Tancredi was incredulous. Of all the situations he’d encountered on his voyage, the idea that he should ferment a revolution with a famous killer was the most farcical. While he declined the invitation, he agreed to attend a speech the Leader was giving, as much out of curiosity as anything else. In return, the Professor undertook to adapt his energy beam to power a rocket on which they could escape the planet. Cocomo remained behind to supervise the construction of their means of escape.

Tancredi found himself tucked beneath a blanket with Stalin, who took up three-quarters of the bench, on the back of a sledge. It was snowing lightly under a crystal blue sky. The sledge set off at a walking pace down a track covered in snow. Tancredi waved goodbye, and Tamany and Kasbek ran off to play. As the sledge reached a bend in the track, Tancredi took a final look back. Cocomo was standing in the snowdrift, her arm raised, seemingly oblivious to the cold.

A few hours later, Tancredi and Stalin arrived at the headquarters of the Middle Way party. Tancredi was sore and not a little annoyed with his travelling companion, who had been unsatisfied with the amount of space he had allotted to himself. Tancredi had struggled to avoid being forced to ride on the sleigh’s runners.

The Professor had arranged for them to attend a rally of the party faithful where the Leader would speak. They entered an auditorium and found seats at the front. After a while, a gentle note sounded and the Leader appeared, dressed in a saffron-coloured robe which failed to conceal the plump curvature of a well-rounded stomach. He had a long walk from the side of the stage to the lectern, one designed to give the audience plenty of time to admire their leader. It also allowed Tancredi the opportunity to study him.

He was a short man with a bird-like face, who gave off an aura of prudish precision. He walked with a measured pace, his hands held together at chest height like a priest parading into church. He wore a fixed smile and, at regular intervals, studiously inclined his face to the audience, nodding to acknowledge their cheers. The impression was of a fat cat walking along a narrow fence, tail in the air. Stalin collapsed with laughter.

The Leader of the Middle Way party believed himself to be good. He thought about others and wished to make things better. He sometimes dreamt of ascending skywards, arms outstretched, stomach held in, bathed in light. His lower lip quivered as he rose, and the chime of a shinto gong rang out. ‘All is well, all is well, all is well. You are the true guide. Lead them, Leader. They will follow.’

But it had not always been so. As he ascended the podium he cast his mind back to the early days of his political career. An insignificant official in local government, he had struggled to gain a foothold on the ladder of political correctness. One night he shed tears of desolation, wherein lay his salvation.