. . . Johnny had a theory about these market-places. Every spy film and every adventure had a chase through the native market-place, with lots of humorous rickshaws crashing into stalls and tables being knocked over and chickens squawking, and the theory was: it was the same market-place every time. It always looked the same. There was probably a stallholder somewhere who was getting very fed up with it . . .

Anyway . . .

He’d take his camera.

He went to bed early with the camera strap wound around his wrist. Cameras didn’t dream.

The ship smelled human.

There were no alarms, no hissing noises.

I’m back, thought Johnny.

And there was the ScreeWee fleet, spread out across the sky behind him.

And the camera, with its strap wrapped around his arm. He untangled it quickly and took a photo of the fleet. It whirred out of the machine after a few seconds. He held it under his armpit for a moment, and it gradually faded up. Yep. The fleet. If he could get it back, he’d have proof . . .

There was a red light flashing beside the screen on the console. Someone wanted to talk to him. He flicked the switch.

‘We saw your ship explode,’ came the voice of the Captain. The screen crackled for a moment, and then showed her face. It looked concerned. ‘And then it . . . returned again. You are alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Johnny, and then added, ‘I think so.’

‘Excuse me. I must ask. What happens to you?’

‘What?’

‘When you . . . go.’

Johnny thought: What do I tell her? I stay awake in school. I stay in my room a lot. I hang out with Wobbler and the others. We hang around in the mall, or in the park, or in one another’s houses, although not my house at the moment because of Trying Times, and say things like ‘I’m totally splanked’ even though we’re not sure what they mean. Sometimes we go to the cinema. We live in Blackbury, most excellent city of cool.

I must have the most boring life in the entire universe. I expect there’s blobs living under rocks on Neptune that have a more interesting life than me . . .

‘It’d be too hard to explain,’ he said. ‘I—’

There was a ping from the radar.

‘I have to go,’ he said, feeling a bit relieved. Facing someone else in mortal combat was better than trying to tell a giant newt about Trying Times.

There was a ship coming in fast. It didn’t seem to notice him. Its screen must be full of ScreeWee ships. It was in the middle of his targeting grid. Around him, the starship hummed. He could feel the power under his thumb. Press the button and a million volts or amps or something of white-hot laser power would crackle out and—

His thumb trembled.

It didn’t seem to want to move.

But no one dies! he told himself. There’s just someone somewhere sitting in their room in front of a computer! That’s what it looks like to them! It’s all just something on a screen! No one really dies!