BBC - Cult - Interviews - Chapter NineBBC Cult - Printer Friendly Version

The Dying Days - Chapter Nine
Page 1 
   

Our Friends From Mars
Wednesday, May 7th 1997 
The exact sequence of events of the previous night was still confusing, and the 
newsrooms were still assimilating what had happened. 
Lord Greyhaven and the Home Secretary had gone aboard the Martian ship. Some 
unconfirmed reports suggested that another two people, a man and a woman, had 
also been taken aboard. It was around then the attack on the Martian ship had 
taken place. A group of soldiers had opened fire with mortars, some of these had 
fallen short and caused panic in the crowd. All this time the Martian ship had 
remained immobile, and apparently it hadn't been damaged in the attack. Later, a 
statement from the Ministry of Defence said that the soldiers firing on the ship 
had been acting against direct orders, and had not been part of the force sent 
to the Square to contain the crowd. 
Supporting this official line, the main body of soldiers moved in on those 
firing at the ship. Some civilians - reports varied, but probably only a handful 
- were caught in the crossfire. This had caused a stampede, limited looting and 
a couple of power failures. The rebel soldiers had commandeered an assault 
helicopter. When it was sent against the Martian vessel, it was finally provoked 
into opening fire. Some sort of energy ray destroyed the helicopter that had 
locked on to the alien craft, and then the Martian moved a little way into 
Whitehall to demolish an office building with the same weapon. The soldiers had 
commandeered the office block to launch their attack on the Martians. 
Within half an hour, the spacecraft had returned to its position. The fighting 
was already over by ten o'clock and the third Martian Proclamation: 
'PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. YOUR ASTRONAUTS COMMITTED A TERRIBLE CRIME, 
THROUGH THEIR IGNORANCE. THIS SHOULD NOT BE THE WAY OUR RACES FIRST MEET. LET US 
PUT TODAY BEHIND US, AND WORK TOGETHER. WE HAVE MUCH TO OFFER ONE ANOTHER. YOUR 
FELLOW HUMAN CLANS ABANDONED YOU, YET YOU FOUGHT FOR YOUR BELIEFS. THIS WE 
RESPECT. WE HAVE TALKED TO YOUR LORD GREYHAVEN, HE IS A BRAVE, BOLD MAN. LET US 
LIVE IN PEACE, PEOPLE OF THE UNITED KINGDOM AND OF MARS. ' 
Tensions on the ground had noticeably lessened by the time Lord Greyhaven and 
the Home Secretary emerged, broad grins on their faces. 

Page 2 
   

Greyhaven, surrounded by the world's television cameras explained that there had 
been a terrible misunderstanding, but he and Staines had quickly come to an 
arrangement with the Martians. There were many exciting opportunities ahead. The 
few thousand people still in the Square cheered him as he made his way from the 
area.



Every paper led with a full page photograph of the alien ship hovering over 
London. There wasn't a great deal more variation in the headlines. 'We are not 
alone' was used by a couple of them. The Mail had 'UFOria'. The Telegraph had 
'ET Our Friends, But The EU Are Not'. The Independent printed the declaration of 
peaceful intent in full. The Mirror had 'Mars: Planet of Peace'. Only The Times 
seemed to remember the Mars 97 with 'Britons on Mars, Martians in Britain'. 
They weren't looking at what was happening in the rest of London or in 
Washington. News of the Prime Minister's assassination came too late for the 
papers. Before anyone had time to take in the tragic news, a press statement 
announced that evidence had been uncovered by MI5 of a conspiracy underway to 
overthrow the entire British political system and to kill the Prime Minister. 
Members of Parliament and other figures were arrested, some service chiefs had 
been suspended from duty. The conspiracy went deep into the civil service, the 
armed forces and both Houses of Parliaments. Many prominent people were 
involved, a number of whom were still at large. Under the circumstances, it had 
been agreed to dissolve Parliament, pending a full investigation. 
Any other day, the greatest constitutional crisis since the Restoration would 
have dominated the headlines and thrown the country into panic, perhaps even 
civil war. Today, though, people were too busy rejoicing that the Martians were 
here and that they had come in peace to even notice. 



