She made out more detail, craters overlaid on craters down to the limit of visibility. She tweaked her trajectory until she was heading for the centre of a big crater, away from any sharp-edged walls or boulder fields.

Then she just let herself drift in, at a yard a second. If she used the thrusters any more she risked raising dust clouds that wouldn’t settle.

There were four little landing legs at the corners of her PMU frame; they popped out now, little spear-shaped penetrators designed to dig into the surface and hold her there.

The close horizon receded, and the cliff face turned into a wall that cut off half the universe.

She collided softly with Icarus.

The landing legs, throwing up dust, dug into the regolith with a grind that carried through the PMU structure. The dust hung about her.

So Nadezhda was stuck here, clinging to the wall inside her PMU frame, like a mountaineer on a rock face in the Lunar Apennines.

She turned on her helmet lamp. Impact glass glimmered before her.

Unexpectedly, wonder pricked her. Here was the primordial skin of Icarus, as old as the Solar System, just inches before her face. She reached out and pushed her gloved hand into the surface, a monkey paw probing.

The surface was thick with regolith: a fine rock flour, littered with glassy agglutinates, asteroid rock shattered by aeons of bombardment. Her fingers went in easily enough for a few inches — she could feel the stuff crunching under her pressure, as if she was digging into compacted snow — but then she came up against much more densely packed material, tamped down by the endless impacts.

She closed her fist and pulled out her hand. A cloud of dust came with it, gushing into her face like a hail of meteorites. She looked at the material she’d dug out. There were a few bigger grains here, she saw: it was breccia, bits of rock smashed up in multiple impacts, welded back together by impact glass. There was no gravity to speak of; the smallest movement sent the fragments drifting out of her palm.

She had to get on with her work, think about her checklist. But she allowed herself a moment to savour this triumph.

She was, after all, the first human to touch the surface of a whole new world since Neil Armstrong.

And the Moonseed was here: hardened and eternal, riding the winds that blow between the stars. And now a human had come to meet it, on equal terms.

She grinned at the dust. “We need to talk,” she said.

Nadezhda? We don’t copy.

“Never mind.”

She pushed her hand back into the pit she’d dug, and went to work.

AFTERWORD