The Interstellar Tea Machine

The Teasmade

In the Earth year of 1976, Commander Twonket, a Zaponian from Zap, a small, unremarkable planet orbiting a star somewhere in the Virgo Cluster, managed to acquire a Goblin teasmade. The commander exchanged it for a cooling fan with an Earth man called George Trent.

When the commander arrived back on Zap with the teasmade, the Zaponian engineers were mystified as to why he was so impressed with it. They were far more concerned with a problem they’d been trying to solve known as the rapid interstellar travel problem. A simple, lame Earth machine that seemed to be constructed of a clunky, clockwork contraption of tubes, heating elements, and ceramic pots, was not the answer.

They thought.

Commander Twonket thought differently. So, in an act of determined defiance, he persisted, in much the same way a second-hand toaster persists in burning only one side of the bread, despite having perfectly functional heating elements on both. He met with senior engineer Zorvax The Zap.

—This machine, Zorvax, manipulates liquid-state thermodynamics via a clockwork interface.

—Clockwork?

—Yes! It’s genius.

—Genius?

—Yes! Have you damaged your External Auditory Regulators (E.A.Rs)?

—No, commander. I just fail to see how such primitive technology is going to aid our space migration ambitions.

—Ah, but like I explained to the Earthling, the principle is simple. If you can convince a volume of water to be in two states at once, both boiling and contained, while simultaneously triggering a mechanical alarm in a localised gravity well, you create a 'Brew-Continuum.' We can hitch our star-ships to the sheer, stubborn momentum of an Earthling morning routine. We could reach the Andromeda Nebula before the milk goes off.

—Right.

—You don’t seem convinced.

—Well, I’m an engineer. I’ll need to take a long hard look at that… thing.

—It’s called a teasmade.

—Er, that name will have to change.

—Why?

—It doesn’t sound very… Zaponian.

—Make it work first, Zorvax. Then we can do the grand naming.

And so it was that Zorvax the Zap, a senior engineer, and an undisclosed number of his team, worked many…

… Well, defining the exact nature of their labour was a task in itself.

Chronometry on Zap was not a matter of circular Earthly logic, but a chaotic dance of Local Stellar Relative Units. Due to Zap’s dizzying rotational velocity and its rather eccentric, oblong path around its sun, a solitary Earth hour was equivalent to roughly three and a half Zaponian 'Spins.' Furthermore, the concept of a month was entirely absent, substituted by the ‘Great Great-Uncle’s Nap,' an interval dictated by the slumbering habits of the planet’s most ancient inhabitant and his requirement for chicory water.

In the clinical terms of a Terran observer, Zorvax and his cohorts toiled for exactly fourteen Earth days, nine hours, and forty-one minutes.

To Zorvax, it felt more like three exceptionally long and remarkably humid Tuesdays.

The laboratory now reeked of singed copper and ghostly, unexplained traces of Earl Grey. The teasmade rested upon a pedestal, though it now resembled a clockwork heart bypass system more than a bedroom convenience. It featured seven additional dials, a copper vent that emitted a rhythmic "ping," and a reinforced containment field where the humble teapot once resided.

Zorvax cleared a bit of hyper-grease from his tertiary nostril, contemplating the device. He had spent several 'Spins' attempting to align the primitive 'snooze' function with the uncompromising laws of quantum physics.

He activated a small green switch.

The machine emitted a mechanical groan. A small arm lunged outward, struck a brass bell with violent intent, and a beam of pressurised, super-heated water erupted, piercing the laboratory ceiling and carving a neat aperture through the crust of Zap’s inner moon.

Zorvax blinked, then adjusted his communicator.

—Commander Twonket?

—Yes, Zorvax? Is the Brew-Continuum operational?

—Not precisely, Commander. However, I have managed to postpone the sunrise by twenty minutes, and the ceramic vessel has entered a stable orbit around the facility. I suggest you attend the bay immediately.

Without further ado, commander Twonket rushed to the engineering bay.

The engineering bay was currently undergoing what Zorvax called a 'minor spatial rearrangement,' which to the untrained eye looked like a frantic explosion in a kitchenware factory. Commander Twonket stepped through the portal and immediately had to duck as a floating teaspoon whistled past his head, travelling at a velocity that suggested it was late for an appointment in the next galaxy.

The air smelled heavily of ozone, burnt toast, and the inexplicable sensation of being five years old again for exactly three seconds. Gravity had become elective; several engineers were tethered to their workbenches with industrial-strength bungee cords, bobbing like disgruntled balloons as they attempted to recalibrate a set of levitating sugar cubes.