It was light at six o'clock. 
The police would tell you that at that time, London's streets are almost empty. 
The street sweepers and delivery men haven't quite started work, the trains 
haven't started arriving. Taxi drivers sit dozing in their ranks. In the big 
hotels, the kitchen staff are gearing up for breakfast, but the foreign night 
porter is still on duty and only a handful of the guests have received their 
alarm calls. Cafes and markets are beginning to open, but they don't have 
customers. 

Page 3 
   

This morning something was different, and it took a moment to work out what it 
was. It's like breathing: you do it all the time, of course, but every so often 
you're sitting down, relaxing, reading perhaps, and you become conscious of it. 
You feel every inhalation rushing through the hair in your nostrils, you feel it 
easing down your throat and inflating your lungs. You breathe out, acutely aware 
of your diaphragm contracting. For a while you forget how to breathe without 
thinking about it. In moments like that, you visualise all the other things your 
body does without telling you. The blood pumping around your brain, the skin 
cells you're shedding, the food that's slowly being turned into shit in your 
stomach, and then you think about the chemicals flashing and winking in your 
brain that make you what you are. You sit there, wondering if you'll ever be 
able to concentrate on anything else again, or whether the steady rhythms of 
your body that have been there all your life will keep you in a hypnotic trance 
forever. Two minutes later, you've forgotten all about it again, and turned back 
to your book or television.
The difference was the traffic. The sound of cars was normally there in the 
background. Not the noise of individual engines revving or vehicles whooshing 
past with car radios blaring, but the flatter, more even sound of tyres against 
tarmac, a dull sound like rushing wind that's always there in every town centre. 
The invisible cars that are forever somewhere in the distance. The sound that is 
somehow the same volume whatever the time of the day or night. 
In London, more than any other city in Britain, it is ever-present. It pervades 
every shop, every house, every office. There isn't a window that doesn't pulse, 
or a pavement that doesn't hum with the vibration. Even on the platform of a 
Tube station, deep underground, it's there. No-one ever notices unless they are 
by themselves, sitting in a park or waiting for a train that never comes. 
But when it's not there, it's as though the city is holding its breath, or its 
heart has stopped beating. 
There were sounds - burglar alarms that were still ringing, car alarms that 
hadn't yet run down. Every so often a police siren would wail past. Loudest of 
all was the birdsong. 
A helicopter passed overhead. 



Alexander Christian ducked behind the police box, scanning the sky as it receded 
into the distance. 

Page 4 
   




Page 5 
   

When he had finally broken cover, and walked down Whitehall, he realised that 
something was missing. It took a couple of seconds for him to register that it 
was the Martian spaceship. If only it had all been a dream, he thought, before 
wondering where the ship was now.
The burnt-out shell of the police mobile HQ was the only remaining police or 
army vehicle in Trafalgar Square. The corpses had all been removed, but the 
ground was littered with patches of blood and spent cartridges. A copy of the 
Evening Standard blew past. 
He wondered when Bambera had noticed that he'd gone. Her plan was that he would 
head to Windsor with a group of the UNIT boys. Christian preferred to stay in 
London. He'd never been one to run away from a fight. 
He'd expected more troops on the ground, but he soon realised why the area was 
so deserted - the whole of Whitehall, the Square and the Strand had been sealed 
off, along with a few of the back streets. The manpower was concentrated on 
keeping people away from the area. Even so, it was short work to find a gap in 
the defences and make a way out. Within ten minutes, he was in Covent Garden. 
There couldn't have been many, Alexander mused, who had stolen the petty cash 
box of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. It had about seventy pounds in 
it - a fortune twenty years ago, barely enough to live on now. He didn't have 
any jewellery or even a watch to barter with. He'd be able to buy food and 
travel around the Tube if it was operating, but not buy any new clothes or items 
of kit. 
Apart from a couple of sugar cubes, he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon at 
the Lethbridge-Stewart place, so the first order of business was breakfast. 
Covent Garden had gone upmarket since his day, but he still managed to find a 
greasy spoon cafe without too much difficulty. Radio One was playing the latest 
music - Christian hadn't been 'with it' twenty years ago, so it came as no 
surprise that the music now was louder and more unpleasant now than ever before. 
Two burly young men were discussing the form guide in their newspaper at one 
table, a young girl was sitting by herself at another. The proprietor was a 
lanky Greek chap, who took Christian's money and disappeared into the back to 
make his fry-up without saying a single word. 
'You got a light?' the girl asked. She had an East End accent, long dyed-blonde 
hair that she kept loose. 

