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was a lot of background noise. But it would seem that the Tack parents are in Casualty,
just being checked over. They’re with those two . . . religious people.’
    ‘What about the children?’
    ‘They seem to be right as rain. They’ve been installed in one of those Sleepeasys for the night, and they’re hoping we can send a vehicle tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Easy enough, sir. I can take the van.’
    ‘It’s not really roadworthy, is it, Routon?’
    ‘There’s a few jobs left to do, but it gets from A to B. I’ll leave first thing.’
    ‘We’d better tell everyone downstairs. Drat it, I had so hoped to get off to a good start. The orphans were disappointed enough about Sanchez’s late arrival . . .’
    ‘We can have the party tomorrow, Giles – it’s hardly the end of the world.’
    ‘Jellies won’t keep, sir.’
    ‘We’ll eat the jellies and show the film. Poor kids! They’ll be going out of their minds with boredom waiting at a motorway service station. You know, I had a feeling something
was wrong.’
    ‘Go!’ shrieked Oli. ‘Straight!’
    ‘I can’t control it!’
    ‘Pull the throttle and get the drill down . . . you’ve missed it!’
    Oli Ruskin had climbed up onto the television, which was bolted to a high bracket in the corner of the Special Deluxe Supersize Family Room. From there he could supervise operations. The room
was ideal: minimal furniture, all easy to move, and a smooth industrial carpet.
    Millie sat on its far corner; she had the radio console in her hands and was doing her best to control the digger-vehicle. It had a mind of its own, but she was learning, and laughing with
excitement.
    ‘Reverse!’ yelled Oli. ‘Go left, go left!’
    ‘I can’t find reverse!’
    There were three radio-controlled vehicles in operation, each one about fifty centimetres long. Ruskin Senior had a truck; Sam had a Land Rover. Ruskin Junior had a strange armadillo-like
vehicle, with twelve small wheels and a sharp, rotating snout. The task was to get each vehicle through the obstacle course that they’d built from the Sleepeasy furniture. Oli had devised a
series of penalties and rewards, and was in charge of the clock. The obstacles were mattresses, blankets, and a telephone cable stretched between bed-legs. It was the telephone wire that Millie was
finding tricky; she had to find a point at which the snout of her drill could get under it. She was losing valuable seconds and Sam’s time had been good.
    The windows were all open, but the room still stank of engine oil and smoke. Ruskin Senior was in charge of refuelling, for the little motors ran down ridiculously quickly. Larger fuel tanks
were on order, but Oli was worried they’d need complicated pumps.
    ‘Rotate it!’ cried Oli. ‘Rotate it!’
    ‘Damn,’ said Millie. She rammed the toy forward and this time got the drill-head spinning. It severed the telephone cord and took a chunk out of a chair leg.
    ‘Good!’ shouted Ruskin.
    ‘Yes, but she loses five for cutting,’ said Oli. He scribbled a mark on the wall beside him.
    Millie pressed the steering lever and, amazingly, the vehicle obeyed her and started up the mattress-mountain. Its wheels caught on the sheet and soon it was up to the apex – it nearly
toppled over but righted itself – and started down the steepest part of the slope. They’d propped two mattresses together over a low armchair, and it was a difficult thing to negotiate.
All the toys had four-wheel drives and magi-grip tyres; Oli had put a little extra weight on the chassis of his vehicle, to keep the centre of gravity low. Despite Millie’s clumsy control,
she was making good time now.
    ‘Oh, keep it steady . . .’ shouted Oli. He was living every half-metre of progress, his hands twitching at imaginary controls. The engine noise was unbearable: high-pitched and
wasp-like. It sawed at the ear relentlessly, the clutch of the little vehicle burning as it teetered down the slope. There were pizza