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They walked out of the cabin together. Tamara swaggered, her big pistol blatant in its holster. Wilde strolled, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. Dew sparkled on the grass. The chill, damp air held slow, small columns of smoke and steam above knots of people who stood about, in earnest or sociable discussion. Some of the cabins had opened out into stalls, though only for minor necessities. No food or drink sales marred the dignity of Talgarth’s court.

The metal of the stockade – great chunks of ragged-edged iron, that might have been the platework of ships, but which were torn like strips of bark and sunk into the soil – gleamed red and rusty in the sun. The stockade’s armaments kept up a constant movement, swinging or swivelling. Outside, the machine domain made its presence felt with geysers of flame and the roars and squeals of clashing engines in pursuit of their incomprehensible and incompatible aims.

Wilde walked among the groups of people, waved to those few he recognised as his supporters, and then went over to the centre of the court. Workmen and robots were setting up an awning of plain red canvas above the dais. Beneath it, in the centre of the dais, were a folding-chair of pale wood and frayed grey fabric, and a small table at the right hand of the chair. On the table lay a glass, a bottle, a gavel, and an ashtray.

Wilde examined this arrangement for a moment, smiled, and turned away. He found himself face-to-camera with a news ’mote. It resembled the sapient robot they’d encountered at the crossroads, but its array of mikes and lenses would have left no room for anything more sinister.

The lenses were not only for cameras. As the machine stepped delicately backwards on its insectile legs, it startled Wilde by throwing a fetch of the blonde girl they’d seen presenting the news bulletin. She stood on the grass to the right of the machine.

‘She looks solid,’ Wilde whispered to Tamara, ‘not a holo –’

‘It’s in your contacts,’ Tamara hissed back, baring her teeth bravely at the camera.

‘Legal Channels!’ the girl said brightly. Her voice came, in eerie ventriloquy, from the machine’s speakers. ‘Good morning, Esteemed Senior Wilde!’

‘Good morning,’ Wilde said, smiling down at her. His cigarette fizzed out in the grass.

‘Look at the camera,’ Tamara whispered. The girl’s virtual image instantly flitted to the front of the camera, and stood on empty air.

‘Do you have any comments to make, Esteemed Senior Wilde?’

‘NOTHING TOO SPECIFIC,’ the MacKenzie advised.

‘Yes,’ said Wilde. ‘There’s no need to call me “Esteemed Senior”…dear lady. My name is Jonathan Wilde, and my friends call me “Jon”.’ He beamed her a smile that suggested he’d be honoured to count her among them; then coughed and said, more formally: ‘I have no comment to make on the case, but I am concerned about the interpretation which some, ah, less responsible news channels than yours are putting on it. I implore anyone who may be listening to do nothing rash – to let the law take its course, because that’s the only way to preserve and improve the civilised values of anarchy.’ He smiled again. ‘That’s all.’

‘Thank you, Jon Wilde! And have you anything to say about Judge Eon Talgarth’s known views about yourself?’

‘NO,’ advised the MacKenzie, in an urgent flash.

‘Nothing at all,’ Wilde said cheerfully. ‘I have every confidence that a man of his standing would never allow such matters to influence his judgement. I’m sure my choice of his court is proof enough that I mean what I say.’

He made a chopping motion of his hand in front of his chest, and nodded. The girl hesitated, literally hovering, waiting for more, but Wilde set his face in an expressionless mask and walked briskly out of the cameras’ field of view. Tamara hurried after him.

‘That was all right,’ she said. She didn’t sound entirely enthusiastic. Wilde squeezed her shoulders.

‘Don’t you be another,’ he said.

She looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead.

‘Another what?’

‘Another comrade who’s disappointed at my moderation