"It’s a tradition," he said, and led her along a smooth gravel path, beige. And there were people here, walking in the park, sitting on benches, pushing buggies. They didn’t look particularly like future people to her. She guessed Ash did, more than anyone else she’d seen here, if you didn’t count the ten-foot trumpet-head Wilf said was a peripheral. She could still hear him ranting, behind them.