Page 6 
   

He took out a match, and sat next to her. He lit her cigarette, then his own 
pipe. She wore a tiny cropped T-shirt that might have been sprayed on. It wasn't 
too difficult to work out what she did for a living. She was fourteen, fifteen 
at most.
'What were you doing last night?' he asked. 
'Same as everyone else,' she said non-committally, 'watching the telly and 
hoping Jeff Goldblum was around, know what I mean?' 
He smiled, as if he did. 'The spaceship's gone now.' 
'It's over the Tower.' 
'The Tower of London?' 
'Yeah.' She dragged on her cigarette. 'D'ya want to buy me breakfast?' 
'That's all I'll be buying,' he said. 
'Fine.' 
Christian went over to the counter and shouted through that he wanted another 
meal. The Greek emerged ten seconds later with both plates and took some more 
money from him. 
The news was coming up, Christian listened out for it. 
The girl sat there, taking her time over the bacon. 'What d'you think?' she 
asked. 
The news bulletin came on - a group of MPs and senior army men had tried to 
launch a coup last night. This had been countered by loyal army units, and after 
fighting in the streets around Whitehall last night, most of the plotters had 
been arrested. Parliament had been suspended, and until the situation had 
stabilised, there was to be a Provisional Government led by Lord Edward 
Greyhaven. To prevent the escape of the remaining plotters, all ports and 
airports would be closed for two days. In the interests of law and order, the 
major cities would be under curfew during the hours of darkness for the next 
week or so. People should remain calm, and go to work as normal. 

Page 7 
   

'They didn't even mention the Martian ship,' Christian laughed, unable to 
believe the gall of it.
'I'm scared,' the girl said, stubbing out her cigarette and pulling out another. 

'Everyone is,' Christian said, finishing off his fried egg. 
'I like that Lord Greyhaven, though. I think he'd make a good Prime Minister.' 
'You're not worried about the curfew affecting business?' 
She smiled as she chewed, her mouth was full. 'I'n't he bold? I don't just work 
nights. I'm in what they call a recession-proof industry. Whatever happens I'll 
be OK.' She had a tiny bruise on her temple, scars on her wrists, and underneath 
that T-shirt he could see her ribs. Christian wanted to hold her, to take her 
little body and give her a hug. If he could just take her home, give her a bath 
and a comfortable bed to sleep in she'd be safe. But that was what she wanted 
silly old men like him to think, wasn't it? 
'I'm sure you will,' he replied, getting up. 
'Thanks for breakfast.' 
'Thanks for talking to me.' 



By seven o'clock, the phone lines of the Japanese Embassy on Piccadilly were 
jammed. Across London, all the embassies were fielding calls from worried 
tourists. At any given time, there were tens of thousands of Japanese in the 
United Kingdom, seeing the sights of London, Stratford, Bath and York. None of 
them wanted to be in a country occupied by a hostile alien lifeform. Most of 
these tourists were middle-aged, rich and respectable, the remainder were the 
children of rich businessmen. Either way, there were many powerful people at 
home scrutinising the actions of the embassy. The beleaguered staff were 
fortunate that the phone system had crashed last night - the London exchanges 
could only deal with local calls. 
The embassy staff were quite busy enough trying to establish what the situation 
in Britain actually was. Tokyo had demanded clarification as to who was in 
charge, whether the situation was stable, whether Britain was still honouring 
treaties and trade agreements. 

Page 8 
   

Mr Fukuyama and his wife had been among the first to arrive in person at the 
embassy. They were keen to leave the country. Before he had retired, Mr Fukuyama 
had worked in the local tax office, so he was used to a steady stream of phone 
calls from irate people. He volunteered his services to help take the calls from 
his fellow tourists. The embassy staff gratefully agreed. They were trying to 
charter a fleet of aircraft to get their citizens out, but then so were all the 
other embassies, and for the moment at least the airports remained completely 
closed. A dozen Japanese film crews were in Britain - most of these were now 
within the embassy itself.



