“That’s something we can start thinking about later,” she said. “If necessary we can move out of the town and set ourselves up in one of the farms.”

He didn’t like the idea—he’d lived all his life in cities—but didn’t say anything out loud.

Someone knocked on the front door before he got to it. Pat Staite, their neighbour, was standing outside dressed in elaborate blue and grey striped baseball gear.

“We’re looking for people to help make up the teams,” he said hopefully.

“It’s a little early in the day for me.”

“Absolutely. Terribly sorry. If you’re free this afternoon . . . ?”

“Then I’ll come along, certainly.”

Pat was one of Exnall’s growing band of sports enthusiasts who seemed intent on playing every ball game ever devised by the human race. They had already taken over two of the town’s parks.

“Thanks,” Staite said, not registering the irony in Moyo’s voice or thoughts. “There’s an ex-Brit living in the street now. He said he’d teach us how to play cricket.”

“Fabulous.”

“Is there anything you used to play?”

“Strip poker. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and catch some chickens for my breakfast.”

The chickens had broken out of their coop, but they were still pecking and scratching around the garden. They were a geneered variety, plump, with rusty yellow feathers. They were also remarkably quick.

Moyo’s first couple of attempts at catching one ended with him falling flat on his stomach. When he climbed to his feet the second time, the whole flock was squawking in alarm and vanishing fast into the shrubbery. He glared at them, banishing the mud caking his trousers and shirt, and pointed a finger. The tiny bolt of white fire caught the chicken at the base of its neck, sending out a cloud of singed feathers and quite a lot of blood. It must have looked ludicrous, he knew, using his power for this. But, if it got the job done . . .

When he’d finished blasting every chicken he could see, he walked over to the nearest corpse. And it started running away from him, head flopping down its chest on the end of a flaccid strip of skin. He stared at it disbelievingly; he’d always thought that was an urban myth. Then another of the corpses sprinted for freedom. Moyo pushed his sleeves up and summoned a larger bolt of white fire.

There were voices drifting through the open kitchen door when he returned to the bungalow. He didn’t even have to use his perception to know who was in there with her.

Under Stephanie’s control the range cooker was radiating waves of heat. Several children were warming themselves around it, holding big mugs of tea. They all stopped talking as he walked in.

Stephanie’s bashful welcoming smile was transformed to an astonished blink as she saw the smoking remnants of chicken he was carrying. A couple of the children started giggling.

“Into the lounge everyone,” Stephanie ordered the kids. “Go on, I’ll see what I can salvage.”

Once they had left he asked: “What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking after them, of course. Shannon says she hasn’t had a meal ever since the possessed arrived.”

“But you can’t. Suppose—”

“Suppose what? The police come?”

He dropped the burnt carcasses onto the tile worktop next to the range cooker. “Sorry.”

“We’re responsible only to ourselves now. There are no laws, no courts, no rights and wrongs. Only what feels good. That’s what this new life is for, isn’t it? Indulgence.”

“I don’t know. It might be.”

She leaned against him, arms encircling his waist. “Look at it selfishly. What else have you got to do today?”

“And there I was thinking I was the one who’d adjusted best to this.”

“You did, at first. I just needed time to catch up.”

He peered through the door at the children. There were eight of them bouncing around on the lounge furniture, none over twelve or thirteen. “I’m not used to children.”

“Nor chickens by the look of things. But you managed to bring them back in the end, didn’t you?”

“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, how long do you want to look after them for? What’s going to happen when they grow up? Do they hit sixteen and get possessed? That’s an awful prospect.”

“That won’t happen. We’ll take this world out of the reach of the beyond. We’re the first and the last possessed. This kind of situation won’t arise again. And in any case, I wasn’t proposing to bring them up in Exnall.”

“Where then?”

“We’ll take them up to the end of Mortonridge and turn them over to their own kind.”

“You’re kidding me.” A pointless statement; he could sense the determination in her thoughts.

“Don’t tell me you want to stay in Exnall for all of eternity?”

“No. But the first few weeks would be fine.”

“To travel is to experience. I won’t force you, Moyo, if you want to stay here and learn how to play cricket, that’s okay by me.”

“I surrender.” He laughed, and kissed her firmly. “They won’t be able to walk, not all that way. We’ll need some sort of bus or truck. I’d better scout around and see what Ekelund left us.”

•   •   •

It was the eighth time Syrinx had walked to Wing-Tsit Chong’s odd house on the side of the lake. For some of these meetings it would be just the two of them sitting and talking, on other occasions they would be joined by therapists and Athene and Sinon and Ruben for what amounted to a joint session. But today it was only the pair of them.

As ever, Wing-Tsit Chong was waiting in his wheelchair on the veranda, a tartan rug tucked around his legs. Greetings, my dear Syrinx. How are you today?

She bowed slightly in the Oriental tradition, a mannerism she had taken up after the second session. They took the nanonic packages off my feet this morning. I could barely walk, the skin was so tender.

I hope you did not chastise the medical team for this minor discomfort.

No.she sighed. They have done wonders with me. I’m grateful. And the pain will soon be gone.

Wing-Tsit Chong smiled thinly. Exactly the answer you should give. If I were a suspicious old man . . .

Sorry. But I really have accepted the physical discomfort as transitory.

How fortunate, the last chain unshackled.

Yes.

You will be free to roam the stars again. And if you were to fall into their clutches once more?

She shivered, giving him a censorious glance as she leaned on the veranda rail. I don’t think I’m cured enough to want to think about that.

Of course.

All right, if you really want to know. I doubt I’ll venture out of Oenone ’s crew toroid quite so readily now. Certainly not while the possessed are still loose in the universe. Is that wrong for someone of my situation? Have I failed?

Answer yourself.

I still have some nightmares.

I know. Though not as many; which we all know is a good sign of progress. What other symptoms persist?

I want to fly again. But . . . it’s difficult to convince myself to do it. I suppose the uncertainty frightens me. I could meet them again.

The uncertainty or the unknown?

You’re so fond of splitting hairs.

Indulge an old man.

Definitely the uncertainty. The unknown used to fascinate me. I loved exploring new planets, seeing wonders.

Your pardon, Syrinx, but you have never done these things.

What?she turned from the railing to stare at him, finding only that annoying, passive expression. Oenone and I spent years doing exactly that.

You spent years playing tourist. You admired what others had discovered, what they had built, the way they lived. The actions of a tourist, Syrinx, not an explorer. Oenone has never flown to a star which has not been catalogued; your footprint has never been the first upon a planet. You have always played safe, Syrinx. And even that did not protect you.