Version 2.0. Still not even remotely serious. Still goes a bit soggy at the end. Now with added Tracy shadiness. Blame and credit still go equally to the lovely and talented Intelligent Gravity and Spacespirit, of whom I can only ask forgiveness..

"Listen up, new kid."

It's late in Dorm Five B; well after lights out. Most of the dorm is already asleep, face down in their pillows, drooling like the dogs they are. Not Pax though. He's wide awake and he's here to tell the new kid how it really is.

The new kid transferred into Dalton about a week ago, late in the term. Usually Pax would deem this suspicious behaviour, but the new kid's okay. He's funny. He's a hell of a ball player and he'll do Pax's math homework if he asks him. He's a big improvement on Mungo, his last roommate, who broke wind like an atomic blast, and if you didn't watch out, broke other stuff as well.

No, the new kid's alright. Naïve as heck though.

"Listen up, new kid. Everything you've been told is a lie."

The new kid looks at him with wide blue eyes. He's wearing an oversized grey t-shirt with "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read" printed on it, and is still sucking his finger from where Pax just administered the super-secret oath. "What'cha mean?"

"Like, for example, the moon landings. Know anything about them?"

New Kid beams. "You bet. There were six successful Apollo missions. Did you know that Commander Alan Shepard is the first person to ever play golf on the moon? The payload of the-"

"They're fake."

"What? No!"

"Shot by Stanley Kubrick in a sound stage in Burbank."

"Who's Stanley Kubrick?"

"Some guy. Doesn't matter. They're fake as a three dollar bill."

New Kid scratches his head. "But when they went back in 2043 they found the landing site of the Apollo missions."

"Fake."

"They faked the landing site?"

"No, man. They faked 2043, all those Artemis missions. You can't land on the moon. It's covered in sentient acid spewing hyphae. It'd burn your feet right off."

"I don't think that's right."

"Look, Alvin-"

"Alan."

"The fact that the moon is an ancient alien mind control satellite that the government has been using to read your thoughts is just one of the things that they've been keeping from you."

"They have?"

"Yeah. It's just like Cap'n Strawberry breakfast cereal."

"I love Cap'n Strawberry."

"They're using it to drug the populace, make 'em stupid and gullible. Don't eat Cap'n Strawberry."

"Oh."

"And Ms Black who teaches physics?"

"Yeah, she's cool."

"She's an alien, man. Last term these weird lights came down and possessed her. Now she's an indestructible synthoid, the first wave of a planned invasion."

"Oh."

Pax slams The Book into the new kid's chest. It's ancient, made of real paper. Its pages are yellow and furled. Pax's Pop Pop gave it to him. Pop Pop runs a fishing tackle store in Arkansas, or at least that's his cover. Really, he's part of the revolution. Just like Pax. Pop Pop says that the Net is vulnerable to corruption by the Illuminati but The Book is forever.

"Read it. It'll blow your mind."

Alan reads it. It blows his mind.

The Book is called "The Secret Shadow" by F. K. Clinkenbeard and it is a doorway to a whole new world. Of course the world is run by a secret shadow government. Of course flu vaccines are a form of mind control. Of course the reason they haven't found alien life yet, despite all their searching, is because the government is covering it up. Of course. Of course. Of course.

Alan doesn't sleep a wink. He consumes the battered paperback. The sun is rising when he reaches the last chapter, entitled simply "The Man".

The Man is the most elusive of all the figures that control the world, and the most powerful. He is the spy master of the shadow government, the Grandmaster of the Illuminati, the leader of the secret cabal. Some say he is an immortal, or an alien. Some say he didn't just order the assassination of Kennedy, he was actually the figure on the grassy knoll. Others say he may not just lead the lizard men, but is one himself.

"The Man," says F. K. Clinkenbeard, "Is the most mysterious figure of them all and he very deliberately keeps it that way. What information my agents of the revolution could gather is scanty and obtained at great cost. He appears a white male in his forties or fifties with iron grey hair and piercing, yet soulless, blue eyes. In public he will often appear as a captain of industry or some other notable personage who wields his power behind the scenes. He can read your deepest thoughts with just one look. Only the strongest, such as myself, can hide anything from him."

Oh my God.

Oh. My. God.

