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The small man jumped.
“Müller? There’s no one here of that name. You must mean Dr. Cassiopeia.” He winked and smiled broadly. “Okay. Now,” he added, consulting his list and looking around the fort, “we’re a bit thin on the outer perimeter. You can take station B3. Do you have a glove? Good. What about a helmet? Never mind. Here, take mine; I’ll get another from stores. Earthstrike at 14:32. Good-day.”
Victor took the helmet and wandered off in the direction that the small man had indicated.
“Hear that, Thursday?” he hissed. “Dr. Cassiopeia.”
“I heard it,” I replied. “We’re seeing what we’ve got on him.”
Bowden was already contacting Finisterre, who was waiting back at the Litera Tec office for just such a call.
Victor filled his briar pipe and was walking toward station B3 when a man in a Barbour jacket nearly marched straight into him. He recognized Dr. Müller’s face from the mugshot immediately. Victor raised his hat, apologized and walked on.
“Wait!” yelled Müller. Victor turned. Müller raised an eyebrow and stared at him.
“Haven’t I seen your face somewhere else?”
“No, it’s always been right here on the front of my head,” replied Victor, attempting to make light of the situation. Müller simply stared at him with a blank expression as Victor carried on filling his pipe.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” continued Müller, but Victor was not so easily shaken.
“I don’t think so,” he announced, offering his hand. “Ceres,” he added. “Berwick-upon-Tweed spiral arm.”
“Berwick-upon-Tweed, eh?” said Müller. “Then you know my good friend and colleague Professor Barnes?”
“Never heard of him,” announced Victor, guessing that Müller was suspicious. Müller smiled and looked at his watch. “Earthstrike in seven minutes, Mr. Ceres. Perhaps you’d better take your station.”
Victor lit his pipe, smiled and walked off in the direction he had been given earlier. There was a stake in the ground marked B3, and he stood around feeling slightly stupid. All the other Earthcrossers had donned their helmets and were scanning the sky to the west. Victor looked around and caught the eye of an attractive woman of about his own age a half-dozen paces away at B2.
“Hello!” he said cheerfully, tipping his helmet.
The woman fluttered her eyelashes demurely.
“All well?” she asked.
“Top hole!” returned Victor elegantly, then added quickly: “Actually, not. This is my first time.”
The lady smiled at him and waved her catcher’s glove.
“Nothing to it. Catch away from the body and keep your eyes sharp. We may get a lot or none at all, and if you do catch one, be sure to put it down on the grass straight away. After deaccelerating through the Earth’s atmosphere, they tend to be a trifle hot.”
Victor stared at her.
“You mean, we aim to catch meteors?”
The lady laughed a delicious laugh.
“No, no, silly!—They’re called meteorites. Meteors are things that burn up in the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve been to seventeen of these suspected Earthstrikes since ’64. I once nearly caught one in Tierra del Fuego in ’71. Of course,” she added more slowly, “that was when dear George was still alive . . .”
She caught his eye and smiled. Victor smiled back. She carried on:
“If we witness an Earthstrike today, it will be the first predicted strike in Europe to be successful. Imagine catching a meteorite! The rubble made during the creation of the universe over four and a half billion years ago! It’s like an orphan finally coming home!”
“Very . . . poetic,” responded Victor slowly as I started talking in his ear by way of the wire.
“There’s no one listed anywhere by the name of Dr. Cassiopeia,” I told him. “For goodness’ sake don’t let him out of your sight!”
“I won’t,” replied Victor, looking around for Müller.
