Ten months earlier, Harry Rowan had met Lamont’s eyes as he offered the newspaperman a cigarette from the case on his desk. “And how is Eliza?” He had asked.

  He now occupied a handsome office in the upper story of the Atlantic Free Press building, commanding a view of the glistening silver towers of Central London. He and a few others had built the newspaper up from the rubble in the 1960’s, and though he was an editor by title, he was also the keenest journalist Lamont knew. His eyes were unflinching; he never asked a question casually.

  Self-conscious, Lamont answered the question while lowering his head to light the cigarette, using the gesture to avoid meeting his boss’ gaze directly.

  “Fine,” He had answered, keeping his tone bright and conversational. “Just fine. The countryside has been very good for her art.”

  “How do you like it?” Harry asked, placing his hands in his pockets and pivoting toward the panoramic window behind his desk, his eyes turning to the view—like merciful hands releasing a terrified rabbit.

  “I struggle to appreciate the abstract,” Lamont admitted.

  “I meant the country. How do you like the new house?”

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Lamont exhaled slowly, perching on the edge of the large desk and tracing the paths of personal helicopters as they dipped up and down from the floor of fog like mayflies. “We’ve started a nice garden—an outside garden! The views are . . . well, now that the skies are clear, you know. It’s . . . it’s very quiet.”

  “After what you’ve been through, you’ve earned some quiet.” Harry said.

  Lamont nodded in agreement. So why did he feel as if he was asking for help?

  Harry picked up a thick book from the edge of his desk. Its yellow cover bore the titles, “Behind the Curtain: A Year in the Scientific Society.”

  “It’s selling well,” He said. “It’s selling very well.”

  Lamont nodded again.

  “You know,” Harry continued, his tone exploratory, “You can take all the time you need. Enjoy the air. Maybe think about another book.”

  “I don’t want to,” Lamont blurted, more forcefully than he had intended. He had nearly bit through his cigarette. He tugged it from his mouth, cradling it between two fingers as he brushed bits of tobacco from his teeth with his thumb. “I’m not broken, Harry.”

  The editor scrutinized Lamont carefully. If he had been surprised by the outburst, it didn’t show. “I didn’t say that,” he explained evenly.

  “But it’s what—”

  Lamont inhaled deeply, smashing the cigarette into an ashtray and folding his arms. He restarted. “I’m a newspaperman.”

  “Good,” Harry answered simply. “Good.” With a stiff nod, he set the book down, slapped the desk with his palm, and walked to the side of the office. On the canvas-papered wall hung framed copies of Atlantic Free Press front pages from years past. He passed a fingertip over the frame containing its first edition. The frame slid aside to reveal a safe tucked in the wall, which Harry unlocked with the swiftness of old habit. From it he retrieved a folder of papers, which he set on the desk beside Lamont with deliberate force.

  Suddenly alert, Lamont opened the folder and began to sift through the contents. It was mostly carbon copies of typewritten documents, sealed with the United Space logo and dated from the early 1970’s—nearly three decades ago. There were also some technical drawings and . . .

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Lamont pulled a photograph from the thin stack and examined it closely. It was a battered instant photograph, monochrome, depicting the familiar features of Francis Carter, the pioneering astronaut. He was in a spacesuit, his eyes wide, his long face bearing an expression of earnest excitement. In his arms was cradled a bundle, wrapped in a metallic sheet, of strongly suggestive proportions.

  Lamont looked up at Harry intensely. “Is this a hoax?”

  “The lab doesn’t think so,” Harry said. “If you look through the documents we’ve obtained so far—equipment requisitions, internal communications—it’s careful, it’s circumspect, but it paints a credible picture.” He snapped his fingers. “Monty, it’s just bloody possible that they’ve got themselves a Martian.”

  ***

  Lamont’s eyes darted furtively around the stairwell. Two wall sconces, the globes of which had not been cleaned in years, cast the entrance in a dull amber that made the checkered floor tiles and flaking walls look perhaps even more grimy than they really were. He ducked his head to the side, examining the shadows beneath the steps to search for crouching figures. There was nothing but a week-old edition of the Martian Chronicle that had never been retrieved. Satisfied that no ambush would come from here, Lamont made his way slowly up the steps, keeping his body sideways. A large ventilation fan cut into the front of the stairwell cast alternating bands of deep shadow and sullen purple across the textured metal of the stairs. Lamont held his breath at the turn of each story, but found the landing of each to be unoccupied. Reaching the door to his apartment, he nudged it with his shoe before trying the knob with his right hand. It was locked. Exhaling, he loosened his grip on his key ring, his palm stinging from the pressure of its small metal teeth. He unlocked the door and nudged it open.

  The apartment was dark, as he had seen from the outside. Every few seconds, the familiar outlines of his furnishings were dimly bathed in violet, cut into thin strips by the half-open blinds on his window. The space was small enough to be inventoried at a glance. To his left, the kitchenette with its round-cornered, metal-lined bar. The newspaper he had been reading earlier was open where he had left it, with a coffee cup set on its corner. To his right, a small desk and a card table, underneath which was tucked his filing cabinet. Behind them, a square and thickly padded armchair of cracked synthetic leather and a standing lamp; the one that should have been switched on. Straight ahead, six paces would take him to the doorway leading to his bed and his bathroom. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

  Edging between the corner of the card table and the arm of his chair, Lamont reached into the inverted conical top of the floor lamp, checking the tightness of the bulb in its socket. Nothing changed, so he withdrew his hand and turned the switch at the base of the shade. The bulb came on, filling the small apartment with cool white light. Had he simply forgotten to turn the lamp on before he left? It had been midday, and the room had been well illuminated from the window. He passed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. While often preoccupied, Lamont wasn’t given to absent-mindedness.

  A faint scent touched his nostrils. Smoky, sour, tinged with ozone. He started. Lowering his hand, he saw that the skin was smudged with something white and chalky.

  Before he was aware of having moved, Lamont was at the sink of his kitchenette, running cold water over his hands and splashing it over his face until the substance was no longer visible in the stream that circled down the drain. He braced himself against the edge of the sink, drops of water falling from his mustache. He could feel the muscles in his forearms trembling.

  “Dust,” he muttered to himself. “Dust from the ceiling.”

  Lamont was organized in his work, but not overly tidy. It wasn’t as if he had taken a feather duster to the place in the few months that he had occupied it. But that smell…

  Lamont glanced at his wristwatch. In an hour, the pink lights indicating the beginning of Martian daytime would come on. He was filled with nervous energy now. He boiled some water, fixed a cup of instant coffee, and took it to his desk. He produced a pocket tape recorder from his vest and set it beside the shorthand typing machine. Soon, his mind was entirely occupied with the familiar sounds of a tinny conversation and the steady clicking of the machine as he transcribed it. He never skipped a portion of the recording, no matter how mundane; any detail could turn out to be significant on further investigation, even from a small-time cog like Chester K. Grimwald, who’s droning ruminations piped methodically from the tiny speaker.

  “A man works and don’t get paid, there’s a word for that, yeah? Now look: You put in a fortnight, get your check, and where does it go? Groceries from the Company market. Curtains from the Company store. Rent for the company housing—and if you don’t pay it, well, now the Company owns you just like it owns the house. But that’s the thing—they already did. They owned every hair on your head as soon as the airlock closed behind you.”

  Words drifted through the air to the clacking of keys, like snow—was it snow?—carried along by a warm breeze.

  Lamont woke up suddenly to the sound of screaming.