Leyton’s cowrie string. Anis mesmerised by her cabin painting; many months later I learned it was actually the Ghanaian symbol Sankofa, which in the Twi language means ‘Go back and get it’. Emilia’s Gye Nyame tattoo, also Ghanaian, meaning ‘except God’ or ‘only God’, high on one pale shoulder. Bai’s puzzle piece took more time, yet I eventually found it back on Earth, after many months of research. His family is originally from the Shanxi province, northern China, an area known not only as a seat of Asian civilisation, but for thirty-eight pyramid burial structures, many of which contained the mummified remains of humans. It’s speculated those ancient people were African migrants who left their continent over one hundred thousand years ago. Though conflicting research exists, the centuries-old discovery of shared African and Asian DNA corresponds with a theory I formed on my journey through the fiery atmosphere of my home world.

I’ve already written of my belief that the WiSP might actually be guided by something more cosmological than physiological. More spiritual than scientific. That deep within our cells, on some subatomic level, our very blueprints, our coded DNA, could be subconsciously activated in order to command the WiSP to visit the places we intend within the core of our beings, overriding the pre-programmed wishes of board members and committees. The scientific proof underpinning epigenetic inheritance is, like ancient beliefs, centuries old. ‘Cherry blossom’ mice and holocaust sufferers alike were both found to have a knowledge of trauma that was passed through their DNA. Could it be that a form of this genetic reshuffling brought about the occurrence on Mimas 4?

When I dared to suggest as much in an amended edition to my bestselling book, In the Footsteps of Mimas, EASN, a handful of undocumented WiSP boffins, and my fellow journalists Roberta Miles and Wade Kennedy, all admonished me in print. I have never bothered to restate my arguments, or refute theirs. I’m an old man. These days at least, I’ve no heart for a fight.

And yet some nights I find myself in my garden sitting on the very bench where a harried scientist once kicked over a glass of red wine, and ran. My ears sing with the hum of mechanisms. With my eyes open, I dream. I gaze at the moon and imagine where such a power could lead us. Is it right to admit I can’t quite see that far? Would it be allowed? Juanita sometimes comes out with a chilled glass of white, asking me to find the intermittent glow of the Mimas 5 orbital build. I search the heavens with a finger although, as much as I try, one glistening star looks much the same as another.

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