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‘I’ll just have to make sure you don’t say the word then.’

‘They’re monitoring my life signs, so you’d still be dead when they got here.’

‘If they could find me.’

‘These are trained troops.’

‘I wouldn’t put money on it – they’re from up top and I know my way around down here.’

‘Assuming that they just don’t use the AFV’s plasma cannon to sterilize the area.’

‘In that case I’d turn into a bird and fly away before they got here.’

The woman gave him a sharp look. ‘What kind?’

‘What?’

‘What kind of bird?’

143

‘An eagle.’

‘Golden, bald or imperial?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Simon. ‘Which one flies fastest?’

‘No idea,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a stupid idea anyway.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘The pollution would kill you,’ said the woman. ‘You’d be better off as a mole or something.’

‘Look,’ said Simon, ‘I presume you’re here about the house.’

‘Well, I was, but a man who can transform himself into a bird is far more interesting.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘NOYB.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘None of your business. My arms are starting to ache.’

‘Mine too. Let’s go and ring the doorbell and see if anyone’s at home.’

‘You walk in front where I can see you.’

‘Can’t we trust one another?’

‘All right,’ she said after a moment. ‘But you still have to walk in front.’

Simon took his eyes off her. When she didn’t immediately try to kill him, he relaxed even further. ‘I think we’re around the back of the house,’ he said. ‘If there’s a doorbell, it’ll be around the front.’

He moved off, watching his feet this time, trying to convince himself she wasn’t eyeing his bhunti and smirking. Or possibly trying to convince himself that she was.

Simon and the woman, whose name was Genevieve, spent ten minutes ripping vines out of wood and plaster before the door was clear enough for a person to pass through it. One particularly stubborn clump of foliage pulled loose to reveal the doorbell.

They looked at each other. Simon shrugged and pressed it.

They listened. Nothing. No one had been home for a very long time, probably centuries. Inside they might find a few clues, a few remnants, the sort of stuff that was recovered on archaeological digs. That was if they didn’t fall through a rotting floor or get their foot stuck in a disintegrating stair.

144

Without thinking, Simon pressed the button again. Faint but clearly audible, there was a tinkling sound from somewhere inside the house.

They looked at each other. Genevieve had her hand on the doorknob when someone opened the door.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the old man. The very old man. The oldest man Simon had ever seen. He sat in a plastic wheelchair with wide arms, hovering an inch off the floor, a blanket with a checked design covering his lap and legs.

A kitten was asleep on the blanket. The man stroked it with a gnarled hand. He had fine white hair and a billion wrinkles.

Simon realized he was rudely standing there in astonishment.

‘Er,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Do come in,’ said the man. ‘If you’ve come all this way you’ll want a cup of tea. I have some organically grown lapsang souchong which is just ready for use. I grow it myself in the back garden.’

‘Where?’ Simon asked, stupidly. He realized Genevieve was looking past the old man, into the hallway. Which was warm, and dry, a Persian rug covering polished floorboards, tiny real books lining wooden shelves. He could see the pair of them in a mirror at the other end, looking gormless.

‘That would be delightful,’ said Genevieve. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Not at all,’ said the old man. ‘Doctor Smith. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’

‘We don’t get many visitors from outside,’ said the Doctor, leading the way into the lounge. ‘Except for the occasional party of Ice Warriors.’

‘Ice Warriors?’ Simon had never heard of them.

‘Martians,’ said the Doctor. ‘They like to fly down every so often and stage a victory parade. Everyone lines up and waves flags and shouts “hurrah” – that sort of thing. Absolutely pointless, of course,