Will groaned.

“And a regular ’ero you are, and I never knowed.”

“Eh?” went Will and he unfolded the broadsheet.

“MOONSHIP LAUNCH TODAY,” ran the banner headline.

“Oh yes,” said Will. “The launch. In all the excitement I’d forgotten about that. But—” And then he glanced down the front page. And then he saw the photograph – his photograph – and he read the copy beneath it.

It had nothing to do with his trial in Brentford, nor his hostage taking, nor his escape.

Nor in fact, did it have anything to do with him whatsoever.

Will read the copy:

Will stared at the picture once more and then he stared at it again. The resemblance to himself was uncanny, but for the colonel’s somewhat more splendid sideburns. “Colonel William Starling,” mumbled Will. “Son of Captain Ernest Starling, my great-great-great—”

“Great ’ero of the Empire,” said the newsboy. “D’ya fink there’s blokes up there, Colonel?”

Will mouthed a silent “What?”

“On the moon? The theory that extraterrestrial life might exist is ’ardly new, is it, Colonel, guv? And this world of ours is literally littered with ancient monuments of gargantuan proportion that defy rational explanation and seem to point to an extraterrestrial ’ypothesis. For instance, the great pyramid of Cheops, the monuments at Karnac. Even our own Ston’enge. Do you not think it possible that members of an advanced cosmic civilisation landed upon this planet in the distant past?”

Will clipped the newsboy about the earhole.

“Shut it,” said he.

“Thank you very much, guv’nor,” said the newsboy, rubbing at his ear. “To say that I ’ave suffered child abuse from an ’ero of the British Empire will look very good on my CV when I apply for that assistant curator’s job at the Tate Gallery that I’m up for next week.”

Will stalked away, and as he stalked away, he leafed through the broadsheet. There were no pictures of the real him. Not even a mention of the events the day before in Brentford.

Master Scribbens had been right. Nothing to do with the trial had reached the media. Although. Will found a small article on the back page:

POET LAUREATE GOES STONE BONKER.

This told how the Great McGonagall had supposedly forced his way into a BBC studio the previous day and broadcast a bogus report about a fictitious trial in Brentford before dying in a freak electric lawnmower/microphone accident. Will raised his eyebrows to this.

A gent in a top hat, fly-fronted beaver-skin ulster coat and spats saluted Will. “My very best wishes upon your historic voyage,” said he. Will sidestepped this gent and returned to the Savoy.

The expensively dressed folk of all nations were no longer to be seen. The desk clerk waved at Will and wished him all the best.

Will signed an autograph for the lift boy and returned to his suite.

Tim wasn’t sleeping. He was up and about. He hadn’t bathed and he never shaved, but he was all togged up in his brand new suit.

“You look rather perky,” said Will, “for a man who’s just downed a bottle of champagne.”

“I drank the orange juice,” said Tim. “Full of vitamin C, sobers you up in an instant.”

“Does it?” said Will.

“Not really. I’m still as pissed as a pudding.”

“Well, read this. It will sober you up.”

Tim read the front page. “My goodness,” he said. “Electric garters that cure arthritis. What will they think of next?”

“Not the adverts. The copy.”

Tim read the copy. “By the Goddess,” he said. “Colonel William Starling, that would be—”

“One of my ancestors.”

“This is a surprise.”

“Isn’t it.”

“Yes,” said Tim. “But it shouldn’t be, should it. I mean, you took the Retro drug, didn’t you? You should be able to remember about this. Does he get to the moon okay?”

“I don’t know,” said Will.

“But you must know.”

“It doesn’t work like that. When I got back here into the past, all I could remember was what had happened to my ancestors up until the now I was now in. The future beyond has yet to happen, so those memories have yet to exist. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“No,” said Tim. “Well, sort of. But then you must have been able to remember that this Colonel William was training for the space programme.”

“Strangely,” said Will, “I’ve had other things on my mind. But we have to get to the launch. I told you about the Elephant Man. He means to sabotage it, blow up the moonship when the countdown reaches zero. And you know what that could mean, don’t you?”

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “No,” he said. “Not really.”

“My ancestor,” said Will. “Colonel William Starling. My many times great-grandfather. If he was to die then—” Will drew a finger over his throat “No more Starlings. No more me.”

“Oh,” said Tim. “I get you. This isn’t too good, is it?”

“It’s about as bad as it can get, if things weren’t already bad enough.”

“It’s no problem,” said Tim. “Phone the police. Tell them what you know. Have them arrest the Elephant Man.”

“Yeah, right,” said Will.

“But why not?”

“Because he’s a celebrity. A friend of Her Majesty the Queen.”

“The Goddess bless Her,” said Tim. “Phone Her then.”

“Her Majesty, who is apparently a good friend of Count Otto Black, also. I can’t trust anyone, Tim.”

“You can trust me.”

“Yes,” said Will. “I can.”

“Brilliant,” said Tim. “I’m loving this. Sorry about the trouble you’re in and everything. But I’m loving all this. Time travel. Alternative histories and futures. Robots and aliens and witches. Being here in the past with my bestest friend. I’m sorry, Will, but to me this is absolutely brilliant.”

“Glad you’re enjoying it,” said Will.

“I’m sorry, but I am.”

“Just one thing,” said Will. “Bestest friends and all that. But you seem to have forgotten something. You’re also my half-brother. If our many times grandfather dies, then neither of us will exist.”

“Call for a cab,” said Tim. “We can’t just sit around here chatting. We have pressing business to attend to.”

“Brilliant,” said Will.

“Now this is brilliant,” said Tim, and he peered through the passenger window and out at the clouds.

“We are now flying,” called the cabbie through his little glass hatchway, “at an altitude of three hundred feet at a cruising speed of eighty-five miles per hour. Our estimated time of arrival will be about half past ten.”

“Brilliant,” said Tim once more. The aerial hansom was a splendid affair, powered by Tesla turbines which drew their transmitted energy from the great sky towers. The seating was sumptuous; all overstuffed leather and polished brass fittings. The driver sat up front and he whistled as he flew.

“Present state-of-the-Victorian-art,” said Will. “I’ve never travelled in one of these before; they’re brand new.”

“Only picked up mine last week, Colonel,” said the cabbie. “I know tourists still favour the old horse-drawn hansom, and many of the toffs don’t feel safe travelling above ground level except in airships, but the future of public transport lies in aerial cabs; that’s my conviction.”