It was unusual for Eve to be a bystander in a television studio, it felt odd to 
be standing behind a television camera. 
It was a little after eight o'clock. Lord Edward Greyhaven, the Prime Minister 
of Great Britain, was sitting at a desk in front of a bookcase full of fake 
books, in a BBC studio, recording an address that would be broadcast that 
morning and at intervals throughout the day. First he recounted the events of 
the previous night, how a group a soldiers and politicians had attempted to 
attack the Martian ship. The Provisional Government had been established because 
they were now in a new era: the existence of real live Martians presented an 
opportunity that the old system would have been slow to take advantage of. He 
explained the benefits of co-operation with the Martians and how alien 
technology would help Britain and eventually the world. 
'Politicians often promised jam tomorrow if only we'd make sacrifices today. The 
time has come, if you'll pardon the expression, to feast on Martian jam. I am 
pleased to announce that thanks to the savings that the simplification of 
government allows, my first act as Prime Minister is to cut both VAT and income 
tax by five percent. We shall be building new factories in the depressed areas 
of the North East and Wales, with many more to come. We were promised a more 
prosperous future - well, it's 1997 and high time that we had the future. 
Welcome to the prosperous today. Thank you.' 
The director was beaming. 'Excellent, Lord Greyhaven, excellent.' 
Edward stood, unclipping the mike and tucking his speech back into his Wallace 
and Gromit ringbinder. 'That should calm things down a bit.' 

Page 9 
   

'And we're really cutting income tax?'
'That was Xznaal's suggestion, yes.' 
'But how do we balance public spending and all that sort of thing?' Staines 
asked, unafraid to hide his past life as a junior treasury spokesman. 
'Xznaal said that he could. He says he also knows ways to reduce pollution and 
unemployment, traffic congestion and global warming.' 
'Crikey. I suppose as well as all those spaceships and holograms and other 
gadgets, the Martians have also had millions of years to perfect chartered 
accountancy.' 
Greyhaven smiled forgivingly. 'That must be it. What is the state of the nation, 
Staines?' 
'Things are a little more subdued than we thought, Teddy. Problems at the ports, 
of course, but they are logistical ones: thousands of people with nowhere to go. 
We've promised full compensation to holidaymakers and tour operators. We'll need 
to do something about repatriating foreigners.' 
'Will you indeed?' Eve asked archly. She hadn't known the Home Secretary long, 
but already had a well-developed sense of hostility towards him. 
'Only if they want to go, Eve,' Edward said hurriedly, brushing her cheek with 
his hand. 'David, I'll need to talk to you later about tracking down the Doctor 
and Christian - one o'clock?' 
The Home Secretary nodded. 
'The Doctor?' Eve said. 'Mid-thirties, dresses like he's read too much Dickens?' 

Greyhaven turned to her. 'The very fellow.' 
'I saw him at the Space Museum, he thought he recognised me. I'll keep an eye 
out for him. So what's on your agenda, then?' Eve asked. 
'I am in meetings with Lord Xznaal for much of the rest of the day, that's why 
I'm recording my message now.' 

Page 10 
   

'So I won't be seeing much of you?'
He brushed her cheek. 'I promised you the first American interview with the new 
Prime Minister.' 
'You know that everyone wants to see Xznaal, too. Where's the meeting, Downing 
Street?' 
'The Tower of London. Xznaal has taken a shine to it and so the Martians will be 
based there. We've called in some refrigeration engineers to adjust the climate 
for them. A simple process, apparently, and the Tower will be fully converted in 
three days.' 
'Mars is a cold world,' Staines informed her. 
'Yes,' she said, trying to match its coolness. She turned to Edward. 'Any chance 
of a talk to Xznaal?' 
'I think that might be counterproductive for the moment. If Staines' reaction is 
typical then the public might react unfavourably towards our new allies. Let's 
just wait until things have settled down a little bit.' 
Greyhaven had described the Martians as large reptilian creatures. They sounded 
quite palatable - fifty years of science fiction B-movies and corny TV series 
had prepared the way. They might look a bit like Klingons, but they didn't act 
like them - Klingons didn't help cut tax and set up trade agreements. 
'I think you might be right - but people want to know all about them. What about 
their history and their culture? Never mind all that fuss about the Martian 
fossil last year. Everyone said that that was the greatest scientific discovery 
of the century. Guess that'll teach people to wait until the end of the century 
next time.' 
'This certainly knocks what the Americans found into a cocked hat,' Staines 
simpered, smiling knowingly at Eve. She grimaced back at him. 


