you chose to leave the Suburbs yourself 
and go to the City. God only knows what possessed you 
and Beta to leave it again and come back here!"

She took the towel and pushed it hard against her crotch. 
"God! That feels flipping better!" She smiled at me. "I 
know what you're looking at," she said lasciviously. "You 
Suburban people think that nudity and sex are the same 
thing, don't you?" She blatantly squeezed her crotch, while 
grinning at my attempts to avert my gaze. "Not that you get 
much sex here I imagine. You people just don't have a 
sexual appetite at all. Mind you, you're with Beta now. Is 
she still a flipping virgin, eh? Or have you had your evil 
way with her? What about it? Have you had sex with 
Beta?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"That means yes, doesn't it? She's a good looking girl, don't 
you think? I don't know how she managed to keep her 
chastity for so long! And what about me? I bet you think I 
look good too. I've got a good pair of breasts, haven't I?" 
She glanced down at her crotch while idly stroking it. "I'm 
in full working order, I can tell you."

I drew in a deep breath, to suffocate the percussion of my 
heart, and discreetly piled more of the now damp towel 
over my groin. Xenana stood up, and sauntered lecherously 
towards me. "If you like, sweetest, I can show you just how 
well I'm functioning. I'm sure Beta won't mind. She's an 
open-minded modern ms!"

I shook my head, feeling sure that she would mind very 
much. Xenana came right up to me, and placed her hands 
on my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes with an 
expression that was both inviting and unnerving. I stared 
back, my powers of resistance crumbling like a towering 
edifice built on sand.

"Xenana! Just what do you think you're doing?" suddenly 
demanded Beta's voice in a strident burst of wrath. "I only 
have a shower for a few minutes and you're already trying 
to seduce him. You've not changed at all, have you! No 
wonder so many people were pleased when you left the 
Village!"

Xenana took her hands off me, and glared angrily at her 
friend. "Don't you flipping well preach to me! Don't 
impose blinking Village morality on me! I do what I do 
because I like it, and I don't blooming care what people 
might think!"

"Just keep your hands off him!"

"I can put my flipping hands wherever I jolly well like!"

I anxiously stood up, clutching the towel to my middle, 
and spread out my palm in a conciliatory gesture. "We 
really mustn't argue! We've got more pressing worries." I 
glanced at my clothes, which were still quite damp, and 
wondered whether to put them back on.

"He's right, Xenana!" agreed Beta. "I'm sure you only 
behaved the way you did because of all the stress we're 
under. However, I came back in to say I found plenty of 
food in the kitchen. We might as well eat it before its goes 
off!"

"Food!" Xenana gasped. "Why didn't you say? I'm 
famished! Let's go eat! To the kitchen!"

"I'll fetch it in here. I don't think it's safe in there with all 
the knives all over the place. And there are some nasty 
stains on the fridge."

We were soon tucking into the remnants of the larder. 
Fruit, cakes, biscuits, sandwiches filled with exotic spreads 
reminiscent of their supposed origins and breakfast cereals 
smothered in rich full-cream milk. Xenana crammed as 
much as she could into her mouth, barely pausing between 
mouthfuls before stuffing her cheeks with more. "I didn't 
know I was so (munch!) hungry!" she exclaimed, a dribble 
of mayonnaise and soy sauce dripping down her chin.

We rested for a while in the ravaged living room, 
becoming shadows in the encroaching dark, listening to the 
rain and wind beating against the house. This became 
gradually less intense, descending to the tempo of drizzle 
and finally ceasing altogether. My clothes weren't fully dry, 
but I had enough of sitting naked with Beta and Xenana, 
however naked they were themselves, and was glad to put 
them on again, shivering in their dampness. Beta wandered 
to the front door, and stood silhouetted against the dark 
cloudy sky, dark puddles interspersed along the pavement 
and streams of rain water gushing in torrents along the 
gutter towards the grilled openings of the drains, 
occasionally dividing in its course around scattered 
obstacles of garbage.

"I think we ought to look somewhere else," Beta remarked. 
"I don't like the atmosphere here. All the vandalism! It's 
distressing."

"And what makes you think it's any better elsewhere?" 
snapped Xenana, but nonetheless agreeing to leave the 
house we'd sheltered in for the last few hours and to 
emerge again into the eerie emptiness and dark of the 
Suburban streets, unlit by street-lamps, and illuminated by 
a distant aura of flame. One of the buildings that had been 
set alight appeared to be a church, although it was too far 
away to be certain. 

We walked along the Suburban avenues, Beta and I 
avoiding puddles, but Xenana barely aware of their 
existence from the heights of her platform soles. There was 
a general calmness that had descended after the rainstorm, 
and only the evidence of detritus and destruction to remind 
us that there was still much to be afraid of. Others were 
emerging from their shelter, including a family of centaurs 
and a pig still in his work suit. 

Along the middle of the road, unworried by any likelihood 
of traffic, of which there was no evidence at all, we saw a 
strange white figure. As it came closer, it became clear that 
it was Anna wearing a simple long sleeveless white dress, 
from neck to ankle, who had now shaved her head rather 
like Xenana, and wore rather less extravagant platform 
boots. She saw us, and smiled. Xenana also smiled, 
although she had never met Anna before. Presumably she 
recognised a kindred spirit.

"Still on your search for the Truth, I see!" said Anna, 
apparently unflustered by the chaos around her.

"Yes," I admitted. "Is that why you're here?"

"In a way. In a way. I thought it might be interesting. 
Everyone descending on the Suburbs like this. I hadn't 
thought - I don't suppose anyone thought - it would result 
in so much grief. It's really jolly frightening! I've seen so 
much devastation. This really isn't the Suburbs I was 
visiting a week ago. Such a short period of time, and so 
much has changed. But that, I suppose, is how things do 
change. Everything goes along in its sweet untroubled way 
and then, - quelle catastrophe! - it all comes tumbling 
down!"

"What have you seen while you've been in the Suburbs?" I 
asked.

"Oh! Many things! So many different depressing things!" 
Anna remarked, running a hand over her shaved scalp. "I 
came here alone. I always prefer travelling alone. You see 
much more that way. More open to opportunity, I guess. 
It's been absolutely flipping horrible. I've spent most of my 
time here with a Gryphon I met. I was really jolly 
frightened of him at first. I thought he might be one of 
these ghastly monsters that have turned up here. After all, 
gryphons are a bit like monsters themselves, - composed of 
bits and pieces of other animals, - but he was a school 
teacher. Goodness knows why he should be here, but then 
everybody's here, so why not him? I imagine he might have 
flown here. He was in a dreadful state when I met him. 
Absolutely dreadful!"

"How was that?" wondered Beta.

"He'd been in a fight, though it's a mystery to me why 
anyone would ever choose to fight with a gryphon. They're 
beasts quite capable of looking after themselves. Those 
beaks and claws! Gracious! Anyway, he'd found these 
monsters molesting a little girl. Quite grossly, I gathered. 
Being a school teacher, he felt honour-bound to defend her, 
but of course these monsters just turned on him. They must 
have outnumbered him quite badly, because he was very 
much the worst for it. He'd lost absolutely loads of 
feathers! He had a nasty cut over one of his eyes. And one 
of his ears had been very badly cut! But when I met him, 
he seemed to be recovering well enough."

"Where is he now?" I wondered.

"Oh, I don't know at all. We met some Illicit Party 
supporters with guns, and ran for our lives. These people 
were just shooting at everything and everyone. The 
Gryphon took off into the sky and flew off - although with 
all those feathers missing, he really wasn't flying that well 
or confidently. But he'd been good company until then. I 
felt much safer with someone like him as company than I 
might have done otherwise. As I said, there aren't many 
people who'd pick a fight with a gryphon. On the other 
hand, some of the monsters I've seen today are probably 
more than his equal!"

"Monsters! What kind of monsters?" asked Xenana.

"Oh! The usual kind. A few tyrannosaurs. Velociraptors. 
Dragons. Manticores. And a whole lot I don't know the 
names of. Centaurs with the heads of beetles. Things like 
pigs with wings and enormous horns. An enormous giant 
with half his body missing walking on tree trunks. The sort 
of things you have nightmares about, and certainly don't 
expect to meet in the Suburbs! Goodness knows what 
they're jolly well doing here. My theory is that they've been 
bussed in by the Illicit Party, but some of these brutes just 
need an excuse, any excuse, to go on an orgy of violence, 
destruction and death. It really is flipping awful!"

We turned a corner of the road and wandered down another 
street much the same as the others. On all sides were 
ruined homes, shattered cars and dampened-down rubbish. 
Anna shared Beta's skill in avoiding puddles, her dress 
remaining remarkably unstained, which was not a good 
fortune shared by my dirt-splattered trousers. Xenana 
chatted to Anna about the City, and they reminisced on 
places they'd been to and even shared acquaintances. Beta 
took my hand with a smile, and our wanderings came to 
seem almost normal and peaceful in the deceptive calm of 
the dark Suburban streets.

This calm was very rudely shattered by the sound of 
repeated bangs followed by shouts and screams. We froze, 
not at all sure where the sounds were coming from. This 
was repeated by more bangs which sounded very much like 
machine gun fire. There then came some running, and 
more spasmodic bangs, louder and more emphatic. Anna 
glanced at us with fear and urgency.

"We better get off the street. No point running away. 
They'll only shoot at us if they see us."

"Who are they?" Beta asked.

"I don't know. I don't want to find out. Down this drive. 
Into that house!" Anna indicated a semi-detached house, 
with a shattered door pulled off its hinges and lying on the 
drive, behind the high shadow of a hedge cut into the shape 
of some peculiar birds. We all followed her instructions, 
and huddled in the doorway while the running, shouting 
and shooting became louder and more distinct. I glimpsed 
sparks from a small automatic gun as it sprayed into the 
street. It was responded to by more gunfire. 

Then figures came running into the street, just shadows in 
the dark but carrying banners and flags. Over the dark bulk 
of the hedge, I saw President Chairman Rupert's face on 
the white back of a flag with the single word TRUTH 
emblazoned on it. "Illicit Party!" hissed Anna softly. 
"Those flipping bastards are everywhere!" Beta gripped my 
hand tightly and eased me back into the dark recesses of 
the hallway.

We didn't dare look out at the commotion going on in the 
street, but there was more shouting, more gunfire, some 
very guttural cries of agony and more frantic running 
about. We heard a large figure collapse against the hedge 
and the smashing of glass, whether the window of a house 
or a car it was impossible to tell. It could not have been 
very many minutes that we were imprisoned by this 
alarming soundscape, but every second of it seemed too 
long. The running, shouting and shooting passed by the 
house and soon receded into the distance.

We didn't emerge for some time after that. There was just 
too much likelihood that there would be stragglers looking 
for unarmed people such as ourselves, but eventually, and 
on a hushed sign from Anna, we crept out into the open air. 
We gingerly peered over the hedge. It had become calm 
again. There was a flag lying on the ground, broken in half 
with the word RUPERT on an otherwise unadorned green 
background. Its cloth fluttered ferociously in the evening 
wind, soaking in moisture from the water running by along 
the gutter.

"We'd better move on," Anna said determinedly, pushing 
open the metal gate to the garden, and cautiously looking 
up and down the street. Then she stepped back. 

"Oh God!" she exclaimed.

"What's wrong?" Xenana asked.

"Don't ask! Let's just leave quickly! And don't look at the 
hedge!" 

"The hedge?" Beta asked. 

"Just don't look!"

We dashed out into the street and ran down in the direction 
away from where the Illicitists had gone. Anna's advice 
was wasted on me, as my curiosity impelled me to look at 
the hedge. A pig in black leather clothes was slumped at its 
foot, a pool of blood seeping from his skull and mixing in 
the puddles on the pavement. His face had been totally 
destroyed and grey, spongy mass lay in the sorry mess of 
his ruined face. A large flick knife was still gripped tightly 
in his trotter.

I turned my face away with horror to glimpse another 
figure I hadn't noticed before, just by the flag and slumped 
between two cars. Only his legs and a pool of blood were  
distinguishable, but I recognised his Rupert suit. 

We soon encountered the silhouetted forms of a body of 
people gathered by a large range rover that had somehow 
escaped from all the chaos. At first it was difficult to 
establish who or what these shadows could belong to, and 
we approached gingerly. It was possible they might be 
more Illicitists or even monsters, but as we came closer it 
was clear that there was nothing at all threatening about 
them. They were incongruous for the Suburbs, particularly 
as it would normally be: dressed in finery and 
ornamentation, no ostentation avoided, and chatting rather 
noisily and cheerfully. It was as if they were on a day out in 
the Country, rather than in the midst of the catastrophic 
annihilation of the Suburbs.

A pig leaned against the hood of the range rover, holding a 
champagne glass in a trotter fringed by a lace cuff, a large 
hat with an ostrich feather dipped over his face. Next to 
him, sitting on the actual bonnet of the vehicle, and 
amiably chatting to him, was Zitha whom I'd met at the 
Eternal Party. Other figures stood by, presumably 
associated with the other intact vehicles parked around in 
the dark. The only hint of fear in the company was the 
presence of two tall gorilla bodyguards clasping small 
automatic fire-arms, who glared at us suspiciously as we 
approached, but made no attempt to stop us. They had 
presumably concluded that we were unlikely to cause 
trouble.

