Andrew pulled at the rope binding his limbs. There was no give in it at all. There was no way he was going to wriggle himself free. He thought about shouting for help but the others would just ignore him. Even if they saw that Kartoshka had tied him up, they would probably approve and leave him like that. There would be no help coming.

     Kartoshka would sabotage the rover, he knew. He would only need a few minutes alone with one of the rover's vital systems. Something that would leave the rover unable to continue the pursuit but still able to keep its occupants alive. The remainers seemed to be anxious not to hurt anyone. They thought they were doing what was best for the human race.

     For a moment, Andrew thought about just staying where he was. Just stay tied up until Kartoshka had accomplished his mission. Mankind would remain safe on Earth, the crazy, dangerous plan to return to the inner solar system abandoned. His children and their descendants would be safe with thousands of generations ahead of them before the Earth's inner heat was lost.

     Something inside him rebelled at the idea, though. The policemen thought he'd deliberately led them away from Fox's route and he couldn't bear that idea. His wife and children would feel shocked and betrayed by him. They would be ostracised by their friends, by everyone they knew. He had to free himself and stop Kartoshka, to clear his name. He tugged at his bound limbs again, uselessly, and felt despair threatening to overwhelm him. Free himself how?

     He forced himself to think calmly and clearly. He was in his own bedroom. He was intimately familiar with everything in it. What was there in the room that he could use to cut the ropes? His imagination went through every cupboard, every drawer, sorting through handkerchiefs, underwear, Susan's Teddy bear collection, his antique paper books from before The Freeze... Useless. All useless.

     Then he thought of his wife's sandpaper nail files. Would that rub through a thin length of rope if he could somehow get it up against the bindings around his wrists? Where were they? She was a tidy woman. Everything she used was put away again afterwards which meant they would be in the top drawer of the cupboard by her side of the bed. He stared across at it. Tied the way he was, there was no way he'd be able to use his hands, but if he could pull the drawer open with his mouth...

     It took him half an hour to work his way, centimetre by painful centimetre, across the floor to the cupboard. Then it took him several agonising attempts to get himself into an upright position on his knees. He put his mouth to the small, round handle and pulled the drawer open until it came out all the way and fell onto the floor, spilling its contents onto the shaggy carpet. There were the nail files. One used, most of the sand worn away, but there were three more new ones, shining at him with the promise of freedom.

     He fell sideways onto the carpet, nearly banging his head on the cupboard, and then began the long process of turning himself around to bring his hands to where the nail files were. He reached out towards them, his fingers straining, the rope agonisingly tight around his wrists. By some impossible effort he managed to get hold of the nearest file, and then he turned it around in his fingers to bring the sandpaper in contact with the rope.

     It seemed to take an eternity in which he dropped the file several times and took several painful minutes to pick it up again, but eventually something gave way and he was rewarded by the feeling of looseness around his wrists. With a grunt of effort the remaining threads snapped and his hands were free. It took him just a few moments longer to free his ankles and then he just lay there for a few minutes, gasping with relief while he allowed the blood to return to his numbed extremities.

     His wrists were a mess. Bruised and blooded. He put them out of his mind and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Then he crossed the room to the door and put his ear to it, trying to hear what was going on outside. He heard nothing, so he cautiously opened the door.

     There was no-one in sight. He went down the short corridor to the ladder down to the lower level, paused a moment to listen again and again heard nothing. He held onto the ladder by the hands only and slid down fast, the way his children liked to do, dropping to a crouch when he reached the bottom. There was a figure slumped on the floor of the living room. Windsor, either unconscious or dead. He went over, checked for a pulse and was relieved to find one, but there was a nasty wound on the side of his head leaking blood onto the carpet. Was he too late? Had Kartoshka already done his work?

     He heard noises coming from the cockpit and stood again, then on an impulse he took the pistol from Windsor's holster. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to actually use it, but maybe he wouldn't have to do more than threaten with it. If he actually fired it in the rover, he might do the very damage that Kartoshka wanted to do, which would be pretty ironic, and having a sensible and practical reason not to use the weapon gave him a great feeling of relief.

     From outside the cockpit, looking in through the door, he saw Kartoshka crouched down under the instrument panel doing something with a small device he'd attached there. Nearby, there was a pair of feet lying on the ground. Kartoshka must have knocked Cheval out as well. The Sergeant was stirring, though. One of the feet was moving, drawing back as Cheval bent his knee.

     Kartoshka finished what he was doing and stood. "Come on, Sergeant," he said, bending over the other man and picking him up by the arm. "You don't want to be in here when it goes off."

     Andrew drew back out of sight as Kartoshka carried the Sergeant back to the living room and laid him gently on one of the padded armchairs. Then he closed the cockpit door behind him and went over to examine Windsor. Andrew knew he had to do something, or else what was the point of having freed himself? Fear paralysed him, though, and he could only watch, cursing his cowardice, as Kartoshka pulled a small device from his pocket. It had only one button. It could only be the detonator for the bomb he'd placed in the cockpit.

     He flipped open the protective cover and put his thumb on the button and still Andrew could only watch. He felt the gun in his hand and knew he should be pointing it at the Constable, demanding that he put the detonator down. His hand remained motionless, though. Even bringing the gun to bear on the policemen required more strength and courage than he possessed, and so he just cowered in the corner, desperately hoping that the other man didn't notice him there.