Alan knows someone like that. Alan knows someone precisely like that. A captain of industry? A captain of industry with grey hair and blue eyes? Who is already implicated in another secret cover-up? Someone who can know just by looking at you that you broke Grandma's favourite vase, even though you hid the pieces and had an alibi and blamed Gordon?

Oh My God.

He flips back to the chapter on the moon landings, which he had skipped because he was so disappointed that since the moon was a relic of an ancient xenomorphic race he was unlikely to ever get to go there now, and finds what F. K. Clinkenbeard has to say on the astronauts who had taken part in the moon landings.

"Of course, all of the Apollo and Artemis astronauts were in on it. Some probably did it for the fame, but others were likely high ranking members of the Illuminati."

Alan rocks back. This is – This is –

My dad is the Man.

TheManismydad.

"I have to tell my brothers!"

Pax groans and rolls over. "Go back to sleep, New Kid."

He tackles Scott next time he visits him at school.

Most people's brothers are not allowed to take them out of school for the day, but for some reason the vice-principal always lets Scott take Alan, and she always accompanies Alan to the gate personally when he does. Alan figures it's because Scott is in the military and she feels sorry for him.

Scott takes him to breakfast at the best diner in town and buys him a giant plate of French toast, which arrives with a scoop of chocolate ice cream because the waitress must be feeling sorry for Scott too. Alan's always getting free food when he's with Scott.

"Is Dad The Man, Scott?"

Scott is pouring packet after packet of sweetener into his coffee. "What? Huh? Is Dad a man?"

"Not a man. Is he The Man."

"Like, 'Hey, Dad, you're the man!'? I don't think I'd call him that. Not to his face, anyway. He's got a big enough head as it is."

Alan shakes his head. Sometimes he despairs at his brother. They actually let Scott up in million dollar aircraft. Grown-up people do this. The aircraft have live ammo and everything.

"Not the man as if he scored the winning touchdown for the Washington Redshirts. The Man as in the faceless avatar of capitalist patriarchal oppression. Is Dad The Man?"

Scott leans back and rubs his eyes. "Well, I guess that depends on how you look at it. You know how he says 'You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs,' I think that's maybe his way of justifying all the shi… stuff he pulls to get ahead. But if you look at Tracy Industries' philanthropy record, it's one of the best in the world. So the truth is I don't– "

Alan sighs into his soda. "Let me put it in a way you can understand. Do you think Dad's a supervillain?"

Scott guffaws, then blinks, stares. "You serious?"

Alan takes a bite of French toast and nods.

"Well, he doesn't own a white cat."

"Scott…"

"And he doesn't wear an eyepatch."

"Scott…"

"There may be a torture chamber in the basement of the London office."

"Scott, c'mon."

Scott tilts his head at him curiously. "Has he done something that makes him seem like he might be a supervillain?"

"No. I mean, sometimes supervillains own secret island lairs."

Scott blinks. "Oh. He told you about the island?"

Alan squirms. "No."

"Did Gordon tell you about the island?"

"No."

Scott frowns over his coffee cup. "Allie, have you been hacking the TI restricted servers?"

"No… not...only a little bit."

"Alan…"

"But Scott, it's like a whole island and he bought it!."

Scott's face assumes that flat expression he gets that usually signals Gordon or Grandma are about to clean him out in poker. His banana pancakes have so far been untouched. He takes a big bite of them now. "Lots of people own islands. It's a cool thing to have. Very fashionable. It's a holiday home."

"And he's hoarding world iridium reserves."

"Perfectly good business strategy."

"And he's parcelled off some of his top engineers to work on a super-secret Project Phoenix."

"I hear Tracy Industries have big plans to revolutionise the vacuum cleaner."

"And…"

"Look, Alan, lots of people have schematics for hyper-advanced rocket planes on their servers. It certainly doesn't mean Dad's heading up some secret organisation or something. Why would you even think that?" He takes another huge bite of pancake.

"I was just going to say that sometimes his laugh can be a bit maniacal."

"Oh." Scott swallows. "Right. I guess it can. You want more ice-cream, buddy?"

It's obvious now. They've got to Scott. He's going to have to look elsewhere.

To: Rocketmanalan
From: Johnglenntracy
Re: Your Concerns

Dear Alan,

Thanks for your recent letter and all the news from your new school. I hope this finds you well. Thanks also for the reading material, which I perused with interest.

