The Olympic Stadium was a vast bowl full of noise. It was the noise of 80,000 people enjoying the afternoon sun, a crowd that had already had a fine day’s athletic entertainment but was looking forward to what promised to be a splendid awards ceremony. The band of the Grenadier Guards played what was meant to be selections from the national anthems of the competing nations, but which became, by force of repetition, a compote of brassy tunes. On the east side of the track, the second and third placegetters were assembling, readying to march to the Royal Box and receive their awards, many nations mixing in camaraderie unhindered by differences in language or background.

It was an entirely civilised scene, but one that Kingsley was far too busy to bask in. ‘Screwdriver,’ he said to Evadne. ‘The short-handled one.’

She passed the screwdriver over his shoulder. The access panel was awkwardly placed behind one of the pillars that supported the banks of seating overhead, but this location made it unobtrusive, something that Kingsley was sure the Immortals had planned.

The covered way that ran beneath and behind the banks of seating allowed access to dressing rooms, refreshments, committee facilities and offices, and also provided a full perimeter around the huge stadium. A perfect location, Evadne had calculated, for the Immortals’ harvesting devices to absorb the outpouring of positive animus that the culmination of the Olympic Games would produce.

Kingsley gingerly removed the last screw and eased the metal plate aside. ‘You’re sure this is the last one?’ he asked Evadne, without taking his eyes from his task.

‘My Ether Disturbance Monitor says so.’ She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned, and waggled a shiny object in front of his nose.

‘I still think it looks like a tobacco tin with some holes cut in it.’

‘It may once have been a tobacco tin, but Westminster Abbey was once a heap of rough stone lying about in a marsh.’

‘I withdraw my observation. It’s a cathedral among monitors. Now, if you’ll just take it away I’ll be able to see what I’m doing here.’

A wave of applause and cheering came to them, but Kingsley didn’t look up. He was secure in the fact that almost everyone in the vicinity was out watching the parade and readying for the award ceremony – and any who were left would hardly notice them in the Demimonde accoutrements Evadne had provided. When he’d finally helped his foster father to her refuge, exhausted and filthy after their flight from the Neanderthals’ home, he’d wanted nothing more than to sleep, but she had thrown these clothes at him and dragged him out – leaving Dr Ward under the medical care of the mysterious and stately Lady Aglaia, who Kingsley would have enjoyed questioning about Evadnes past.

He didn’t like the way the grey flannel coat fitted him, while the cloth cap was itchy on his sweaty brow. Evadne, however, looked a treat with her hair tucked under the cap and the sleeves of her coat folded up. The outfit was a veritable guarantee that they could work away unnoticed and undisturbed, especially with the toolbox each had, and the sheaf of forms that Evadne tucked into her coat pocket. Brandishing these would be certain to turn away any half-interested official or policeman, convincing them that they had more pressing business elsewhere.

He leaned the metal plate against the wall and peered into the space he’d revealed. The tangle of wires was almost familiar after the four other devices they’d removed. It was more like a nest than a logical array of elements, and sitting in the middle of the nest was a fist-sized dodecahedron, its pentagonal sides glowing a baleful red.

Kingsley licked his lips. Inside, his wild self was wisely insisting that he cut and run. He soothed it by promising himself that was just what he’d do – making sure Evadne was ahead of him – if the object moved, changed shape, or started talking.

A shocking thought pushed itself on him. Could the Immortals have been planning to take advantage of the extraordinary gathering by turning it sour, setting troublemakers loose in the crowd, sowing discord and ill-will, setting spectator against spectator? Could that provide an outpouring of hateful animus ready for gathering?

Music seeped through the stands: ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes’. Sprightly, happy, greeted by cheering and a rolling wave of laughter. No hateful animus there, just the bonhomie of people assembled to give thanks and acclamation to the strong, the fleet and the nimble from all around the world.

No, whatever the Immortals had been planning, it wasn’t something as vile as that.

Satisfied, fingers extended, he gently plucked the dodecahedron from its surrounds. It came away easily, and immediately the blood-red glow began to fade, exactly as had happened with the other four.

‘All safe?’ he asked Evadne.

A pause. Then: ‘The ether has calmed. All is steady.’

Kingsley sighed. Unwilling to leave a job half-done, he screwed the access plate back. He stood and gave the inert harvester to Evadne. She took it solemnly and placed it in a bag in her toolbox.

‘I think I know what they were collecting,’ Kingsley said.

A roar shook the stands above them. Had Queen Alexandra arrived?

‘High spirits?’ Evadne guessed. ‘Good nature? Jollity?’

‘Civilisation. It’s as Kipling said: this is the greatest expression of the influence of civilisation of this age.’

‘Civilisation? What on earth for?’

‘They want whatever they think is inside my head because it might tell them something about civilisation and the wild. I’ll wager that this is connected with gathering the concentrated essence of civilisation.’

‘And not in a way that’s likely to lead to good times for all, I’m sure.’

‘No. Not good times for all, but even if they’re still around, we’ve stopped them for now.’

Evadne adjusted her hat. ‘In that case, would you like to watch the parade?’

‘Why not?’