Here, though, it was different. The Soviets had built their pads in the heart of their continent, with the empty belly of Asia stretching hundreds of miles to the east, a waterless ocean of rock and scrub.

But the place had seen better days, Henry learned. Baikonur was guarded by army recruits who were sometimes not paid for months on end, who had rioted several times, and who had been reduced to supplying their needs by looting the supplies for the cosmonauts loaded aboard the Space Station’s Progress resupply ships.

Reassuring.

They came to a small, insignificant building that turned out to be the cosmonauts” preparation block.

Henry got down from the bus. There were more people here, waiting to greet him: pad rats, he supposed. Geena nodded, smiled, quipped and shook hands. The pad rats were all wearing surgical-style facemasks, over which they stared at him. Even so he could tell not one of them was smiling at him.

They were led to a big room, something like a hospital ward. There were strip lights in the roof, and a gleaming tiled floor, and two couches; amid piles of equipment, more technicians in lab coats and facemasks waited for them.

With gentle tugs, the pad rats showed Henry he should strip naked once more. He unzipped his NASA flight suit and pulled off his underwear; it was crammed unceremoniously into a bag and removed, taking his human warmth, leaving him feeling shrivelled and exposed.

Now came another standing bath of alcohol, and he was handed more underwear to put on. A medic pulled a heavy belt closed around his waist, thick with equipment. He guessed there was a cardiograph in there, maybe something to measure his breathing.

And now a garment was lifted towards him by three pad rats.

“My God. It’s a spacesuit,” he said, wondering.

The pad rats looked back at him blankly.

The spacesuit was a floppy white mannequin, its limbs held stiffly out, as if it was already half-alive. Henry watched it approach, feeling a deep reluctance to climb inside. But the pad rats lifted and manipulated him as confidently as if they were packing a souvenir doll in Styrofoam.

The suit was open at the front, and the pad rats helped him slide his legs down through the stomach. There seemed to be two layers to the suit, an inner layer of some tough, rubbery material and an outer layer of a rough artificial fabric, coated with flaps, zippers and pockets. The rats lifted up the back and chest part of the suit, and he had to struggle to push his arms into the heavy sleeves.