Joffy looked grim and nodded towards a large crowd of uniformed Kaine followers who were waiting in silence for their glorious leader.

“Things haven’t been good back here, Thurs. Kaine regained his seat after Samuel Pring was assassinated. The Whigs formed an alliance with the Liberals and elected Kaine as their leader. He has some sort of magnetism, and the numbers that attend his rallies increase all the time. His ‘British unification’ stance has had much support—mostly with stupid people who can’t be bothered to think for themselves.”

“War with Wales?”

“He hasn’t said as such, but a leopard doesn’t change its spots. He won by a landslide after the previous government collapsed over the ‘cash for llamas’ scandal. As soon as he was in power he proclaimed himself chancellor. His Unreform Act last year restricted the vote to people with property.”

“How did he get parliament to agree to that?” I muttered, aghast at the thought of it.

“We’re not sure,” said Joffy sadly. “Sometimes parliament does the funniest things. But he’s not happy just being chancellor. He’s arguing that committees and accountants only slow things down, and if people really want trains to run on time and shopping trolleys to run straight, it could be done only by one man wielding unquestionable executive power—a dictator.”

“So what’s stopping him?”

“The President,” replied Joffy quietly. “Formby has told Kaine that if Kaine pushes for a dictatorial election, he will stand against him, and Yorrick knows full well that Formby would win—he’s as popular now as he ever was.”

I thought for a moment. “How old is President Formby?”

“That’s the problem. He was eighty-four last May.”

We fell silent for a moment and shuffled with the queue up to the stage door, had our identities checked by two ugly men from SO-6 and were then ushered in. We took our seats at the back and waited patiently for the show to begin. It seemed hard to believe that Kaine had managed to inveigle his way to the top of English politics, but, I reflected, anything can happen to a fictional character—a trait that Yorrick had obviously exploited to the full.

“See that nasty-looking man on the edge of the stage?” asked Joffy.

“Yes,” I replied, following Joffy’s finger to a stocky man with short hair and no visible neck.

“Colonel Fawsten Gayle, Kaine’s head of security. Not a man to trifle with. It’s rumored he was expelled from school for nailing his head to a park bench on a bet.”

Standing next to Gayle was a cadaverous man with pinched features and small round spectacles. He was holding a battered red briefcase and was dressed in a rumpled sports jacket and corduroy trousers.

“Who’s that?”

“Ernst Stricknene. Kaine’s personal adviser.”

I stared at them both for a while and noticed that, despite being barely two feet from each other, they didn’t exchange a single word or look. Things in the Kaine camp were far from settled. If I could get close, I’d just grab Yorrick and jump him straight to one of Jurisfiction’s many prison books, and that would be that. It looked as though I had got back home just in time.

I consulted the complimentary copy of The New Oppressor I had found on my seat.

“Why is Kaine blaming the nation’s woes on the Danish?” I asked.

“Because economically we’re in a serious mess after losing to Russia in the Crimean War. They didn’t just get Tunbridge Wells as war reparations but a huge chunk of cash, too. The country is near bankruptcy, Kaine wants to stay in power, so—”

“Misdirection.”

“Bingo. He blames someone else.”

“But the Danish?”

“Shows how desperate he is, doesn’t it? As a nation we’ve been blaming the Welsh and the French for far too long and with the Russians out of the frame he’s come up with Denmark as public enemy number one. He’s using the Viking raids of 800 A.D. and the Danish rule of England in the eleventh century as an excuse to whip up some misinformed xenophobia.”

“Ludicrous!”

“Agreed. The papers have been full of anti-Danish propaganda this past month. All Bang & Olufsen entertainment systems have been withdrawn due to ‘safety’ concerns, and Lego has been banned pending ‘choking hazard’ investigations. The list of outlawed Danish writers is becoming longer by the second. Kierkegaard’s works have already been declared illegal under the Undesirable Danish Literature Act and will be burnt. Hans Christian Andersen will be next, we’re told—and after that maybe even Karen Blixen.”

“They can pull my copy of Out of Africa from my cold, dead fingers.”

“Mine, too. You’d better make sure Hamlet doesn’t tell anyone where he’s from. Shhh. I think something’s happening.”

Something was happening. The floor manager had walked out onto the set and was explaining to us exactly what we should do. After a protracted series of technical checks, the host of the show walked on, to applause from the audience. This was Tudor Webastow of The Owl, who had made a career out of being just inquisitive enough to be considered a realistic political foil for the press but not so inquisitive that he would be found in the Thames wearing concrete overshoes.

He sat down at the center of a table with two empty chairs either side of him and sorted his notes. Unusually for Evade the Question Time, the show had two speakers instead of four, but tonight was special: Yorrick Kaine would be facing his political opposition, Mr. Redmond van de Poste, of the Commonsense Party. Mr. Webastow cleared his throat and began.

