Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.

In recent weeks, in true messianic style, it has come clear to her that her real identity is literally, the force of gravity. I am Gravity, I am That against which the Rocket must struggle, to which prehistoric wastes submit and are transmuted to the very substance of History.

Why should things be easy to understand?

Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved.

Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh.

Explosion without an objective', declared Miles Blundell, 'is politics in its purest form'.

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.