“Time travel?” “It’s limited: My future consciousness displaced to my body in the past,” she says.

“Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

I enter the supervillain’s kitchen. Stood nose to the floor is a 1950 A-bomb.

“No wonder we’re dead in space!”

“Please help me,” Amy asked, approaching cautiously. “I need a ride.”

“It’s a spell?”

His suit is impeccable, the physique under it attractive. His head is a skull.