And then they’d walked out of the room and left him. Dreyfuss fumed for a couple of minutes, his heart racing, angrier than he’d been since the crash. Then he pulled at the bedcover and swung his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. The floor itself was warm to the touch, yet the room was cool. He stood up, feeling his legs wobble from inaction. He locked them at the knees and drew himself to his full height. A few hesitant steps took him to the washbasin, where he splashed cold water onto his face. He looked in the mirror, and saw a pale face, a gaunt face, the hair cloying and in need of shampoo. The skin was singed from the shuttle blaze, and cream had been smeared onto his cheeks and forehead. And yes, those bruises on his neck were prominent. He looked a mess.

He dried himself with a towel, feeling sweat trickling down his back from the effort thus far. Then he shuffled over to where the flowers sat. There were two cards: one from Jilly, and one from Cam Devereux.

Cam! He held a snapshot in his head of Cam’s beaming face, that air-hostess-style voice: ‘Hi, I’m Cameron Devereux. Call me Cam, everyone does. I’ll be your contact down here while you’re up there.’ The day they’d gone to visit the Argos ground station, meeting with the men who would be their eyes and ears on earth while they were circling in space. The controllers, with their crew cuts and striped shirts, seated in front of screens that could show anything from the height and trajectory of the shuttle to the pressurisation of the cabin and the heartbeats of the men inside it.

Cam, too, had a striped shirt and a crew cut. He also had a smile. God, that assured smile, a fortune in dental work. Even the mechanics in this country smiled like movie stars. But he had a weak handshake, and would melt like wax if a hand grabbed at his smooth lapel or threatened to tweak his WASP nose. However, there was every chance that he would know something about what had gone wrong, or at least would have his suspicions.

I shouldn’t have been up there in the first place, Dreyfuss said to himself now. He had been chosen over younger men and better men, men more computer-literate, men fitter, more intelligent. He had told the selection panel at his third and final interview: ‘I’m just an airman who wants to be an astronaut.’ Hoping that candour would stand up where his credentials had faltered. It had: the Americans wanted him. Everyone had wondered why …

‘Major!’ It was Nurse Carraway, entering the room on her silent rubber heels. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Just taking a look at my flowers.’

‘I didn’t think you were strong enough to walk.’