They all looked up, in case they could see through the ceiling, T&F Insurance Services and the roof to a huge alien fleet in the sky above.

‘You’re just getting carried away,’ said Wobbler. ‘You can’t invade a planet with a lot of aliens out of a computer game. They live on a screen. They’re not real.’

‘What’re you going to do about it, anyway?’ said Yo-less.

‘Just keep doing it, I suppose,’ said Johnny. ‘Who was that girl in Patel’s?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Wobbler. ‘Saw her in there once before playing Cosmic Trek. Girls aren’t much good at computer games because they haven’t got such a good grasp of spatial . . . something or other like we have,’ he went on airily. ‘You know. They can’t think in three dimensions, or something. They haven’t got the instincts for it.’

‘The Captain’s a female,’ said Johnny.

‘It’s probably different for giant alligators,’ said Wobbler.

Bigmac sucked a sachet of tomato ketchup.

‘Do you think IT might still be going when I’m old enough to join the army?’ he said, thoughtfully.

‘No,’ said Yo-less. ‘Stormin’ Bruce’ll get it all sorted out. He’ll kick some butt.’

They chorused ‘Some but what?’ like tired monks.

They went to the cinema in the afternoon. Alabama Smith and the Emperor’s Crown was showing on Screen S. Wobbler said it was racist, but Yo-less said he quite enjoyed it. They discussed whether it could still be racist if Yo-less enjoyed it. Johnny bought popcorn all round. That was another thing about Trying Times – pocket money was erratic, but you tended to get more of it.

He had spaghetti hoops when he got home, and watched TV for a while. The pyramid-shaped man disguised as a desert seemed to be on a lot now. He told jokes sometimes. The journalists laughed a bit. Johnny quite liked Stormin’ Norman. He looked the sort of man who could talk to the Captain.

Then there was a programme about saving whales. They thought it was a good idea.

Then you could win lots of money if you could put up with the game show’s host and not, for example, choke him with a cuddly toy and run away.

There was the News. The walking desert again, and pictures of bombs being dropped down enemy chimneys with pin-point precision. And Sport.

And then . . .

All right. Let’s see.

He switched on.

Yes. Space. And more space.

No ScreeWee anywhere.

Hang on, he thought. They’re all in the big fleet, aren’t they. Following me. They followed me out of – out of – out of game space. You must be able to get there from here, if you keep going long enough. In the right direction, too.

Which way did I go?

Can I catch myself up?

Can anyone else catch me up?

He watched the screen for a while. It was even more boring than the quiz show.

Sooner or later he’d have to go to sleep. He’d thought hard about this, while Alabama Smith was being chased by bad guys through a native market-place . . .