Back in his hotel room Joshua spent the hours before sleep scanning TV news channels and a partially functioning web service, trying to get a sense of a world he rarely visited. Datum Earth wasn’t recovering any that he could see. The news channels, underfunded and competing for sensationalist stories, told lurid tales of wars in the Middle East, brushfire battles over water in central Asia.
There was one peculiar item about the satellites in space. Over time many of these had fallen silent, and were one by one being dragged down into the Earth’s atmosphere by friction with the air, where they burned up. The International Space Station had been the latest casualty. Long abandoned – the last crew had come back to Earth just days after Yellowstone – there had, at last, been no more propellant to sustain its orbit. The news report said that people had come stepping back to the Datum, to the track of the station, just to see it fall. Joshua saw sketchy images from handheld cameras of streaky fire in the sky.
He flicked through the channels until he found a recording of a soccer match: Liverpool versus AC Milan, a recording from a vanished, more colourful age. There was something else Step Day and Yellowstone had ruined, he thought sourly: organized sport. Still, the game was an exciting one.
Joshua dozed off with the match still unfolding on his tablet. He slept uneasily, immersed in the pressure of too many minds.
In the morning he went back to Trafalgar Square. And here Nelson Azikiwe met him, appropriately enough at the foot of Nelson’s Column.
Nelson was bundled up in furs like a bear. ‘The headquarters of the Royal Society is just a short walk from here. Carlton House Terrace.’
They set off through the frozen streets.
‘I did have to make a special request to get into this archive, and have it opened for your visit.’
‘I appreciate all this. But I hope you’re not spending too much, Nelson.’
‘Oh, good Lord, no, don’t worry about that. I have a connection in the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he has connections everywhere else. Also, ask your mentor Sister Agnes about Miss Guinevere Perch some time. Besides, some of Lobsang’s own researches gave me a good steer. And there’s always the thrill of the chase! You know me, Joshua. And wait until you see what I’ve discovered … So what do you make of London?’
‘Kind of surprised it’s still functioning at all.’
‘Well, nothing is as it was, Joshua. Most people who live here now work for the government, or one of its contractors. The main task is simply to keep the city alive, to preserve its architectural and other treasures. And then there are others who have chosen not to leave their homes, and survive as best they can. London, in fact, is slowly reverting back to a state your own ancestors might have recognized.’
‘My ancestors?’
Nelson smiled enigmatically. ‘You’ll see. Ah – here we are …’
The frontage of the Royal Society was relatively modest, Joshua thought. In a front yard enclosed by railings, a narrow track had been blasted clear, and they walked between walls of dirty snow and ice heaped feet high. A London copper in thick winter gear nodded as Nelson produced a pass of some kind, and allowed them through the door.
In the unheated reception area the tattered remnants of posters for long-ago conferences still stood on stands, and the marble floor shone, frosted over with old ice. The only light came from the windows, and from a few electric lamps connected by insulated cables to a generator that chugged in the distance.
Nelson, carrying a battery lantern, led Joshua deeper into the building, and down a broad staircase. ‘Watch your step. Supposedly they keep this clear of ice, but …’
Another doorway, another stair downward, and they reached a corridor, much more cramped, darker yet, along which Nelson strode confidently, though he studied a map he drew from his coat pocket.
‘What is this place, Nelson?’
‘Why, it’s the Royal Society’s archive. Their secret archive.’
The anonymous door at which they finally stopped was labelled obscurely: ARCHIVE ROOM 5/1/14 R.S. PARA. The door itself was sticky but opened with a push. Within, Nelson flicked a light switch to no avail, tutted, and held up his lantern. Joshua saw rows of shelves heaped with dusty documents, in file boxes, folders, even a few scrolls.
Nelson led Joshua into the room. ‘Of course the Society was always ferociously rationalist, but among the wags on the governing council this room is known as the Reliquary. Where the Catholics keep the bones of their saints, you see? This is where they kept the stuff that never quite fit the prevailing world view – and stuff that had some bearing on national security.’
They reached a table on which a file box lay open, containing a book, a single volume. Nelson looked at Joshua, evidently expecting some reaction.
‘Nelson, I asked you to find my father. All this—’