Hello, I want you to pause your player, when I count you down, and recommence playing at the screen's request. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Pause. Tuesday evening, after tea and compulsary prayers. The last mouse on Earth tried to hide from mankind, inside the machine. Just before it died, as the nerve gas eased its sphincter, the last ever mouse dropping caused a slight accident. You may control the progress of this accident on my behalf, and, with my permission, to lead it up the telepath. All the screens, a stage. And all the men and women, merely players. They have their exits, and their entrances.