‘Not at all,’ said Greeneye. ‘I thought we were getting on rather well. Resolving as a dew and all that. Tell me, do you prefer me as a man or a woman?’

‘Do you do amphibians?’

Alexander looked between the three aliens. ‘If this is a disguise, what have you done with the real Constance?’

‘Stew,’ August told him. He clapped Greeneye on the shoulder and took the revolver off him while Hoff disarmed Bernice. ‘Now, since it seems that neither of us have the prize we’re after, I think you ought to come back to our base with us and have a little chat, don’t you?’

Chapter Seven

Friends and Other Lovers

Rocastle stood in the middle of the rear playing field, his back straight, his chest proudly inflated, his swagger stick tucked under his arm. He wore his old uniform, the one he’d worn in the Transvaal, his campaign medal ribbons on the breast.

The boys stood before him in a square, at attention. Hutchinson, Merryweather and the other Captains stood at the front, their OTC uniforms neatly pressed and clean.

The outfits were a light tan. Nobody would mistake them for the real thing, but they did give the lads a soldierly air. ‘All present and correct, Captain Merryweather?’ he asked.

‘One absentee, sir. Dean, sir.’

‘Does anybody have a reason for Dean’s absence?’

Inwardly, Anand flinched, but he kept his gaze straight forward, not saying a word.

When the house had woken that morning, there had been no sign of Tim. He suspected that he’d run away, which was jolly well the right thing to do in the circumstances. If it wasn’t so far, he’d have gone, too. He had written to his father explaining the circumstances of his misery last night, and expected him to arrive next week to take him away.

After a moment’s silence, Phipps blurted out, ‘He’s still ill, Sir!’

‘Very well then. He’s going to miss out on having a go at the Vickers gun then, isn’t he?’ Rocastle was pleased at the smiles of anticipation from the boys. ‘The Regiment has kindly lent us one such weapon for the next month. Now, stand by for inspection.’

Rocastle slowly walked along the rows, noting an undone button here and an unpolished rifle there. This was the part he enjoyed most.

Timothy had spent most of the night in the tree in the orchard, the one he’d been sitting under when he’d got the Pod. He thought he knew why that had happened, now, because he’d actually been up this particular tree quite a few times before, tapping the wood with his fingers, getting a rhythm going, trying to be a ragtime drummer. The tree knew who he was, and had trusted him with what it contained.

Or at least, that was what the Pod said. Since he’d died and come back to life, Tim had been even more certain that his prize talked to him, told him things. Told him he could do things.