The phone rang again. The constable answered it.

‘And what, we ask ourselves, is their next course of action?’

‘It’s the manager of Pizza Surprise, Sarge,’ said the constable. ‘He says—’

‘Right!’ said the sergeant. ‘That’s right! They drop in for a Number Three with Extra Pepperoni! It probably looks like a friend of theirs.’

‘Wouldn’t do any harm to go and chat to him,’ said the constable. It had been a long time since dinner. ‘You know, just to show a bit of—’

‘I’ll go,’ said Sergeant Comely, picking up his hat. ‘But if I come back as a giant cucumber, there’s going to be trouble.’

‘No anchovies on mine, Sarge,’ said the constable, as Sergeant Comely stepped out into the night.

There was something strange in the air. Sergeant Comely had lived in Blackbury all his life, and it had never felt like this. There was an electrical tingle to things, and the air tasted of tin.

It suddenly struck him.

What if it were real? Just because they made silly films about aliens and things didn’t actually mean, did it, that it couldn’t ever happen? He watched them on late-night television. They always picked small towns to land near.

He shook his head. Nah . . .

William Stickers walked through him.

‘You know, you really shouldn’t have done that, William,’ said the Alderman, as Sergeant Comely hurried away.

‘He’s nothing but a symbol of the oppression of the proletariat,’ said William Stickers.

‘You’ve got to have policemen,’ said Mrs Liberty. ‘Otherwise people would simply do as they liked.’

‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ said Mr Vicenti.

The Alderman looked around at the brightly lit street as they strolled along it. There weren’t many living people around, but there were quite a lot of dead ones, looking in shop windows or, in the case of some of the older ones, looking at shop windows and wondering what they were.

‘I certainly don’t remember all these shopkeepers from my time,’ he said. ‘They must have moved in recently. Mr Boots and Mr Mothercare and Mr Spudjulicay.’

‘Whom?’ said Mrs Liberty.

The Alderman pointed to the sign on the other side of the street.

‘Spud-u-like,’ said Mr Vicenti. ‘Hmm.’

‘Is that how you pronounce it?’ said the Alderman. ‘I thought perhaps he was French. My word. And electric light all over the place. And no horse . . . manure in the streets at all.’

‘Really!’ snapped Mrs Liberty. ‘Please remember you are in company with a Lady.’

‘That’s why he said manure,’ said William Stickers, happily.

‘And the food!’ said the Alderman. ‘Hindoo and Chinese! Chicken from Kentucky! And what did you say the stuff was that the clothes are made of?’

‘Plastic, I think,’ said Mr Vicenti.

‘Very colourful and long-lasting,’ said Mrs Liberty. ‘And many of the girls wear bloomers, too. Extremely practical and emancipated.’

‘And many of them are extremely handsome,’ said William Stickers.

‘And everyone’s taller and I haven’t seen anyone on crutches,’ said the Alderman.