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with it. That he couldn't sacrifice another victim, that's what he said. And then he told me all about it, about everything. About Remington Mute and the Mute-chip and about the go mango game and what it did to people. And he said he couldn't let it happen to me.'

'Go on,' said Mr Pokey, shaking his head.

'And then when he'd told me all this, he said that I should thank him for saving my life. So I thanked him. But he said no, I should thank him properly and he took off all his clothes. He literally tore them off and he attacked me. But as you know from my file, I am an expert of Dimac. I struck him down and he fell across the computer terminal. His hand fell on the mouse.'

'I see,' said Mr Pokey. 'You don't have to say any more.'

Kelly made sobbing sounds. 'It was terrible,' she sobbed.

'I'm quite sure it was.'

'I took his Unicard and let myself out of the suite.'

'And you came back here to my office. You didn't try to run from the building.'

Kelly looked up at Mr Pokey. Her face was streaked with tears and every man knows how sexy a woman looks when she's crying. 'Where would I run to?' she asked. 'Mute Corp security would track me down wherever I went. I didn't come here to die. I came here to work for Mute Corp. I have skills that would be of use to you.'

'Indeed you have,' said Mr Pokey. 'You are a very clever young woman.'

'Please don't have me killed,' wept Kelly. 'I'll do anything you want.'

'Anything?'

'Anything.'

Mr Pokey nodded thoughtfully and looked the beautiful weeping woman up and down and up again. 'So many twists and turns,' said he. 'So much deceit and duplicity. One never knows whom to believe any more. What is the world coming to, I ask myself? And do you know what I answer?'

'No,' said Kelly, snivelling somewhat. 'I don't.'

'Nor do I,' said Mr Pokey. 'So why don't we just drop all this pretence. You can stop all that crying for a start. It might convince some and there's no denying just how very sexy it is. But as you didn't start doing it until you were outside my door, when you messed up your hair and your dress and forced your thumbs into your eyes, I think we can consider it redundant now. Don't you?'

'Yes,' said Kelly, straightening up. 'But you wouldn't have expected otherwise. I'm well aware that this entire building is fully monitored by CCTV, including the games suite. You saw and heard everything that went on in there.'

'Of course,' said Mr Pokey.

'And I trust you were rightly appalled by Mr Bashful's cowardice and lack of company ethics. The man was a security risk. He was an accident waiting to happen.'

Mr Pokey nodded again. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'What are you? Internal security?'

'I'm just a student,' said Kelly.

Mr Pokey shook his head. 'You're much more than that,' he said. 'But whatever you are, / cannot access it from your file. Which, I suspect, makes you of a higher rank than myself.'

Kelly said nothing.

'Neither confirm nor deny,' said Mr Pokey. 'I get the picture. So what do you want from me?'

'Security stinks around here,' said Kelly. 'If you wish to keep your job, then you and I will have to work together closely on this.'

'And?' said Mr Pokey.

'And now you can take me out to lunch,' said Kelly. 'On my way here I noticed a pub around the corner that does a rather interesting surf and turf. Shall we dine?'

Derek dined alone in the Shrunken Head. The Space Invaders machine popped and pinged away behind him, but Derek ignored it. His attention was focused upon the computer printout that lay before him on the table, between his half a pint of large and his cheese sandwich. It was utterly absurd. Just look at the thing. Derek looked at it once again, then turned away his face in disgust. The requests, requests! Demands more like. The demands were utterly utterly absurd.

Four crad barges. A fleet of Morris Minors. A cinematic SFX holographic system programmed to project the Brentford Griffin onto Griffin Island for the newly named Fantasy Island experience. Derek's eyes travelled further down the list. 'Prophet of doom,' he read, doomily. 'They want a prophet of doom to carry a placard around, oh yes here it is on the list. repent the end is nigh. Hardly original. They'll string me up. The locals will string me up. They'll tar and feather me first and probably lop off my wedding tackle. Not that I'll miss that. Well, I will, but. Oh damn, this is utterly absurd. Oh…'

Derek's eyes travelled further down the list. 'Five miles of perimeter fence. Oh, electrified perimeter fence. I'm doomed. Doomed. I might as well apply for the prophet's job. I'll bet I could do that really well.'

Derek sighed and shook his head and then slowly and surely a great big smile spread over his face. 'Well,' said Derek to himself. 'That's got all the whingeing and conscience out of the way.' And he patted at his jacket. And he lifted the lapel and peeped into the inside pocket. It was still in there. Right where he'd tucked it after Mr Speedy had handed it to him. Ten thousand quid in cash, 'to be going on with'. Ten thousand quid! It really was there. It wasn't a dream. And it was only a down payment. All he, Derek, entrepreneur and aspiring rich kid, twenty-first-century yuppie, had to do was find the right contacts and do the business. No questions asked. And you can get anything, if you have the right contacts. And where do you find the right contacts? Where is everything you wish to know waiting for you at the touch of a keypad? On the World Wide Web. Of course.

Nah. Of course it's not.

It's a bloke down the pub!

'Jah save all here,' said an ancient Rastafarian voice, 'Exceptin' Babylon, that be.'

The voice roused Derek from his Midasian musings. 'Hey Leo,' he called. 'Over here.'

Leo Felix, octogenarian used-car salesman and scrap dealer (at times the two were indistinguishable), turned his old grey dreads in Derek's direction. 'Yo,' said he. 'That be yo. Show some respect, Babylon. Don't go callin' me name all over da place. I ain't yo goddam dog.'

'Sorry,' said Derek. Leo sidled towards him and then leaned low, engulfing Derek in his dreads. 'Yo an' yo call I an' I on me mobile,' whispered Leo. 'Say yo got big deals to speak of…'

Derek fought his way out of the hairy darkness. 'Sit down,' he said. 'Please. Would you care for a drink?'

'I an' I would like a triple rum.'

‘I’ll get you a single,' said Derek. 'And we'll see how things go on from there.'

'Ras,' said Leo, the way that Rastafarians oft-times do.

Derek went up to the bar and returned with two single rums. Leo was by now rolling a joint of Cheech and Chong proportions.

'Yo get me out of me bed,' said Leo, licking the paper and deftly twirling the splifF between his brown and wrinkled thumbs. 'Yo rustled banknotes down de phone. What yo lookin' to buy, Babylon?'

Derek turned the computer printout in Leo's direction. 'Only this,' he whispered. 'And there's three thousand pounds in cash in it for you.'

Leo tucked the splifF into his mouth, delved into the pocket of his colourful Hawaiian shirt and brought out a pair of golden pince-nez. Plonking these onto his nose, he perused Derek's list. 'Jah Wobble!' went he, pointing. 'Yo want a steam train. Blood clart! There ain't no steam trains no more!'

'I'm sure you could find one, if the price was right. Say another five hundred pounds.'

'Say another thousand.'

'Seven fifty.'