Wells clicked twice, and the office chair he was reclining in raised with a sudden lurch onto a pair of gleaming hydraulic legs, lifting the impressively mustachioed writer out of sight, into darkness.

“Do you like the new observation consoles gentlemen? I borrowed them from Orwell – they’ve been indispensable in keeping an eye on your shenanigans…”

He might be the Father of Science Fiction, thought Rasputin, but there are more pressing issues than admiring his gadgetry!

“I’m afraid time is running very short, Mr Wells, so if we could gather the Council, I would be grateful!”

“Oh please Rasputin, call me Herbert.”

At this, Space/Time Lincoln raised a bushy eyebrow, and surreptitiously began to power up his gauntlets.

“Nobody calls you Herbert.”

The voice that replied was harsher than before, strongly accented and chilling.

“Do they not, Mr Lincoln? That’s probably because…”

With a bang, the hydraulic legs collapsed, and the figure in the chair was not H. G. Wells.

“I… am… MECHA-HITLER!”