I’m getting tired of meetings with people in suits. Decisions. Directives. None of it is real, Jane, compared to what’s happening out there. The physical reality of the Moonseed, in the rock. You can’t executive-order all that out of existence.

“I understand.”

…And people always want to believe it’s going away.

His voice was flat. Something had changed him.

“Henry, what are you trying to tell me?”

There was silence for long seconds, digitally perfect.

I’ve been working on the science out here. Options to stop the Moonseed. Short and long term. Teams of us, across the planet. And I’ve become convinced.

“What about?”

That we can’t stop it.

She tried to take that in. “There must be a way.”

No. No happy ending, Jane. No neat solution. It doesn’t work like that, it seems. The Moonseed is implacable.

“Is this why you called me?”

No. Yes. I suppose so. It’s difficult. Jane — do you believe me?

She massaged her forehead. “I don’t know.”

The trouble is, we have no one to surrender to.

“I’m not joking, Henry.”

Neither am I. I’m sorry.

“How long—”

The math is uncertain. Earth is big. Decades, probably.

“This wasn’t the future I expected when I was growing up.”

You, the great prophet of environmental doom?

“I think on some level I believed we would be able to do something. We were making a mess of the planet, fine, but it was within our capabilities to stop. All we needed was the will. And then there’s the movies. Science fiction. Disaster films. The world is ending, but the heroes can always do something.”

Yeah. But in real life the future was always finite, Moonseed or not.

“Not this finite. We used to talk about a billion years, Henry. Now you’re talking about decades…” Not even long enough for Jack to have kids of his own, and watch them grow, and grow old himself. Whatever years he does have, he’ll spend on the run. Fleeing from the bloody Moonseed.

Henry said, All any of us can do is our best, by each other, by whatever duty we perceive.

“Not much comfort.”

I’m sorry, he said.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s.”

No. Not even Mike’s.

“Are they going to send people back to the Moon?”

That’s what I’m campaigning for. I suppose it would be another one in the eye for astrology.

She laughed, softly. “Tell me your birthday.”

He told her.

She thought for a while. “Well, there you are. Your sign is Sagittarius, the sign of exploration. The sign that’s linked with spaceflight. And your dominant planet is Pluto. Planet of transformation. So the omens are good.”

Gee. How spooky.

“Of course I don’t believe in astrology. But then I’m a Scorpio, and Scorpios are always sceptical.”

A long pause, transatlantic crackles.