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Half a world and twelve hours away, another crank is turning on a reel of film, this one crisp and virginal.

“Speed,” says the nervous cameraman, “I think.”

“Cue!” shouts the director. Then: “Go!”

“Is that for me?” asks the chapped and holstered bushranger, squinting dawnward. His voice is squeaky, but his face is all stone and leather.

“Yes! I cued you!”

“But last time you said ‘start.'”

The director’s neck veins pop. “I’m sorry. What word would you like to settle on?”

“You could try ‘action,'” mumbles Dacelo, perched on an apple box in trousers too nice for this dust.