Page 11 
   

Greyhaven nodded to her. 'I think you are right. I'll check with Xznaal, and try 
to set up a meeting between the two of you. A documentary about their history 
will help people to understand the Martians better.'
Eve tried to stay calm as she was handed another world exclusive. 



By nine o'clock, the breakfast television and radio programmes were drawing to a 
close. The news editors had been careful not to do anything that might lead to 
accusations that they had instilled panic in the population. They concentrated 
on the awe-inspiring prospect of a peaceful alliance with a hitherto unknown 
race. Reports about the political situation were downplayed in favour of more 
offbeat coverage: UFO cranks, science fiction writers and comedians got a great 
deal more airtime than constitutional lawyers, politicians or police chiefs. In 
the national interest, no-one asked where the Queen had got to - only she had 
the power to dissolve Parliament and to confirm the appointment of a Prime 
Minister. 



EMAIL MESSAGE 
From: Power Commission Ltd, London 
To: PCL, Washington 
Subject: Business Development, United Kingdom 
Date: 8/5/97:10.15 BST 
Greetings Abe, 
It's been a busy day here, but things have calmed down now. As you know, the 
server went down about eight, approximately the time the UFO turned up! The 
engineers were here already, and they knew all about the fault, because they 
were in touch with the manufacturers. About nine PCL employees were down in 
Trafalgar Square, the rest of us were out of town. There were a lot of tourists 
there, and they watched two politicians going aboard for a pow-wow. There was a 
carnival atmosphere in the Square. Our business partners are in the dark about 
long-term prospects - some of them are optimistic. PCL will maintain its 
operation here. 
Regards to the kids, 
John. 



Eleven o'clock British Summer Time is six AM in Washington. 
Pentagon officials had been trying to determine the situation in the United 
Kingdom all day. International phone calls to Britain were proving erratic, 
although they had other means of contacting their embassy. 

Page 12 
   

Every intelligence analyst that could be spared was being flown to Langley. A 
host of agencies from the IMF to Omega Sector were put on stand-by. UNIT ONE, 
the Creative Intelligence division of the American branch of the United Nations 
Intelligence Taskforce was co-ordinating the groups, while UNIT THREE was 
liasing with NASA and the White House on the feasibility of a counterstrike on 
Mars itself.
CIA analysts were treating the situation as an invasion, and the Provisional 
Government as a puppet organisation. It happened in third world countries all 
the time - some faction would receive funding from another power and topple the 
incumbent president, tyrant or whatever. The foreign power always had a purpose 
for doing that - strategic, economic or political reasons. 
The military capability of the Martians was unknown. Their ship had arrived 
without registering on radar, but there was no evidence from the spy satellites 
that there was more than one ship over the UK, and there wasn't a mothership in 
orbit, as far as anyone could tell. The ship was a kilometre long, so there 
could be thousands of Martian troops onboard. It was armed with energy weapons 
and armour plating, but the ship hadn't demonstrated what analysts called 
'Clarke Level' abilities: technology so advanced that it defied current 
scientific knowledge. 
The PCL email was the first news from UNIT. 
Oswald held up the printout of the PCL message. 
'I can't believe you managed to intercept this. Doug, I think you may just have 
become the first person to hack into UNIT.' 
Doug raised his finger to his lips, looking around the Cafe. The place was 
busier than ever following the Invasion - with most phone lines down, email was 
the only way to send an international message. And you could only do that with 
some highly illegal hacking into the BT system. 'I didn't do anything.' 
'You know about UNIT?' 
'Only what I read in FT. The paramilitary meet the paranormal, and go in all 
guns blazing. So this message is in a UNIT code?' If anyone knew it was Ozzie. 
Oswald was a regular at the Cafe. Although he was only twenty-three, he was an 
expert on the alien incursions that were still meant to be a secret. From the 
Abominable Snowmen to the Zygons, Oswald knew his stuff. He'd even spoken at 
conventions in America. 

