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"He's breathing," said Nick. "Just."

"But I tried to wake him," said Louise. "I shouted right into his head. No one could have slept through that."

"Maybe that's because he's not here."

Nick rose to hover over the body. This was not what he'd expected. Not what he'd expected at all.

"You think . . . " she paused, undoubtedly as confused as he was. "He separated?"

That was one possibility. John could also be comatose. Or paralysed. In a more practical universe he probably would be. But this was a universe with a body-hopping alien in it. And two people claiming to be John Bruce.

His mind blazed with possibility. Could the alien have seized John's body during the Pegasus flight and taken it over? Could the John that he'd left outside in a cleaner's closet be the complete John Bruce? Or were there still two Johns—the political John having discovered the ability to separate when . . . when what? When he'd been ripped from his body during the space mission? Wasn't that still feasible? Likely even. John's mind is ripped in two when the neural shielding fails, one part's thrown free and eventually becomes ensnared by Pendennis, the other . . . somehow it finds its way back—either because it wasn't thrown so far or maybe the alien found it and brought it back. Either way, it would explain his ability to separate. It would be like a drug, once discovered how could you not want to disconnect and roam the skies?

"He's the alien, isn't he?" said Louise, excited. "I knew he wasn't John. I knew it."

"It's one possibility," said Nick.

"Come on, Nick. It's the only possibility. It's over, isn't it? All we've got to do is put our John back in this body, call the colonists and that's it."

Her voice changed. Concern. "Where is our John by the way?"

"He's safe," said Nick. "He's resting in a cleaner's closet, tucked away at the back and practically invisible."

"So, let's get him reconnected."

If only it was that easy.

"Think about it, Lou. If you're right then we have a paranoid murdering alien who's become proprietorial about John's body. He probably thinks he's John Bruce. He's probably convinced he's John Bruce. So, what's he going to do when he finds our John in his body? Rip him to shreds, cast him into the void, disassemble him?"

"So we contact the Colonists."

"What if they don't come? John wouldn't last five seconds with that alien. And have you thought what might happen if you're wrong? What if it's not the alien but John's other half. What would the Colonists make of that? Two entities each claiming to be John Bruce. They wouldn't trust a word anyone on this planet ever said again. The whole human race would be categorised as lying memory grafters."

And probably earmarked for an extensive and excruciating interrogation.

"So what do we do?" snapped Louise. "Wait here and pontificate?"

"No," said Nick. "We move John's body."

"What?"

"It's the sensible thing to do," explained Nick. "We need to know who we're dealing with—John or the alien. Whoever it is is going to be returning soon and if we leave the body here then they might blur straight in and connect—not giving us time to see who they were. But if we move the body they'll have to stop. There'll be a moment of panic while they hover over the bed. If it's John, we'll recognise him. He'll look like us."

"You don't know that! You're guessing again."

"It's what I do best. And think about it, every Colonist we've encountered so far has either been invisible or a giant jellyfish. We'll know the difference if we see it. And, anyway, if the alien comes back and finds his body missing, he'll react."

"And then what?"

"If it's the alien we get out quick and call the colonists, if it's John we . . . let him know where his body is and get ready to reconnect his other half."

"And how do you propose we tell him where his body is without freaking him out?" She sounded angry. "Whisper in his ear? Hey, John, try looking in the room down the hall?"

"Why not?" said Nick. "The man's a born again Christian. Shouldn't he expect God to step in and help him when he's in trouble?"

"You are incredible."

And by Louise's tone, not in a nice way. Not that Nick cared. He knew he was right. Planting a suggestion in John's head wouldn't be difficult. Not if it was done subtly. A few whispered accentless words projected his way. Wrong room. Try the one next door. He'd be in such a quandary wondering where his body was he'd jump on any lead and put it down to inspiration.

"And how the hell are we going to move his body?" asked Louise.

"Connect, of course. If the alien can do it so can I."

"But . . . " Louise was speechless.

"You fly ahead and check the other rooms. I'll walk John as far as I can, hide him, then fly back here."

