“Well?” he said. “Where’s our team?”

“They’ll be here at one o’clock.”

“Can’t we get them here earlier?” he asked. “We need to discuss tactics.”

“No,” I said firmly. “They’ll be here on time. It’s senseless to try to impose human time constraints on them. They’re playing on our side—that’s the main thing.”

“Okay,” agreed Aubrey reluctantly. “Have you met Penelope Hrah?”

Penelope was a large and powerful woman who looked as though she could crack walnuts with her eyelids. She had moved to croquet because hockey wasn’t violent enough, and although at thirty-two she was at the end of her career, she might prove an asset—as a terror weapon, if nothing else. She scared me—and I was on the same team.

“Hello Penelope,” I said nervously. “I really appreciate you joining us.”

“Urg.”

“Everything okay? Can I get you something?”

She grunted again, and I rubbed my hands together anxiously.

“Right, well, leave you to it, then.”

I left her to talk strategy with Alf and Aubrey. I spent the next couple of hours doing interviews and ensuring that the team’s lawyers were up to speed on the game’s complex legal procedures. At midday Landen and Friday arrived with Mycroft, Polly and my mother. I took them down to the seating reserved for the VIPs just behind the players’ benches and sat them down next to Joffy and Miles, who had arrived earlier.

“Is Swindon going to win?” asked Polly.

“I hope so,” I said, not brimming with confidence.

“The problem with you, Thursday,” put in Joffy, “is that you have no faith. We in the Idolatry Friends of St. Zvlkx have complete faith in the revealments. Lose and Goliath moves to new heights of human exploitation and unfathomable avarice, hidden amongst the trappings of religious formality and perverted ecclesiastical dogma.”

“That was a very good speech.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. I was practicing on the march last night. Don’t feel you’re under any pressure now.”

“Thanks for nothing. Where’s Hamlet?”

“He said he’d join us later.”

I left them to do a live broadcast with Lydia Startright, who was really more interested in knowing where I had been for the past two and a half years than asking me about Swindon’s chances. After this I hurried down to the players’ entrance to welcome Stig—who was playing—and the four other neanderthals. They were completely unfazed by the media attention and ignored the phalanx of pressmen completely. I thanked them for joining our team, and Stig pointed out that they were there only because that was part of the deal, and nothing more.

I walked them towards the changing rooms, where the human team members greeted them with a good measure of curiosity. They talked haltingly with one another, the neanderthals confining their speech to the technical aspects of croquet play. It was of no matter or consequence to them if they won or lost—they would simply do the best they could. They refused body armor, as they preferred instead to play barefoot in shorts and brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. This caused a slight problem with the Toast Marketing Board, which had insisted that its name be on the team strip, but I smoothed it over with them eventually and all was well. There was less than ten minutes before we were due out, so Aubrey made a stirring speech to the team, which the neanderthals didn’t really comprehend. Stig, whose understanding of humans was perhaps a little better than most, just told them to “hoop as much as we can,” which they understood.

“Miss Next?”

I turned to face a thin, cadaverous man staring at me. I recognized him instantly. It was Ernst Stricknene, Kaine’s adviser—and he was carrying a red briefcase. I had seen a similar case at Goliathopolis and during Evade the Question Time. It doubtless concealed an Ovinator.

“What do you want?”

“Chancellor Kaine would like to meet the Swindon team for a pep talk.”

“Why?”

Stricknene looked at me coldly. “It is not for you to question the will of the Chancellor, young lady.”

It was then that Kaine marched in, surrounded by his goons and entourage. The team stood up respectfully—except the neanderthals, who, completely ambivalent to the vagaries of perceived hierarchy, carried on talking to one another in soft grunts. Kaine looked at me triumphantly, but I noticed, too, that he had changed slightly. His eyes looked tired and his mouth had a barely discernible sag to it. He’d started to show signs of being human. He was beginning to age.

“Ah!” he said. “The ubiquitous Miss Next. LiteraTec, team manager, savior of Jane Eyre. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I’m not that good at knitting.”

There was a ripple of laughter amongst the team, and also from Kaine’s followers, who abruptly silenced themselves as Kaine glanced around the room, scowling. But he controlled himself and gave a disingenuous smile after nodding to Stricknene.