“Good evening and welcome to Evade the Question Time, the nation’s premier topical talk show. Tonight, as every night, a panel of distinguished public figures generally evade answering the audience’s questions and instead toe the party line.”

There was applause at this, and Webastow continued: “The show tonight comes from Swindon in Wessex. Sometimes called the third capital of England or ‘ Venice on the M4,’ the Swindon of today is a financial and manufacturing powerhouse, its citizens a cross-section of professionals and artists who are politically indicative of the country as a whole. I’d also like to mention at this point that Evade the Question Time is brought to you by Neat-Fit^® Exhaust Systems, the tailpipe of choice.”

He paused for a moment and shuffled his papers.

“We are honored to have with us tonight two very different speakers from opposite ends of the political spectrum. First I would like to introduce a man who was politically dead two years ago but has managed to pull himself up to the second-highest political office in the nation, with a devoted following of many millions, not all of whom are deranged. Ladies and gentlemen, Chancellor Yorrick Kaine!”

There was mixed applause when he walked onto the stage, and he grinned and nodded for the benefit of the crowd. I leaned forward in my seat. He didn’t appear to have aged at all in the two years since I had last seen him, which is what I would expect from a fictioneer. Still looking in his late twenties, with black hair swept neatly to the side, he might have been a male model from a knitting pattern. I knew he wasn’t. I’d checked.

“Thank you very much,” said Kaine, sitting at the table and clasping his hands in front of him. “May I say that I always regard Swindon as a home away from home.”

There was a brief twitter of delight from the front of the audience, mostly little old ladies who looked upon him as the son they never had.

Mr. Webastow went on, “And opposing him we are also honored to welcome Mr. Redmond van de Poste of the opposition Commonsense Party.”

There was notably less applause as van de Poste walked in. He was older than Kaine by almost thirty years, looked tired and gaunt, wore round horn-rimmed spectacles and had a high-domed forehead that shone when it caught the light. He looked about furtively before sitting down stiffly. I guessed the reason. He was wearing a heavy flak vest beneath his suit—and with good reason. The last three Commonsense leaders had all met with mysterious deaths. The previous incumbent had been Mrs. Fay Bentoss, who had died after being hit by a car. Not so unusual, you might think—except she had been in her front room when it happened.

“Thank you, gentlemen, and welcome. The first question comes from Miss Pupkin.”

A small woman stood up and said shyly, “Hello. A Terrible Thing was done by Somebody this week, and I’d like to ask the panel if they condemn this.”

“A very good question,” replied Webastow. “Mr. Kaine, perhaps you’d like to start the ball rolling?”

“Thank you, Tudor. Yes, I condemn utterly and completely the Terrible Thing in the strongest possible terms. We in the Whig Party are appalled by the way in which Terrible Things are done in this great nation of ours, with no retribution against the Somebody who did them. I would also like to point out that the current spate of Terrible Things being undertaken in our towns and cities is a burden we inherited from the Commonsense Party, and I am at pains to point out that in real terms the occurrence of Terrible Things has dropped by over twenty-eight percent since we took office.”

There was applause at this, and Webastow then asked Mr. van de Poste for his comments.

“Well,” said Redmond with a sigh, “quite clearly my learned friend has got his facts mixed up. According to the way we massage the figures, Terrible Things are actually on the increase. But I’d like to stop playing party politics for a moment and state for the record that although this is of course a great personal tragedy for those involved, condemning out of hand these acts does not allow us to understand why they occur, and more needs to be done to get to the root cause of—”

“Yet again,” interrupted Kaine, “yet again we see the Commonsense Party shying away from its responsibilities and failing to act toughly on unspecified difficulties. I hope all the unnamed people who have suffered unclearly defined problems will understand—”

“I did say we condemned the Terrible Thing,” put in van de Poste. “And I might add that we have been conducting a study into the entire range of Terrible Things, all the way from Just Annoying to Outrageously Awful, and will act on these findings—if we gain power.”

“Trust the Commonsensers to do things by half measures!” scoffed Kaine, who obviously enjoyed these sorts of discussions. “By going only so far as ‘Outrageously Awful,’ Mr. van de Poste is selling his own nation short. We at the Whig Party have been looking at the Terrible Things problem and propose a zero-tolerance attitude to offenses as low as Mildly Inappropriate. Only in this way can the Somebodies who commit Terrible Things be stopped before they move on to acts that are Obscenely Perverse.”

There was a smattering of applause again, presumably as the audience tried to figure out whether “Just Annoying” was worse than “Mildly Inappropriate.”