One of the partying figures emerged out of the shadows in 
a tall conical hat, brandishing a cane. It was the 
Philosopher whom I'd met at Tudor's house. 

"Well, I never!" he exclaimed. "I'd never have thought it 
possible. So, you came all the way back to the Suburbs in 
your pursuit of the Truth. Truly a strange place to come 
for such a quest. And accompanied by a coterie of charming 
young ladies."

"Hello," I said in greeting. "Are you also searching for the 
Truth?"

"Only inasmuch as it is my habitual pursuit. I have come 
with these splendid fellows whom I met at a Party to which 
I was invited. My curiosity was sparked, as indeed was 
theirs, but we have seen no evidence of the Truth. Not that 
I really expected to. The Truth is not to be found in such 
idle tourism. But amongst the frivolity of play can 
sometimes be found great wisdom. A lighted candle may 
be found in the darkest shadows. We may not have found 
the Truth, but I have been much impressed by the folly 
pursued in your country. It has resulted not in 
enlightenment but great misery and anarchy."

He growled slightly. "However, all is not well with me. I 
have lost my slave. In all this anarchy and distraction, he 
has absconded and left me. The last I saw of him was his 
back as he ran down the dark depths of one of your streets. 
You haven't seen him, have you?"

"No," I confessed. "I haven't seen him anywhere."

"And your friends? They haven't seen a runaway slave have 
they?"

Anna shook her head. "There have been so many people 
running about I wouldn't know whether they were slaves or 
whatever."

"No matter," the dog snorted. "I believe the supplier's 
warranty may still be valid. But what of you, young man? 
It is several days now since I met you at the home of my 
good friend, Tudor."

"Tudor!" exclaimed Beta. "Is it the same Tudor I know?"

I nodded my head. "It is. This gentleman was a guest at 
Tudor's castle when I was there."

"Do you know Tudor?" asked the Philosopher. "Truly, he 
has some very sundry friends."

"How is he? How has the General Election affected him? 
Do you know?"

The Philosopher growled slightly. "Alas, the results have 
not accorded at all well with his wishes. I haven't seen him 
since we met a few days ago, but I have heard about him 
from people I have met at the Party. There has been a 
revolt against him by his staff and he has lost a great deal 
of money in some investments he had made. There's some 
connection in his business affairs with those of the late 
Lord Arthur. When the mighty fall from the heights of a 
tall tree, they break the branches supporting them."

"Revolt?" wondered Beta.

"Yes," the Philosopher said. "It's something to do with the 
employment legislation that your Red Government intends 
to institute. It apparently does away with the discrepancies 
between the different districts. Employees now have 
considerably more rights than they had before. Tudor 
wasn't very happy about it, but his staff have come out in 
some sort of industrial action. He's now alone in his castle 
with no servants to care for him and his material wealth 
vanishing as more and more businesses collapse in the 
wake of Lord Arthur's demise. It seems his affairs were 
more complex than anyone had imagined! That in itself 
would have precipitated a crisis on the financial markets, 
but the additional chaos here in the Suburbs has caused a 
startling lack of confidence in the stock markets. I'm just 
happy that I never invested in any of your country's  
businesses, otherwise I might also be contemplating 
suicide now. Never build on a quicksand. It might well be 
the end of our good friend's wealth and security: the only 
glimmer of hope on his horizon being the good news 
regarding the Cat Kingdom..."

"Why hello again!" interrupted Zitha, who had spotted us 
and jumped off the bonnet of the range rover to chat. She 
was wearing a wax jacket and green wellington boots. Her 
hair was stuffed inside a chequered cloth cap. "Still looking 
for the Truth? How jolly! That's what we're here for. You 
haven't seen it, have you?"

"No," I admitted. "But then, we haven't really been looking 
very hard. We've been more worried about avoiding 
trouble."

"Don't blame you! Don't blame you! And there's a lot of 
jolly trouble here. We've seen some absolutely dreadful 
things. If it weren't for our bodyguards I don't know where 
we'd be!" She indicated the two gorillas. "Some frightful 
monsters tried to attack us! Very badly bred! But our 
bodyguards shot at them - killed one or two I think - and 
they scattered very sharply. No monster can withstand a 
cartridge of hot lead. But since we've been here, we've not 
seen this flipping Truth at all! And some of our company's 
got lost. We don't know where they've got to! One of them 
was Sir George. You've not seen him have you?"

"Sir George? The giant grasshopper?" asked Anna.

"The same. Friend of yours, is he? I don't know where he 
is! He got jolly upset when the Red Party won the General 
Election. He just wouldn't stir for hours. He just sat in the 
opium room, moaning about how much it would affect his 
shares. Not that it's helped my father's investments any, 
either. And now we don't know where he is. He came with 
us to the Suburbs for the diversion. I don't think he was 
bothered about finding the Truth. I take it you've not seen 
him yourselves?"

We shook our heads. Zitha regarded my companions. 

"Well, you do have some absolutely wonderful friends, I 
must say! Are you from the City?"

Xenana nodded her head. "I wish I was there now."

"And don't we all! Coming to the Suburbs has been a 
ghastly mistake! It's vile here! No jolly fun at all! I don't 
think we've got enough 'poo to keep us going for much 
longer." She looked at Xenana and Anna approvingly. 
"Hey. Do you want to stick around? We'll be setting off 
soon. You can come with us if you like."

"That sounds an excellent idea!" said Anna. "I don't mind 
if we do! What do you say? Shall we stay here?"

Xenana nodded eagerly. "You don't have anything stronger 
than champagne, do you? And has anyone got any ciggies? 
I'm just dying for a puff! I don't think I've ever needed a 
smoke more in my life!"

"'Course we have, my dear! We've got everything! And if 
we've not got it here, then we'll have it back at the Party!"

Beta and I left Anna and Xenana with the relative security 
of Zitha and her friends by the range rover, and pursued 
our quest along the dark forbidding Suburban streets. The 
sun had fully set, but none of the lamp-posts had come on. 
Neither were there any lights coming from the houses on 
either side of the road, although a menacing orange aura 
emanated from far off. The devastation and chaos meted 
out in this district surpassed all that we had seen before. 
Hedges were pulled down, windows and doors were ripped 
out of the semi-detached houses, cars had been upturned 
and a trail of water-logged garbage was blown along the 
streets by the persistently strong gusts of wind.

I shivered in the evening chill, and grasped Beta's hand as 
much for my own comfort as for hers. There were no 
people wandering about the streets now: it was eerily and 
uneasily quiet and empty. Occasionally, we passed dark 
mounds slumped out on the ground which could have been 
garbage, but could just have easily been people's bodies. 
We were disinclined to find out for sure, principally from 
overwhelming helplessness. What could we do if they were 
corpses?