At the centre of the madness, the teasmade sat pulsing with a soft, bioluminescent glow. The alarm bell was no longer just ringing; it was emitting a sound that rippled the very air, turning the laboratory walls momentarily into a vibrant shade of magenta plaid. Every time the heating element clicked, the wall clock behind it skipped backwards by several centuries, then sprinted forward to next Thursday to make up for lost time.

—Zorvax! —Twonket shouted, clinging to a door frame that was beginning to feel remarkably like sponge cake.

—Why is the floor singing the Zaponian national anthem in a minor key?

—A side effect of the 'Brew-Continuum,' Commander! —Zorvax yelled back, his lab coat flapping in a localised wind that shouldn't have existed indoors.

—We’ve successfully decoupled the morning routine from the linear flow of time. Currently, this room is experiencing 8:00 AM on a perpetual loop, but across three different dimensions simultaneously. The milk, unfortunately, is now sentient and has requested political asylum.

—I grant it! Roared the commander.

The milk stayed where it was. But the far wall of the lab glowed and gleamed like a newborn star.

—Commander? I have established where and how we can fuel our craft.

—Have you?

The commander was slightly distracted while trying to reposition his Hydrogenic Attainment Trilby (H.A.T), headgear specially designed for rapid interstellar transfer.

—Yes, we can use the stagnant ballast water in the… teasmade. If we ionise it, a simple process, it will fuel our craft without any issue.

—Superb!

—But, Zorvax, I agree with your earlier comment about the name. We cannot be conducting galactic exploration with a machine called a teasmade.

Zorvax grinned, or what was the Zaponian equivalent of a grin, a sort of slacking of the lower jaw and a glow from the console-like eyes.

—Commander Twonket, I present to you the Zorvax-7 Chrono-Infuser!

—Aha! Excellent. Why 7?

—That’s many spins it took to get the main problem solved.

Commander Twonket clapped his hands and doffed his Hydrogenic Attainment Trilby. Then, sipped the tea in the cup sitting on the presentation plate of the Zorvax-7 Chrono-Infuser.

Middle Marsh

The sun looked at the cloud cover Middle Marsh and decided otherwise, about appearing. Despite the fact that in was July in England on Planet Earth. The air however, decided summer was worth heating the air beyond that of a chilly day that wouldn’t require the inhabitants of Middle Marsh to blow on their chips from the local chippy.

Jack Smith was a man who kept things very simple. Mostly because he couldn’t find it within himself to bother much about anything. He, during his sixty-odd years of existence, had arrived at a simple philosophy: Do as little as possible and expect nothing. That way, nothing bad happened. Or, if it did, he could shrug and say: “Whatever”.

He lived on Marsh Lane. In a field, right at the end. His home was a barn, well, more like a dilapidated previous farm building that pretended it was a barn, but was far too small to be taken seriously. Jack hired a builder to put a new roof on it, plumb in water and get power to it. The result was a small single storey dwelling with three small rooms. An on-suite bedroom, so-called because it was a room with a bed in it, and a small bathroom. A kitchen, so -called, because it was a room with a sink, an electric hob, and importantly, a kettle. With a small fridge on the countertop. The third room was where he went when he wasn’t in the bedroom or the kitchen.

Jack was wearing his one outfit, a black t-shirt, black work trousers and scuffed black walking boots. He went to the local outdoor store to replace them when they were too worn out to stay on his body. When he used the washing machine, he wore one of the other items of clothing he owned: A pair of cargo shorts. The final item? A combat jacket purchased from an Army Surplus retailer.

He wandered into the kitchen and thought about making a brew. But decided against it. He’d have to leave soon. He was scheduled to take a group of hikers up Long Pike, the local hill that rose up over the town, stretched out for a mile or so, before gently wandering down the other side, to end at the river Marsh. It was very popular with hikers, because the views across the rolling hills of the North Midlands were spectacular — on a clear day. Which it rarely was.

Jack took people along five different routes, pointing out the various landmarks and describing the rock formations. He once managed a personal record where he did the whole of his guided walk with his mind elsewhere, while automatically telling the group what they wanted to hear.

He pulled his jacket on, locked up and walked down Marsh Lane, turned onto Marsh Road and then onto Marsh Place. He entered the tourist and was greeted by Kathy Blake, a woman nearly has philosophical as him.

—Jack.

—Kathy.

—Got a walk this morning?

—Yeah.

—Any nobheads, charge them double.