To answer your question, on September 20th 1969, Commander Neil Armstrong and Commander Buzz Aldrin were the first men to set foot on the moon. They brought with them an American flag, which contained a wire in order to hold it upright. While trying to get the flag into the soil – which proved a difficult task – the wire became bent, giving the appearance that the flag was rippling. There is no wind on the moon. Seven more Apollo missions followed. All but one, Apollo 13, touched down successfully on the surface of the moon.

From 2043 to 2047, the International Space Agency launched the Artemis missions, successfully allowing a further six men and seven women to walk on the surface of the moon, the last of which was Cosmonaut Maria Timoshenko. Our father was the commander of one of those missions.

I hope this clears everything up.

I'm glad you continue your study of astronomy without me and no, I don't think going out stargazing with Ms Black and her class is likely to result in you ending up an evil alien thrall.

Regards,

John Tracy

P.S: Maybe read more Carl Sagan and less Arthur C. Clarke for a while.

To: Alanssupersecretinbox
From: Johnglenntracy

Alan,

What do you mean, 'if that is your real name'? Of course it's my real name.

And if you're seeking proof that we are, in fact, related, please refer to the previous twenty-four emails, where I have debated extensively with you such topics as whether Area 51 is real, whether fluoridated teeth are needed to fuel alien starships and whether squirrels are agents of a secret government conspiracy to make us all eat more corn. Why would I put up with this otherwise?

Your confused brother,

John Tracy

To: Alanssupersecretinbox
From: Johnglenntracy

Alan,

I'm really busy with my thesis right now. Could you maybe go bother Virgil about this for a while?

Love,

John

"We're not Dad's real children, are we?"

He and Virgil are in The Rockies, mountain-biking. Virgil's just got his licences, driver's and pilot's, and is using them every opportunity he gets. Gordon's supposed to be with them but he took off up the trail half an hour ago with a whoop of "See you eleventy-never, losers."

When he hears Alan's question Virgil accidentally squirts his water bottle into his eye. "Oof… uh …what?"

"We're adopted, right?"

"Of course not. Not even…" He pauses to think about it, "Probably not even Gordon. Probably."

"But, but, there are five of us, and we all have different eye colours and different hair."

"You and Gordon don't." Virgil wipes his wrap-arounds on his t-shirt and pushes them back onto his nose.

"And I love jalapenos but Scott comes out in a rash when he eats them and you like crunchy peanut butter but I like smooth and there's no way you'd get me to even try a bite of yucky sushi but Gordon eats it like candy."

"Compelling arguments, all."

"And John likes kalimba music."

"I don't think being adopted explains John's love of kalimba music. I don't think anything explains John's love of kalimba music."

"Maybe we're clones."

"Alan, dude, I'm seriously losing the thread of this conversation."

"Clones to pretend to be Dad's normal family, so as not to expose his secret identity as absolute ruler of the illuminati."

"No, lost it entirely."

"It's the only explanation," Alan muses, nodding his head, realising how much this explains. "I mean, think about it, Virgil. Look at you. You're like sixteen."

"I'm seventeen… almost."

"And you're like this amazing artist."

"I dabble."

"And concert pianist."

"Alan, I play Chopsticks."

"And you can do advanced math in your head. And you're studying engineering and you fly planes and helicopters and operate heavy machinery and sky dive. When did you have time to learn all this? Plus you can bench press like a tonne." He flicks Virgil's bicep. "And Scott is an airforce pilot, when did he have time to get space rated?"

"All GDF pilots are trained for – "

"And John wants to spend like the rest of his life in space. How is he going to do that unless he has super clone bones?"

"Alan, have you been reading the IR handbook?"

"The what?"

Virgil's eyes bulge. "Uh, the nothing. Definitely nothing. Let's catch up with Gordon."

"But why clones? Why couldn't he have a normal family of his own?"

Oh.

Oh. Alan knows why.

"I think Dad has a secret."

Having failed with Virgil, Alan has moved on to his last resort. They're having dinner at the café beside their motel and Virgil's just gone to the bathroom.

Gordon looks up from his carbonara. His face falls. "Oh, man. I told Scott."

"Told him what?"

"He said you'd never figure it out, but I knew you were too smart."

"You know?"

"Of course I know."

"Why didn't you tell me Dad was a lizard man?"