“I just came down here to talk to the team and tell all of you that it would be a far better thing for this country if I stayed in power, and even though I don’t know how Zvlkx’s revealment will work, I can’t leave the secure future of this nation to the vagaries of a thirteenth-century seer with poor personal hygiene. Do you understand what I am saying?”

I knew what he was up to. The Ovinator. It would, as likely as not, have us all eating out of his hand in under a minute. But I wasn’t figuring on Hamlet, who appeared suddenly from behind Stricknene, rapier drawn.

It was now or nothing, and I yelled, “The briefcase! Destroy the Ovinator!”

Hamlet needed no second bidding, and he leapt into action, expertly piercing the case, which gave off a brief flash of green light and a short, high-pitched wail that started the police dogs outside barking. Hamlet was swiftly overpowered by two SO-6 agents, who handcuffed him.

“Who is this man?” demanded Kaine.

“He’s my cousin Eddie.”

“NO!” yelled Hamlet, standing up straight even though he had two men holding him. “My name is Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Danish, and proud of it!”

Kaine gave a smug laugh. “Captain, arrest Miss Next for harboring a known Danish person—and arrest the entire team for aiding and abetting.”

It was a bad moment. With no players, the game had to be forfeited. But Hamlet, actioneer that he had become, was not out of ideas.

“I shouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“And why not?” sneered Kaine, not without a certain quaver in his voice; he was now acting solely on his wits. He had neither his fictional roots nor the Ovinator to help him.

“Because,” announced Hamlet, “I am a very special friend of Ms. Daphne Farquitt.”

“And . . . ?” inquired Kaine with a slight smile.

“She is outside awaiting my return. If I fail to reappear or you try any sort of anti-Mallets skulduggery, she will mobilize her troops.”

Kaine laughed, and Stricknene, sycophant that he was, laughed with him.

“Troops? What troops are these?” Kaine asked, amused.

But Hamlet was deadly serious. He glowered at them for a moment before answering. “Her fan club. They’re highly organized, armed to the teeth, profoundly angry at having had their books burned and ready to move at her command. There are thirty thousand stationed near the stadium and a further ninety thousand in reserve. One word from Daphne and you’re finished.”

“I have reversed the law banning Farquitt,” replied Kaine hastily. “They will disperse when they learn this.”

“They will believe nothing from your lying tongue,” replied Hamlet softly, “only that which Ms. Farquitt tells them. Your power is waning, my friend, and destiny’s inelegant toe creaks the boards to your door.”

There was a tense silence as Kaine stared at Hamlet and Hamlet stared back at Kaine. I’d witnessed quite a few standoffs but none with so much at stake.

“You haven’t a hope in hell anyway,” announced Kaine after considering his options carefully. “I’m going to enjoy watching the Whackers trash you. Release him.”

The SO-6 agents uncuffed Hamlet and escorted Kaine out the door.

“Well,” said Hamlet, “looks like we’re back in the game. I’m going to watch with your mother. Win this one for the Farquitt fans, Thursday!”

And he was gone.

None of us had any time to ponder on the matter further, as we heard a Klaxon go off and an excited roar from the crowd echoed down the tunnel.

“Good luck, everyone,” said Aubrey with a good measure of bravado. “It’s showtime!”

I stayed on the touchline as the Swindon Mallets lined up face-to-face with the Reading Whackers. They all glared at one another as the Swindon & District Wheel-Tappers’ Brass Band marched on, headed by Lola Vavoom. There was then a pause while President Formby took his seat in the VIP box and, again led by Ms. Vavoom, the audience stood to sing the unofficial English national anthem, “When I’m Cleaning Windows.” After the song had finished, Yorrick Kaine appeared at the VIP box, but his reception was derisory at best. There was a smattering of applause and a few “Hail!”s, but nothing like the reception he was expecting. His anti-Danish stance had lost a lot of popular support when he’d made the mistake of accusing the Danish Women’s Handball Team of being spies and arrested them. I saw him sit down and scowl at the President, who smiled back warmly.

I was standing at the touchline with Alf Widdershaine, watching the proceedings.

“Is there anything more we could have done?” I whispered.

“No,” said Alf after a pause. “I just hope those neanderthals can cut the mustard.”

