The immigration officer began to lock up. The postal worker moved cardboard boxes into the back of a Chevy pickup. He moved rapidly, although his limbs were thin, and there was something malnourished about him.

“Is there any kind of taxi service here?” Kane asked.

“Not here, no,” the man said.

Kane used the public phone, tried a number for the hotel, but no one answered. They were closing the airport now. The postman watched Kane hang up.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I need to get to Georgetown. Any chance of a lift?”

“I can drive you. Give me a minute.”

The man spoke to the official, exchanged some pleasantry, and led Kane to the pickup.

“Just got here?”

“About an hour ago.”

“You can forget that,” he said, nodding to the phone in Kane’s hand. “You’ll get used to it. First time on the island?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded.

“Climb in.”

It was pitch black once they were out of the airport. Beyond the bubble of their headlights, the world ended. A car passed in the opposite direction. The postman raised his hand and the other driver did the same, then they were gone.

“Brought any books over?” the man said.

“Quite a few.”

“I’ve read every book on this island, I reckon.”

“I’ll see if I can sort you out. I guess things become precious on an island.”

“On this island, most things do.”

Kane thought of the air-con unit and the motorbike. A land to which every possession had to be hauled. Historical accounts of the island were full of ships bringing cattle and birds and trees, and the anguish at finding that most of them had died on the way.

“Do you live in Georgetown?” Kane said.

“No, but I can drop you there.”

“Been on the island a while?”

“A few years now. Lost count. But that makes me an old-timer. Not many stick it out.”

“Must be peaceful though.”

“Peaceful, all right.”

They passed wind turbines turning in the moonlight, then circular arrays of antennae looking like no installations Kane had ever seen before. The road was bumpy now. They bounced north past the US base. The GCHQ radome came into view, like a giant golf ball perched on top of a flattened volcanic cone. Kane wondered what work it was doing now, whether someone in the Cheltenham offices in which he’d sat just five days ago was monitoring its actions.

“Can you hear that?” the driver said. He slowed the truck. Kane listened for some hum or tick from the technology but heard only a soft rustling sound. It became louder as they continued: not technology, but nature cawing.

“Full moon, you see. They’ve come.” The man stopped the truck, rolled his window down. Kane did the same. “Sooty terns. You can’t see them very well, but there’s thousands there.”