"And you are?" said the lion archly.
"Point taken," conceded Richards.
"Listen to me," said Tarquin. "People went into that tower and they didn't come out as people. Circus herded them into boxes as pigs. They went off on the cable. They came back as pork. Many use the cables for their own purposes, like in Pylon City, but mark my words, they all hide tight away when the black boxes of Lord Hog come through."
"Ah, look," said Richards, who wasn't really paying attention. The big bear had stopped. "Bloody animal!" said Richards, and ran after him.
"OK, Richards," whispered Bear, "I agree, I'm sorry, I'm wrong. Let's go your way. I don't like this way." He pointed at a shape in the mist.
"Eh? But that's just a sheep or something," said Richards peering at it. "Sheep aren't going to hurt a big…".
"Just shut up and run!" hissed Bear.
"There will be no running, not now or during any part of the course of my presidency," said an American voice. An animal came out of the mist, panting happily. Mostly it was some kind of large boxer dog, all lean and eager. Mostly, apart from the head.
"Is that just me," said Richards, "or does that dog have the head of President Nixon?" He folded his arms.
"It's certainly not its own head," replied Bear hoarsely, and stood behind Richards, beans rattling as he shook.
"Grrr! Rufff!" said President Nixon. "There will be no whitewash at the White House."
"Hit it, Mr Richards! Hit it, ooh, it gives me the fear."
"If you're so bothered, you hit it," said Richards.
"You don't win campaigns with a diet of dishwater and milk," said Nixon, baring its teeth. It came closer, the oversized head wobbling comically on the body's slender neck.
"This is interesting," said Richards. "Hello, boy," he said to the dog in that ludicrous voice that people speak to dogs in.
Bear wailed. "Keep it away! Keep it away! That thing gives me the horrors."
"You cannot win a battle in any arena merely by defending yourself!" said Nixon. "Ruff! Ruff!" barked the former president of the United States, a loop of drool hanging from his dewflaps. "Communist leaders believe in Lenin's precept: Probe with bayonets. If you encounter mush, proceed; if you encounter steel, withdraw." It bared its fangs further. Richards frowned. Nixon's two canine teeth were long and yellow. Not dirty-teeth yellow, but bright, thermonuclear yellow. The familiar tripartite symbol on each tooth's tip confirmed it.
"Back off, Fido," said Bear.
"The US government will not bow down to threats. Grrr."
"Save it, sergeant. Let's take this easy. This thing has nuclear teeth."
"That bad?"
"Very, very bad indeed. The last thing we want to do is to detonate this dog. Big boom."
"Apocalyptic type boom or firework type boom?"
"The former. I've been blown up by atom bomb before, it's not fun, so stay calm."
"Ah. OK," Bear rattled.
Nixon retreated and sat. It scratched furiously behind an ear. Then it shook its head, jowls flapping. Strings of dog spit went everywhere. Its collar came off and dropped to the floor.
"What's it doing?" said Bear nervously.
"How the hell should I know?"
The man-dog pushed the collar closer to Richards with its nose, then backed off. "Nixon good boy," it said as it sank back onto its haunches. "Nixon good president."
"Are you going to pick it up then?" said Bear.
"Yes! Yes! For fuck's sake, I'm thinking. Leave me alone."
"It's just sitting there staring at us. Pick it up."
"You pick it up," said Richards.
"It quite obviously gave it to you," said Bear nudging him. The dog growled.
"Good boy!" said Richards. "Good Mr President!" Not taking his eyes off Nixon's face, he crouched down and picked up the collar.
"Eh? A message."
"Where?"
"Here," said Richards, pulling it out, "on the inside."
"Well, what does it say?"
"Will you just give me a chance?" Richards said testily. Nixon looked at them without interest.
"I'm sorry, but that thing gives me the horrors."
"You said that already."
"I always repeat myself when I've got the horrors," said Bear. "It doesn't happen often, I swear." He shifted his weight. "What does it say?"
"Don't you get at me because you're embarrassed." Richards broke the seal and unrolled the missive.
"Dear Richards," the letter said. "Follow the dog. Yours, Rolston."
"Hmmm. Be careful. I don't like the sound of this Rolston fellow," said Bear. Nixon's ears pricked up at the name of his master, and the wind blew a little chiller. "I mean, anyone who has that for a pet can't be entirely on the straight and narrow."
"To be honest, pal, I never really thought Rolston was on the straight and narrow," said Richards. "He's got a bizarre sense of humour, and gets involved in some seriously weird shit, this construct notwithstanding, but talking to him will help me clear this up more quickly."
"Hmmm," said Bear.
"Do you actually know where you are going?"
Bear's shoulders sagged. "Um, no. No I don't."
"Well then. Lay on, MacNixon," Richards said to the dog.
"OK, pinko commies. Heel," said the dog.
They followed the dog. It trotted tirelessly, humming "The Star Spangled Banner". Night grew darker. Although Richards and Bear found walking on the springy heather tiring, they did not stop.
The mist cleared, and the sun came up. By noon they came across a lonely sign of habitation. A crossroads cut into the brown and purple of the heather, two sets of parallel quartz and mica ruts, a stripe of grass between them. Where the roads crossed, they formed a glittery X of sand in the landscape.
"That way," said the dog, pointing with its nose down the road leading to the southeast. "Goodbye," said Nixon, and left. As he walked away from the road, back the way they had come, he faded away as he would were he retreating into the mist, though the day was clear as a bell.
"Nixon good boy," said the dead president as he blended into the world. "Nixon good president." The world closed behind him. "I would have made a good pope," came a faint voice, then he was gone.
"Yeah," said Richards, "Maybe a Borgia."
"Grrr," shuddered Bear.
"Here we go," said Richards with satisfaction, pointing to a weathered sign. "Pylon City."
"Nobody likes a smartarse, sunshine," said the bear and let out a shuddery sigh. He reset his helmet. "Just remember, you're still in my custody."
The land dropped until they left the moors behind. Tussocky grass scattered with stunted trees replaced the heather. They crossed a bald stripe of rock, a fault line like a scar where Richards surmised one fragment of a world had been artlessly welded to another, and over it the landscape changed utterly and immediately into a plateau pockmarked by industry.
"This look like a join to you?" said Richards as they crossed it. "Looks like one to me."
The bear did not reply. He was doing his best to look vigilant and dangerous.
Tracks ran among spoil heaps, some well used, some not, leading to machines in various states of disrepair. A narrow-gauge railway came in from the left to run parallel to the road, while the road itself became wider. By the time Richards and Bear were close enough to make out the city in the distance, it was a broad highway of iron plates.
"Aha!" said Bear. "Pylon City."
"Told you," said Richards.
"Shut it, fucko," said Bear.
The road ran to the edge of a steep valley and turned to follow its lip. From below, the shouts of a playful river echoed. The eastern side, lower by some two hundred feet, was cloaked in impenetrable forest, another abrupt change in landscape. The valley divided two worlds, one brown and dead, the other green and lush. The chasm was deep; evening took hold there a full hour before the sun touched the moors. When Richards and Bear reached the dusk-kissed walls of Pylon City the valley was dim with night, and the slag-heaps about the city cast shadows as black as those of pyramids.