"No! Isn't it dangerous? What if you can't disconnect or John's body rejects you? Don't you have to be tissue-mapped or something?"

"We'll soon find out."

He focussed on a point a few inches above the centre of John's forehead and flowed towards it. This'll work, he told himself. It has to.

"No!" shouted Louise. "You can't."

He tuned her protests out. He was in position, lined up. Concentrate, you've connected before. This'll be the same. Think yourself inside and . . . 

He was falling, tumbling down a long dark tube, the world swimming in senseless waves, he was up, down, stretched and . . . 

The room sharpened into focus. The ceiling, light fittings, wallpaper, paintings. He rolled over, pushed up with his arms, swung his legs off the bed. And almost fell over. He felt light-headed and heavy-limbed. He steadied himself, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, gripping the bedspread with both hands. Better. He massaged his thighs, stretched, flexed his shoulders. Everything felt half-asleep.

He pushed away from the bed, lurching forward, stumbling.

"Can you hear me, Louise?" He projected his question towards the ceiling. No answer. And no time. John or the alien could arrive at any second. He had to leave.

He hurried towards the door, using his hands to steady his uncertain gait.

The room's empty. Louise's voice. Quiet, no louder than a whisper but at least he could hear her, even if she couldn't hear him.

He grabbed the door handle, turned and pulled. Another large empty room. How far could he get? How far did he need to get? Into the next room, the corridor, further? And if he met someone could he make them believe he was John?

He tried speaking. Not too loud. Just the one word. "Hello." It sounded strange—deeper than his normal voice but still recognisably his. He'd have a hard time convincing anyone he was John.

There are three people in the next room and a guard in the corridor.

Louise again. He raised his thumb to let her know he'd heard. He'd have to hide John here. His eyes swung around the room. He could sit him in the corner over there or . . . there were two doors in the far wall, where did the second one lead?

He pointed to the nearest of the two doors and hurried towards it, hoping Louise was watching. "Where does this one lead?" he asked silently. "The room next door or a cupboard."

It's a toilet.

He opened the door and slipped inside. Perfect. A small rectangular room, WC and wash basin. Easy to overlook from the higher dimensions. He closed the door, grabbed hold of the wash basin for support and eased himself down onto the blue-tiled floor. His legs felt so cramped they didn't want to bend. He stretched them out again as soon as he could—sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, the cold from the tiles pressing through the thin material of his trousers.

Almost finished. He checked for stability, he didn't want John toppling over when he left and banging his head.

Perfect. He let his head slump forward. Deep breaths and relax. This'll be easy too. You got in so you can get out. Seconds passed. Are you okay? That was Louise. He tuned her out. He tuned everything out. The room, the situation, everything. He was floating on a gently undulating midnight sea, weightless and carefree and . . . 

Out. He rose from the blurry bathroom floor; John Bruce's body shimmered below. A worried Louise sparkled near the ceiling.

"Don't you ever do that again!"

"You don't fancy having a go yourself then?" he asked, already blurring through the toilet door. "Think about it, Lou. We could ditch John and take over his body. Ever fancied being President?"

Louise snorted. "If we ever get out of this . . . "

Louise was still seething when they returned to the bedroom. When was he going to learn not to take risks? The last time he'd dived into someone else's head it had taken a week to get back. It could easily have happened again. The alien could have been faking a coma, waiting—just like Pendennis—for the first idiot to get too close.

And what was Nick going to do next? He said he was going to hide in the wall and observe but she didn't trust him any more. Sitting back and observing was not his style. Leaping out and risking everything on a whim was.

"We're only going to observe, right?" she reiterated.

"Absolutely," he said. "If we blend into the wall no one'll be able to pick us out from the higher dimensions. You take the near wall, I'll take the bathroom wall. If it's the alien we back out quick. Forget about flying in formation, just get the hell out, send the pictogram to the Colonists and we'll meet up as soon as we can on the roof."

"And if it's John you're going to plant a suggestion in his head."