Gordon glances quickly in the direction of the bathroom, then puts his knife and fork down. "Al, we're all lizard men."

"What?"

"Yeah, well, lizard men is a pretty racially insensitive term. We prefer the term Tyrannosaurus Awesomesaucus. I'm a Tyrannosaurus Awesomesaucus Amphibius and Dad's a Tyrannosaurus Awesomesaucus Rex. John's probably an Awesomesaucus Pontificus. Look, Dad didn't think you were ready for this yet but I think you can handle it. Eons ago His Majestic Terribleness– "

"You mean Dad?"

"Yes, yes, Dad, crash-landed on Earth. After burrowing into the earth's crust and building his giant reptilian megopolis he went into hibernation until the Earth was suitably fermented. Now it's time for him to unleash his hideous brood–"

"You mean you?"

"Excuse me? No. Do I look hideous to you? I mean Scott. Anyway, we're going to unleash Scott in his terrible lizard form on the world and then rule forever as lizard gods." He takes a huge slurp of his milkshake.

Alan sizes him up. "No, you're not. You're making that up. If you were lizard men why would you adopt me?"

Gordon reaches over and takes one of Alan's fries. "Al, you're a lizard man too. You're the prince of the lizard men. We just haven't unzipped you out of your skin suit yet. Why do you think you have those scales on your elbows?"

"Go away, lizard man!" Alan has locked himself in their motel room.

"Alan, would you get out here," Virgil shouts through the door. "I'm not a lizard man. You're not a lizard man."

"That's just what a secret lizard man would say! Oh man, I'm so itchy. I can see my scales coming out on my arm!"

"That's just eczema. The same eczema you've had since you were a baby."

"Lizard eczema! Why am I shedding my skin now? Gordon said it wouldn't happen until harmonic convergence."

"Oh. Did. He." Alan can hear footsteps moving away from the door. There's a couple of minutes of silence and then two sets of footsteps return.

"Gordon, tell Alan he's not a lizard man."

"Ow, ow, ow, Virgil, leggo!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I tearing your skin suit?"

"Okay, okay. We're not lizard men. We're not lizard men!"

"See, Alan? There's a much more reasonable explanation than Gordon being a lizard man, and it's Gordon being a jackass. So will you come out now?"

Alan rests his head against the door. Gordon being a jackass has explained many of the mysteries in his life to date. How his favourite sneakers had got filled with bean curd, where the giant inflatable Batman had come from. Certain irregularities in the female anatomy…

He's about to open the door when he hears whispers on the other side. "Jeez, Virg. That's going to leave a mark. If I get my first hickey and it's from you– "

"Stop moaning. You're fine."

"I mean it's not like I told him about-"

There comes a soft thump, followed by a pained grunt. "Gordon! Exnay on the Undermirdsdey. He's not supposed to know about that yet. You're not supposed to know about it yet."

"Can I help that you can't keep your big trap shut? 'Hey Gordon, I've got a secret. You'll never guess what it is. Hey, do you know any good pararescue courses?'"

Virgil gives a pained groan. "Oh man, Scott's going to kick my ass."

"What's an Undermirdsdey?" asks Alan through the door.

There is a long pause, then a soft sigh from Virgil.

"Nothing, Alan. It's… it's lizard man code."

Alan barricades himself into his dorm, checks his psychic wave spectrometer, activates his spectral analysis device, doublechecks his anti-squirrel deterrent and sits down at his desk. His palms are sweaty.

He's never felt so isolated before. If even his four older brothers are at the heart of the conspiracy who can he possibly trust?

Now he has to face the big kahuna himself.

Dad calls twice a week to check in on him, Monday's and Thursdays at eight. He's calling now.

"Hi, Dad."

"Alan, what are you wearing?"

"Nothing, Dad, my school uniform."

"I mean on your head, Alan."

Alan pats the crown of his head to make sure his personal protection device is in place. Pax says that plated electrum works best, but there wasn't any at school, so they've had to make do with sheet aluminium. "Oh, this? Nothing. My lab partner and I are doing experiments on cranial heat loss."

"Because it looks like you're wearing a tinfoil hat."

"No, no. It's for biology, honestly."

"O-kay. So how's softball going?"

"What the hell is wrong with your brother?"

"Why, nothing, your Indomitable Majesty. He-he-he."

