boarding-houses in the jumbled mass of bricks and masonry – where occasionally the horrified Claire thought she could make out a skull.
Mazursky led them through mounds that resembled funeral pyres, busily picked over by scavenging crows. The noise of the procession startled the birds, which flew off in all directions, darkening the sky still further. After they had vanished, one remained circling above their heads, tracing a mournful message with its flight, as though the Creator were regretfully signing over the patent of His beleaguered invention to someone else. Mazursky strode ahead, choosing the easiest pathways, or perhaps those with fewer bones, stopping once in a while to chide someone, invariably Ferguson, who was joking about the pervading stench of rotting flesh (or anything else that happened to catch his attention), wringing the odd titter out of the ladies strolling beside him on their husbands’ arms, as though they were meandering through the botanical gardens at Kew.
As they ventured deeper into the ruins, Claire began to worry about how she would separate from the group without anyone noticing. It would be difficult with Mazursky Ustening out for any suspicious sounds, and the marksman at the rear, pointing his rifle into the gloom, and when the excited Lucy gripped her arm, the possibility of escape felt even more remote.
After they had walked for about ten minutes, during which Claire began to suspect they were going round in circles, they reached the promontory: a mound of debris a little taller than the others. Climbing it did not look difficult, as the rubble appeared to form a makeshift flight of steps to the top. At Mazursky’s command, they began the ascent, giggling and losing their footing, a band of merrymakers on a country outing, whom the guide no longer tried to silence – he had probably concluded it was impossible. Only when they reached the top of the mound did he order them to be quiet and crouch behind the outcrop of rocks that formed a parapet at the summit. When they had done this, he walked along, pushing down any protruding heads and telling the ladies to close their parasols unless they wanted the automatons to notice a sudden flowering of sunshades on the crest of the hill.
Flanked by Lucy and the exasperating Ferguson, Claire gazed from behind her rock at the deserted street below. It was strewn with rubble, like the ones they had walked through to get to the makeshift viewpoint of where the battle was supposed to take place.
‘Allow me to ask you a question, Mr Mazursky,’ she heard Ferguson say.
The guide, with the marksman, was squatting a few yards to his left and swivelled to peer at him. ‘What is it, Mr Ferguson?’ He sighed.
‘Given that we’ve turned up in the future in time to witness the battle that will decide the fate of the planet, just like the first expedition, why haven’t we bumped into them?’ Ferguson looked round at the others, clearly hoping they would back him up.
Having thought over what he had said, a few of the group nodded, and looked askance at their guide, waiting for an explanation. Mazursky studied Ferguson for a moment in silence, perhaps considering whether or not the impudent man deserved a reply. ‘Of course, Mr Ferguson. You’re absolutely right,’ he finally declared. ‘And not only would we bump into the first expedition, but into the third, fourth and all the other future expeditions, don’t you think? That is why I take each expedition to a different place, not simply to avoid jams, but so that Terry and F – he broke off and gestured to the marksman, who gave a timid wave – ‘are not constantly bumping into ourselves. If you really must know, at this very moment the first expedition is crouched behind that mound over there.’
Everyone’s eyes followed Mazursky’s finger as he pointed to one of the neighbouring hillocks from which the battleground of the future was also visible.
‘I see,’ muttered Ferguson. Then his face lit up and he cried out: ‘In that case I could go and say hello to my friend Fletcher!’
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr Ferguson.’
‘Why not? The battle hasn’t even started yet. I’ll be back in no time.’
Mazursky let out a sigh of despair. ‘I’ve told you I can’t allow you to—‘
‘But it’ll only take a moment, Mr Mazursky’ pleaded Ferguson. ‘Mr Fletcher and I have known each other since —‘
‘Answer me one thing, Mr Ferguson,’ Charles Winslow interrupted him.
Ferguson turned towards him, his hackles up.
‘When your friend described his trip to you, did he by any chance tell you that you had appeared out of nowhere to say hello?’
‘No,’ replied Ferguson.
Charles smiled. ‘In that case, stay where you are. You never went to greet your friend, Mr Fletcher, so you can’t go now. As you yourself said, fate is fate: it can’t be altered.’
Ferguson opened his mouth, but no words came out.
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ Charles added, turning to face the street, ‘I think we’d all like to witness the battle in silence.’
Claire observed with relief that this shut Ferguson up once and for all. The others ignored him too, concentrating their gaze on the street. Claire turned to Lucy, hoping to exchange knowing glances with her friend, but apparently she was already bored with the whole thing: she had picked up a twig and was scratching a kiwi bird in the sand with it.
On her right, Inspector Garrett was watching Lucy draw, an awed expression on his face, as though he were witnessing a small miracle. ‘Did you know kiwis only exist in New Zealand, Miss Nelson?’ the young man asked, after clearing his throat.
Lucy looked at him, astonished that he, too, should know about this bird, and Claire could not help grinning. Where, if not between two kiwi-lovers, could a stronger love blossom?
Just then a clank of metal, scarcely audible in the distance, startled the group. Everyone, including Ferguson, fixed their eyes expectantly on the end of the street, terrified by the sinister noise that could only herald the arrival of the evil automatons.
They soon emerged, moving slowly through the ruins as though they were the lords of the planet. They looked identical to the statue back in the big hall: huge, angular and threatening, with tiny engines on their backs that let out occasional plumes of steam. Much to everyone’s surprise, they were carrying their king aloft on a throne, as in days of yore. Claire sighed, regretting being so far from the scene.
