But this was just the start. There would be an escalation of such gigantic seismic events, from now until—

Well, he thought, until the end.

Time to act, Henry thought. If not now, never.

The telephone started to ring.

And when he put the phone down again, he knew that, finally, there would come a day — in mid-August, just a week from now — which would be his last on Earth, perhaps forever.

21

He slept badly, with disturbed dreams.

There was a knock at the door, repeating gently.

He didn’t know where the hell he was, or what time it was.

He looked for his watch, and couldn’t find it, but it was useless anyhow as he hadn’t reset it since Houston. He pulled a towel around his waist and padded to the door.

Standing there was a doctor — it was obvious that was what he was, a little guy in a white coat with a black bag — and Geena, his ex-wife. Geena was wearing some kind of blue coverall and carried a little bag of groceries.

“You didn’t used to have to knock,” he said hoarsely.

“Different days, Henry. Can we come in?”

“Oh, shit,” said Henry, remembering. “You’re wearing a flight suit, aren’t you? It’s the day.”

Geena grinned, perhaps with a little malice. “The Russians say we are to share a great honour, this day,” she said.

Geena and the doctor bustled into the room. Henry backed off, and retreated to the bathroom. A last refuge of privacy.

He had spent his last night on Earth in Leninsk, the city that had grown up on the back of Baikonur Cosmodrome. They had arrived late. This was what they called the cosmonauts” hotel, the Kosmonavt, a low, modern building screened by what looked like elm trees — karagach, a young Russian told him. His room was a tiny suite, a doll’s-house Hilton of a thing, with a living room, a bedroom and a bathroom.

The room was like something out of the 1950s: carpets, net curtains, a fridge. Nothing inside the fridge but Diet Coke, labelled in Cyrillic. The bath had taps and a shower-head. But there was no plug — not in the hand-basin either — and the ceramic was cracked and stained.

Now, when he lifted the toilet lid, the ancient ceramic was so dark he couldn’t see the little puddle of water at the bottom. He had to admit it took a little willpower to lower his butt once more to this cracked Russian po.

When he flushed there was a sluggish trickle, of dirty brown water.

He tried the shower. It ran cold. There was a small sign in Cyrillic which apparently told him for which quarter-hour of the day he could expect hot water.

Farewell from Earth, he thought.

He towelled himself down. When he emerged, the doctor was waiting for him.

“Ya pravyeryoo davlyeniye.”

“Huh?”