Mike took Henry’s bag, a wheeled suitcase, and hauled it away through the terminal towards the car park. Mike was a technician in the University geology department here; he was in his early twenties, with — to Henry’s eye — brutally short-cut hair, a disconcertingly pierced nose, placid blue eyes. He wore the bright Day-Glo sunscreen popular with the young around the world, huge dabs of orange and yellow on his nose and cheeks. His accent was distinctly Scottish, but gentler than Henry had expected — lots of strong r’s, “ye” for “you’, “tae” for “to’, and so on. No big deal.

“The rock’s already here,” Mike said.

“The rock?”

“86047. The Moon rock. We’ve set up our sample lab. I don’t mind telling you we’re all excited about this, having the rock here.”

“It’ll be glad to know it’s a celebrity.”

Mike looked cut by the mild sarcasm, and Henry instantly regretted it.

“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “We’re glad to welcome you too, sir.”

“I know what you meant, Mike. And for Christ’s sake call me Henry; you make me feel old enough as it is.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, already.”

“I’m—” Mike laughed, and seemed to relax a little. “You’re the boss.”

Mike’s car, in the multi-level airport car park, turned out to be a small, battered Rover. Henry, unfamiliar with the Brit numberplate system, couldn’t tell its age, but he was willing to bet it hadn’t been radiation-proofed according to the new international code. There was room in the trunk — no, the boot — for Henry’s luggage, but Mike had to clear boxes and papers off the seats before Henry could sit down.

“Sorry,” Mike said. “I wanted to pick you up myself. But the car’s always full of shit.”

Henry shrugged as he buckled up his seat belt. “We’re geologists, remember. Geologists live in shit. It’s in the job description.”

“Here.” Mike handed Henry a cardboard carton of orange juice.

“What’s this for?”

“Jet lag. I know how it feels.”

Henry grinned, and held the carton to his mouth.

Mike queued his way out of the car park, and set off along the freeway — motorway — towards central Edinburgh, eight miles away. The sky was blue, fresh, marked by a few moist-looking cumuli; but, when Mike opened a window, it was cold.

He became aware that Mike hadn’t spoken since the airport. Mike seemed to have picked up Henry’s inner sourness; maybe the poor kid thought Henry’s mood was somehow his fault.

“So,” Henry said with an effort. “What’s the shit, specifically? The boxes in the car.”

“Oh.” Mike looked vaguely embarrassed. “They’re for my sister. I get her samples through my buddies at the University. She sells rocks.”

“She’s an academic supplier?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh. Don’t tell me. Not rocks; crystals.”