I turned and walked back towards Landen. On his lap was Friday, gurgling and clapping his hands. I had taken him once to the chariot race in the novel of Ben-Hur, and he’d loved it.

“What are our chances, darling?” asked Landen.

“Reasonable to middling with the neanderthals playing. I’ll speak to you later.”

I gave them a kiss each, and Landen wished me good luck.

“Dolor in reprehenderit—Mummy,” said Friday. I thanked him for his kind words and heard my name being called. It was Aubrey who was talking to the umpire, who, as custom dictated, was dressed as a country parson.

“What do you mean?” I heard Aubrey say in an outraged tone as I moved closer. It seemed there was some sort of altercation, and we hadn’t even begun play yet. “Show me where it says that in the rules!”

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“It’s the neanderthals,” he said between gritted teeth. “According to the rules, it seems that nonhumans are barred from taking part!”

I glanced back to where Stig and the four other neanderthals were sitting in a circle, meditating.

“Rule 78b-45(ii),” quoted the umpire as O’Fathens, the Reading Whackers’ captain, looked on with a gleeful expression, “ ‘No player or team may use an equine or any other nonhuman creature to gain an advantage over the opposing team.’ ”

“But that doesn’t mean players,” I said. “That rule clearly only refers to horse, antelope and so forth—it was brought in when the Dorchester Slammers attempted to gain the advantage by playing on horseback in 1962.”

“The rules seem clear to me,” growled O’Fathens, taking a step forwards. “Are neanderthals human?” Aubrey also took a step forwards. Their noses were almost touching.

“Well . . . sort of,” I answered hesitantly.

There was nothing for it but to seek a judgment. Since the rules regarding on-field litigation had been relaxed ten years ago, it was not uncommon for the first half hour of a match to be taken up with legal wranglings by the teams’ lawyers, of which each side was permitted two, with one substitute. It added a new form of drama to the proceedings but was not without its own problems: after a particularly litigious SuperHoop six years ago, when a legal argument was overturned in the high court two years after the match was played, it became mandatory that three high-court judges be at readiness to give an instant, unquestionable ruling on any legal point.

We approached the Port-a-Court, and our respective lawyers made their representations. The three judges retired to their chambers and returned a few minutes later to announce:

“It is the finding of this Croquet Appellant Court in the action Mallets v. Whackers (neanderthal player legality) that the Whackers’ complaint is upheld. In the eyes of English law, neanderthals are not human, and cannot play.”

The Reading side of the crowd erupted into joyous yells as the judges’ ruling was run up on the screen.

Aubrey opened his mouth, but I pulled him aside.

“Don’t waste your breath, Aubrey.”

“We can prepare an appeal in seven minutes,” said Mr. Runcorn, one of our lawyers. “I think we can find a nonhuman precedent in the Worcester Sauces v. Taunton Ciders SuperHoop semifinals of 1963.”

Aubrey scratched his head and looked at me. “Thursday?”

“A failed appeal could result in a two-hoop forfeit,” I pointed out. “I say we get the lawyers working on it. If they think it’s worth a try, we’ll lodge an appeal at the end of the first third.”

“But we’re five players down, and we haven’t even picked up our mallets!”

“The game’s not lost until it’s lost, Aubrey. We’ve got a few tricks up our sleeve, too.”

I wasn’t kidding. I had visited the lawyers’ pavilion earlier, where they were performing background checks on every player on the opposing side. The Whackers’ striker, George “Rhino” McNasty, had fourteen unpaid parking violations, and our legal team successfully pleaded that this should be heard here and now; he was sentenced to an hour’s community service, which effectively had him picking up litter in the car park until the end of the second third. Jambe turned back to Mr. Runcorn.

“Okay, prepare an appeal for the end of the first third. We’ll start with what we’ve got.”

Even with our substitute brought on, we still had only six players to their full complement of ten. But it got worse. To play on a local side, you had to have been born in the town or lived there for at least six months before playing. Our substitute, Johnno Swift, had lived here for only five months and twenty-six days when he began his career at the Mallets three years before. The Reading lawyers argued that he was playing illegally in his first match, a transgression that should have won him a life ban. Once again the judges upheld the complaint, and, to another excited yell from the crowd, Swift walked dejectedly back to the dressing rooms.

