Harry blinked at the pulsing stars overhead. Like any summer night, he thought, except the stars were out of shape and turned on their heads, and it was too cold. He remembered those really hot nights when nobody could sleep, when Ma dozed on the verandah and the littlies grumbled themselves to sleep on the kitchen tiles. Funny how little kids never had trouble sleeping. They dropped off any time and had to be carried to bed. Heavy little blighters when they were dead asleep.
Those stars were wrong. Definitely wrong. He lifted one hand—was that the saucepan, there? But it looked wrong too. And where were the pointers? They were always so clear in the summer, with the Southern Cross hanging so close to earth. You can see them clear any night you like, thought Harry. Only not here, not now.