When we heard the sound of clicking mandibles and raised 
voices, we dashed behind the shadow of a garden wall, in 
amidst a pile of torn and sodden magazines, with such 
titles as My Knitting Weekly, New Car Review and The 
Suburbs Advertiser and Courier. We saw a 
group of ants and termites, each about two foot long, like 
those I had seen in Endon. In amongst them was a couple 
of giant earwigs and buzzing menacingly overhead were a 
few flies, each as large as myself. They were shouting and 
bawling at each other, more in a state of drunkenness than 
organised malice, and those words we caught were more to 
do with just how drunk they were and how annoyed they 
were that no pubs were open. The procession took a 
tortuously long time to pass by, and we were terrified that 
one of the flies that buzzed backwards and forwards would 
examine the shadows behind the garden walls and 
distressed hedges with more attention. A bottle shattered 
against the windscreen of a car, one ant paused opposite to 
vomit loudly into the gutter and an empty beer can was 
thrown over our heads to bounce off the double-glazing of 
an upstairs window.

Eventually, the sounds receded enough for Beta and I to re-
emerge, which we did with caution, and walked on, 
keeping to the shadows in case there should be more 
stragglers. Our caution was justified as we came to the 
smashed windows and discarded wares of a small row of 
shops. There was a chaotic mess of broken television sets; 
scattered, damp and now inedible chocolate bars; neon 
tubes torn loose from the windows; cans of beans and 
plastic bottles of washing-up liquid; and torn open 
cardboard boxes. In amongst all this were two or three ants 
sitting on the ruins of a freezer drinking from the bottles of 
cider and wine they had taken from the smashed wreck of 
an off-license. From their boisterous, incoherent ramblings 
it was obvious that they were far too drunk to concern 
themselves with us, but, nonetheless, we crept by 
stealthily.

We hadn't walked very far from these shops until we came 
to the grounds of a small chapel, where extraordinary 
damage had been wrought on the small tombstones in the 
cemetery and the weather-cock, shaped like a pig with 
large wings, was dangling down the cracked steeple. 
Whoever had expended their wrath on the building had 
clearly relished doing so. I spotted a strange cylindrical 
object lying on one side in one of the deeper puddles left 
by the downpour. It was a green top hat now much darker 
where the water had soaked itself into the fabric. 

"I think I know who that belongs to," I remarked to Beta.

"You do?" asked Beta. "Who could that be?"

"Someone I met a few days ago. Someone that Zitha said 
was lost in the Suburbs somewhere. Perhaps he's around 
here."

"Who's around here?"

"Sir George. A giant grasshopper."

"Oh! Another monster!" exclaimed Beta. "Everything you 
could ever imagine is loose in the Suburbs. Giant flies! 
Hideous termites! Did you see those horrid mouths of 
theirs? Just like shears. And now a giant grasshopper!"

"He's a very wealthy businessman. Perhaps we'll see him 
here. I hope he's alright!" 

I wandered off the road, through a great gash torn into 
the hedge enclosing the church, and searched about the 
toppled and defaced tombstones. Many had graffiti sprayed 
over them: some of a political nature, but just as many of 
a vulgar or obscene character. There had certainly been an 
exhaustive outbreak of desecration.

My hope, or more accurately fear, of finding Sir George 
proved to be true. He was lying in the shadow of a tomb, 
above which was the statue of an angel's torso, her wings 
and head lying in fragments all about the ground, and 
graffiti reading, amongst other things, BEES SUCK! and 
RED PARTY BOOT BOYZ RULE, OK! His head was 
resting on the angel's marble arm, his antennae twitching 
near the remnants of the marble cloth clutched in chipped 
white fingers. His body sprawled out in a chaos of spindly 
limbs, clothes torn and soaked in blood, his thorax split 
open, blood spreading out from under his long waistcoat 
and a rear limb bent in a very curious and disturbing angle. 
His face was battered and bloody, blood intermixing with 
the lenses of his eyes and several antennae broken or even 
severed. He was, however, still alive and moaning 
piteously and defiantly.

I bent over him, leaning my knee against the base of the 
tomb and gazed into his ruined face. "Sir George! Are you 
alright?"

The grasshopper groaned and turned his multifaceted eyes 
towards me. "Uurrghh! Wass ... look like? ... The Damned 
ants! Ants! They ... did it! ... Aaagh! ... They attacked me! 
..."

Beta knelt down beside me. She examined the blood 
seeping through the fabric of his coat, and drew in a deep 
appalled breath. "You're losing a lot of blood! We've got to 
get you to a hospital!"

"There aren't many ambulances about," I pointed out. "And 
the phones don't work. And I don't know any hospitals 
around here."

"There must be ... ughh! ... There must be ... some help. I 
can't be left like ... argh! ... like this. Not Sir George 
Greenback! Not me! There ... argh! ... must be an 
ambulance. What'd I pay my ... ugh! ... premiums for? 
People like me don't ... uh! ... they don't ... Those Damned 
... Damned ants! And termites!"

"Why did they do it?" Beta asked. "Why did they attack 
you?"

"For nothing!" groaned the grasshopper angrily, releasing 
a stream of invective despite his obvious agony. "The 
damned lower orders! ... Aagh! ... It's the Damned Red ... 
The General Election has ... They've been emboldened ... 
Aagh! ... They attacked me. For nothing! For nothing!"

"For nothing at all?" I wondered.

"I told them to ... urgh! ... I told them ... 'Get out of my 
way!' I said ... urgh! ... Blocking my way, they were! Lower 
orders have got to know ... aargh! ... got to know ... their 
place. Insects like me are not supposed to ... shouldn't need 
to ... aargh! ... ugh! ... The Damned insolence! And they 
attacked me ... ugghh! ... There were too many of them! I 
killed one of them! ... argh! ... Maybe more than one! ... 
They didn't stop! ... Too many of them! Too ... argh! ... Too 
many!"

"Perhaps they were the insects we saw earlier," Beta 
commented. "They were awfully drunk and disorderly!"

"It's the ... ergh! ... It's the fault of the Damned Reds! They 
should never have been allowed ... ughh! ... Never allowed 
to win the Election! See what's happened! ... Aagh! ... It's 
the rule of the mob! ... Anarchy! I hate them! ... Argh! ... I 
... I ..."

The grasshopper agitatedly twitched his antennae, and tried 
to stir one of his legs. The effort cost him a great deal of 
extra pain. He shouted out loudly, the sound deadened 
against the damp night air but still prominent in the uneasy 
silence. He looked at us mournfully.