That was a typical conversation between them. Kathy was the Tourism Manager. She treated her role like a policewoman. She took no nonsense from anyone. Especially tourists with complaints.

They had the routine down to a fine art. Jack would stand outside, on the pretence that he was there to greet his walkers. Kathy would stand with a clipboard and take names to check everyone was present.

People arrived in the usual array of bright cagoules, a variety of headgear and walking boots suitable for an alpine trek. Some folk also had telescopic walking poles. Jack liked those. He liked them because he could imagine himself jamming them somewhere unpleasant in the people that asked too many questions.

—Good day! And what a splendid day it is for a hilltop walk!

Jack looked at Kathy. She rolled her eyes. So did he.

—Oh yes! A perfect day—

—Name? Barked Kathy

—Optimus Zorvax, a pleasure to meet you both!

Jack and Kathy stared at the man. Taking in his appearance. He wore what looked like a shiny all-in-one suit with a proliferation of pockets. His boots looked like something an astronaut would wear and his jacket was silver and of the puffer variety. He wore a black baseball cap with the word “ZAP’ emblazoned in gold lettering.

—That’s a name and a half, said Jack.

—Is it? I thought it followed the British formula of a first name and a last name. Perhaps I should—

—It’s alright. We don’t care.

Jack was already worried. The guy was a nutter, there was no doubt. Fortunately the rest of the group were quiet, reserved and also looking at Mr Zorvax with equal measures of irritation and mirth.

—Right then, are you all ready? To confirm, we are doing the Stubby Pike route so there will be a bit of a scramble.

There were murmurings of “yeah”, “fine” and “sound”. Then, Mr Zorvax piped up.

—At what time do we arrive at Long Pike?

—When we get there. Depends on the pace. There’s no rush.

—Indeed! However, I must be there by 10am Earth time. I have a communication incoming.

—What?

Jack heard him saying words. But very few of them made sense.

—Yes, I must be at the summit by 10am. So I’m at the point of maximum elevation. It’ll improve the signal–

—Whatever, we’ll get there about then.

—Splendid.

Jack glanced at Kathy and rolled his eyes again. She mouthed “I’ll charge him double,” and smiled.

—Right then, let’s go.

He led them off down Marsh Way heading for the footpath across the lowland that would take them towards the rocky path to Long Pike. Jack fielded the usual questions as they walked.

—Is there anywhere around here not called Marsh something?

—Yeah. Where we are going today. Long Pike.

—Apart from that?

—No.

—What is the rock around here?

—Granite.

—Will we see much wildlife?

—If you look.

And so on. Jack was on full auto — until Mr Zorvax piped up again.

—Are there any decent flat spots, sufficient for an airborne craft to land?

—What?

—Are there—

—I heard you, I don’t understand why you are asking the question.

—Ah, my communications requirements may need an actual landing.

Jack looked at the man, who was smiling in a way that was quite unsettling. He looked like a man who’d only just learned what a human smile was.

Jack stared at the unsettling, geometric grin for three seconds longer than was polite, then simply turned and kept walking.

—No, —Jack said over his shoulder. —It’s mostly heather, peat bog, and sheep. If your craft tries to land on the bog, it’ll end up in the mud. And the sheep will probably lean against it.

—Fascinating, —Zorvax murmured, making a mental note on a small silver device that looked remarkably like a heavily modified parking ticket machine.

—The local fauna are structural opportunists.

They began the ascent up Stubby Pike. The path narrowed, transitioning from damp grass to slick, grey granite. The rest of the group—a retired couple from Derby who walked with the grim, silent determination of people who had survived thirty years of damp caravanning, and a young man who seemed to be wearing a small camping shop on his back—fell into a steady, rhythmic trudge.

Zorvax, however, did not trudge. He bounced. His astronaut boots seemed to possess a subtle, pneumatic springiness that made him look as though he were walking on a slightly firmer trampoline than the rest of humanity.

Every few minutes, he would consult his wrist. Not a watch, Jack noticed, but a wristband featuring a small, bubbling liquid level that turned from amber to a violent shade of electric blue whenever they gained fifty feet of altitude.

—Tell me, Jack, —Zorvax said, pulling level with him. —Are you familiar with the local chronometry?

—The clock? —Jack asked, keeping his eyes on a particularly treacherous patch of moss. —Yeah. It’s nearly ten.

—And the local atmospheric density? Is it always this... humidly depressing?

—Usually.

