Outside the men are digging up the road, in the belief that it will last more than four days. Above us we see the planes from Luton airport, carrying people to destinations from which they will not return, and in the distance we hear the sound of people zooming up the M1, under the strange belief that they'd rather be in Birmingham or in London than wherever they started off from. Truly it is as in the days of Noah.
Keith's rocket is half-built already. I'm not convinced that pallet wood is necessarily going to withstand the rigours of space flight, let alone the consumption of the entire universe in dust and ashes. But it's handy to keep busy as we await these final hours. Keeps your mind off things. Personally I've been selling the belongings of various Beaker Folk, planning to give the proceeds to the poor.
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