"Alan Tracy, please come to the principal's office." There's a hushed 'ooh' from the class as the intercom sputters to life.

Alan rises from his seat like a man going to execution. His heart is beating fast. The principal is a huge, round creature with terrifying pointy teeth. He and Pax haven't managed to classify her species of origin, but Pax thinks she's a mubrid, bred in the government's secret gene pits under Los Angeles as an enforcer. What they do know is that about once a year, her terrible hungering for human flesh overcomes her and she'll snatch up a first year to dine on. Is that why Alan's being called to her office?

But he doesn't get as far as the principal's den, because Kyrano is waiting for him outside the office. He's holding Alan's overnight bag in one hand. Alan freezes. "H-Hey, Kyrano."

"Alan, your father has planned a short trip for you. I'm here to pick you up."

Alan gulps. He'd rather take his chances with the flesh-eating mubrid. "But…"

"We've cleared it with school. Come along, time to go."

There's a black town car waiting outside. Usually Kyrano allows Alan to sit up front, but today he holds the back seat open for Alan. Alan clambers inside and Kyrano goes around and starts the car.

It has never occurred to him to worry that Kyrano, who is his friend and Kayo's dad, and has promised to teach him how to sail next summer, might be part of this. But looking at him in this light, it occurs to Alan that though Kyrano doesn't have gold teeth or a lisp or a bowler hat, he looks an awful lot like Dad's henchman.

"Kyrano, you'd tell me right, if you were a sharkman or a killer robot or a yakuza assassin or something?"

"Certainly I'd tell you, Alan."

"Thanks."

"Of course, then I'd have to kill you."

"Oh."

"But there is a gift in the back seat there."

Alan looks around. There's a red paper bag on the seat beside him. He brightens. "For me?"

"Actually intended for your father. But I thought you could give it to him. Open it up."

"Alan looks inside. He giggles. "Thanks, Kyrano, I bet he loves it."

Tracy One is waiting on the tarmac for them but Dad isn't aboard. Kyrano sets Alan to do his homework and pilots the jet himself. He won't tell Alan where they are going.

Is Dad taking him to his secret island? Is he taking him to indoctrinate him? To reprogram him? To remove him? Does Dad know that he's rumbled him?

Alan stays, pinned to his chair, waiting for masks to drop from the ceiling, or someone to slip a drugged cloth over his mouth, to hiss, "We've been waiting for you, Mr Tracy." But nothing happens and despite his state of high alertness eventually he falls asleep.

He is woken by Kyrano calling his name over the intercom. "Have a look out the window."

There's an island down below, rising up like the back of a great grey whale, studded with trees like green barnacles, from a jewel blue sea. "Wow."

Kyrano takes his time, making a lazy flyby of the island before circling down to land. Alan gets a good view of the twin volcanos, the beaches and the entrance to the sea caves, before Tracy One switches to amphibian mode and touches down in the bay.

Kyrano ties her up and points to a pathway up through the jungle. "Go on up to the campsite. I'll follow."

Alan heads up the path. Just ahead there is a clearing, a couple of tents and a low burning campfire. He hangs back.

Dad is leaning over the fire, cooking sausages on the pan. As Alan watches he burns his finger trying to turn a sausage.

Lurking in the shadows, watching Dad wipe his greasy hand on his trousers, swearing under his breath, Alan suddenly feels… silly.

Because this is his dad. His dad who sings Bruce Springsteen when he thinks no one's listening, who can be his toughest critic but also his biggest fan, who flew back from Tokyo for the night, just to see Alan in the softball final. Dad, who is teaching him how to fly.

"Hey, Dad." He slinks out of the shadows.

Dad looks up and smiles. "Alan, just in time." He sucks the grease off his fingers and beckons him forward. Using a knife, he slides a fried egg and two sausages onto a tin plate. He passes it to Alan who takes it and sits on one of the stools but doesn't touch his food.

"Afraid it may be poisoned?" Dad puts the remaining sausages onto his own plate and takes a sip of his mug of coffee.

Alan blushes and bites off the end of his sausage. "Dad, where are we?"

"My lair," he says, "The secret one. But, I'll be honest, Alan. At this stage I've had a rather good rummage around and I can't find either the Martians or the Illuminiati anywhere."

Alan winces. "You know. How do you know?"

"Alan," says Dad, very seriously, "I know everything."

"Oh."

