Everybody is stiff, wary, crouched low, afraid to disturb the dome which has settled over us. Surprised, confused, shocked.
Frozen.
Afraid.
For a moment, the grown-ups forget to charge at the enemy. Then a woman with a bun of silver hair blows into an ancient brass cornet, PHWA–DRRRRN and the Father’s Force race out of the museum to fight.
The Kmart kids retreat, shaking their weapons. Someone hurls a rock, a stick. One of the grown-ups releases an arrow. The elders have the upper hand, for now.
As the Father’s Force scamper into the plaza and examine the parachuted packages, I’m almost free to escape–except Albert is watching me.
‘Stay clooo-ose, Shepherd,’ Mr Turing sings through a suspicious, narrow mouth. ‘Not safe out there. You’ll regreee-eeet it.’
‘I’m going,’ I say, and lurc
