It wasn’t hard to find the Egress Hatch encampment; it was at the centre of the densest knot of sight-seers. The cultists were sitting around in their pyjama uniforms in a rough circle, as close, it seemed, as the police would allow them to the quicksand puddle. At their centre was the leader, Bran. He had on a Madonna microphone headset, and was strolling easily before the quicksand, his words amplified by a bank of ghetto blasters. He looked for all the world like a stand-up comic, she thought. His audience was no passive congregation; they laughed and whooped as he spoke to them.

Hamish Macrae had mastered the seduction of humour, she thought. He had grown up a lot since that lift shaft.

And here, as Henry had appeared to expect, was Mike, sitting among the cultists. He was still wearing a white lab coat, which stood out among the pastel colours of the cultists” pyjamas.

Jane moved forward — she had to step over a few rows of cultists, who dipped out of her way with gentle smiles — and hissed until she had Mike’s attention. He looked back at Bran as if wistfully, but he unfolded his legs, stood and climbed out to her.

Henry spoke first. “I was worried about you. We missed you at work.”

Mike seemed surprised. “You did?”

“Well, Marge Case makes lousy coffee. Anyhow, you don’t have the pyjamas for this.”

Mike smiled weakly. “Pyjamas will be provided.”

“When?” Jane snapped. “When you all beam up to the fucking mother ship?”

Mike wasn’t reacting. “You can’t mock this, you know. Bran mocks himself.”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “I noticed. He’s smart.”

“Dad thinks we should get out of here,” Jane said. “Out of the city. We want you to come. We need you.” She hesitated. “Jack needs you.”

Mike frowned. “I think I’m needed here.”

“Why?” Jane said sharply. “To atone?”

Mike wouldn’t reply.

Henry touched her shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

She flared. “We can’t just leave this little arsehole.”

“What are you going to do, slug him and haul him over your shoulder? You know, these guys will have to come off this rock soon anyhow. The rate of progress of the dust—”

“Moonseed,” Mike said.

“What?”

“That’s what Bran calls it. Moonseed.”

Jane said, “Why?”

“Because it comes from the Moon.”

She held Mike’s arm, just for a moment. “We’ll be waiting,” she said.

He nodded tightly, already looking back at Bran.

“Moonseed,” Henry said. “It’s a better word than quicksand. But it’s still just a word.”

“I think Mike’s gone crazy,” she said.

“No. You mustn’t think that. None of them are crazy. Bran isn’t crazy. I think Bran has looked at the same evidence as me and come to the same conclusions, in some way I don’t understand. Now, given all that, how is Mike supposed to react?”