‘Well,’ Nick Christopher was saying, ‘I can’t see him having an easy time of it. I mean, there he is in America, the sole survivor of a disaster in which all the Americans on board perished, and here we are kicking the Yanks out of Europe, making us not very popular over there.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Hepton. It was all he could do to stop himself from smiling. He stuffed his mouth with crisps instead. Yes, front-page news Dreyfuss might be, but for all the wrong reasons.

5

The light was diffuse and coloured the burnished gold of … The description ended there. His mind wasn’t up to it. He decided to open one eye, just a little, and saw an underwater blur of greys and blues and whites, bathed in the same golden light. He blinked, opened both eyes and saw that he was lying in a hospital bed. A private room. Lavender paint on the walls, machines standing beside the bed, a drip feeding his left arm. Through the slats of the blinds streamed the day’s raw sunshine. Golden light.

He was alive then.

A nurse sat dozing in the heat, a paperback novel on her lap. Where was this? Why was he so sore? His mouth was raw. Then he remembered – the shuttle had crash-landed. Couldn’t get the undercarriage down. Couldn’t get anything to work. Total shutdown of the onboard computer. Now how the hell could that have happened?

And what about Heinemann, O’Grady, Marshall, Wilson, Adams? Were they alive or dead? The fate of Hes Adams especially interested him. He let out a little whistle of air, as much as he could manage without feeling pain. It was enough. The nurse stirred, opened her eyes and smiled at him. Then closed them again as she stretched. A good big early-morning yawn, and then another smile, as though they were waking up in bed together; lovers.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Dreyfuss. How do you feel?’

Dreyfuss. That was his name. It was as good a name as any. He tried answering her question, but his throat was dry and sore. He swallowed painfully, and she seemed to understand. Rose from her chair and poured some water from a jug into a glass. There were flowers on his bedside cabinet. Not many of them, a couple of small bunches.

The water was tepid. He had trouble swallowing.

‘Thanks,’ he rasped. ‘Needed that.’ Speaking was like rubbing something raw against sandpaper.

‘You’ve been asleep a long time.’

‘How long?’

‘Several days, I think. I’ve only been on shift a couple of hours.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Sacramento General.’