Page 13 
   

'Not a code as such. It's a simple system based on key phrases. It's been in use 
for years. '
'It's comic book stuff. I don't understand why they didn't just use a secure 
line or encryption.' 
Oswald nodded thoughtfully. 'That's the scary thing. UNIT clearly no longer have 
access to the equipment, or they have been compromised. They'd only use this 
method as a last resort. It's meant to look like an ordinary business letter to 
any censor or monitor. It's the sort of crypto a Third World country would use, 
not an European one.' 
Doug tried not to think too hard about that. 'So what does the message mean? 
I've worked out that PCL is UNIT, Abe's the ... President?' 
'That's right. "Power Commission" is the United Nations, strictly speaking. 
"Server" is the local government, "engineer" means soldier, "manufacturer" means 
foreign power. It's really hokey.' 
Doug was reading back the message. 'So what they're saying, this bit here, about 
the engineers already being in contact with the manufacturers, is that the 
British military were in league with the aliens?' 
'Yeah. Told you so.' 
'So now you're saying that you knew this was going to happen all along.' 
'Well, if you remember, last week I did tell you that the Martian atmosphere was 
breathable.' 
'Sure, just before you told me that Elvis died in November 1995 of diabetes.' 
'I played you his last CD,' he laughed, 'what more do you want?' 
Oswald scrutinised the printout again, for theatrical effect more than anything 
else. 'Reading into it, the two guys who went into the saucer were in on the 
deal, and those that weren't have been rounded up and put in prison. That's the 
"in the dark bit".' He paused. 'The conspiracy runs deeper than I thought.' 
Doug laughed, and began wiping down the counter. 'Yeah, but whaddya going to 
do?' he said in his best Homer Simpson voice. 

Page 14 
   

Oswald fixed him with that intense stare of his. 'We fight back.' He motioned 
around the Cafe. 'From our state-of-the-art command centre.



At one o'clock precisely, David Staines was let into the Prime Minister's office 
deep within Number 10 Downing Street. 
Greyhaven looked at home already, sitting at the same place as his illustrious 
predecessors. On the staircase up to the PM's study there were paintings and 
later photographs of all the previous occupants of the office, rows and rows of 
portraits. Like most Britons that passed them, Staines could recognise a dozen 
or so, the list becoming more complete as he reached the top of the stairs and 
the twentieth century. He paused at the last photograph. He and the Prime 
Minister had never been close politically, but they respected one another. 
Staines had no idea that Greyhaven had been planning to kill him. 
There was still a constitutional problem - Greyhaven couldn't just make himself 
Prime Minister regardless of how many Martians backed his leadership bid. The 
British constitution being what it is, there was some dispute about what 
conditions needed to be met - the dissolution of Parliament muddied the waters 
still further. One thing was for certain: just because Greyhaven had the mace 
didn't mean he was the Prime Minister. For the moment, officially, he was still 
only the Acting-Prime Minister. 
Staines chose not to draw attention to this. 'Prime Minister,' he oozed. 
'Home Secretary.' Greyhaven was studying a typed report and didn't look up at 
first. Finally, he granted Staines his full attention. 'What is the mood of the 
country?' he enquired in the tone of voice you would normally used to ask after 
the health of a maiden aunt. 
Staines had spent the morning receiving police, army and intelligence reports 
from around the country. 'It's settling down. The country is nervous, as you'd 
expect, but most people went to work as normal. London's more subdued. We've had 
some problems in the North - rival army units fighting on the streets in 
Manchester and Bradford.' 
'Our support?' 

Page 15 
   

'All the army units and police chiefs that we contacted beforehand have stayed 
true to their word. They are helping to keep a lid on things, and at the moment 
their men are following orders. We've had a few objectors, but not enough to 
affect operational efficiency. We've got enough people on the ground.'
'Yes. Half the staff at Downing Street were unwilling to serve here, or they're 
in mourning. I had to order out for lunch. Still, it always was part of the plan 
to slim down the government machinery. The opposition?' 
'Taken by surprise, unaware quite how close we can keep tabs on them. A number 
of barracks and bases have sealed themselves off and put themselves on full 
alert, but they aren't moving against us. We've got control of the 
communications and surveillance networks, so we'll be able to mobilise against 
them very quickly. So far there hasn't be a single report that the "no fly" 
order has been violated by civilian or military aircraft.' 
Greyhaven nodded. 'The bases will be trying to contact each other - keep a very 
close watch on them. If they start moving, we might need Xznaal to enforce our 
authority. What else?' 
'The SNP are organising a demonstration in Edinburgh tonight. They claim that 
constitutionally, they are not bound by the terms of the peace treaty with Mars 
and that England is ignoring them.' 
'Big deal. Next.' 
'The Archbishop of Canterbury is urging people to remain calm, but not fully to 
co-operate with the Provisional Government until the situation is more clear. 
There were vigils at quite a few churches last night. There would be, I 
suppose.' 
Greyhaven raised an eyebrow. 'Really?' 
'Well, it's one of the Big Questions, isn't it? Life on other planets. Do you 
think that Xznaal's a Protestant or a Catholic? The Pope has sought an audience 
with him, you know.' 
'Everyone wants to speak to him, David. Which reminds me: the first few rooms of 
the Tower will be refrigerated this afternoon. Xznaal will be holding a 
reception there at seven. You're invited, of course, as are a number of our 
colleagues. Could you see that they are warned about his appearance? At the same 
time, make sure that the press don't know about this - I don't want any 
telephoto shots of the Martians.' Greyhaven passed across the guest list. 

