The interior of the Army Air Corps Chinook was spartan, just a bare hull with plastic coating over the frame. There were no seats. There were soldiers here in field kit, a patrol on their way to some assignment of their own. The men were hot, sweating, sitting in the roar of the engines on a non-slip flooring littered with dirt. Their packs were strapped down to the floor, with cyalumes — lamps — around them. The men were rooting through the crew’s kit they found there, pinching chocolate bars and Coke with a practised thoroughness.

And I complained about British Airways, Henry thought. Well, there wasn’t a lot of choice. Maybe if he padded his jacket under his ass—

A loadmaster tapped him on the shoulder. “Not here, sir. You can ride upfront, in the cockpit.”

“Is that any more comfortable?”

The loadie shrugged. “The company’s better.”

So, with an effort, Henry climbed into the cockpit, and took a jump seat behind the pilot and copilot. The pilot was on the left — no, he was the guy on the right, damn it, these Brits took the wrong side of the highway even in the air. He nodded to Henry, a crisp “Sir’. The pilot seemed young, an NCO; Henry would have said he was working class if that hadn’t become, he’d learned, an outdated analysis of British society.

The cockpit was a cave of switches and dials and screens; the pilot and copilot were working through their take-off routine.

“Pedals in neutral.”

“Pedals.”

“Cyclic centred, collective lever down.”

“Got it.”

“Clear left and right.”

“Go for it.”

“Rotor brake off. Wind up rotors.”

“I got it…”

The noise of the rotors rose.

The Chinook lifted with a surge that made Henry’s stomach sink a little deeper inside his frame.

Thanks for the warning, fellas.

Edinburgh turned into a glowing map spread out beneath him, a folded blanket of green cut through by the blue of the Forth, the grey-black of the buildings, the lumpy outcrops of volcanic rock. The road network, clean and well-maintained, was a black thread like a kid’s toy track, its markings clear and bright. Today the roads were empty, save for a few scattered and stationary vehicles.

In the middle of the rectangular, oddly American grid that was the New Town, someone was standing, alone, looking up at him, face a bright white dot.

“One hundred feet… eighty feet…” the copilot said.

“Roger, eighty feet. Ninety knots.” The pilot turned, his eyes insectile behind big tinted goggles. “So you’re from NASA, sir?”

“Yup.”

“Always glad to give you Yanks a flying lesson. Staying at eighty feet, ninety knots.”

The Chinook dipped sharply to the right. Henry looked for a sick bag; there was nothing that qualified.

“This is a little slow for you, I suppose, sir.”

“I’m a scientist, not an astronaut.”

Now the Chinook was flying low over Arthur’s Seat.