‘Yes.’

‘We ought to go again.’

His father was staring at him.

‘Yes,’ said Johnny. ‘That would be nice.’

‘How’re you getting on with Space Invaders?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Space Invaders. On the computer.’

Johnny turned to look at the blank screen.

‘What’re Space Invaders?’ he said.

‘Isn’t that what they’re called any more? Space Invaders? You used to get them in pubs and things, oh, before you were born. Rows of spiky triangular green aliens with six legs kept on coming down the screen and we had to shoot them.’

Johnny gave this some thought. ‘What happened when you’d shot them all, then?’

‘Oh, you got some more.’ His father stood up. ‘I expect it’s all more complicated now, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘Done your homework, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was it?’

‘History. Had to write about Christopher Columbus.’

‘Hmm? You could put in that he didn’t set out to discover America. He was really looking for Asia and found America by accident.’

‘Yes. It says that in the encyclopedia.’

‘Glad to see you’re using it.’

‘Yes. It’s very interesting.’

‘Good. Right. Right, then. Well, I’m going to have another look at those accounts . . .’

‘Right.’

‘If there’s anything you want to talk about, you know . . .’

‘All right.’

Johnny waited until he heard the living-room door shut again. He wondered if he ought to have asked where the instruction manual for the dishwasher was.

He switched on the computer.

After a while, the screen for Only You Can Save Mankind came on. He watched the introductory bit moodily, and then picked up the joystick.

There weren’t any aliens.

For a little while he thought he’d done something wrong. He started the game again.

There were still no aliens. All there was, was the blackness of space, sprinkled with a few twinkling stars.

He flew around until he was out of fuel.

No ScreeWee, no dots on the radar screen. No game.

They’d gone.

Chapter 3

Cereal Killers

There was more news these days than normal. Half the time the TV was showing pictures of tanks and maps of deserts with green and red arrows all over them, while in the corner of the screen would be a photo of a journalist with a phone to his ear, talking in a crackly voice.

It crackled in the background while Johnny phoned up Wobbler.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I speak to Wob . . . to Stephen, please?’

Mutter, clonk, bump, scuffle.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Wobbler.’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you had a look at Only You Can Save Mankind lately?’

‘No. Hey, listen, I’ve found a way to—’

‘Could you have a go with it right now, please?’

Pause.

‘You all right?’

‘What?’

‘You sound a bit weird.’

‘Look, go and have a go with the game, will you?’

It was an hour before Wobbler phoned back. Johnny waited on the stairs.

‘Can I speak—’

‘It’s me.’

‘There’s no aliens, right?’

‘Yes!’

‘Probably something built into the game. You can do that, you know. A kind of time bomb thing. Maybe it’s programmed to make all the aliens vanish on a certain date.’