‘You can be present to your memories,’ said Lucy, ‘they’re not time machines.’

‘That’s true, although I’ve heard that some people can catch a ride on a madeleine,’ said Hunter, ‘but the French already have the patent on that low-tech time machine and anyhow it’s headed in the wrong way. The only direction I want to travel in is towards the future.’

‘I don’t think we have any choice about that,’ said Lucy, ‘annoyingly enough.’

‘So far!’ said Hunter, with a sudden laugh. ‘Anyhow, it’s great to have you on the team, Lucy. I want you to select bulletproof projects to protect me from charlatans and snake-oil salesmen. I don’t want to be the Citizen Kane of science funding, hiring an opera house for my squawking, tone-deaf wife to caterwaul on stage, while the opera lovers heckle from the stalls.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Lucy. She decided that she would just let Hunter wash over her, agreeing now and again to whatever he said. In a way, Hunter was a very simple person, who just wanted to be right all the time. It was easier to play along while she sheltered in her little enclave of rubble. He spoke unstoppably all the way to Oxford. Occasionally, she would slip in a smile, an expression of wonder, or an approving comment. Hunter was sometimes charming, sometimes needlessly confrontational, but nothing he said or did could possibly compete with the horror of her existing situation. Still, on the surface of her mind, she could remember wanting him to like the visit she had organised.

They were due to make an affable start by having a breakfast meeting with William Moorhead. Moorhead was a known ally and a business partner and despite his remark to Lucy – ‘In my opinion “Breakfast” and “Meeting” are two words that should never be seen side by side’ – he had of course agreed to come. Hunter was extremely genial to begin with, but when Moorhead said that the reasons for YouGenetics not having yet made a profit would ‘require at least two PhDs in biochemistry’ for Hunter to understand, there was a rapid shift in mood.