—Magnificent. It’s the ideal dampness for a stable tea-vapour interface. On Zap, we had to simulate this exact level of moisture by boiling nineteen thousand copper kettles in a sealed hangar. To find it naturally occurring in the wild is... a triumph of planetary plumbing.

Jack stopped. He wiped a drop of drizzle from his eyebrow and looked at Zorvax.

—Look, mate. If you’re from one of those weird outdoor theatre groups, or if this is a YouTube thing, can you do it at the back? You’re putting the couple from Derby off their stride.

—I assure you, Jack, I am a legitimate tourist, —Zorvax said, adjusting his 'ZAP' cap.

—I paid my fee to the administrative female with the clipboard. I am merely preparing for the 10:00 AM sync.

They reached the summit of Long Pike at precisely 9:58 AM.

The view was spectacular, in that you could see nearly thirty yards of grey mist before the world dissolved into a blank canvas. The wind whipped across the flat, rocky plateau, smelling faintly of wet sheep and, inexplicably, a very sharp burst of lemon verbena.

The retired couple immediately sat on a wet rock and unwrapped some foil-covered egg sandwiches.

Zorvax, meanwhile, marched to the absolute centre of the plateau. He reached into one of the massive pockets of his silver puffer jacket and pulled out a thermos flask. At least, it looked like a thermos flask, if a thermos flask had been designed by an engineer who had only had the concept explained to them over a very bad telephone line. It had a brass wind-up key on the side and a small, glass dome on the top containing a tiny, spinning copper spoon.

—Two minutes, —Zorvax announced to the grey void.

Jack sighed, pulled his collar up against the drizzle, and leaned against a dry-stone wall that had seen better centuries. He checked his phone. 9:59 AM.

—Whatever, —Jack muttered.

Then, the thermos flask began to whistle. Not a normal kettle whistle, but a rising, harmonic chord that sounded like a church choir trying to sing through a vacuum cleaner.

The tin foil on the Derby couple's sandwiches began to hum.

Twonket

The whistling from Zorvax’s thermos reached a pitch that was less of a sound and more of a physical pressure behind the teeth.

The retired couple from Derby stopped chewing. The husband, whose name tag read 'Arthur', stared at his egg-and-cress sandwich, which was now glowing with a faint, bioluminescent violet hue.

—Margery, —Arthur said, his voice flat with Derbyshire stoicism. —My bread is vibrating.

—Eat around it, Arthur, —Margery replied, not looking up from her flask of Bovril.

Jack didn't even move from his dry-stone wall. He just reached into his combat jacket, pulled out a slightly squashed packet of polo mints, and offered one to the young man with the oversized backpack, who was currently staring at Zorvax with his mouth open wide enough to catch flies. The young man shook his head mutely.

With a final, triumphant CLACK, the brass key on the side of Zorvax’s thermos spun clockwise at blinding speed. The tiny copper spoon inside the glass dome whirled into a blur, and a thick, perfectly horizontal jet of Earl-Grey-scented steam shot out of the spout, defying the gale-force wind entirely.

The steam didn't dissipate. Instead, it hung in the damp air, organising itself into a perfect, shimmering grey rectangle—about the size of a modern television screen.

Within the steam-screen, the fog-shrouded silhouette of a Zaponian bridge began to resolve.

—Zorvax? —a voice boomed. It was a grand, theatrical voice, though it sounded slightly muffled, as if the speaker were currently wearing a bucket on their head. —Is that you, Zorvax? I can’t see a thing. The temporal dampening is severe.

Zorvax stepped closer to the steam-screen, shouting over the wind.

—Yes, Commander Twonket! I have successfully reached the peak of maximum elevation in the Middle Marsh sector. The local atmosphere is wonderfully saturated with suspended moisture.

On the screen, the steam shifted, revealing Commander Twonket. He was indeed wearing his Hydrogenic Attainment Trilby, which was currently sparking with small green arcs of electricity. Behind him, a giant, floating teaspoon drifted lazily across the engineering bay.

—Superb! —Twonket roared. —We have successfully aligned the main boiler of the Zorvax-7 with your coordinates. But we are experiencing a slight pressure drop in the primary tea-line. Have you established a stable local anchor?

—I am standing next to a native guide, Commander. He appears to be the primary local heat source, though his emotional output is remarkably low.

Twonket squinted through the steam, his console-like eyes scanning the fog until they locked onto Jack. Jack was currently trying to get a piece of lint off his black t-shirt.

—You there! —Twonket bellowed. —Earthling! What is your designation?