"I'm not ... aagh! ... I'm not dying, am I? ... ughh! ... Those 
Damned ... ergh! ... Damned ants haven't ...? ... Not Sir 
George Green ... Not me! It can't be happening! ... It 
doesn't happen to ... I've paid my ... agh! ... There must be 
some help ... aagh! Oh! Aaaghh! God In Heaven! ... 
'Swounds! ... aarghh! ... The pain ... The pain ... Aghh! ... 
Some relief ... I can't! ... The Reds! ... Aaagghh! ... Those 
ants ... and termites ... and ..."

"We must get some help!" said Beta urgently. "We can't 
just let him ... die. We've got to do something!"

It was then that we heard the sounds of some people 
wandering through the cemetery. They were not making 
any threatening noises and from what we could see of them 
they appeared to be no cause for apprehension. They were 
dressed in heavy black hooded gowns, looking far more 
like monks than monsters. They were examining the 
damage caused to the church with apparent disgust, and 
two of them were kneeling in front of a marble cross above 
a tomb that had escaped the worst of the vandalism. One 
was crossing himself with veneration at the spectacle of 
torn up gravestones and shattered marble. We couldn't see 
their faces or hands in the dark of the cloudy night, but 
after the traumatic sights we had seen so far that evening, 
they were a welcome if sobering sight.

"Perhaps they can help," I whispered to Beta.

She nodded. "I'm sure they can extend the hand of 
Christian mercy and charity to Sir George. I'll look after 
him while you talk to them."

"Yes, you do that. I'm sure I won't be long. I'm sure they 
will want to help in some way. They look so pious."

I walked towards the hooded figure who had been crossing 
himself and stood in front of him, palms facing out to 
indicate that I offered no threat. He turned to face me, and, 
even as close as I was now, I could not see his face. I 
noticed for the first time that he and his companions all had 
submachine guns slung over their shoulders, but decided 
that they were probably not meant aggressively. After all 
there were some dangerous monsters and fanatics in the 
Suburbs, and it was just as well to be prepared.

I told him that a friend of mine had been badly wounded 
and was in urgent need of medical attention. I said that if 
he didn't receive any attention soon he would probably die. 
The gowned figure said nothing at first, while his 
companions gathered around him, their faces hidden by 
their hoods, and stared at me with what I imagined must 
have been suspicion. His first comment rather surprised 
me. He told me that he was frankly rather appalled to see 
me dressed so immodestly in consecrated ground, showing 
such little respect for Christian souls.

I repeated my own news, adding that I hoped he and his 
friends could extend their Christian charity and help my 
friend in his time of need. The figures said nothing, and I 
was feeling rather embarrassed and uncomfortable. At last, 
the first figure expressed his wish to see my friend so that 
he and his companions could assess whether he was worthy 
of salvation, and that, if he were, there would then be no 
trouble, no inconvenience, too great in the saving of a 
Christian soul. 

Reflecting on Sir George's assertions of his Christian 
beliefs, I felt sure that they would have nothing to 
worry on that account, and led them through the dark 
shadows of the tombstones to where Sir George was lying 
with Beta by his side.

Sir George faced me. "Are they ... ugghh! ... Will they? ... 
Aaghh! ... It hurts so ... so ... I don't know if ..."

"Are they going to help?" asked Beta, looking at me with 
anxiety. I nodded. She looked at the gowned figures and 
told them that she was glad to see them and she was sure 
that Sir George would show his gratitude too when he was 
able to do so.

The first gowned figure did not respond with quite the 
same civility. He told her that she was a slut, a whore and a 
jezebel, who was thricely damned for her immodesty in a 
place of the Lord, but as a human, and therefore of the 
chosen species, was not to be harmed as long as she left 
consecrated ground, dressed herself modestly and asked 
forgiveness, although her palpable sin had already damned 
her to an eternity of torture.

Beta was rather surprised by this response. What about Sir 
George? she asked. Were they not going to assist him? The 
gowned figure simply repeated that she should leave soon, 
for it was all that they could do to resist temptation and lust 
while she affronted their vision. Beta frowned, but politely 
did as she was told. She ran over to me and held my hand, 
positioning herself such that she was out of their sight.

"... Are you going to ... aaghh! ... Are you ...?" asked Sir 
George pitifully.

The figure told Sir George that he was damned and 
damned a million times. Not only was he a soulless animal 
- themselves tolerated by God only insofar as they could be 
seen to serve man, the only creature God had blessed with 
a soul and the hope of redemption - but he was also an 
insect, a vain foppish insect of proportions contradictory to 
those decreed by the Creator and manners which aped 
those of the worst excesses of humankind. He was 
therefore damned and deserving only of death. 

Beta squeezed my hand when she heard this judgment, and 
Sir George looked askance at the gowned figures 
surrounding him, their submachine guns in their hands and 
no faces visible under the darkness of the hoods.

"Are you? ... Ugghh! ... Can you? ... Please ..."

There was suddenly a furious burst of submachine gun fire 
that tore into Sir George's prone form, blasting his ruined 
thorax and abdomen apart, ripped his clothes to shreds and 
transported fragments of his internal organs to the sides of 
the tomb. This was followed by silence during which the 
hooded figures crossed themselves.

"You killed him! You killed him!" shouted Beta. "Why did 
you do that? Why did you kill him?"

The hooded figures all knelt down to pray with the 
exception of the first figure who turned to address us. He 
explained that he and his companions had merely exercised 
their Christian duty, a calling which the damnable 
blasphemy of the quest for the Truth had brought them to 
the Suburbs to execute. We had only been spared because 
we were human. Had we been another species, especially a 
pig or centaur, we would have joined our late friend in his 
preordained transportation to Hell. However, he added, 
were we to continue to sully the consecrated grounds of 
God's house with our naked flesh then they might feel 
obliged to execute the exact word of their creed.

"We had better get going!" I said to Beta, who was staring 
at the bloody mess which had once been Sir George. She 
stared at me with wide disbelieving eyes, but nodded.

"I think we should!" she agreed, turning round, still 
holding my hand and leading me out of the cemetery, over 
the shattered remnants of the low wall enclosing it and 
back into the dark forbidding, but still less frightening, 
streets of the Suburbs. The dark hooded figures were all 
bent down in prayer as we left, soon becoming invisible in 
the shadows cast by the ruined church.

Beta was very still very distressed by Sir George's murder, 
but she held on to my hand tightly and said nothing. The 
Suburbs were dark and deserted, the orange glow in the 
distance being the only sign of life. Many of the houses 
were in a very poor state, their roofs caved in and the 
brickwork surrounding their windows blackened by the 
results of fierce fires. The only sounds we could hear were 
the blustering wind, and fluttering paper pressing against 
ruined hedges and walls. This silence was momentarily 
shattered by several large military helicopters thundering 
overhead, beams of light scanning the Suburban streets 
below.

