The doctor, miming what he wanted, pulled out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around Henry’s arm. Then came a stethoscope, lung capacity measures, an eyepiece for peering into his mouth and ears, other simple tests. The stethoscope disc was cold on Henry’s chest.

Geena stalked around the room. She looked down on Henry’s discarded socks and underpants, as if from a great height.

The doctor backed off. “Vi nye balni. Odivaitis, pazhalsta.”

Henry looked at Geena.

“You are healthy,” said Geena. She shrugged. “I speak astronaut pidgin. He says you may get dressed. There are clothes in the cupboard.”

Henry went through to his bedroom. Hanging up in the wardrobe there was a blue NASA flight suit — it had a little US flag stitched to it, but not his name — and there were longjohns, socks and T-shirts in the dressers. He washed again — the water was still cold — and when he emerged the doctor was waiting for him, here in the bedroom, his last sanctum. With mimes, the doctor insisted he had to be rubbed down with an alcohol swab.

Henry submitted. The alcohol was cold on his flesh.

When the doctor had gone Henry got dressed quickly. All the clothes fit. There were light training shoes, and he slipped those onto his feet.

He picked his own clothes up from the floor. He considered putting them into the trash. Then, carrying the clothes, he walked back out to the lounge.

“I look like a tour guide at Disneyland,” he said to Geena.

“You look fine.”

Henry held his clothes out to the doctor. “Will you look after these for me?”

The doctor nodded; his round, Moon-like face split into a smile. “Da.”

“It’s just shit, but it’s all I have left.”

“I think he understands,” Geena said. “He has been around cosmonauts a long time.”

“I’m not a cosmonaut.”

“By the end of today you will be. Now.” She lifted her grocery bag, and inside there was heavy Russian bread, and little packets of salt and water. She laid out the stuff on the crude coffee table that was the centrepiece of Henry’s living room. She poured the salt into a depression in the top of the loaf. Then she broke off a piece of the bread, dipped it in the salt, and bit into it.

Henry took some bread and bit off a piece. It was heavy and strongly flavoured. “An old Russian custom?”

“That’s right. They do this tradition stuff better than we do.” Geena slapped her thigh. “Into the saddle!”

She really has gone native, he thought.

“Hi ho Silver.”

Geena put down the bread. “Look, Henry. I know how you must be feeling. I know you’ve had no real time to prepare. But I’m trained for this. Some of it, anyhow. I’m with you all the way; you won’t come to harm.”

To his chagrin, Henry found he was reassured. “Thanks.”