“The propulsion units are fascinating,” said the other Eddie. “They employ a drive system powered by a cross-interflux, utilising the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter. Imagine that.”

And Eddie tried to. But did not succeed.

“You have to hand it to the chickens,” said the other Eddie, “I think it must have been that eternal question that sparked them into advanced technology.”

“You mean, ‘What came first, the chicken or the egg?’”

“No,” said the other Eddie. “‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ I feel that the answer must be that the chicken needed to know what was on the other side. Really needed to know. And now they know what’s on the other side of so many roads and barriers between worlds and almost everything else. And one day there will be no life in the universe except chicken life and there’s no telling what they’ll do after that. Travel beyond death or beyond time, probably.”

“Well, bravo to those chickens,” said Eddie Bear once more. “Are we nearly there yet, by the way?”

“Nearly there, and … yes, we’re here.”

And Eddie had been watching as the disc came in to land. He had been watching all the activity around and about the flying saucers. All the comings and goings, all the liftings intos of stuff and fiddlings with all sorts of things. And Eddie had been viewing those who were all engaged in this industrious enterprise. For all and sundry engaged thus so were indeed of chicken-kind.

But somehow these were no ordinary chickens. No farmyard peckers, these. They were of a higher order of fowl. Clearly of superior intelligence, clad in uniforms and capable of using their wing-parts as a passable facsimile of hands.

Eddie viewed these dextrous appendages and wished like damn that his own hands had not been denied him.

As the flying disc settled onto the concrete floor, the other Eddie stepped nimbly from it and bid his wobbly counterpart to follow if he would.

Eddie stumbled onwards after his other self.

“Twelve spaceships,” the other Eddie told him as Eddie stumbled along, “each equipped with a thousand jars to store the essences in. It was felt prudent to speed up operations. Take all in a single gathering. Which ironically enough will fulfil certain prophecies promulgated by the various religious factions in Toy City. So I suppose there must be something to religion, mustn’t there?”

Eddie nodded slowly. There were no prophecies of doom to be found in the religious credo of The Midnight Growlers. There was love, there was laughter and indeed there was beer. But there was none of the grim stuff.

“The spaceships will fly out there,” said the other Eddie, pointing with a paw, “up that tunnel, out and through The Second Big O.”

“Surely they will be seen,” said Eddie Bear.

“By humankind? Probably. But it doesn’t matter. Those who believe in flying saucers are so vastly outnumbered by those who do not that their sworn testimonies are always laughed at. And as for those on the other side, they will never know what hit them. Fear not for them, Eddie. Their ends will be swift and painless. Their misery and enslavement will be over.”

“Will the chickens be hitting the meathead P.P.P.s?” asked Eddie, hopefully.

“Not yet. They’ll crash a single saucer, as they did here. The ‘survivor’ will wheel and deal with the P.P.P.s. Set up a production plant. Then they’ll add a few ingredients to the ersatz chickens, something to make the P.P.P.s and all the humankind on that side of the barrier compliant. The chickens will need their services as a workforce to redecorate Toy City. After that they will be redundant. Then they will be disposed of.”

“It’s all figured out,” said Eddie, “isn’t it?”

“Years and years of planning.”

“I am impressed,” said Eddie. “Now can I meet Her Majesty?”

“All in good time.”

“But I don’t have much in the way of good time left.”

“This is true,” said the other Eddie. “This is true indeed.”

And back beyond The Second Big O and up the Yellow Brick Road, a clockwork barman called Tinto said, “This is true indeed.”

“It is certainly true,” said Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis. “But what do you know about it?”

“Not much,” said Tinto, polishing furiously at a glass that needed no polishing. “I know Eddie’s missing because he hasn’t been in here for two days. And I think that’s a bit poor. It’s always me who helps him out on his cases and I wish to report the theft of my calculating pocket Wallah. Between you and me, I think that big boy Jack nicked her. Do you want me to fill out a form, or something? I have really nice handwriting.”

“That will not be necessary.” Wellington Bellis quaffed the beer that he wouldn’t be paying for, because chief inspectors never have to, which is a tradition, or an old charter, or something, no matter where you might happen to be in the known, or indeed the unknown Universe.

Along Tinto’s bar counter, laughing policemen laughed amongst themselves, poked with their truncheons at things they shouldn’t be poking at and laughed some more when these things fell to the floor and broke.

“And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop them doing that,” said Tinto to Bellis.

“So you’re telling me,” said Wellington Bellis, “that you put a lot of ideas into the head of this wayward bear?”

“More than a lot,” said Tinto. “Most.”

“You are the source of inspiration to him, as it were?”

“Yes, you might say that.”

“Same again,” said Wellington Bellis, offering up his empty glass.

Tinto hastened without haste to oblige.

“You see,” said Bellis as Tinto did so, “we have a positive ID on the mass-murderer who did for the orchestra at the Opera House. The backstage doorman identified him.”

“Then you arrest the blighter,” said Tinto, “and do so with my blessings. If you need them, which in my opinion you probably will, as I am lately informed by the vicar of the local Church of Mechanology that The End Times are imminent.”

“Yes,” said Bellis, “word of such seems to be reaching me from all sides of late. But let us apply ourselves to the matter presently in hand.”

“The mass-murderer,” said Tinto.

“That very fellow. You see, it is my theory that he is not working alone. In fact I suspect he is an evil cat’s-paw working on behalf of some supercriminal. A sinister mastermind behind his vile doings.”

Tinto nodded thoughtfully, though his printed face smiled on.

“A criminal mastermind who put ideas into the head of this monster. Who is the source of his inspiration, as it were. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Well,” said Tinto. “Ah, excuse me, please, I have to serve this lady.”

The lady in question was Amelie, the long-legged dolly from Nadine’s Diner. The dolly well known to Jack.

Bellis looked on approvingly and made a wistful face. Now there was a good-looking dolly, he thought. A dolly who could certainly bring a fellow such as himself a great deal of pleasure. And solace, too, of course, because Chief Inspector Bellis was, in his special way, a police chief. And so he was, as with all police chiefs, having a rough one today. What with all the pressure being put upon him from his superiors to get results. And his wife in the process of divorcing him and everything. And him trying to give up drinking, and everything. And his India rubber self now being so perished that bits and bobs of him kept regularly dropping off. And everything.

“Bring me something long and cold with plenty of alcohol in it,” said Amelie to Tinto.

“I don’t think my wife’s available,” said Tinto.[44]

“Just get me the drink, you clockwork clown.”

Tinto did as he was bid, chuckling as he did so.

Amelie turned to Chief Inspector Bellis. “And have you done anything?” she asked.