"Let's hope they bring some order to the Suburbs," I 
commented to Beta. "Perhaps they can flush out all the 
monsters and rioters who've caused all this!"

Beta glanced up at me, but made no comment. The 
helicopters disappeared out of sight, and the Suburbs 
returned to its earlier quiet. We walked along what had 
once been the main road, but the larger detached homes 
aligning it had not escaped from vandalism any more than 
the occasional shops, telephone boxes and bus shelters. In 
one place, a telegraph had been uprooted and bestraddled 
the deeply dented bonnet of a large car and reached half 
way across the road. We trod over this, and saw another 
figure in the darkness ahead of us, and one which somehow 
emitted a golden aura from his very presence.

It was the Unicorn, who was walking steadily and 
unhurriedly along the centre of the road with no apparent 
fear at all. He saw us approach, and greeted us with a 
whinny and a gesture of his long tasselled tail. "Why, hello 
young man," he said when he was level with us, "and you, 
too, young lady. I see your pursuit of the Truth has brought 
you here. I take it that you haven't found it yet?"

"We haven't really been looking for it," Beta confessed. 
"There've been so many other things to worry ourselves 
with."

The Unicorn nodded his head. "Indeed there have been. 
What bedlam! But don't give up your quest. You must not 
be dissuaded this from the object of your wanderings. You 
are surely more likely to find the Truth than these others 
who have congregated here motivated by nothing more 
than curiosity or malice."

"I didn't believe that so much injury could be done in the 
pursuit of something as good and honourable as the Truth!" 
Beta exclaimed.

"Isn't that always the way! Throughout history, the worst 
violence is always wrought in the name of what is best and 
most universally desirable. I have seen it happen so many 
times before and in so many places. If it is any consolation 
to you, this night will soon be forgotten as have so many 
similar nights."

"Are you saying that you've seen destruction and chaos like 
this before?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. It happens periodically. The stresses 
and strains of all societies soon give way to disorder. I've 
seen worse. Much worse. Hundreds of thousands 
slaughtered by machete. People hunted down by helicopter 
gunships. Missiles and rockets pounding from distances, 
sometimes as far as a continent away. Mothers killing their 
own daughters. Sons killing their fathers. Decapitated 
heads on skewers, rivers of blood, corpses flowing down 
rivers, all that and more. I'm not saying that some, if not 
all, of these things are not happening tonight somewhere in 
this land, but, generally, these moments of destruction are 
mercifully brief."

"Are you saying we should accept this as just something 
which happens?" Beta asked, clearly upset by such 
detachment.

"My view of events is necessarily on a much longer scale 
than yours, and I have learnt to see them as part of the 
cycles of change and evolution. Every wave comes to a 
crest and collapses in on itself. Only great care and 
attention can prevent such a crisis from taking on the 
murderous proportions we have here. But my hope is that 
as the strands of society become so much enmeshed with 
each other they will prevent the worst from happening..."

"And what is the worst?" I wondered.

"Oh! The total destruction of everything. But enough of 
these musings. I'm pleased to see that you are both still 
alive and in such apparently good mettle. So much has 
changed has it not, young man, since I met you nearly a 
week ago in Gotesdene?"

"Yes, it has! And how is Gotesdene? Has it escaped from 
this tumult?"

"Alas, no! There are few places untouched, but fortunately 
none in this country as severely affected as the Suburbs. It 
was a touch of genius of that absurd marsupial to direct the 
worst of the crisis into an area utterly incapable of coping 
with it. There has been a revolt by the peasants of 
Gotesdene against the Lord Mayor which has left many 
dead and not a few corpses dangling from nooses in trees. 
The White Elephant has fled, his business concerns 
ravaged as a result of his unwise investments, many of 
which have been in the failed affairs of the late Lord 
Arthur. His castle has been sacked and his retainers raped, 
tortured and slaughtered. I imagine, however, that the Lord 
Mayor will recover from all this rather better than many of 
those who have perpetrated this violence. I doubt that he 
wasn't well-insured. But the number of dead is significantly 
less than that here in the Suburbs."

"Have you seen much of what has been happening?" I 
wondered.

"Enough. Quite enough to know! Whole avenues and cul-
de-sacs are in flames. You can see the aura of the fires 
which have been started all over the Suburbs." He nodded 
at the orange glow that had so recently appeared relatively 
comforting. "People have been hacked to death, gunned 
down, raped, disembowelled, impaled. Many, themselves, 
perpetrators of the violence. Blacks slaughtered by 
Illicitists. Religious sects destroyed by opposing sects. One 
species or race set against another. Others have been 
methodically slaughtered merely for what they are. I saw 
some goats from near Gotesdene being rounded up by 
some pigs with guns, to be mowed down by firing squads 
against the walls of a supermarket warehouse. I saw 
centaurs lying dead on the ground: their upper torsos 
methodically sliced off from the lower equine parts: 
presumably by those who disapprove of such 
miscellaneous beings. Duckbill platypuses, chimaeras and, 
of course, beings such as myself are considered worthy of 
slaughter simply because we don't conform to some fairly 
rigid convictions as to what an animal should be!"

"What do you think the result of all this will be?" Beta 
asked.

"Who knows? Who can say? Crises like this usually 
benefit those who have been most aggressive, which I 
suppose, in this case, would suggest the Illicit Party. All 
that can be said is that the recovery will not be easy. There 
will be more death and destruction long after the last fires 
of the Suburbs are extinguished as the many disparate 
elements of your country do battle against each other for 
their own perceived interests. City against Country. Pig 
against goat. Black against Red. Dog against Cat. Peasant 
against landlord. There is a great deal of pent-up frustration 
and hatred still to be released, and much of which will be 
fatally exacerbated tonight."

"And all this for the Truth!" I exclaimed sorrowfully.

The Unicorn shook his head. "Not for the Truth at all! The 
Truth has nothing to do with all this! The quest for the 
Truth may, for all I know, originally have been pursued for 
good and laudable reason, but it has become nothing more 
than an excuse. Don't confuse the apparent and real cause 
of an event! The Truth is no less the Truth now than it was 
yesterday. I doubt very much that the Truth is in any way a 
green light for this kind of destruction, but I suspect that 
very many more atrocities will continue to be met in its 
name. The bastardisation of the Truth is no different to that 
which has happened to other causes throughout history 
when fanaticism meets prejudice and political ambition 
meets warfare. Socialism, Islam, Christianity, 
Zoroastrianism, Democracy, Justice and Fairness have all 
been used as rallying cries for the most gross abuses and 
the most atrocious violence that I have witnessed. It is rare 
indeed that a creed of destruction is phrased without 
hypocrisy."