"Exactly. Room next door. Toilet."

"And you're not going to say you're God or anything whimsical like that?"

"You think I should?"

She almost responded. He was winding her up, wasn't he? Wasn't he?

"Shhh," said Nick. "I think it best we keep quiet from now on. Think yourself invisible and silent.

She withdrew deeper into the speckled grey of the wall, leaving a small bubble of room visible. Around her she threw up walls—thick, transparent and thought-proof. No one would hear her.

Time passed. How long would he be? Didn't he have a speech to give at twelve-thirty? Shouldn't he be back in his body getting ready?

And how was he going to connect? If it was the alien—which she was sure it was—how could he fit inside John's head? The only Colonist she'd seen was enormous. Did it fold itself up? Did it sink a portion of itself into John's head and let the rest coil and flop around his body?

She shivered. Any second now that thing was going to fly into the room. It might even fill the room. Maybe she should fire off the pictogram now? After all, how long would it take to reach the Colonists? And if her hunch about the alien was right they wouldn't have to worry about confusing the Colonists with two John Bruces.

But what if she was wrong?

Indecision and foreboding. Whatever choice she made it was certain to be wrong.

The light changed. Something had rippled into the room. Something indistinct that warped the room like a heat haze. The alien? John?

Louise edged forward, expanding the bubble of light to get a better view. Was it her eyes or were those gelatinous fronds—hundreds of them, translucent to the point of near transparency?

A low rumbling roar reverberated inside her head. A scream of anguish. The room pulsed, changing colour as though someone had placed a red filter over her porthole of light. Time to leave, she thought, backing away.

"Who's there?" A crazed half-human voice screamed inside her head. "Who are you? What have you done with my body?"

Louise froze. Could it see her? Was it sensing her movement, her thoughts? She threw up more walls, blended herself into the speckled grey concrete and plaster.

Something knocked against her, something solid. It was in the wall with her, searching and probing. A searing pain shot through her head. Migraine flashes. She tried to move but couldn't. She screamed.

Nick watched from his hiding place in the far wall. The alien must have found Louise. She was screaming. The air and the room were warped and writhing by the corner she was hiding. He had to do something. Now!

He thought himself solid. He thought steel, he thought fast, he thought ram. Aimed at the gelatinous head and launched himself at it like a bullet.

He hit it hard. Pain shuddered through him. He was momentarily disorientated and spinning. Had he bounced off? Injured it? Injured himself? A roar exploded in Nick's head. Something brushed against him. He pulled away, twisting and turning. Thinking left, right, up, down, a axis, b, throwing himself into every plane he could think of. Away, he had to get away!

And bring the alien with him. He had to lure it away from Louise.

He blurred through the ceiling, shouting: "I've got him. I've got John."

He shot through the roof and into the sky, casting his sight behind him watching for the roof tiles to warp and flicker. Hoping he'd be able to see the alien. Hoping he'd follow.

He was still looking when a voice rasped inside his head. "Where is it?" cried the alien. The air around Nick began to distort and bend—the cityscape below, the blue sky above. The alien was almost upon him. Dive! One thought. Down, he plunged, twisting and turning. The distortion followed.

He aimed for the nearest building, bursting through the roof tiles. He needed camouflage and cover. He veered away, tumbling through the pipes and vents, swinging through the fabric of walls and ceilings, cloaking his thoughts as best he could, trying to merge with his surroundings, to disappear, evaporate.

The alien followed. Nick could sense its pursuit; its cries, its rage—waves of raw emotion reverberating through the building. Anger, frustration, pain.

The innards of the building blurred into one streaky mass; rooms and concrete, people and furnishings. Nick carved a random path; accelerating, slowing, ducking and diving.

Light hit him. He'd burst through an external wall. He veered across the road, entered the building opposite, turned. A wall of rage followed.

Louise broke free the moment the alien released its grip. She fell backwards, throwing herself into the adjoining room, ducking down through the floor and blurring herself towards the ground. She was going to put as much concrete between herself and the alien as she could.