‘Survival afloat?’ I ask. ‘Is that what you’re selling?’

‘Yes. You’ve nailed it.’

‘So, pretend I’m very rich. What am I buying?’

‘Everything you’d normally specify, plus some tweaks.’

‘Like?’ This from Malo.

‘Zero reliance on FFs, for starters.’

‘FFs?’

‘Fossil fuels. No petrol. No diesel. We have to make assumptions here. Every port, every refuelling facility, will either be rubble or glowing with radiation.’

‘Back to sails, then.’

‘Sure. That would be safest. Some folk talk about solar, but the jury’s still out on the technology and in any case, survivors might be in for wall-to-wall cloud cover. They call it nuclear winter. And if you can’t rely on the sun, wind is the only option. That will certainly get you places that will keep you safe. Then there’s food and water. Food’s no problem. Think NASA. Lots of dried stuff, tinned stuff, high-protein shit. A yacht of the right size, you can stock up for years, and when you need something fresh you can always tow a trolling line and hook a fish or two. Water? A breeze, literally. Wind will charge batteries, and batteries will power a modest desalination rig.’

I nod again. Item by item, Sylvester’s prescription for life everlasting is making perfect sense. Then I remember Nevil Shute’s cloud of intense radiation, slowly girdling the entire planet.

‘What if there’s nowhere to hide?’ I ask. ‘What then?’

‘We give you a safe room down below. Lead-lined. Impervious to radiation. You have access to water, food, light, heat, everything you need. Most radioactive elements have a half-life measured in months, sometimes years. We’ll keep you alive until it’s safe to come out. And that’s a promise.’

This, I know, has to be a joke.

‘So, who could possibly enforce a guarantee like that? When most of the world is in ruins?’

‘No one. But I guess that’s the whole point. A tiny, tiny handful of the world’s population has the means to cheat the Doomsday Clock. All they need is money. The rest is down to us.’

‘You mean you?’

‘Me and my company. We like to think of ourselves as enablers, the yeast in the mix that makes the whole thing rise. Having the idea’s one thing. Bringing it to market, quite another.’

When I ask him where on earth he’d start, he’s looking at Malo.

‘Someone told me you organized an expedition a couple of years back,’ he says. ‘Took a bunch of paying guests to Normandy aboard an old fishing smack.’

‘Provident.’ Malo’s grinning. ‘It was a Brixham trawler. We hit a shipping container on the way back and ended up on the beach in Ventnor, but that wasn’t my fault.’

‘I know. The guy told me that, too. He was impressed.’

‘By the boat? The voyage?’