“…Thanks, James. We’re coming live from the scene in Whitley Bay where police have surrounded the entertainment complex known as the Spanish City following reports of the kidnapping of three children by an as yet unidentified adult female.

“The children, who are not being named at this stage, were part of a high-speed chase along the seafront in the burning vehicle you can see behind me.”

“High-speed chase? It wasn’t that fast,” says Ramzy. He has found some stale bread and cheese and is chewing between glugs of water.

“Shush!”

“A few moments ago, police made an unsuccessful attempt to gain access to the part of the complex where the children are being held, and efforts to contact the alleged kidnapper have so far been unsuccessful. I am joined now by the father of one of the children.”

“Oh my God!” says Ramzy. “Dad!”

Mr. Rahman is unshaven and exhausted-looking, his bald head beaded with sweat. Beside him, Aunty Nush is twisting the fabric of her headscarf round her fingers.

The reporter doesn’t even get a chance to ask a question before Ramzy’s dad leans into the microphone and shouts, “Ramzy! We’re comin’ to get you!”

Ramzy’s on his feet, yelling at the TV. “No, Dad!” Then he says something else in a different language. On the screen, the reporter has pointed the microphone at Aunty Nush, who says pretty much the only thing I have ever heard her say.

“Ramzy good boy! He good boy,” and then she wipes her eyes.

Ramzy shouts back at the TV, “I am a good boy, Aunty! I am! You’ll see!” Poor Ramzy: he looks close to tears.

The reporter turns his attention back to Mr. Rahman. “The police have said you may need to be patient. What do you say to that?”

He’s not able to reply because Aunty Nush interrupts him with a long stream of words. Mr. Rahman replies just as loudly, and the only thing I can hear him say is “Na-nush, na-nush, na, na.” They’re having an argument on TV.

“What are they saying?” I ask Ramzy, who looks horrified.

“Na, Nush. It means, ‘No, Nush.’ She said…she said…” Ramzy’s shaking his head in disbelief.

“What did she say?” I’m almost shouting with frustration.

“Well, after she told Dad he was a useless piece of erm…waste, she said she’s going to use his truck to break in, and if he tries to stop her she’ll kill him with her bare hands.” He says it quietly, and he sounds almost admiring as he gazes at the TV. Under his breath he says, “Wow, Aunty Nush!”

The newsreader on TV is commenting on what he sees: “Extraordinary scenes at Whitley Bay where the father of one of the children allegedly being held in the Spanish City entertainment complex is on the scene…”

Dr. Pretorius has been hitting keys like crazy during all of this. Her energy has returned along with a sense of purpose that’s infectious.

“You’re gonna have to go in now, kid. Hawking II has just come into position. I can’t fix the communications channel, and Ramzy’s helmet is completely trashed, so you’re on your own in there.”

Ramzy looks at me. “Can you do it?” he asks.

There’s a pause. I can’t even speak I’m so scared.

“Well,” he says, “if anyone can, it’s you.” He smiles, then gives me an awkward hug, which is a first for me and Ramzy. “It’s been an adventure,” he says.

I breathe in deeply through my nose and lift my head. It seems to help me to speak again. “How long have we got till your aunty’s back?” I ask Ramzy. He chews his lip in thought.

“Nine or ten minutes? Dad parks the tractor unit on the street if he’s just done a long run. So she’ll go home, get his keys, and drive back…”

“Can she drive?”

Ramzy gives me a withering look. “She drove an armored personnel carrier in the war, so she can drive the front end of a truck.”

I believe him. Ramzy’s aunty Nush is turning out to be more than just the scary woman I thought.

“Lock the door, you in the green,” croaks Dr. Pretorius, indicating Sass and then pointing at the door to the control room. “It’ll hold for a few more minutes. Georgie, get that helmet on and go!” She’s not even looking at us as she breathlessly barks commands, but thumping the keyboard and watching figures and lights scroll up and illuminate on the screens.

“Go, go, go! I’m sending you back exactly where you left off, OK?”

At that moment, I’m surprised to feel that I don’t really have a choice. This is just something that I have to do, like it or not, and I find myself strapping on the helmet and pushing open the heavy door to the studio. To my horror, Mr. Mash squeezes past me and straight onto the strange ball-bearing floor beneath the dome. He manages a few paces and then stops, baffled at the unusual sensation beneath his paws.

“No!” I cry. “Come back! Mashie! Come back!” But he won’t move. Instead, he sits down on the floor, lifts his ears, and cocks his head as if to say, I’m coming with you—like it or not.

“Mashie, Mashie,” I plead as I shuffle through the ball bearings myself. “Come on!”

The last thing I hear is Dr. Pretorius saying, “Ain’t no time. Leave him alone. You haven’t got long before Ramzy’s old gal makes her breakthrough.”

The studio door slams behind me with a thunk and it’s pitch-black. I feel the floor begin its quivering motion, which makes Mr. Mash whimper again. I can’t tell where he is. Can he even walk on it now?

“Mashie?” I call gently.

Then the band above my eyes glows blue; it gets a bit lighter as the shapes become sharper, and I’m back where I was ninety minutes ago.

Jessica is still openmouthed in astonishment.

Other Me looks just like me.

And I’ve got less than ten minutes left to save the world.