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'Just press the red button and adjust the distance control；' Elvis told him。 Rex held the thing at arm's length and did so。 Light emanated from the slim black box and formed into a fuzzy but self…contained hologram of the outside world。 Rex was entranced。 Holographies were hardly new to him； but this was something more。 Live holographies？ That couldn't be done； could it？ He twiddled the distance knob and brought the image to clarity。 It focused and then passed on。 Through walls； across broken streets； into dank homesteads； through further walls。 On and on。 Rex turned it in a circle。 The image remained before him； but the outside world span through it。 The Nemesis Bunker appeared upon the horizon。 A great concrete pyramid； its peak piercing the cloud cover。 Rex angled up the doodad and zoomed in upon it。 The roving eye； drawing its information from the mould and lichen； shrubs and mosses； penetrated the bunker's outer defences。 Pierced the heating ducts and inner partitions； crossed the studio floor。 Entered the sanctum of the Dalai Lama。
'There's a sound button；' Elvis indicated； Rex pressed。
'It's down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel。'
'Holy shit；' cried Presley。 'That's one of mine。 That son…of…a…bitch is playing my music。 Hear that； fella。 Am I the King or am I the King？ Or what？'
'But that's classical music。 I've heard that stuff on the Educational when I was a child。 Uncle Tony loved all that。 But it must be。。。'
'Must be？'
'Must be a hundred years old。'
'Very nearly。 Ninety…four to be exact。 Recorded in Nashville； Scotty Moore on guitar； Bill Black on slapback bass。 First number one single； first gold record。' Elvis sang along with himself。 Rex's jaw fell。 Only one man in history ever had a voice like that。 And Rex was now staring at that very fellow。 The goalposts had just been shifted。 As the saying of the day went； this man was the real Lieutenant McCoy。
'Then you really are。。。' Rex's voice did all the appropriate quivering and quavering。 'Really are。。。'
'Really am； buddy。'
'Ian Paisley；' gasped Rex； wringing the final bit of life from that particular joke。
21
。。。 sure； I heard about the records。 Because it's my business； a collection like that。 Muso's dream。 The word was that he had the lot。 And all the bootlegs。 Out…takes。 Gash over…dubs； backing tapes。 Ten years worth； or so it was said。 I'm talking 1970 now； you know； when the place went up。 Well； a guy I know said that He was in there； The God。 It was a major explosion。 Blew in the bar windows。 I got cut with the flying glass。 See this scar。 And this。 They say it was the CIA or the FBI but who can say？ Anyhow； there's a lot of theories； you can believe what you like。 The God got killed； the God didn't get killed； the records went up in the blast or they didn't。 Strangest one I heard was that the entire collection was some kind of puter program； right？ Sounds off the wall； I know； but consider this。 If you take the plete musical output of an entire generation； the whole damn lot； then don't you have something？ A kind of a soul； perhaps。 The soul of a generation。 I mean it's there in the music。 We all know it's in the music； somewhere； right。 Anybody who's ever really listened knows it's there。 Somewhere。
The Suburban Book of the Dead
Rex zoomed in upon the bed chamber of his sister。 She was indulging in her second favourite pastime。 Her first Rex considered to be the persecution of himself。
'Focus that up； boy；' choked Elvis。 'Lord alive； look at that baby。'
'You see； I actually did you in history；' Rex explained。 'My aunty；' he paused a moment in sad reflection。 'My aunty was a fundamentalist for a while； one of Hubbard's。 When L。 Ron the third amalgamated with the Gospel Church of America； wherever that was； back in the nineties； they were very big on the musical message。'
'Oh yeah。' The time traveller seemed somewhat distracted。 'Can you bring up the sound？ I want to hear the moaning；'
'Yes；' Rex continued。 'As I remember it； there was the Reverend Al Green； Aretha Franklin； this guy called Cliff somebody； who never grew old。 And a Michael Jackson； although he would be after your period。 His big evangelical crusades were in the late nineties。 But you； I did you of course。 All the mystical stuff。'
'Mystical？' Elvis turned him a fleeting glance。
'The hard…to…understand stuff。 〃Wooden Heart〃； I did that。 I passed through with an A grade for my 〃Metaphysical exposition on the socio…political ramifications of the Latin prayer sequence in 'Wooden Heart' 〃。'
'Latin prayers； are you crazy？' Elvis dragged himself momentarily from the erotic hologram。 'That was German； I sang one verse in German。'
Rex made a puzzled face； 'German； is that another dead language？'
'Wasn't when I sang it。 Say fella； what is that the fat woman has strapped to her nose？ It looks like a false 。。。'
'It is；' sighed Rex。
'Glory be；' said Elvis。
Rambo Bloodaxe was lodged in a small cell of no particular charm； somewhere in the sub…basement of the Nemesis Bunker。 He was sore。
'Eric；' said Rambo。
'I think so；' came the honest reply。
'Eric； is this what we have e to？'
'It does have the appearance of being that very thing。'
'A sad and sorry circumstance； old chap friend of mine。'
'How are the nuts； Rambo？'
'Smarting； my dear fellow； still smarting。'
'You told a jolly fine tale though。'
Rambo sighed and delicately stroked his singed pudendum。 'All done to save us a further whacking。'
'My memory is sadly deficient； but you appeared to me to be telling a most shameful quantity of untruths； for the most part。'
'Merely giving them food for thought and us a chance of survival。'
'I felt your confession that we were in the pay of the Hubbard organization to be quite inspired。 And all that folderol about the Nemesis security network having been infiltrated； spiffing stuff。'
'I think it was the revelation that the Dalai planned to replace the station's union representation with blackleg labour that really swung it。 They switched off the power and downed tools around that time。'
'I do fear that there is a good chance of us shortly being rumbled； nonetheless。'
'The thought is in the very forefront of my mind； Eric。 We must put escape at the very top of our priority list。'
'Rambo？' said Eric。
'Eric？'
'Rambo； should we succeed in escape； do you feel it possible that some surgery might be made available to me in the head department？ Bits of my brain are still ing away between my ringers and I feel certain that my reason is likely to bee severely impaired as a result。'
'Perhaps if you ceased to stand upon your head it would help；' Rambo suggested。
'Oh；' said Eric。 'I thought it was you doing that。'
'Killer；' Elvis made pelvic thrusts。 'Now I have seen everything。 I wonder who she is。'
'She's my sister。'
'Your sister？ Shit man； anyone on this planet not in your family？ I mean； no offence meant。'
'None taken； I assure you； but between us both； don't you think that we should get down to the nitty gritty as it were？'
'Then you believe； right？'
Rex put up his hands；