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As you follow the capsule down, the flare of its re-entry licks towards you like a rocket exhaust and you use your retros to control your speed of descent. The capsule is too low and too near to a large city for you to risk attacking. It too has radar damping and you are forced to track it visually, cursing quietly as it leads you within five miles of a large 20th century airliner. Perhaps you look like a shooting star to its passengers. Hoping you have escaped notice you follow the capsule into the night side of Earth as its parachute opens, and set the Strike Fighter down in a field. You climb hastily out of your battlesuit and curse once more as you remember the Weeks/Senior Corporation have not yet had time to install a hologram projector or molecular convertor. You ask CAIN's advice and he tells you that you are in Devon, a county in the democratic country of England, and that you might escape serious notice if you pretend to be an American film star in a cinematograph of the far-future, which the people of England would call a science fiction film. You jump down from the Strike Fighter and scan the area with your infra-red goggles. An android, it is too cool to be a human, is moving towards a stream of moving lights, one mile away. You run after him and in the lights, which turn out to be the front searchlights of combustion engined vehicles which roll along a tarmacadam strip, you see that the android looks like a man dressed in clothes from far history. Will you: