Back in the computer room, Steven whistled his relief. He saw the probe sucked into the soil and then bent eagerly over his keyboard. Visible on the screen above the Brick was the hollow end of the sweeper rod projecting out of the ground. Gently steering, Steven made the beam enter its shaft and go down, down, down, until he had a view of the interior of the Gwynns’ spaceship. That was still not close enough. He did not need to see their living quarters, their laboratory, or even the cuboid communicator. He manoeuvred and manipulated till he had a view of the inner workings of the clock. It filled the screen with the image of artificial stars in a swirling galaxy.
This, he thought, will take hours, maybe days. I can’t leave Jacob there in the garden much longer. He will have to come home.
‘And leave the sweeper handle here in the garden?’ said Jacob, aghast, when his father spoke to him again on the mobile. ‘I can’t do that. Mum needs it. She’ll want to know where it is. Try hard, Dad. I’ll wait here till I can pull it out and fetch it home with me.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Steven impatiently. ‘I’ll tell your mother a story. I’ll tell her I broke it. I’ll buy her another one. Come on, Jacob. Get out of there and catch the bus back to the station. It is already five-fifteen. Your mother will be more worried about you being late than about a sweeper handle. You must know that.’
‘Give it another hour, Dad,’ said Jacob. ‘I don’t know what you told Mum about me coming here, but tell her not to worry and that I’ll be on the seven o’clock train. Changing a clock shouldn’t take that long, surely?’
Jacob switched off.
A text message from Steven said curtly: ‘COME HOME, NOW.’
Jacob’s reply said equally curtly: ‘LET ME KNOW WHEN I CAN PULL THE HANDLE OUT OF THE SOIL.’
Steven gave a sigh and turned to the job in hand. He could not spend any longer arguing with a bolshie teenager. He had never thought of Jacob in that light before, but now thoughts that encompassed ‘I don’t know where he gets it from’ rumbled through his mind!
Jacob was standing in the rain with dirty hands, suffering a measure of discomfort that would have made a warm bus and a comfortable train really attractive. But he had decided that he wanted to spend more time around this house. He wanted to see its occupants, especially the girl who was fully Ormingat but had been born here on Earth.
He knew that his father would no longer be actively watching him. The shield would remain, but Steven would be busy adjusting the space clock.
Jacob wiped his hands on his coat and made his way towards the house. There was a back porch where he could shelter from the rain but he was not interested in that. What he wanted was a window he could look through. On this side of the house the curtains were closed. Chinks of light showed through the kitchen window, but there was no chance of seeing inside. Jacob walked round to the front and was rewarded with the sight of a window where the light was on but no one had yet bothered to draw the curtains.
The girl was there – a slightly built girl with mousy hair, sitting curled up on the sofa talking to a cat and stroking the fur between its ears. A year younger than himself? Yes, possibly. So this was Nesta. Had she been told where her parents came from?
As he watched her, it seemed to him that she was prettier than he had thought at first glance; quietly and peacefully pretty. She also looked vulnerable: the thick jumper she was wearing was about two sizes too big, which probably made her look slighter than she actually was. Seeing her, and knowing a little of what the future held for her, Jacob felt concerned. How much did she know? How would she cope with the journey to Ormingat? He had already heard her telling her mother her plans for Saturday: but by then the family would have been told the devastating news. What would her friend’s hockey boots matter then?
Suddenly, Nesta got up and the cat tumbled off her knee, complaining briefly before digging its paws into the side of the sofa.
‘Charlie,’ said Nesta, loudly enough to be heard by Jacob, who was standing with his forehead pressed against the glass. ‘You know you’re not supposed to do that.’
She then walked right up to the window and raised her hands to close the curtains. She was standing right in front of him. He gazed at her. She looked out into his eyes. For no more than a split-second the shield failed, and then it was intact again. But Nesta felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It was too brief a glimpse to be assimilated. It was no more than a shiver, as if someone had walked over her grave. Hastily she finished closing the curtains.
Jacob’s heart leapt with the awareness that she had noticed him. ‘Nesta,’ he whispered. He rested hands and head against the pane of glass. After many minutes, a noise in the garden disturbed him. He turned away from the darkened window and was caught in the headlamps of a car turning into the drive. The lights dazzled him, but the man in the car saw nothing of the figure in front of him. Jacob stood to one side and watched the driver put the car away before going into the house. This must be Nesta’s father.
Jacob returned to the back garden and stood in the shelter of the porch. He waited with the mobile in his hand, hoping his father would ring to say all was ready. The rain rattled on the roof. Jacob was so miserably cold that he could last out no longer. He used the mobile again.
‘I think I should come home now, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’re right. We can buy another carpet sweeper for Mum.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Steven with a yawn. ‘I was just about to ring you. You can bring the handle back. I’ve done better than I thought. All it took was concentration.’
‘I might not be able to get the handle out of the ground,’ Jacob confessed. ‘There’s not much of it left above the surface.’
‘Put on your gloves again,’ said his father. ‘Push your forefinger into the top of the handle then heave. My guess is that the ship will release it when it feels you pulling. They know what I have done. They know I have no further need of it.’
Jacob did as he was told and found himself sitting heavily on the grass as the handle flew out at an unexpectedly high speed. When he recovered, he collapsed the handle into its four small parts and placed it in his sports bag beside the trowel.
The home journey was straightforward. It was his father who met him at King’s Cross. Jacob was still muddy and his hands were grazed.
‘Nice work,’ said Steven, barely noticing the mess his son was in.
‘I suppose you could call it that,’ said Jacob sourly, employing his father’s usual turn of phrase. ‘I’ll be happier when I’m home and out of this wet coat.’