LITMIR.BIZ

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speaking by analogy,’ Mike said.

      Jane covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Mike, for God’s sake –’

      ‘You can prove anything by analogy.’

      ‘But,’ Bran said mildly, ‘I don’t need to prove anything. It’s simply an expression of our common experience. The lost legend of the ship – the place we came from – transmuted into myth, even as we went native … Listen: our brains, the electrical impulses that flow through them, have nothing to do with us. Any more than the computer processors in an astronaut’s spacesuit are in any way part of her …’

      ‘Jesus,’ Mike said. ‘He’s a crack-pot.’

      ‘He’s Hamish Macrae,’ Jane whispered.

      ‘Who?’

      She told him about the kid in the Cordley Road lift shaft, Jack’s friend.

      ‘And suddenly,’ Jane said, ‘he’s Bran. I saw his picture in the paper. I just wanted to see what he was up to. He’s clever. I’ll give him that.’

      ‘He’s just working through what happened to his brother. He’s crazy.’

      She eyed him. ‘We’re all crazy, Mike. We always have been. At the end of the second millennium we were all just as crazy as at the start. We all believe something. And it’s all started up again thanks to Venus. Funny lights in the sky … My view is, if you’re going to spout craziness, it might as well be something harmless. At least Bran and his people don’t hassle anyone else. Unlike some I could mention.’ She told him about the American who’d disrupted her lunch yesterday. ‘I think he was with the oil people. Arsehole.’

      Mike frowned. ‘What did he look like?’

      ‘Tall. Skinny. In a T-shirt, of course. Wild-eyed, hairy.’

      Henry. ‘You’re sure he was with the oil companies?’

      ‘No, I’m not sure. Why?’

      ‘No reason.’

      She fingered her bottle-green necklace. ‘The arrogant arsehole paid for this with dollars, in cash. As if we’re the fifty-first state already.’

      ‘But you’re wearing it. Did he give it to you?’

      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.

      ‘Well, yes. That’s the point.’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘Don’t you want it?’

      ‘You’re giving it to me? Mike, what the hell am I supposed to do with it?’

      ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Give it to Jack. Put it in a locket. Sell it, to someone who will appreciate it.’

      ‘Mike, you’ve brought me a lot of stuff in the past – stuff I could never have gotten hold of otherwise – but this is different.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because it’s against the law.’ She looked into his eyes, the way she used to when he was a kid. ‘You must have let someone down, to take this.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Someone who trusted you. Someone who gave you responsibility.’

      Shit, he thought. ‘… I suppose so.’

      She pushed the vial back into his hand. ‘You’ll have to take it back.’

      ‘I can’t. What do I do, glue it back to the rock?’

      ‘You can’t keep it, Mike.’

      ‘It’s Moon dust.’

      ‘Even so.’

      He hesitated.

      ‘You know I’m right,’ she said.

      ‘Oh, Christ. I hate it when you’re right.’

      ‘That’s what big sisters are for.’

      He took hold of the rubber stopper. ‘You may as well look. You’ll never be so near a piece of the Moon again.’

      She

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