She looked defensive. “Well, he had bought it. If I’d put the necklace back in the stock I’d never have reconciled the books—”

“Of course not.”

She studied him suspiciously. “Why are you so interested? Do you know this guy?”

He shrugged. “How could I?”

A shadow fell across them. Mike looked up.

The leader of the pyjama people, Bran, was standing over them. Looking beyond Bran, Mike saw the various groups had broken up; the pyjama people were standing in a knot, talking quietly.

“You were persuasive,” Bran said to Mike with a rueful good humour.

“Thanks.”

“Come to our Belenus festival.”

“When’s that?”

“May Day. We’ll hold it here, on the Seat.”

“Will there be replicator food and a woman for every man?”

Bran laughed. “No, but there will be spectacle. And oatcakes. Mustn’t forget the oatcakes.”

“Do I have to wear pyjamas?”

“Pyjamas are optional. Will you come?”

“I don’t know. All that stuff you were saying sounded—”

“Cracked?” Bran smiled sadly. “But I have proof.”

“Proof?”

For answer, Bran turned and pointed to Venus.

Mike and Jane strode back up the flank of the Seat, towards the summit. They found a place to sit on the agglomerate, looking north over the city.

Mike, agitated, disturbed, said, “You know, that guy was in control from the moment he walked up to us. Even before. He used everything I said to make his case stronger.”

She shrugged. “That’s what it takes to be a cult leader, I suppose.”

“He ought to be a politician.”

“Oh, I think he has his eye on higher goals than that… You said you wanted to see me.”

“Yeah. I have something for you.”

He glanced around to ensure they were alone. A couple of walkers, a hundred yards away; the steady susurrus of noise from the city.

Pleasurably anticipating her reaction, he dug into his pocket, and pulled out his phial. It was just a small plastic test-tube, stoppered with a rubber bung.

He held it up in the morning light so she could see. There was a little puddle of dust in its base, a handful of grains. It was coal black, and when Mike shook the vial the dust clung to the sides.

“It sparkles,” Jane said.

“That’s the glass in it. Shards of it, from volcanic activity and meteorite impact—”

“Mike, what is this?”

He grinned. “Can’t you guess? Look, no one will ever know. Whenever you take a power-saw sample from a rock there’s always a little wastage. A few grammes. There has to be — the rock just crumbles. They expect it, when they reconcile the weights later. I was just careful to capture every loose grain. And here it is. I even pumped the vial full of ultra-dry nitrogen to keep it pure.”

“Are you telling me this is Moon dust?”

She looked — not pleased, not awed, as he’d expected — but horrified.