“Well,” said O’Fathens, putting out his hand to Jambe, “we’ll just accept you’ve conceded the match, okay?”

“We’re playing, O’Fathens. Even if Swindon were to lose a thousand hoops, people will still say, ‘This was their finest—’ ”

“I don’t think so,” interrupted the Whackers’ team lawyer with a triumphant grin. “You’re now down to only five players. Under Rule 681g, Subsection (f/6), ‘Any team that fails to start the game with the minimum of six players forfeits the match.’ ”

He pointed out the entry in Volume 7 of the World Croquet League rule book. It was there, all right, just under the rules governing the minimum raisin requirement in the buns served at the concession stands. Beaten! Beaten even before we’d picked up a mallet! Swindon could weather it, but the world could not—the revealment would be broken, and Kaine and Goliath would carry on their perverse plans unmolested.

“I’ll announce it,” said the umpire.

“No,” said Alf, clicking his fingers, “we do have a player we can field!”

“Who?”

He pointed at me. “Thursday!”

I was gobsmacked. I hadn’t played for over eight years.

“Objection!” blurted out the Whackers’ lawyer. “Miss Next is not a native of Swindon!”

My inclusion would be of questionable value—but at least it meant we could play.

“I was born at St. Septyk’s,” I said slowly. “I’m Swindon enough for this team.”

“Perhaps Swindon enough,” said the lawyer, consulting a rule book hurriedly, “but not experienced enough. According to Rule 23f, Subsection (g/9), you are ineligible to play international-standard croquet since you have not played the minimum of ten matches to county standard.”

I thought for a moment. “Actually, I have.”

It was true. I used to play for the SpecOps Middlesex team when I was based in London. I was quite good, too—but nothing like these guys.

“It is the decision of the Croquet Appellant Court,” intoned the three judges, who wanted to see a good game the same as anyone, “that Miss Next be allowed to represent her city in this match.”

O’Fathens’s face fell. “This is preposterous! What kind of stupid decision is that?”

The judges looked at him sternly. “It is the decision of this court—and we find you in contempt. The Whackers will forfeit one hoop.”

O’Fathens boiled with inner rage, held it within him, turned on his heel and, followed by his lawyers, strode to where his team was waiting.

“Good one!” laughed Aubrey. “The whistle hasn’t even gone, and we’re winning!”

He tried to sound full of enthusiasm, but it was difficult. We were fielding a six-strong team—five and a quarter if you count me—and still had an entire game to play.

“We’ve got ten minutes to the off. Thursday, get changed into Snake’s spare set—he’s about your size.”

I dashed off to the changing rooms and dressed myself up in Snake’s leg guards and shoulder pads. Widdershaine helped me adjust the straps around my chest, and I grabbed a spare mallet before running back onto the field, fiddling with my helmet strap just as Aubrey was beginning his strategy talk.

“In past matches,” he said in a hushed tone, “the Whackers have been known to test a weak side with a standard ‘Bomperini’ opening tactic. A deflective feint towards midhoop left, but actually aiming for an undefended back-hoop right.”

The team whistled low.

“But we’ll be ready for them. I want them to know we’re playing an aggressive game. Instead of backfooting it, we’ll go straight into a surprise roquet maneuver. Smudger, you’re to lead with a sideways deflection to Biffo, who’ll pass to Thursday—”

“Wait,” put in Biffo. “Thursday is here making up the numbers. She hasn’t hit a ball in years!”

This was true. But Jambe had bigger plans.

“Exactly. I want them to think Thursday is a dark horse—that we planned this late addition. With a bit of luck, they’ll waste a good player marking her. Thursday, drive it towards their red ball, and Spike will intercept. It doesn’t matter if you miss—I want them to be confused by our tactics. And, Penelope—just frighten the other team.”

“Urg,” grunted the wingwoman.

“Okay, keep it tight, no more violence than is necessary, and keep an eye out for the Duchess. She’s not averse to a bit of ankle swiping.”

We all tapped our fists together and made a harump noise. I walked slowly to my place on the green, my heart beating with the pump of adrenaline.

“You okay?” It was Aubrey.

“Sure.”

“Good. Let’s play some croquet.”