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e who found him out。'
Mungo Madoc snuggled down in his chair。 'Fergus； what of this？'
Fergus made a knowing face at his superior。 'Unfortunately； in your absence Mr Garstang's megalomania has been allowed its full head。 The results are not a thing of joy。'
'I stepped in a temporary capacity as there was none better qualified to do so。 I'm the very personification of altruism。 My thoughts were； as ever； only to serve the series to the best of my capabilities。'
'Tish； tosh and old wet fish；' said Fergus Shaman。
'Step outside and say that。'
'Gentlemen； gentlemen；' Mungo cut in。 'This is all somewhat unseemly。 In such heated debate； truth is rarely the victor。'
'Heated is a word most aptly chosen；' Fergus concurred。 'For even now one of your own cigars； so hastily concealed upon your entrance； smoulders in Garstang's pocket； threatening to heat us all。'
Garstang would dearly have loved to have been able to scream 'liar'； but with the blue pall of smoke wreathing about him he wisely chose； 'Incendiary！ Knowing his case to be lost he seeks to burn me alive！ Pyromaniac！ Fire fiend！' He danced about patting furiously。
'Barking mad；' Fergus declared。 'Here； let me put an end to this lunacy。' Thus saying he plucked up the water pitcher from the table and emptied its contents over the smoker。
The silence was brief。 It was about one moment long。 But it was a very momentous moment。 Garstang gaped at his once…proud apparel。 Absorbing； literally； the state of its ruination。 In this he divined a thousandfold ignominy。 Scorn； loss of face； ridicule； insult； humiliation； contempt。 They were all there。 And a good many more。 And they all wore the same face。 The face of Fergus Shaman。
How much of it was the conditioned reflex of the professional soldier will never be known； how much of it heat of the moment； how much cold…blooded calculation； it's impossible to conjecture。 Whatever the case； Garstang suddenly pulled from concealment a small hand…weapon of advanced design and turned its snout upon Fergus Shaman。 Their eyes met over the barrel as it disgorged a single pulse of red energy。
There was a loud report。 Rex ceased his pacing and pressed his ear to his chamber door。 There appeared to be some sort of motion going on upon the landing below。 Rastas partying again； thought Rex； the sooner I get out of this neck of the woods； the better。 His stomach rumbled。 He was starving； but couldn't bring himself to open another can of synthafood。 He made further imploring motions toward the terminal。
Dan's face was back on the screen with the mid…morning repeat of last night's show。 The far…from…holy man dispatching further unfortunates towards whatever uncertainties lay out there in the great beyond。 And all for the gratification of the viewing public。 Rex shook his head； what a rotten stinking world。 He slouched over to the terminal and fingered buttons。 Dan's face dissolved into the logo of the data channel。 He accessed into MOTHER。 Rex exercised his fingers upon the keyboard。 MOTHER told him that the search was still continuing； but this time politely added that it would cease in precisely seventeen minutes and twelve seconds。
HAVE ANOTHER DAY MR MUNDI； it put in just for good measure。 Dan's maniac grin was once more a small screen filler。 Rex slumped into his chair； the very picture of despair。 For such an inspired scheme to meet with absolute failure really did seem grossly unfair。 He had really begun to believe that he was destined for great things。
'e on；' Rex shouted。 'Give me a sign； anything。'
Nice bit of timing； cue； coincidence； or hackneyed literary device？ Who can say？ But in answer to Rex's request； his front door suddenly burst inward from its crumbling hinges and smashed down behind him。 Rex turned in horror and gazed fearfully over his chairback。 Two figures were framed dramatically in the shattered doorway。 Both wore Barbour jackets and tweedy caps。 Although one of them appeared now to have only half a head。
'Good morning Rex。' Rambo Bloodaxe inclined his intact cranium。 'Glad to catch you at home。' Eric took from his poacher's pocket a large weapon of antique design。 For lovers of handguns it was a 。44 Magnum with a San Francisco license number。 （Yes； probably that very one。）
Eric viewed Rex down the barrel's not inconsiderable length； enquired whether Rex wished to 'make his day' and then squeezed the trigger。
To Fergus Shaman's credit； it must be said that he was as nimble of foot as he was of mind。 Fergus saw the hand of Garstang as it delved into the unscorched pocket。 Saw the madness in his eyes and was already ducking for cover as the firing button went critical。 The electric pulse knifed the air； passed clean through one of Fergus's raised shoulder pads and took Mungo Madoc's left ear off as cleanly as a surgeon's scalpel。
There was another momentous moment。 Two in a single day！
Mungo raised his left hand and felt at his blank headside。 Fergus flung himself under the table and scrambled towards the door。 Lavinius Wisten quietly filled his elegant jodhpurs。 Diogenes Darbo； an old contemptible； and no coward he； swung his briefcase into the face of Garstang。 Other board members did other things； but in the ensuing chaos it was hard to make out what。 And very few； if any； distinguished themselves in any manner whatsoever。 Typical。
Green ichor flowed profusely from Mungo's wounded head； a smell of stale cabbage filled the air。 The modified readout on his wrist belled straight down to the pany medics。 Fergus came up from beneath the table just in time to see Garstang； vacant of eye and green of nose； turn his weapon upon Diogenes Darbo； sending that gallant fellow off upon the final journey； from which none； with the possible exception of the Dalai Lama； ever return。 Fergus grabbed hold of Mungo and bundled him through a doorway which had suddenly bee all the rage。
As they passed through it； Mungo； down but by no means out； put his fist through the emergency seal。 To the raised voice of squealing alarms the door shut with a resounding thud。
The Dalai Lama's face exploded into a holocaust of trailing ribbons。 Shards of blistering glass struck Rex fiercely from behind。 Had he not still been wearing his radiation suit； his buttocks would now have required major surgery。 'Bother；' came the voice of Deathblade Eric through the smoke and flame。 'A little left of centre； do you think？'
'If at first you don't succeed and all that kind of thing。'
Rex was torn between white flag waving and the keeping of the ever…legendary low profile。 He settled wisely for the latter。
'Behind the chair； Eric。'
'Okey dokey。' Eric shot the head off the gilded cherub。 'Spot on。'
'Kindly give me the pistol； Eric； you are making a plete pig's earhole out of the entire affair。'
'I have had half my head blown away；' Eric plained。 Rambo soothed his panion with a touching little shoulder hug。 'Although this makes you an ideal candidate for a station head； I concede that it might impair your marksmanship。 Kindly give me the gun。'
'Oh figs；' grumbled the Deathblade； parting with the smoking pistol。
'e out； e out； wherever you are；' cr