Chapter Thirteen

'Perhaps they are weaker than we thought,' Bambera suggested.

The radio crackled. 'Greyhound, this is Trap Seven.'

'Receiving. Where are you?'

'Tower Hill. There's quite a crowd gathering. It's like the Royal Wedding, sir.'

'Spare me the Dimbleby commentary, Corporal. How many people and what's their mood?'

'Thousands. It's a carnival.'

'Any sign of the Provs?'

'They are keeping a cordon around the Tower, they've sealed off Downing Street. Defensive positions only at the moment, sir. We've had a lot of defectors.'

'Very good. Inform me if the situation changes.'

'Roger that, Greyhound.'

Bambera was smiling, not a common sight. 'It looks like we've got all sorts of people on our side.'

The Prime Minister looked out over London. Through fifty-one millimetre 13 ply laminated glass was the familiar skyline, with its familiar Martian warship.

It was so big. On the way to one of his meetings with Xznaal he'd stopped off at a newsagents by Fenchurch Street station. The shop was selling postcards showing the capital's latest tourist attraction. That had been on Saturday morning, not more than thirty-six hours after the invasion. Not that there were many tourists in London any longer. Before the Martians had come, the Tower of London had two million visitors a year - millions more buzzed around it without wanting to pay to get in. Now the streets and pavements around the walls were all but deserted for the first time in centuries. Many Londoners had fled the city to the Home Counties. The evacuation hadn't been orderly, dozens had died under the wheels of cars and vans and lorries charging away from the Capital, on both sides of the road. Most were living with friends or relatives, or in guest houses. All the foreigners had gone, too. London hotels were empty, facing ruin. Walking along the deserted streets, the only language you heard was English. It made the city seem smaller, less alive. It was alive now. Even behind the bullet resistant window pane - no glass was truly bullet proof, four shotgun blasts at close range would be enough to penetrate it - the Prime Minister could hear the sounds of Londoners in Trafalgar Square, demonstrating against him.