Moonseed

Henry wondered, briefly, how that must have felt: to be the only human on the planet who knew…

I ought to sleep, he thought.

He tried the TV. There were five main cha

1707, 1688. Dates from prehistory for North America, dates as remote as 5000 BC.

There was no US news at all.

He tried to remember the last British news story he’d noticed back home. Some royal bullshit, probably.

Britain, he was coming to see, was built on a long and complex history. Shame they hadn’t got more of it right, he thought.

But then that was complacent. Britain was peaceful and prosperous and proud of itself and, hell, even pretty democratic. The US should last to be a thousand years old; then we’ll see what shape we’re in…

He flipped around until he found CNN. Lying on his bed, he studied baseball scores, one of his routines for co

But, though he was tired, he was not sleepy, and some part of him was reacting to the fact that it wasn’t even midday outside, and the day was a-wasting.

He’d done a lot of travelling in the course of his career. Bui he’d never yet got used to this planet-hopping.

He considered raiding the room’s mini-bar. Or maybe he should go back to the institute and rattle McDiarmid’s cage a little more. Or maybe he should just go find a USA Today.

Bored, sour, he got up, pulled on a fresh T-shirt, and walked out of the room.

He found himself on Princes Street, a broad, straight road that ran east to west. It seemed to be the spine of the shopping area, and it was crowded with traffic and shoppers. The pedestrians were all in big floppy hats and baggy white clothes with their faces smeared with cream.

The street’s north side was lined with plastic shop frontages, and on its south side there was a park called Princes Street Gardens: set in a valley, crammed with monuments and features. Pretty. But, Jesus, it was cold, a breeze gusting down the street like it was a wind tu

Anyhow, if he was lucky he’d be out of here before winter came.

He got his orientation quickly.

He could see the asymmetrical profiles of Calton Hill and Castle Rock from here, with the heart of the city stretching between them, and Arthur’s Seat on the outskirts of the city, a blocky, uncompromising mound. The glaciers had flowed east over this place, scraping off the younger sedimentary rocks and leaving these three igneous plugs exposed. All three plugs had been left with a sharp western face and a long, shallow eastern debris scarp. To Henry, musing, it looked as if some gigantic explosion had overwhelmed the area from the west, leaving these tails of debris, sheltered by the plugs.

He walked to the west along Princes Street. The shops were full of the new radiation-proofed clothing lines, heavily advertised. Here was a realtor — no, an estate agent — with a lot of properties price-hiked because they had cellars, or room for underground development.

He passed the train station entrance and the roof of an underground mall, decorated with obscure statues of what looked like abseilers. He came to a steep road called the Mound, which twisted up the glacial tail to the Castle, a brooding pile on top of its own basaltic plug. The Castle looked as out of place, viewed from this glitzy plastic shopping area, as a bubo in the armpit of a supermodel.

He thought about climbing up there, taking a look around.

Or, he could go back to that little mall by the station, get under cover, and have a coffee.

He went back to the mall.

It turned out to be a complex of staircases and escalators and glass-walled elevators. It was brightly lit and crowded, though muzak pumped out from too many places. There were fountains, with more of those bizarre stainless steel abseilers.

At least it was warmer here. But he couldn’t find anything that looked right. What he’d really like to find, he thought, was a big out-of-town-style Barnes and Noble, lined with books, with a fat Starbucks coffee shop on the end of it. You’re getting parochial, Henry.

He came to a shop called The World Store. It was just the kind of place you’d expect to find in a mall like this: full of bead necklaces, wooden carvings, bamboo curtains. At the back there were shelves full of rocks: sparse metal frames lit by spot lamps, the merchandise glowing.

There was a girl behind a counter at the back, blonde and slim, sorting through some kind of box of samples.

On impulse, Henry walked in. The girl looked up, took him in at a glance — so it seemed — and went back to her rocks.

On her desk, there was a card. THE WORLD STORE. S Kapur J Dundas, props. Telephone, fax and e-mail.

Dundas. He remembered the rocks in the car, Mike’s crystal-gazing sister.

Henry drifted past the wooden elephants and pan pipes and other New Age crap, and made for the racks of minerals. It was mostly the usual eyecatching commercial stuff, sliced geodes and quartz crystals and pyrite clumps. Some of it looked native, but most of it was polished, even dyed and carved. Here was a necklace of bottle-green beads, for instance. And he found a tiger carved from a shining black rock, covered in pale grey blotches.

He looked sideways at the girl.

She was older than Mike, maybe as old as thirty, but she had the same Nordic colouring. Blonde hair tied back, revealing a composed, thoughtful face. Strong hands. Blue eyes you could swim in. One hell of a set of cheekbones, the essence of beauty. No body parts pierced that he could see, which was a good thing. She was eating something. A rice cake, maybe.

She glanced up and caught him looking at her. She put down the rice cake.

He was holding the tiger; he fumbled and nearly dropped it.

“You pay for breakages,” she said. Her accent was the same as Mike’s — soft Scottish — but her tone was cold.

“Sorry.” He put the tiger back. “I was just thinking.”

“What?”

“You ought to put a best-before date on that tiger. Ultimately it’s going to turn grey all over—”

“I know. In sixty million years. It’s snowflake obsidian.”

He nodded, surprised, approving. “You know about rocks.”

“I know my job.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You’re an American. And you just arrived.”

He faced her. “Is it that obvious?”

She looked him up and down. “Look at the way you’re dressed. It’s only February, for God’s sake.”

“You don’t like Americans?”

“I don’t dislike them. I don’t know you well enough to dislike you. Yet.”

He glanced around. “You like rocks. I know about rocks.”

Those eyes narrowed again. “You’re a geologist.”

Strike two, he thought. “Is that bad too?”

“If you’re with one of the oil companies, yes.”