The Unicorn looked up at the dark brooding sky, as a 
particularly dark cloud passed overhead. A brief flash of 
lightening appeared in the distance followed by a low 
rumble of thunder. He pawed the pavement with a cloven 
hoof and whinnied. "More rain, I suspect. That should 
hopefully dampen the fervour of some of those here 
tonight, though I doubt that it will alleviate the misery of 
the tens of thousands of refugees from the Suburbs, or 
those who have been made homeless."

He looked at us again, and tapped Beta gently on the arm 
with his horn. "I must leave you now. I have duties to 
perform elsewhere, as a Unicorn must. I wish you both the 
very best. I'm sure you will be at least partially successful 
in your quest."

With that, he shook his mane and strode off with the same 
nonchalant tread with which he'd approached, leaving the 
street somehow much emptier and quieter than it was 
before. Beta grasped my arm, as another flash of lightening 
from many leagues away illuminated the sky and the 
resulting rumble of thunder became more distinct. A gust 
of wind blew by, lifting Beta's hair high above her head 
and across her face. She brushed it to one side, and 
determinedly strode ahead, pulling me along with her.

The calm was again shattered by low and ominous thunder, 
but this time more prolonged and progressively louder. 
Beta and I dashed off the centre of the road, behind the 
shattered ruins of the parked cars on the pavement in the 
dark shadows of hedges and a badly chipped red post box. 
The sound became a roar, as a cavalcade of armoured cars 
thundered along the street as fast as any private car. The 
whole procession took only a few minutes to pass by, but it 
seemed endless, machine guns on the outside pointed 
ahead and the occasional dark figure of a soldier sitting on 
top. Behind came a lower roar of jeeps in which sat groups 
of soldiers clasping their weapons and staring at the road 
receding behind them.

They were soon gone. Calm once again descended on the 
Suburban ruins. Another crash of thunder echoed in the 
sky, and a pornographic magazine was picked up by the 
wind and blew against Beta's bare leg. She disdainfully 
kicked it to one side, and guided me back into the street.

"We mustn't give up!" Beta hissed. "The Unicorn must be 
right. Our quest must be worth pursuing!"

My heart wasn't really in it anymore, but I nodded. Where 
else was I to go? I was in my home town and there was no 
obvious way out of it. We might as well go forward. I 
squeezed Beta's arm. She looked at me with large limpid 
eyes. 

"Are you alright?" she asked, observing my expression.

I nodded. "I was just thinking..."

"Thinking?"

I nodded again. "Thinking about how lucky I've been to 
meet you. Thinking how very much I've enjoyed being with 
you these last few days. Thinking that however much we've 
been through together, and whether we find the Truth or 
not, and whatever we might go through soon, and whether 
we even survive, what has been most worthwhile is that ..."

I paused. The habits of Suburban reserve were overcoming 
me, even amongst the Suburbs' death throes. Beta grasped 
both my hands in her own, and faced me eye to eye. I 
pressed on.

"I think that meeting you. And being with you. Has been 
the most important. The most worthwhile. The most 
significant thing of my quest!"

There. I'd said it! A great weight took flight and despite the 
horrors of the world around me a strange levity and elation 
took hold of me. Beta responded as somehow I knew she 
would. She pressed her face against mine, her arms gripped 
the back of my neck, while my arms grasped her around 
her naked waist, and her tongue and mine battled together 
in the middle of the dark empty street. Beta's hair brushed 
against my face and hands, her skin was cool in the 
evening chill and there was a sudden flash of lightening 
much closer by. As the air vibrated with the ominous 
echoes of thunder, my thoughts concentrated on the liquid 
warmth of Beta's mouth and the contours of her beautiful 
naked body.

We continued along the dark and ominously quiet 
Suburban streets. The rumbles of thunder continued 
spasmodically above our heads, and the streets 
occasionally lit up in a flash of lightening. Sometimes the 
lightening forked across the sky like a crack in the dark 
firmament. The streets were ruinous and disconcerting. We 
passed one street in which dark bundles lay about on the 
pavement, over car bonnets and across the road. We were 
about to wander down this road, but without a word, Beta 
gripped my arm and pulled me backwards. 

"Wh...?" I asked.

Beta closed her eyes and pulled me more urgently. I 
glanced back to see the cause of her concern, thinking 
perhaps to see more monsters in the street, but there was 
nothing. It then became belatedly clear that these bundles 
were in fact the corpses of men, women and children who 
had been massacred. Another flash of lightening revealed a 
distinct red tinge in the puddles and water gathered in the 
gutters, unable to escape down blocked drains. 

My horror was deepened when I recognised where we 
were. Even though the houses were mostly just burnt-out 
wrecks of recent fires, and most landmarks had been 
wantonly destroyed, it was still recognisable as the part of 
the Suburbs where I came from. The names of the streets 
were the same: Apidistra Avenue, Rose Garden Road 
and Camomile Crescent. This was home, and my house 
wasn't too far from here. There were the smashed windows 
of my local newsagent and post office. There was the 
dangling telephone receiver and leads lying about on the 
ground near the smashed glass of the local red telephone 
box. There was the smashed glass of belisha beacons by 
the local zebra crossing where a small car was embedded 
in the side of a larger car, and its boot sliced off by the 
passage of, perhaps, military vehicles.

"I live round here!" I exclaimed to Beta. "This is where I've 
lived all my life! My house isn't at all far. Look at all the 
destruction!"

Beta squeezed my hand with sympathy. "Shall we see how 
your house is?" 

"I'm not sure I can bear to see it! It'll probably be a ruin like 
all these others." 

I indicated the houses with collapsed roofs, broken windows, 
charred brickwork and dismantled hedges.

A crack of lightening launched itself onto the ground at the 
end of a nearby cul-de-sac releasing the smell of burning 
wood and followed almost immediately by a crash of 
thunder that echoed loudly across the roofs of semi-
detached houses. It lit up a street scene of discarded 
rubbish, broken television aerials, shattered cars and what 
appeared to be another body lying on the drive of the house 
we were standing outside. At about the same time, a huge 
droplet of water splattered my face and stung as it trailed 
down my cheek.

"I don't think we'll have much choice. It looks like it'll start 
raining again. We'll need to find some shelter!"

I nodded. "It's only a couple of streets away. Perhaps it'll be 
alright!" I breathed in deeply. I feared the worst, but could 
see no choice as more raindrops fell on us, accompanied by 
flashes of lightening and rumbles of thunder.

"Let's run!" urged Beta. "Come on!"

"Yes, we must!" I agreed, still grasping Beta's hand and 
dashing along the streets neighbouring mine. Along 
Orchard Drive, past Cherry Tree Close and Poplar Avenue, 
around the corner of Meadow Crescent, and straight into 
my own street - roads I remembered more for their relative 
location than for anything in them that I could actually 
recognise. As we ran, past and through puddles, dodging 
cars parked extremely badly in the middle of the road, the 
refrain of thunder and lightening urged us on our way 
together with the constant beating of rain not yet in full 
torrent.