“Succinctly put,” announced Webastow. “At the end of the first round, I will award three points to Mr. Kaine for an excellent nonspecific condemnation, plus one bonus point for blaming the previous government and another for successfully mutating the question to promote the party line. Mr. van de Poste gets a point for a firm rebuttal, but only two points for his condemnation, as he tried to inject an impartial and intelligent observation. So at the end of the first round, it’s Kaine leading with five points and van de Poste with three.”

There was more applause as the numbers came up on the scoreboard.

“On to the next stage of the show, which we call the ‘not answering the question’ round. We have a question from Miss Ives.”

A middle-aged woman put up her hand and asked, “Does the panel think that sugar should be added to rhubarb pie or the sweetness deficit made up by an additive, such as custard?”

“Thank you, Miss Ives. Mr. van de Poste, would you care to not answer this question first?”

“Well,” said Redmond, eyeing the audience for any possible assassins, “this question goes straight to the heart of government, and I’d like to first point out that the Commonsense Party, when we were in power, tried more ways of doing things than any other party in living memory, and in consequence came closer to doing the right way of doing something, even if we didn’t know it at the time.”

There was applause, and Joffy and I exchanged looks.

“Does it get any better?” I whispered.

“Wait until they get on to Denmark.”

“I utterly refute,” began Kaine, “the implication that we aren’t doing things the right way. To demonstrate this I’d like to wander completely off the point and talk about the Health Service overhaul that we will launch next year. We want to replace the outdated ‘preventive’ style of health care this country has relentlessly pursued with a ‘wait until it gets really bad’ system, which will target those most in need of medical treatment—the sick. Yearly health screenings for all citizens will end and be replaced by a ‘tertiary’ diagnostic regime that will save money and resources.”

Again there was applause.

“Okay,” announced Webastow, “I’m going to give van de Poste three points for successfully not answering that question at all, but five points to Kaine, who not only ignored the question but instead used it as a platform for his own political agenda. So with six rounds still to go, we have Kaine with ten points and van de Poste with six. Next question, please.”

A young man with dyed red hair sitting in our row put his hand up. “I would like to suggest that the Danish are not our enemy, and this is nothing more than a cynical move by the Whigs to blame someone else for our own economic troubles.”

“Ah!” said Webastow. “The controversial Danish question. I’m going to let Mr. van de Poste avoid this question first.”

Van de Poste looked unwell all of a sudden and glanced nervously towards where Stricknene and Gayle were glaring at him.

“I think,” he began slowly, “that if the Danish are as Mr. Kaine describes, I will offer my support to his policies.”

He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief as Kaine began: “When I came to power, England was a nation in the grip of economic decline and social ills. No one realized it at the time, and I took it upon myself to demonstrate by any means in my power the depths to which this great nation had fallen. With the support of my followers, I have managed to demonstrate reasonably clearly that things aren’t as good as we thought they were, and what we imagined was peace and coexistence with our neighbors was actually a fool’s paradise of delusion and paranoia. Anyone who thinks . . .”

I leaned over to Joffy. “Do people believe this garbage?”

“I’m afraid so. I think he’s working on the ‘people will far more readily believe a big lie than a small one’ principle. Still surprises me, though.”

“. . . whoever disturbs this mission,” rattled on Kaine, “is an enemy of the people, whether they be Danish or Welsh sympathizers, eager to overthrow our nation, or ill-informed lunatics who do not deserve the vote or a voice.”

There was applause, but a few boos, too. I saw Colonel Gayle make notes on a scrap of paper as to who was shouting them, counting out the seat numbers as he did so.

“But why the Danish?” continued the man with the red hair. “They have a notoriously fair system of parliament, an impeccable record of human rights and a deserved reputation of upstanding charitable works in Third World nations. I think these are lies, Mr. Kaine!”

There were gasps and intakes of breath, but a few head noddings, too. Even, I think, from van de Poste.

“For the moment, at least,” began Kaine in a conciliatory tone, “everyone is permitted an opinion, and I thank our friend for his candor. However, I would like to bring the audience’s attention to an unrelated yet emotive issue that will bring the discussion away from embarrassing shortcomings of my administration and back into the arena of populist politics. Namely: the disgraceful record of puppy and kitten death when the Commonsense Party was in power.”

At the mention of puppies and kittens dying, there were cries of alarm from the elder members of the audience.

Confident that he had turned the discussion, Kaine went on, “As things stand at the moment, over one thousand unwanted puppies and kittens are destroyed each year by lethal injections, which are freely available to veterinarians in Denmark. As committed humanitarians, the Whig Party has always condemned unwanted pet extermination.”

“Mr. Van de Poste?” asked Webastow. “How do you react to Mr. Kaine’s diversionary tactics regarding kitten death?”

“Clearly,” began van de Poste, “kitten and puppy death is regrettable, but we in the Commonsense Party must bring it to everyone’s attention that unwanted pets have to be destroyed in this manner. If people were more responsible with their pets, then this sort of thing wouldn’t happen.”

