A few paces further on she came to a length of dry stone wall, built by some earlier settler to contain his or her animals. It couldn’t be more than a few decades old; it was not yet forty years since Step Day, and humans had been very rare beyond the Datum before then, just a few natural steppers wandering through the emptiness. But the wall was already disappearing into the green.

Agnes could read the history of this place, this hilltop. The first settlers here must have made a start at clearing fields for their crops or livestock, even put up these grand houses. Then, after no time at all, they had evidently given up and wandered off to do – well, whatever it was most people did around here to make a living these days. And now here was the forest already taking back the land, or trying to. This was why Sally had scoped out this abandoned plot as a likely site for Lobsang and Agnes to build a farm of their own; a lot of the grunt work of clearing had already been done.

And all around this low hill with its abandoned farmstead the forest stretched away, dense and green. This was a world of trees, Agnes knew that much. Thick evergreen woodland cloaked much of North America, with exotic kinds of rainforest in southern latitudes, and peculiar broad-leaved deciduous trees growing in the Arctic – even in Antarctica to the south there were trees all the way to the pole, and that was a sight Lobsang promised they’d go see some day. It was a world far from the Ice Belt within which nestled the Datum Earth, her own home world: here, it seemed, the forests had hung on since the days of the dinosaurs.

And in these global forests was life unlike anything she’d been familiar with at home. Standing here now, she could hear that life all around her, peculiar hoots and cries echoing as if she stood in some vast cathedral, and the occasional crack as, presumably, some big beast pushed its way through the undergrowth.

Sally Linsay came striding up to her, sweating from her work, sipping water from a plastic bottle. Agnes noted with approval that Sally’s first instinct was to check on Ben, who seemed to be fascinated by a kind of termite mound.

Now Sally said simply, ‘Neighbours.’

A handful of people, men, women and children, dressed in rather drab colours, brown and green, were clustered around Lobsang and the gondola. One boy, maybe twelve years old, was bending down to tickle a compliant Shi-mi, and Agnes could hear his clear, light voice. ‘Cute, ain’t you? Wait until my Rio catches sight of you, though. My word, you’ll be getting some exercise then …’

Sally said, ‘The kids are your friends for life if you’ll let them brush those horses. Lobsang’s already got coffee percolating on the gas stove.’

‘Giving away all our luxuries on the first day?’

Sally shrugged. ‘Making a good impression on the neighbours. Never hurts. Coffee is good.’ She inspected Agnes. ‘So how are you feeling?’

Agnes thought it over. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘All this seemed fine in theory. To be uprooted, and chucked across a million worlds. Making the plans and preparations was fun, even the twain ride was fun. And bringing Ben into our lives was wonderful, of course. But now I’m actually here—’

‘It’s all too strange? You’d be surprised how many people try to cover up that reaction.’

‘Well, I’m no faker. I’m a city girl. Why, I used to think I was lost in the wilds when I was out of sight of the gift shop in the Madison Arboretum. And now, this.’

‘The consolation is,’ Sally said, ‘people are trying to make a living in worse places. These worlds are kind: they’re warm, moist, mostly unseasonal. And safe, relatively. Which is why I chose this place for you. That’s because the forest keeps the critters here small.’ And, characteristically, she added, ‘Well, mostly.’

This was Sally being kind, Agnes reflected. Reassuring, as much as she could be; there was always an edge.

Then a breeze from the west blew up, oddly sharp. Sally turned, frowning, holding on to her battered hat. The forest, the nearby trees, rustled, and the general hooting and cawing seemed to sharpen into cries of alarm. Agnes saw that the sparse clouds were streaky now, long stripes – almost like contrails, but no jets ploughed these skies.

And she saw something else: a flash, from the corner of her eye. She found herself looking at the moon, half full, the familiar features washed out by the blue sky. She’d have sworn that the flash had come from the moon, from the dark half, that shadowed hemisphere. It was probably nothing. A firefly? A bird? Not that she’d seen any birds here yet. Or, more likely still, just something in her eye.

None of this convinced her. Something didn’t feel right. That was her immediate, sharp instinct. And from the way Sally reacted, Agnes sensed that she felt the same way.

But Ben was here, tugging at her hand, pulling her back into his life. ‘Ag-ness?’

She forced a smile. ‘Hello, honey. Come on, shall we go have some lunch and meet some new friends?’

‘Lunch!’

10

A COUPLE OF days later, with Sally and the airship long gone, the family were invited to a barn dance. This was to be held in an open space down by the creek that wound its way around the hill where their gondola sat – and, as decided at the last minute, a couple of steps East, as the weather was a little better there that evening. Of course they would have accepted even if it hadn’t turned out that the event was being mounted in their honour.

Somewhat nervously, Agnes got herself ready for the evening. Before the journey out here, before they’d been discharged from the Black Corporation laboratories for the last time, Agnes had had her ambulant body set to look as if she was around her middle fifties: a few years younger, apparently, than Lobsang. And a mere forty years or so younger than her calendar age … Well, fifties was an age she’d lived through once already; she knew how to make the best of her greying hair, and she’d packed a decent gingham dress that she knew would suit her on the night. Lobsang meanwhile wore a loud checked shirt, jeans and cowboy boots – and little Ben was kitted out in a scale model of exactly the same gear. The outfit wasn’t going to last, he’d grow out of it in a few months, but Sally had suggested packing it to make a first impression on just such an occasion as this.

So, prepared, they joined their neighbours.

The barn dance turned out to be just what Agnes would have expected. This field by the stream, roughly cleared and fenced off, was evidently intended for sheep, and Agnes saw a small flock in a pen not far away. Now, in the gathering twilight, the open space was lit by burning brands that gave off a tar-like smell. There was a ribald caller with a couple of fiddlers standing on crates pumping out the music, and the people, maybe fifty in all, men, women and kids, lined up and whirled around. It was a scene Agnes imagined you could have seen anywhere in rural America back on the Datum for decades, if not centuries. The difference here was the incase-of-emergency Stepper boxes that bounced on people’s hips as they danced.

There was a bar at one end of the field, where you could fill up on the juice of some unidentifiable citrus, or water, or on quite good home-brew beer. There were even a few bottles of whisky. A barbecue sizzled and popped, but the food on the grill was mostly unfamiliar to Agnes: strips of red meat, presumably from the little local mammals they called ‘furballs’, and one monster of a drumstick that must have come from one of the local ‘big birds’, there more for show than for eating – it would probably take all night to cook a joint the size of a whole turkey. And there were oat-flour cookies, and slices of pumpkin. A few dogs ran around yapping, or begging for food scraps. Shi-mi, naturally enough, was nowhere to be seen.