Mark Alexander Smith had been locked in his writing suite for three years. It was the world in microcosm, a vast unending plateau of sequences and codes, all digital, all bound by the laws of mathematics. He knew his job, he lived the law, and no-one argued.

In fact, no-one knew what he was working on, but since the coming of the railways and the dollar going through the floor, everyone in town had got used to strange comings and goings and the sight of oddly dressed visitors. Not just that, but a number of unusual buildings had recently been erected.
Now after three years, his work was done, and he was out. But there was someone he needed to track down.
Meanwhile, in a room in Christminster littered with a thousand empty bottles and a myriad of strange fantastic melodies, Thomas Sweeny finished the last of his back-ups, and sauntered into the street. Approaching the Magdelen Bridge, he adjusted the tracking on his zap visor. Was that Smith ?
They were soon back in the studio. The smell of hot plastic, carbon and easy money was still the same. The Lazarus 2300 was switched on and Mark inserted the first disc. The four speakers cluncked discreetly into position and the screen which covered one wall came up a pure white.
"You'll need your visor for this" said Mark. "Number eight setting. Lock down. Let's run it".
Thomas couldn't think what was coming up next. All the same, the restraining bolts slammed down, switching their chairs to auto-tilt, gyros humming softly. He knew in his bones something quite wonderful was going to happen. Their visors arced, catching the fading light briefly as they snapped shut.
At the master console, Mark was obviously at home.
"It's the Orchestra", he said.
"What of it ?", replied Sweeny. He looked puzzled.
"We're back", said Mark, and turned to him with a grin. "Not to worry..."