Jack looked up. He looked at the shimmering rectangle of steam. He looked at the alien in the silver puffer jacket. He looked at his watch. It was 10:01 AM.

—Jack, —he said.

—Jack! A strong, efficient name. Tell me, Jack, are you prepared to assist the Zaponian Empire in securing a stable morning routine across the Virgo Cluster?

Jack took a slow breath of the damp Derbyshire air. He thought about his barn. He thought about the kettle on his counter, and how he’d quite like to be back there by one o'clock to watch the repeat of Bargain Hunt. He thought about the sheer, exhausting effort of being surprised by a three-dimensional steam projection of an alien commander.

—No, not really, —Jack said.

—An honest negotiator! —Twonket declared, nodding sagely. —I respect that. Zorvax, we must initiate the bypass. If the Earthling will not serve as a spiritual anchor, we shall have to use the local geological features. What is the composition of the peak?

—Granite, Commander! —Zorvax called back.

—Dreadful! Far too dense. It’ll make the tea taste muddy. Very well, we shall have to pump the backup infusion directly through your containment vessel. Prepare for back-pressure!

—Wait, Commander—

Before Zorvax could finish, the thermos flask in his hand let out a sound like a wet trombone.

The trombone sound from the thermos was followed by a sudden, violent silence.

The wind stopped blowing. The rain froze mid-air, hanging like a beaded curtain of tiny glass spheres. The steam-screen containing Commander Twonket’s face stretched horizontally, turning him momentarily into a very wide, very flat, very angry-looking ribbon of grey mist.

There was a sound like a wet finger being drawn across the surface of a giant balloon—shhhwiiip—and then time snapped back into place. The rain fell. The wind howled.

The steam-screen was gone.

Zorvax blinked, looking down at his thermos. It was completely empty, save for a single, perfectly dry sprig of watercress poking out of the spout.

—Fascinating, —Zorvax muttered, pulling the watercress out and examining it with his console-like eyes. —The molecular transposition was ninety-eight percent successful.

A few yards away, Arthur from Derby was staring at his hands with a look of mild, bureaucratic confusion.

Where his egg-and-cress sandwich had been a moment ago, he was now holding a highly polished, chromium-plated Zaponian fuel-regulator valve. It was pulsing with a soft, warm amber light and emitting a rhythmic, metallic purr that sounded like a very content cat that had swallowed a pocket watch.

—Margery, —Arthur said, his voice entirely devoid of panic. —My sandwich has become rather metallic. And it’s humming.

Margery squinted at the pulsing chromium device.

—Is it warm? —she asked.

—Yes. Quite cosy, actually. Excellent hand-warmer.

—Keep hold of it then. It’s freezing up here. But don’t go biting it, you’ll ruin your bridge.

Jack took a long, slow drag of air through his teeth. He walked over to Arthur, looked down at the humming alien fuel-regulator, and then looked over at Zorvax, who was currently trying to fit his entire nose into the neck of the empty thermos to sniff the residual temporal energy.

—Zorvax, —Jack said, his voice flat.

—Yes, Jack?

—Did you swap that bloke’s lunch with a bit of your spaceship?

—Technically, Jack, the Zorvax-7 Chrono-Infuser swapped it. It appears the back-pressure from the secondary boiler caused a localised reality-swap to balance the thermodynamic ledger. On the bright side, Commander Twonket is currently in possession of a remarkably efficient, mayonnaise-based organic fuel source.

—Right, —Jack said. He looked at his watch. 10:04 AM. They were behind schedule. —Well, he’s got your engine bit, and your commander’s got his egg piece. Can we go now? The pub opens in two hours and I’ve got a stool with my name on it.

—But Jack! —Zorvax protested, his silver puffer jacket rustling as he gesticulated.

—Without the fuel-regulator, the Star-Clipper’s morning-routine drive will have no dampening field! If they attempt to jump to the Andromeda Nebula now, the entire crew will experience the sensation of waking up thirty seconds before their alarm goes off, continuously, for three hundred years!

Jack looked at Arthur, who was now happily using the pulsing Zaponian device to warm his chin.

—Arthur, —Jack said. —Do you want your sandwich back?

Arthur looked at the humming, cozy warm valve, then at the grey, damp Derbyshire mist.

—To be honest, Jack, the bread was a bit dry, —Arthur said. —And this is doing wonders for my arthritis.

—There you go, —Jack said to Zorvax. —Deal’s done. Move it or lose it, we’re heading down the south face.

