Mike shrugged. “She knows more about geology and mineralogy and stuff than she admits. But she has to make a living.”

“So, what about you? You have a pet rock at home?”

Mike laughed. “No. But I have a rock collection. I started when I was a kid. The first item was a piece of basalt from Arthur’s Seat. When I was a schoolkid I joined a local geology society. Field trips to the Pentland Hills, and stuff.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You know, Edinburgh is the home of geology—”

“So they tell me.”

Mike looked embarrassed, and again Henry found himself absurdly regretting his sharpness.

“Go on,” Henry said. “So you wanted to be a geologist.”

“I never got that far.”

“As far as what?”

“As taking A-levels. The exams that would have got me to University.” He shrugged. “But I learned a lot about rocks. I was always good in the field, and I turned out to be good in the lab. I got a job as a technician in the geology department here.”

“You could study. Do some kind of correspondence thing.”

Mike flashed a weak smile. “I’m happier with the rocks.”

“Especially Moon rocks, huh.”

“Oh, yes. Especially the Moon rocks.”

To Henry the British roads looked clean, wide, kind of crowded; this was indeed a small island, he thought. The exit ramp from the motorway was a baby-gentle curve, signposted miles in advance. They emerged onto a roundabout, a system of ordered chaos, with an unspoken etiquette about giving way Henry was going to have some trouble mastering. Not to mention the fact that Mike was sitting on the right, and the roundabout traffic turned clockwise, counter to the way God intended humans to travel…

Henry felt irritated by all this. He wasn’t interested in learning about the eccentricities of the British road system. The truth remained that he didn’t want to be here, and still wouldn’t even after he got past his jet lag. He let himself get annoyed at Edinburgh, Scotland and Britain, however unfair it was.

They entered the city itself. Henry’s immediate impression was bustle, colour, lovely old sandstone buildings, hills everywhere.

Mike, following the traffic along a broad, sunlit shopping street, turned towards the train station. “Your hotel’s the Balmoral. Kind of swank. We checked you in here until you find somewhere more permanent. NASA are paying…”

Henry peered gloomily at the hotel, a sandstone pile punctured with slit windows, topped by a huge, fairy-cake clock tower. Builders were working on the roof, adding what looked like a layer of radiation-proof lead shielding. Overall, the hotel looked like a prison.

He checked his watch: 9.00 a.m., British time.

“How far are we from work, Mike?”

He shrugged. “A few minutes. Do you want to check in first, freshen up—”

Henry scratched the stubble on his cheeks. “Hell, no.” He grinned. “First impressions are vital. Let’s go see that Moon rock.”