As we ran along we heard a roar approaching us from the 
sky, louder than any crash of thunder, and then, speeding 
just yards above our heads, just skimming over the ruined 
roofs of the houses, was a jet plane, its lighted fuselage 
easily visible. It was gone as soon as it came, the roar of its 
engines still getting progressively louder after the jet had 
shot off into the distance. A more persistent roar of 
helicopter gunships followed behind it, visible like a 
swarm of dark bees against the white electric glow of the 
lightening-illuminated sky. Our immediate concern 
however was the rain which had broken into a heavier 
more persistent patter.

And then we were in my own road and ahead of us I could 
see my home. It stood out distinct from the other houses, 
including that which was the other half of the semi-
detached block, not only from its long history of 
familiarity, but also by its unusual intactness. All the other 
houses were charred and ruined, but mine was as I had left 
it. The hedge remained intact, the dustbins standing, the 
windows unbroken and, most surprisingly of all, amongst 
all the darkness of the Suburbs, was the distinct 
luminescent aura of light generating from an upstairs 
window.

"I don't remember leaving a light on!" I gasped, as we 
hesitated at the gate.

"How can it be a light? There's no electricity! You don't 
have your own power generator?"

"No," I said puzzled. "I don't know what it can be!"

We dashed to the front door which was closed and secure, 
and stood under the porch as the rain finally ceased its 
teasing, and culminated in a heavy outburst. A wall of rain 
surrounded the house, obscuring visibility, and making 
escape impossible. I took my keys out of my pocket, and 
applied them to the locks securing the door. After a few 
moments, the door was open and we were in the darkness 
of the hallway. Instinctively, I clicked on the hallway light, 
but there was no response.

"The electricity has been cut off!" I exclaimed.

"So what's the light from upstairs?" Beta asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. I really don't 
know."

"We'll have to find out."

I agreed. There appeared to be no choice. The timpani of 
rain beat against the windows and the front door porch. 
Despite the dark, we navigated to the foot of the staircase, 
which wound up to the upstairs landing, and gingerly 
walked up. When we were half way up the carpeted stairs, 
and just by a vase of flowers on a table, we could see the 
ruin of the Suburbs through the landing window. 
Helicopters and jets were gathered over the Suburban 
roofs, and even through the cracks of thunder we could 
hear the din of their engines and more ominously the 
crackle of rocket fire. A sequence of bright lights shot out 
of the jet's nose, followed by explosions and a column of 
flame rising from whatever it had shot. The jet arched up in 
a loop and disappeared off in the distance, while another 
jet roared in from another direction.

The landing was partially lit by two sources of light. One 
was the occasional flash of white light from the electric 
storm, and the other came through the rectangular door 
jamb of my bedroom which was where the mysterious 
source of light came from.

"What is it?" I wondered.

"It's the Truth!" Beta asserted. "I just know it. I'm certain of 
it!"

"The Truth! Here in my home? All along? It can't be!" 
However even as I stated my doubts, I felt a strange feeling 
of certainty. Yes. It was the Truth. What I had been 
searching for the last week. The Truth. It was here. In my 
bedroom. I don't know from where this feeling of certainty 
came. It was nothing in the aura of light, which resembled 
nothing more than the normal light of a bedroom in a dark 
hallway, but something that seemed to emerge from deep 
inside me. It was a certainty born of the Truth itself which 
dispelled any uncertainty or doubt.

Beta and I approached the bedroom door. I pushed it open, 
and we looked inside at a room transformed not in any 
particular detail, no part of it at all different from when I 
had left, but now possessed of a new quality and essence 
that I was sure had never been there before. And the source 
and immanent possessor of this quality was the Truth itself.

"It's here! We've found it! At last! Now everything will be 
alright again. Things will never again be bad! All the 
world's problems since the beginning of time and for 
eternity have found their solution!" I eulogised to Beta, 
who like me focused her eyes intently and unblinkingly on 
the Truth.

There suddenly came another roar of jet plane engines, 
getting louder and louder by the microsecond, and then 
without warning a sudden jarring crash. The fabric of the 
house shuddered and then collapsed in on itself. The 
ceiling crashed down onto the floor, the television aerial 
and chimney plunging through the roof, through the plaster 
of the ceiling and, then, along with the rest of the room 
including ourselves into a pile of rubble on the foundations 
of the building. 

Like a light being turned off, or a fire being extinguished, 
the aura of the Truth vanished in the destruction as our 
bodies were covered with our blood and brought down 
with the weight of my home's walls and plaster. As Beta 
and I collapsed under a pile of masonry we knew, with the 
same certainty we had when we'd seen the Truth, that it 
was now destroyed. Its fragments scattered forever, to the 
four winds, from the beginning to the end of time, from the 
greatest galaxy to the smallest boson, from alpha to omega.



	Epilogue


And in the end we survived. We were found in the ruins of 
my house buried under the rubble, soaked in blood and 
rain, protected from the worst of the damage by the 
mattress and pillows of my bed. Beta and I were repaired, 
along with the Suburbs, and now live together in married 
bliss in the Suburban avenues where I was always destined 
to spend the rest of my life. Beta is now a normal Suburban 
housewife, indistinguishable from all the others, and I 
commute each day to work to provide for my home and 
family.

The Suburbs were restored to their former state. Houses 
were rebuilt, the streets were cleaned, the electricity and 
telephone lines were reconnected, and the television aerials 
replaced on the roofs. Beyond the Suburbs, the country 
gradually repaired itself from the chaos, but not without 
some political cost.

The Red Government was ousted by a coalition of the 
White, Blue, Black and Illicit Parties which rewrote the 
constitution to justify its seizure of power. This fragile 
stability didn't last for very long. In a succession of 
suspicious elections and power-broking, first the White and 
then the Black Parties were ousted from the coalition, their 
departures not being long followed by them being banned, 
like the Red and Green Parties before them. Within a year, 
the Blue Party was also ousted and became similarly 
illegal, and the country became a nominally independent 
Illiberal Socialist Republic - an independence which was 
not to last for very long.

The Truth remained lost. All mention of it was purged 
from Illiberal Socialist doctrine and no record remains that 
it had ever been the subject of a quest. The official history 
of the Illiberal Socialist Revolution does not even have a 
footnote dedicated to the great pursuit, and indeed it is as if 
it had never happened. The quest for the Truth continues as 
before. Nobody would ever believe us that it has in fact 
already been discovered and has now been destroyed. It is 
now, as it had always been, a timeless and possibly 
insoluble enigma.