"And Gordon told me. That boy cannot keep a secret."

Dad pulls out The Book, or at least a copy of the book. This one lacks the distinctive dog ears The Book has acquired from a thousand re-readings. "Good read."

Alan looks at his trainers.

Dad hunkers down beside him. "Alan, the world is wide and confusing and strange. I've got one friend from the service who swears he saw the astronaut he lost five years ago on Mars in downtown DC just the other day. Another old colleague who thinks there's a race of sea-people living at the bottom of the Pacific – though mostly we think that guy's a quack. I'm not saying that some of the things couldn't be true."

"You aren't."

"No. But also you've got to remember, humans are programmed to look for patterns in things and that can lead to mistakes. Unfortunately the truth is that the world can be cruel and random and awful, and sometimes it's easier to think of it all as some grand conspiracy, some big plan, rather than to think what happened was awful random happenstance."

"Like with Mom?" whispers Alan.

"Like with Mom."

He reaches out and tousles Alan's hair almost absently, in just the way Alan hates. "The thng is, Alan I'm not sure I can prove I'm not emperor of the dinosaur people."

"King of the lizard men."

"Right, and I can't prove your brothers aren't lizard men – in fact, I'm pretty sure Gordon is at least part amphibian, but I hope you know I love you and I'd never hurt you."

Alan swallows hard.

Dad reaches into his back pocket. "And I do have some proof to counteract Mr Clinkenbeard's theories. I was saving this for your eighteenth birthday, but maybe now is a good time."

He holds out his palm. Sitting in it is a small, clear, plexiglass cube, about six centimetres on a side. Inside the box is a small white sphere, its surface lightly dimpled and speckled with grey powder.

Alan stares at it. "What is it?"

Dad shrugs. "It's a spy satellite."

This pulls a watery chuckle from Alan. "Daaad."

"It's a Martian egg."

Alan rolls his eyes.

"Well, what do you think it is?"

"Looks like a golf ball."

"That's right. It's a golf ball. On February 6th 1971, Commander Shepard, the first American in space, took a specially modified six iron and hit this ball and one other. Do you know where he took those shots?"

"On the moon!" Alan gasps and his fingers reach out to touch the little box. His greasy fingers smudge the glass and he jerks them back. "This is Alan Shepard's moon ball?"

"Shanked by Alan Shepard, tripped-over seventy years later by my big, clumsy feet and smuggled back home in your old man's underwear for you, Alan Shepard."

"Ewww. Dad!" sighs Alan and throws his arms around Dad's neck.

Dad hugs him back. "Just don't go telling anyone, okay? I don't know about the shadow government but the real government may want to have me arrested for pilfering antiquities if they find out. Got it?"

Alan grins. "It'll be our secret."

"And I was thinking that if you wanted to make sure that the moon really is up there, and not a deathstar you might want to go up there yourself and check."

Alan fills his lungs but no sound comes out. Instead he buries his head in Dad's shirt. Dad pats his shoulder. "It won't be today or tomorrow, Alan. It'll be hard work. But I do still have some friends at NASA, who might be looking for a dedicated intern for the summer. What do you think?"

Alan doesn't trust himself to speak. He nods.

"Good. Now, we've got two days here and there's a whole island to explore, sea caves and a volcano shaft and that – " There comes the buzz of an airplane overhead, "I suspect signals the arrival of your brothers."

Alan sniffles, then grins. "Sweet! Last one to the dock's a lizard man." He takes off into the jungle.

Jeff watches him go and chuckles.

A second later Alan is back. He throws his arms around Jeff for an instant, presses a red paper carrier back and runs off into the jungle again.

Jeff waits a moment and then opens the red carrier bag. Inside is a stuffed, white fluffy cat. "Why, thank you, Kyrano."

"My pleasure, boss." A shadow detaches itself from the treeline and becomes Kyrano. "I thought you could stroke it next time Scott comes to talk to you in your office."

"Does it come with an eyepatch?"

"Don't gild the lily, boss. Alan seems a bit more settled."

"I think so." Jeff watches his youngest son go. "When I was his age I spent a lot of time hunting chupacabras."

He removes the book from his jacket pocket and leafs through it. He can see Alan's blonde head bobbing towards the dock. "All the same, Kyrano. Let's not mention the rocket that comes out under the swimming pool just yet."