     Cheval was regaining consciousness, though. His eyes opened a crack and tried to focus on the man standing beside him. "I apologise for the rough treatment," Kartoshka told him. "One day, though, history will recognise that we were right to prevent The Return. I'm saving the human race..."

     Cheval launched himself from the armchair, throwing himself at the other man, one hand reaching for the detonator. Kartoshka staggered back in surprise, then raised a hand to slap the Sergeant hard across the face. Cheval, still only semi-conscious, fell back, but he had a firm grip on the detonator and pulled it out of Kartoshka's hand. Kartoshka snarled with annoyance and reached out to take it back, and then the two men were fighting over it, the Sergeant somehow managing to keep the Constable's thumb off the button. Kartoshka was winning, though. The effort of continuing the struggle was taking its toll on the Sergeant. To Andrew, he seemed to be on the verge of passing out again.

     Do something, you coward! thought Andrew angrily. Kartoshka now had his back to him, which gave Andrew the courage to rise from his hiding place. He was still holding the gun in his hand, but he made no move to use it, or even to threaten with it. Instead he just launched himself at Kartoshka, knocking him off his feet and loosening his grip on the detonator, allowing Cheval to pull it out of his hand.

     Kartoshka spun around in surprise, staring at Andrew. He reached for his own gun, pulling it from its holster, but Andrew clamped his hand hard onto his wrist and twisted with all his strength. Kartoshka dropped his gun, which bounced on the carpet and disappeared under one of the armchairs.

     Kartoshka went for Andrew's gun instead, which Andrew had forgotten he was holding. He tightened his grip on it, forgetting that his finger was on the trigger. The gun went off with a thunderous detonation.

     Andrew staggered back in shock, letting go of the gun, only realising after he'd done it that he'd left it in the hands of the other man. Kartoshka would use it to hold him and Cheval at bay while he took back the detonator, and then he would press the button while smiling with satisfied triumph.

     Kartoshka just stood there, though, a blank look on his face. The gun fell from his hand to thump onto the carpet. There was a large bloodstain growing on his chest. He stared at Andrew in astonishment, and then then his legs seemed to fold up under him and he sank to his knees. Then he fell sideways to the ground like a toppled tree.

     Andrew threw himself to the floor beside the other man and pressed his hands to the bullet wound. "Get the first aid kit!" he screamed at Cheval, as if wrapping a bandage around it would do any good. "What do we do? What do we do?"

     Cheval ignored Andrew's panic and placed the protective cover back over the detonator's button. Then he placed it carefully on a shelf beside a spider plant. He walked carefully back, steadying himself with a hand on the back of the armchair, and stopped to pick up the gun, putting it in his own holster. Only then did he carefully lower himself to the ground, blood still dripping from a nasty head wound, and check Kartoshka for a pulse.

     "He's dead, lad," he said in a soft, gentle voice. "He's gone."

     Andrew stared at him in horror. "I didn't mean to kill him," he said, his mouth suddenly dry and his whole body shaking. "I didn't mean to... I didn't mean..."

     "It was an accident, lad. I'll make sure they understand that. You did nothing wrong."

     "I should have put the gun down. What was I thinking, picking up a gun? How could I have been so stupid? And now he's dead! Are you sure he's dead? Are you sure? Maybe... Maybe..."

     "He's dead, lad," Cheval repeated. "He made his choices. He's responsible, not you." He then climbed back to his feet and went over to check on Windsor. "He's going to be out for a while longer," he said. "And I'm in no condition. You'll have to go back into the cockpit and drive. Look out for Fox's tracks."

      Andrew stared at him in disbelief. "You can't still be thinking of chasing Fox! A man is dead! We need to get his body back to the city..."

     "We have a job to do," said Cheval. "And we're going to do it. We'll leave Karroshka's body out on the ice. It can wait there until someone comes to retrieve him. Until then we've got a job to do and we're going to do it."

     "You cold blooded bastard! A man's dead and all you can think of..."

     "...Is the future of the human race." Cheval knelt beside Andrew and put a hand on his shoulder. The Sergeant seemed to be recovering rapidly now but his face was still pale and there was perspiration on his forehead. "You're in shock, lad. I understand that. I've never killed a man. I can't imagine what it's like but you have to get over it."

     Andrew stared at him. "What'll happen to me? Will I go to prison?"

     "No you won't. It was an accident. It wasn't your fault. You're not in any trouble, I promise you. There'll be an inquest, of course, when we get back to the city, but I promise you that you've got nothing to worry about. You'll be a hero. The man who saved The Return. Now get a grip on yourself. I'll need your help getting Windsor upstairs. We'll leave him on the bed to wake up in his own good time, and I also need to rest for a while. I'm no good for anything in this condition. Can I leave you in charge until we're fully recovered?"

     Andrew nodded. "I'm okay," he said, although one glance was all it took to see that he was far from okay. He was almost as pale and unsteady as the Sergeant. "I'm okay." He sounded as if he was trying to make himself believe it.

     "Okay," said Cheval. "And don't touch the bomb in the cockpit. If you don't know what you're doing you might set it off. Leave it for me to deal with when I'm fully recovered. Got it?" Andrew nodded. "Okay," the Sergeant added. He got up and went back to Windsor. "You take the heavy end. I'll take the legs."