It was like all spare rooms everywhere. There was the lamp that was a bit old-fashioned and didn't fit in anywhere else. There was the bookcase with the books that no-one read much. There was a lack of small things, apart from an ashtray on the bedside table.
There was a clock, but at some time in the past the mains had gone off for a while and although people must have sorted out every other clock in the house, they'd forgotten about this one, so it just sat and flashed 7:41 continuously, day and night. But an absence of sound from below suggested that it was still early in the morning.
He snuggled down, treasuring this time stolen between dreaming and waking.
So - . . what next? He'd have to talk to Kirsty, who dreamed of being Sigourney and forgot that she was trying to be someone who was acting. And he had a suspicion that he'd see his parents before long. He was probably going to be talked at a lot, but at least that'd make a change.
These were still Trying Times. There was still school. Nothing actually was better, probably. No-one was doing anything with a magic wand.
But the fleet had got away. Compared to that, everything else was ... well, not easy. But less like a wall and more like steps.
You might never win, but at least you could try. If not you, who else?
He turned over and went back to sleep.
The Border hung in the sky.
Huge white letters, thousands of miles high.
They spelled:
GAME
OVER
And the fleet roared past. Tankers, battleships, fighters . . they soared and rolled, their shadows streaking across the letters as ship after ship escaped, for ever.
NEW GAME?
(Y/N)