Page 16 
   

Staines scanned it. 'Miss Waugh will be there, I see.'
'She will,' Greyhaven said levelly. 
'But not your wife?' 
'My wife is at home, David, a hundred miles from here. How I choose to conduct 
my private life is my own business.' 
Staines could see the newspapers' reaction to the discovery that the Prime 
Minister had a mistress. The tone of Greyhaven's voice suggested that he wasn't 
concerned, that he thought the papers had better things to be talking about. The 
Home Secretary knew better. He didn't dare say anything, but made a mental note 
to have a word with a couple of his friends in Fleet Street. 
'Yes, Prime Minister,' he said. 
'The foreign situation seems to be stable - no-one wants to pick a fight with 
the Martians. Xznaal's proclamation was clear and unambiguous. Too clear, if 
anything. I'm still not sure what he's planning to do with the American 
airbases. As for his plans for Eire if the IRA attack our boys...' he shook his 
head disbelievingly. 'It's been a while since we put the Dail to the sword. And, 
do you know, despite the Euro-sceptics I don't think that the British government 
has ever threatened to "smite" the EU before.' 
'Teddy, I'm worried.' 
Greyhaven frowned in mock-concern. 'Are you, Staines?' 
'Yes. You've opened a can of worms. You're using Xznaal to control the country 
and to crush our enemies, but how do you plan to control them? Quis custodiet 
ipsos custodes, eh, Teddy?' 
'I have my means,' Greyhaven said firmly. 'The Martians serve a useful purpose 
for the time being, but once our power base is secure, we won't be needing 
them.' 
'You can destroy them?' 
'If it proves necessary. It's only one ship, Staines, it wouldn't last long 
against the RAF. I have the situation under control. Can you say the same about 
Alexander Christian, or the Doctor?' 

Page 17 
   

Staines chuckled. 'Surely now the Martians are here we don't need to - '
Greyhaven leapt from his chair and grabbed the lapels of the Home Secretary's 
jacket. 'Those two are the greatest threats to what we are doing here. Find 
them, Staines, and kill them.' 
'You don't want them captured?' 
'So that they are brought here and I can tie them up while I boast about my 
plans? No, I want them dead. Post that to all police and army units.' 
Staines made a note of that. 'Is there any more business?' 
'That will be all, thank you Home Secretary. See you at seven.' 



Just before three o'clock Eve Waugh received a phone call. She was in her hotel 
room with Alan, getting ready to go to the Tower of London. They were talking 
through their plans: they would try and charm Xznaal into granting an interview. 

'How do you dress to meet a Martian warlord?' Alan asked her. 
'Edward told me to treat it like any other state banquet.' 
'That helps,' he chuckled. 
'Your tux will be fine,' she assured him. 
'And I'm taking my camera but keeping it in my bag?' 
'That's right. Don't even try to sneak a shot of the Martian, you might cause an 
interplanetary diplomatic incident.' 
The phone rang. Eve answered it and spoke for a couple of minutes. 
'Don't change just yet,' she told Alan when she'd finished. 'Where's 
Canterbury?' 
Alan checked his road atlas. 'About an hour away, I think. South of here.' 
'That was the Doctor. He says he wants to talk to us. He's told us exactly where 
he is and says he wants to meet us at four-thirty. We can get there and back in 
time for seven?' 
'No problem at all, if we leave quickly. I'm sure that your friend Greyhaven 
would like to know where the Doctor is. Are you going to tell him?' 
Eve hesitated. 
NEXT WEEK: God save the King. 