“Typical of the Commonsense approach!” barked Kaine. “Blaming the population as though they were feeble-minded fools with little personal responsibility! We in the Whig Party would never condone such an accusation and are appalled by Mr. van de Poste’s outburst. I will personally pledge to you now that I will make the puppy-home-deficit problem my primary concern when I am made dictator.”

There were loud cheers at this, and I shook my head sadly.

“Well,” said Webastow happily, “I think I will give Mr. Kaine a full five points for his masterful misdirection, plus a bonus two points for obscuring the Danish issue rather than facing up to it. Mr. van de Poste, I’m sorry that I can only offer you a single point. Not only did you tacitly agree to Mr. Kaine’s outrageous foreign policy, but you answered the unwanted-pet problem with an honest reply. So at the end of round three, Kaine is galloping ahead with seventeen points and van de Poste is bringing up the rear with seven. Our next question comes from Mr. Wedgwood.”

“Yes,” said a very old man in the third row, “I should like to know if the panel supports the Goliath Corporation’s change to a faith-based corporate-management system.”

And so it dragged on for nearly an hour, Kaine making outrageous claims and most of the audience failing to notice or, even worse, care. I was extremely glad when the program drew to a close, with Kaine leading thirty-eight points to van de Poste’s sixteen, and we filed out of the door.

“What now?” asked Joffy.

I took my Jurisfiction TravelBook from my pocket and opened it at the page that offered a paragraph of The Sword of the Zenobians, one of the many unpublished works Jurisfiction used as a prison. All I had to do was grab Kaine’s hand and read.

“I’m going to take Kaine back to the BookWorld with me. He’s far too dangerous to leave out here.”

“I agree,” said Joffy, leading me around to where two large limousines were waiting for the Chancellor. “He’ll want to meet his ‘adoring’ public, so you should have a chance.”

We found the crowd waiting for him and pushed our way to the front. Most of the TV audience had turned up to see Kaine, but probably not for the same purpose as I. There was excited chatter as Kaine appeared. He smiled serenely and walked down the line, shook hands and was presented with flowers and babies to kiss. Close by his side was Colonel Gayle, with a phalanx of guards who stared into the crowd to make sure no one would try anything. Behind them all, I could see Stricknene still clinging onto the red briefcase. I partially hid myself behind a Kaine acolyte waving a Whig Party flag so Kaine didn’t see me. We had crossed swords once before, and he knew what I was capable of, much as I knew what he was capable of—the last time we met, he had tried to have us eaten by the Glatisant, a sort of hell beast from the depths of mankind’s most depraved imagination. If he could conjure up fictional beasts at will, I would have to be more careful.

But then, as the small group moved closer, I started to feel a curious impulse not to trap Kaine but to join in with the infectious enthusiasm. The atmosphere was electric, and being swept along with the crowd was something that just suddenly seemed right. Joffy had fallen under the spell already and was waving and whistling his support. I fought down a strong feeling to stop what I was doing and perhaps give Yorrick the benefit of the doubt when he and his entourage were upon us. His hand came out towards the crowd. I steadied myself, glanced at the opening lines of Zenobians and waited for the right moment. I would have to hold on tight as I read our way into the BookWorld, but that didn’t bother me, as I’d done it many times before. What did worry me was the fact that my resolve was softening even faster.

Before the Kaine magnetism could take me over any further, I took a deep breath, grabbed the outstretched hand and muttered quickly, “It was a time of peace within the land of the Zenobians. . . .”

It didn’t take long for me to jump into the BookWorld. Within a few moments, the bustling nighttime crowd in the car park of ToadNewsNetwork studios had vanished from view, to be replaced by a warm, verdant valley where herds of unicorns grazed peacefully under the summer sun. Grammasites wheeled in the blue skies, riding the thermals that rose from the warm grassland.

“So!” I said, turning to Kaine and receiving something of a shock. Beside me was not Yorrick but a middle-aged man holding a Whig Party flag and staring at the crystal-clear waters babbling through a gap in the rocks. I must have grabbed the wrong hand.

“Where am I?” asked the man, who was understandably confused.

“It’s a near-death experience,” I told him hastily. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful!”

“Good. Don’t get too fond of it. I’m taking you back.”

I grasped him again, muttered the password under my breath and jumped out of fiction, something I had a lot less trouble with. We arrived behind some dustbins just as Kaine and his entourage were driving off. I ran up to Joffy, who was still waving good-bye, and told him to snap out of it.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “What happened to you?”

“Don’t ask. C’mon, let’s go home.”

We left the scene as a very excited and confused middle-aged man tried to tell anyone who would listen about his “near-death experience.”