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actly where they were on the map； he had shaken his head； saying that he didn't know。 Then he had wept。
Rex couldn't remember the map in any detail； and possession of such artefacts was illegal anyway。 So it was still a mystery。 All he knew of the world was that it was flat； rectangular and being redeveloped。
Rex hunched over the controls and squinted into the gloom。 Perhaps there never had been countries。 He felt sure that if he just drove and drove all he would ever find was simply more and more of just the same。
He switched on the spotlight atop the vehicle。 Night was beginning to fall。 And so now were his spirits。 Rex swerved suddenly to avoid something scaly and unwholesome which limped across the trackway before him。 He was growing very tired and ing to the dire conclusion that he was also growing very lost。 The night rain began to sizzle upon the vehicle's roof。 It spattered on to the windscreen； drawing blackened tear streaks down the plexiglass。 Further travel would soon be out of the question。 Habitation； sanctuary or whatever； was now very much the order of the evening。 Rex squinted。 It was growing as black as closedown。 No lights； not a nothing。 Press on a little； what else could he do？ The runabout trundled into a pothole and Rex felt some little nagging doubts regarding his future。 The filters on his weatherdome had given up the ghost and he had no replacements。 The night didn't smell good。
The rain now fell in poisonous torrents。 Lightning zipped and flashed； offering chances Rex felt disinclined to take。 He pushed the runabout out of gear and switched off the fission drive。 He was buggered。
'God；' said Rex； 'about this afternoon。。。'
But he didn't get any further。 In between the lightning breaks something else was flashing。 Colourfully。 Rex didn't take it in at first； but when he did； a grim smile found its way amidst his damp stubble。 The light went on 。。。 off。。。 on 。。。 off 。。。 on 。。。 off。。。 the way some of them do。 And this one spelt out MORROWMA TAV。
The sweeping drive up to Gracelands was chock…a…block。 Glorious 1950s black and white police cars were parked where they had slewed。 Front wheels deeply dug into the plastic turf。 Lots of flashing lights flashed； pressmen in trenchcoats with big cameras and fedoras milled about the mock Grecian pillars and asked to be 'given a break'。 Ambulances stood； their rear doors yawning。 Fat policemen； or cops； as they were then known； displayed their armpit sweat and called everyone 'mac'。 It was all jolly good fun； although the attention to period detail left much to be desired。 One pressman lit his cigar with a disposable gas lighter； which was wrong for a start。 And the aerials on the police cars were too modern。 The cops' hair was too long； but you have to expect that。
Elvis Presley didn't have much to say for himself。 But under the circumstances； he could hardly be blamed。 He had been bound tightly； hand and foot； gagged with a lurex sock and hooded with a US mailbag。 He lay face down in a flower…bed； where for those who are interested； certain flowers bloomed pletely out of season。
Jovil Jspht pressed aside the leaves of a privet imaginatively pruned into the shape of a guitar。 Behind this； he and the captured king were hiding。 'There seems to be no end of fuss going on；' Jovil observed。
'Can't see from down here； chief。 Give us a hand up； eh？' Jovil picked up the sprout and pointed him towards the confusion。 'Pardon me for saying this； chief。 And shoot me down in flames if you think I'm on a wrong'n； but surely that is a 1965 Harley Davidson。'
Jovil nodded thoughtfully。 'There's something wrong all the way round。 None of this rings true。 What do you reckon？' The sprout hesitated so Jovil gave it an urgent squeeze。 'Well？'
'Well； give me your impression。 What does it look like to you？'
Jovil bit his lip。 'It looks like a film set；' he said slowly。
'Don't it just？ And check out the hedge。' Jovil did so。 'Artificial。'
He made a perplexed face。 'I don't get it。 We are in 1958； aren't we？'
'We're in 1958。 But I don't know if it's the real one or not。 It's more like a memory than the real thing。 Perhaps when you actually go back in time things aren't the way they are supposed to be。 Possibly when the present bees the past it sort of decays。 Gets all jumbled together。 Fragments。 The further back you go the more confused you find it has bee。'
'Sounds feasible；' Jovil agreed。 'So what about him？' He gestured with his free hand towards the hooded Presley； who was starting to put up a struggle。
'He certainly looks like the real Mr McCoy。 But listen； I really do think that now might well be the time for getaway rather than conjecture。'
'Yes； I think you're right。' Jovil thrust the sprout into his top pocket； dragged the prone Presley to his feet and bundled him across his shoulder。 He stooped to pick up the black box and the portable monitor。 Struggling manfully beneath the bined weight； he limped down a gentle incline towards further outcroppings of ersatz hedgery。
'Now why do I just know that there is an empty car with the keys left in the ignition； just beyond that hedge？' Jovil asked。
'Probably for the same reason I do； chief；' came the muffled reply。
'Best go with the flow； eh？'
The executive bar at Earthers Inc。 was yet another triumph from the trowel of Capability Crabshaw。 A splendid neo…gothic gazebo of a place； which swelled in carbunclesque fashion from an upper region of the great spiral tower and chased the sunlight。 It was divided into elegant bowers； each made gay by delicate fountains。 These cast scented water across a myriad tiny glass domes。 Each of these emitted a soft melodic tone。 But the beauty of all this was currently lost upon Fergus Shaman。 Like the legendary 'lawn' joke of old； Fergus was half…cut。 He peered into the bell of his cocktail lily and sighed plaintively。 Fifty floors below him a custodian lay dead before a violently flashing console。
Someone had mitted murder within the headquarters of the biggest TV station in the galaxy； and introduced。。。 what？ Fergus pondered on it。 Introduced some kind of virus； perhaps； into the cell system。 And that someone had to be Jovil Jspht。 There could be no other plausible explanation。 And the only individual upon the entire planet who knew this terrible truth was he； Fergus 'Oh； God's nose； what have I done？' Shaman。 And what had he done？ Jovil was obviously a basket…case； barking mad。
A waitress clad in a single figure…hugging sheath of vat…grown moss approached。 'Would you care for another； Mr Shaman？' Under normal circumstances Fergus would have made instantly with the improper suggestions； being something of a ladies' man。 But tonight he was just not up to it。
'Same again；' he mumbled； without looking up。 'And make it a large one； please。'
The siren turned huffily upon a five…inch root heel and wiggled away in a purposeful manner。 The lost soul sank into further miseries。 Big trouble was ing。 Had already e； for all he knew。 With no way to access the storage cells there was no way of knowing what Jovil might be up to。 Had been up to。 The waitress returned； displaying considerably more cleavage