“…Great theory,” said Henry sourly. “But it heads out the window when your astronaut fouls up. The orientation we have here is just a best guess. Shit. This rock sits there a billion years, waiting to be found, and we screw it up in the first second of contact…”

Two people bustled into the lab: a greying, portly older man, and a woman of about twenty-seven.

The man shook Henry’s hand. “Dr Meacher.”

“Henry, please.”

“Dan McDiarmid. I’m heading up the investigation here, from our side of the pond. Welcome to Edinburgh.”

“Good to meet you, Danny.”

McDiarmid flinched but held his ground. “We weren’t expecting you quite so — informally.” He was eyeing Henry’s stubble.

There wasn’t a trace of Scottish in his accent, as far as Henry could tell. He knew the type, he thought. His creative days long past, McDiarmid had used whatever reputation he had earned to win power and wealth, to turn himself into a Great Man.

Authority. The antithesis of science.

Now the woman pressed forward, thin and intense, sharp blue eyes. “Marge Case,” she said. “I took my degree at Cambridge, and a doctorate in lunar feldspathic breccia crystallization history—”

“I know about your work.” Henry noticed both McDiarmid and Case had just ignored Mike; in fact Case had literally pushed past Mike to get to Henry.

Henry retrieved his hand from Case. “Hey. Mike. Stick around.”

Mike turned, confused. “You want me to get you a coffee?”

“Hell, no, I don’t want a coffee. Well, yes I do, but not right now. Just hang loose, bubba.”

McDiarmid said with evident difficulty, “We want to offer you every hospitality and resource. Marge here will work as your lead technician, and—”

“Sorry.” Henry reached out to Mike, got hold of the shoulder of his jacket, and pulled him back. “Post’s taken.”

Case looked at Mike with precisely the reaction Henry had expected. “But I have a doctorate in—”

“You said already. I’m sure Mike and I can find you something to do.” Henry put his arms around their shoulders, and began to lead them to the door; McDiarmid followed, hands fluttering over his belly. “We’re going to be one big family,” Henry said. “Just like the Waltons. Do you get the Waltons? Now, Mike. Where do we get that coffee?”

When he was done tormenting Case and McDiarmid, he relented and let Mike drive him back to the Balmoral.

Mike drove in silence, apparently confused. Henry wondered if he was being cruel to him, in some obscure way.

Am I just playing games with this guy? Or do I really think he will do a better job than Marge Case?

Well, sure he did.

But maybe he was being too smart at filling in Mike’s life story.