floor and an overflowing trash can.
They flew out of bright morning light, from the west, toward Edinburgh. Henry peered out a window near the stewardess’ station, and took his first look at Scotland.
He was descending into the Midland Valley, a broad belt of lowland that stretched from Glasgow to Edinburgh. This was actually what geologists called a graben: a rift, ablock of land that had dropped between two faults. He could see the roads from England, to the south, sweeping down out of the hills to the valley floor, which was settled and arable, coated with picture-book fields and towns, though he could see, in some places, the scars left by Venus: failing crops, fields left brown and bare, a portent of troubled times to come.
But what made this valley different were the extinct cores of old volcanoes that stuck out of the ground, remnants of a volcanism spasm three hundred million years gone. The cones were an uncompromising demonstration of the old geologist’s saw that the stuff that’s left sticking out of the ground is harder than whatever has been worn away.
And as he descended toward Edinburgh itself he caught a glimpse of Arthur’s Seat, a composite volcano that was the greatest of the volcanic plugs; the buildings of the old city lapped around its flanks.
He landed at 7:00 A.M. local, having missed an entire night out of his life. A bright early spring day stretched ahead of him, and he felt like a piece of shit.
“The name’s Mike Dundas.”
The kid was waiting for Henry at the departure gate, when he finally got through queuing to have his passport checked.
Henry shook his hand. “We e-mailed. Good to meet you, Mike.”
Mike took Henry’s bag, a wheeled suitcase, and hauled it away through the terminal toward the car park. Mike was a technician in the University geology department here; he was in his early twenties, with—to Henry’s eye—brutally short-cut hair, a disconcertingly pierced nose, placid blue eyes. He wore the bright Day-Glo sunscreen popular with the young around the world, huge dabs of orange and yellow on his nose and cheeks. His accent was distinctly Scottish, but gentler than Henry had expected—lots of strong r’s, “ye” for “you,” “tae” for “to,” and so on. No big deal.
“The rock’s already here,” Mike said.
“The rock?”
“86047. The Moon rock. We’ve set up our sample lab. I don’t mind telling you we’re all excited about this, having the rock here.”
“It’ll be glad to know it’s a celebrity.”
Mike looked cut by the mild sarcasm, and Henry instantly regretted it.
“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “We’re glad to welcome you too, sir.”
“I know what you meant, Mike. And for Christ’s sake call me Henry; you make me feel old enough as it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, already.”
“I’m—” Mike laughed, and seemed to relax a little. “You’re the boss.”
Mike’s car, in the multi-level airport car park, turned out to be a small, battered Rover. Henry, unfamiliar with the Brit numberplate system, couldn’t tell its age, but he was willing to bet it hadn’t been radiation-proofed according to the new international code. There was room in the trunk—no, the boot —for Henry’s luggage, but Mike had to clear boxes and papers off the seats before Henry could sit down.
“Sorry,” Mike said. “I wanted to pick you up myself. But the car’s always full of shit.”
Henry shrugged as he buckled up his seat belt. “We’re geologists, remember. Geologists live in shit. It’s in the job description.”
“Here.” Mike handed Henry a cardboard carton of orange juice.
“What’s this for?”
“Jet lag. I know how it feels.”
Henry grinned, and held the carton to his mouth.
Mike queued his way out of the car park, and set off along the freeway— motorway —toward central Edinburgh,eight miles away. The sky was blue, fresh, marked by a few moist-looking cumuli; but, when Mike opened
They flew out of bright morning light, from the west, toward Edinburgh. Henry peered out a window near the stewardess’ station, and took his first look at Scotland.
He was descending into the Midland Valley, a broad belt of lowland that stretched from Glasgow to Edinburgh. This was actually what geologists called a graben: a rift, ablock of land that had dropped between two faults. He could see the roads from England, to the south, sweeping down out of the hills to the valley floor, which was settled and arable, coated with picture-book fields and towns, though he could see, in some places, the scars left by Venus: failing crops, fields left brown and bare, a portent of troubled times to come.
But what made this valley different were the extinct cores of old volcanoes that stuck out of the ground, remnants of a volcanism spasm three hundred million years gone. The cones were an uncompromising demonstration of the old geologist’s saw that the stuff that’s left sticking out of the ground is harder than whatever has been worn away.
And as he descended toward Edinburgh itself he caught a glimpse of Arthur’s Seat, a composite volcano that was the greatest of the volcanic plugs; the buildings of the old city lapped around its flanks.
He landed at 7:00 A.M. local, having missed an entire night out of his life. A bright early spring day stretched ahead of him, and he felt like a piece of shit.
“The name’s Mike Dundas.”
The kid was waiting for Henry at the departure gate, when he finally got through queuing to have his passport checked.
Henry shook his hand. “We e-mailed. Good to meet you, Mike.”
Mike took Henry’s bag, a wheeled suitcase, and hauled it away through the terminal toward the car park. Mike was a technician in the University geology department here; he was in his early twenties, with—to Henry’s eye—brutally short-cut hair, a disconcertingly pierced nose, placid blue eyes. He wore the bright Day-Glo sunscreen popular with the young around the world, huge dabs of orange and yellow on his nose and cheeks. His accent was distinctly Scottish, but gentler than Henry had expected—lots of strong r’s, “ye” for “you,” “tae” for “to,” and so on. No big deal.
“The rock’s already here,” Mike said.
“The rock?”
“86047. The Moon rock. We’ve set up our sample lab. I don’t mind telling you we’re all excited about this, having the rock here.”
“It’ll be glad to know it’s a celebrity.”
Mike looked cut by the mild sarcasm, and Henry instantly regretted it.
“I’m sorry,” Mike said. “We’re glad to welcome you too, sir.”
“I know what you meant, Mike. And for Christ’s sake call me Henry; you make me feel old enough as it is.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, already.”
“I’m—” Mike laughed, and seemed to relax a little. “You’re the boss.”
Mike’s car, in the multi-level airport car park, turned out to be a small, battered Rover. Henry, unfamiliar with the Brit numberplate system, couldn’t tell its age, but he was willing to bet it hadn’t been radiation-proofed according to the new international code. There was room in the trunk—no, the boot —for Henry’s luggage, but Mike had to clear boxes and papers off the seats before Henry could sit down.
“Sorry,” Mike said. “I wanted to pick you up myself. But the car’s always full of shit.”
Henry shrugged as he buckled up his seat belt. “We’re geologists, remember. Geologists live in shit. It’s in the job description.”
“Here.” Mike handed Henry a cardboard carton of orange juice.
“What’s this for?”
“Jet lag. I know how it feels.”
Henry grinned, and held the carton to his mouth.
Mike queued his way out of the car park, and set off along the freeway— motorway —toward central Edinburgh,eight miles away. The sky was blue, fresh, marked by a few moist-looking cumuli; but, when Mike opened
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