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as they strolled along, an old jaunty ballad that took all of thirty seconds to get on Roz's nerves.
    The track led into an area of dunes at the base of the hills. The conifers gave way to gnarled little trees with spreads of broad oval leaves. The small trees gave way to tufts of dune grass, wiry long-bladed plants that sought to fix the windblown sand in place. The tufts grew fewer and the sand finer until finally the dunes became mere mounds of sand. It was a difficult surface to walk on, especially for Roz in her heavy boots. It didn't seem to bother Chris who ran up the last dune, reached the top and yelled, 'I can see the sea.'
    'I'm terribly happy for you,' muttered Roz as she laboured after him.
    'And I think there's a beach-bar too,' called Chris.
    Roz and Bernice glanced at each other and picked up the pace.
    If it was a beach-bar it wasn't much of one: just half a dozen circular tables with matching chairs plonked down on the edge of the dunes. The beach itself was much more impressive, a kilometre-long crescent of pristine yellow sand between two rocky headlands. It was the kind of beach that got texture-mapped into fraudulent holiday brochures. Bernice assumed that iSanti Jeni lay just beyond the eastern headland, providing that the Doctor had been telling the truth.
    'You know,' said Chris, 'I've been examining that beach.'
    'I know where this is going,' said Bernice. 'And what are your conclusions?'
    'I think it's safe,' said Chris.
    'Really?' said Roz.
    'I think it's really safe,' said Chris. 'Possibly the safest beach I have ever seen. In fact I would go as far as to say that it is the very epitome of a safe beach.'
    'Chris,' said Bernice.
    'Really, really safe.'
    'We're not your parents.'
    Chris glanced at Roz who sighed and gestured vaguely with her hand. Chris whooped and ran for the waterline, hands busy with the straps of his armour as he went.
    'He'd only sulk,' said Roz.
    There was another shout and Chris dived into the surf. His footprints were clearly visible in the pristine sand. Bits of discarded armour were strewn to either side. They saw his blond head surfacing beyond the line of breakers. He waved and then vanished from sight.
     
    Bernice looked over at the tables. 'Do you think that's really a bar? I don't see a service area.'
    'Only one way to find out,' said Roz.
    They sat down at the nearest table. The chairs appeared to be moulded out of rigid white plastic but Bernice felt the material shift subtly under her weight, making the chair more comfortable. When she leaned back to look for Chris the chair leaned back with her. 'He certainly got out of that armour fast enough.'
    'You learn the technique when you're at the Academy,' said Roz. 'In case the armour gets contaminated or compromised in some way. There are ancillary benefits too.'
    'I'll bet,' said Bernice. 'Can you do it that fast? I mean he didn't even break his stride.'
    'Faster,' said Roz, 'when I was younger.'
    'But not any more?'
    'I haven't had much reason to try,' said Roz. 'Not recently.'
    Bernice pretended to examine the table top, hoping that Roz would say more, give a little, maybe strip off some of the armour she was wearing on the inside. The table was made from the same white plastic as the chairs, its top covered in what Bernice recognized as writing. It looked a bit like Arabic, if you thought Arabic was written top to bottom in a dayglo orange scrawl.
    Roz looked around. 'What do you have to do to get a drink around here?'
    'Ask,' said the table.
    Both women, very slowly, bent down and looked under the table. There was nothing except a small oval of shaded sand, a heavy base and the thin column that supported the table. Their eyes met briefly. Roz raised an eyebrow.
    'Look,' said the table, 'do you want a drink or not?'
    Bernice banged her head on the underside of the table. She heard Roz cursing. Both women slowly and with infinite nonchalance resumed an upright posture in their chairs.
    Bernice cleared her throat.