The George and Dragon

The descent from Long Pike was conducted in the kind of thick, companionable silence that can only be achieved by British people who have mutually agreed that the weather is a personal insult.

Zorvax bounced along at the back of the queue, occasionally attempting to calculate the temporal drag of a wet sheep, while Arthur clutched the pulsing, purring Zaponian fuel-regulator like a prized turnip.

By the time they reached the gravel car park of The George and Dragon on Marsh Road, the clouds had parted just enough to reveal a sky the colour of a wet slate.

Jack pushed open the heavy oak door, ushering the group into the glorious, low-ceilinged sanctuary of the pub. The air inside was a rich, comforting tapestry of stale ale, woodsmoke, and the faint, vinegary promise of pickled eggs.

Kathy was already sitting in the corner snug, nursing a half-pint of cider and looking remarkably like a warden who had successfully managed a prison transfer. She looked up as Jack walked in, followed by the Derby couple, the young man with the oversized backpack, and finally, Zorvax, whose silver puffer jacket was making a loud, rhythmic shuck-shuck sound.

—You’re late, Jack, —Kathy said, checking her watch.

—We had a temporal transposition on the ridge, —Jack said, heading straight for the bar. —Zorvax swapped Arthur’s lunch for a spaceship component.

Kathy didn't even blink. She simply turned a page on her clipboard.

—Right. That’s a forty-pound surcharge for unauthorised metabolic-material trading. Plus VAT.

Zorvax gasped, his console-like eyes flashing a rapid succession of amber warnings.

—Forty Earth pounds? For a simple thermodynamic ledger-balance?

—Take it or leave it, mate, —Kathy said, not looking up. —We have bylaws about bringing extraterrestrial hardware into the Peak District. It upsets the local grouse.

Jack ordered a pint of bitter and leaned his elbows on the bar, watching the negotiation with the detached interest of a man watching paint dry in a different postcode.

Arthur and Margery had settled into a velvet banquette by the fireplace. Arthur had placed the glowing Zaponian valve on the copper-topped table, where it was currently vibrating in perfect harmony with the pub’s jukebox, which was playing a quiet, slightly buzzy rendition of a Fleetwood Mac song.

—Excuse me, Arthur, —Zorvax said, approaching the table with a look of profound engineering distress.

—While I respect your appreciation for our localised heating technology, I must insist on the return of the fuel-regulator. The Star-Clipper is currently adrift in the Virgo Cluster, and without it, Commander Twonket will be forced to ignite the egg-and-cress sandwich. The resulting mayonnaise-fusion could compromise the fabric of the local space-time continuum. Or at least make the bridge smell terribly of mustard.

Arthur looked at the glowing valve, then up at Zorvax.

—I’ll swap you, —Arthur said simply.

—Swap? For what?

Arthur pointed a thick, weathered finger toward the bar, where a glass dome sat on a pedestal, housing a small pyramid of slightly sweating, massive pork pies.

—One of those, —Arthur said. —And a packet of dry roasted peanuts.

Zorvax turned to Jack, completely bewildered.

—Jack, is this... is this a legally binding Terran trade?

—Yeah, —Jack said, taking a slow, appreciative sip of his pint. —He’s got you over a barrel there, Zorvax. If I were you, I'd throw in a half of mild just to seal the deal.

Ten minutes later, the trade was concluded.

Arthur was happily dissecting a formidable pork pie with a small plastic knife, while Zorvax sat in the corner snug, carefully wrapping the pulsing chromium valve in a damp bar towel to suppress the signal.

Kathy tapped her pen against her clipboard, looking at Zorvax’s shiny silver suit.

—So, —she said to him. —You paying that forty quid by card or what?

Zorvax reached into his pocket and produced a small, solid-gold coin featuring the profile of a three-headed Zaponian emperor. Kathy took it, bit it, nodded, and dropped it into her tin.

—Cheers, —she said. —Have a safe flight back to... wherever it was.

—Zap, —Zorvax said, adjusting his cap.

—Whatever, —Jack murmured, draining his glass.

Outside, the rain began to fall again in earnest, tapping gently against the leaded windows of the pub. Somewhere, millions of light-years away in the cold, silent depths of the Virgo Cluster, Commander Twonket was about to discover that a small dollop of English mayonnaise, when subjected to a high-voltage clockwork charge, makes an extraordinarily efficient, if slightly tangy, form of rocket fuel.

But in Middle Marsh, the fire was warm, the beer was cold, and Jack Smith had exactly forty-five minutes before the repeat of Bargain Hunt started. All was right with the universe.