It showed the Lord Marshall of Space, a man not known for his level temper, driving his mechanical heel through a Ghast helmet whilst scowling around his pipe. ‘I'm stamping out tyranny,’ said the caption. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you're up to, eh?’ Smith stood in the atrium and looked around, taking in the brass scrollwork, the heraldic animals gambolling across the ceiling and the great holographic map of the Space Empire rotating in the centre of the room. He hadn't expected a rubbish-processing plant to look so good. ‘Well,’ he said, turning to Carveth, ‘I bet you're glad to be back on British soil, eh?’ ‘It's metal, technically,’ she replied. ‘Still, I never thought I'd say it, but I'm bloody relieved to be in this gigantic shiny dustbin.’ Captain Fitzroy strode past, hands behind her back. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Some people,’ she told Carveth, ‘are never satisfied.’ She walked on, chin raised. Chumble strolling along beside her, humming tunelessly like a broken fridge.
