Free Moonseed by Stephen Baxter Page B

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.”
    He shrugged. “Edinburgh may not like me, but maybe I’ll like Edinburgh.”
    “Why?”
    “Volcanoes and a river sound. It reminds me of Seattle.”
    She snorted. “Seattle in three hundred million years, maybe, when the volcanoes have died.”
    He was impressed; that was about right.
    She said, “What have you seen?”
    “Just the walk from the hotel. The Balmoral.”
    She went back to her rocks. “This is the New Town. You need to go see the Old Town before you decide you like us.”
    “How new is the New Town?”
    “1760.”
    “Older than my whole damn country. I should have known.”
    “Most things in life are older than your country.” She studied him. “Look, are you going to buy anything, or—”
    He shook his head. How do I get myself into these situations? He turned to go. The girl didn’t acknowledge him.
    He stopped at the door and turned back. “Look—”
    “What?”
    He went back to the mineral racks and picked up the necklace of bottle-green beads. “Do you know what this is?”
    “Peridot,” she said.
    “Well, yes. The gem form of olivine. And that’s what the lithosphere and asthenosphere are made of. That is, the solid layers that hold in the liquid interior of the Earth. So olivine is important stuff.”
    She took it dubiously. “You want it wrapped?”
    “No,” he said. He dug his hands into his pockets, seeking money. “Take it. As a gift.”
    She pushed it back over the counter. “Stuff it up your jacksie.”
    “I mean it. No strings. I want to apologize. I’ve done nothing but make enemies since I landed…” He had no British money; he pulled out what he had, a crumpled roll of dollars. “Will you accept this?”
    “Christ. Dollars. You Americans.”
    Strike three, he thought. “Here. Fifty bucks. I’m sure that’s more than it’s worth. Please. On me.”
    “Stuff it,” she said again, but he thought he could see a smile in her face.
    He left the fifty, and got out while he could.
     
    When the door had closed and the shop was empty again, Jane Dundas picked up the fifty dollars, and the necklace, and ran the bottle-green beads through her hands.
    5
    Mike Dundas lived with his father, in the western shadow of Arthur’s Seat, to the east of the city center.
    It was a fine spring morning, the sky clear and deep blue, and the air off the Firth was fresh and cool, even this far inland. So, before getting the Rover out of the garage todrive into work, Mike put on his walking shoes and set off to the Seat.
    He walked east around Queen’s Drive, the road which skirted Holyrood, the park that contained the Seat. He reached the entrance opposite the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the Edinburgh seat of the royals. Holyroodhouse was a twee picture palace, shut away behind railings; Mike had grown up in Edinburgh but had never been tempted to go visit it.
    He set off up the Volunteer’s Walk to the summit of the Seat itself.
    Everyone but the tourists knew the Seat had nothing to do with the English King Arthur, but was named from Gaelic: Ard Tor —the Height of Thor.
    The climb, he knew from a lifetime’s experience, looked a lot stiffer than it was. The grassy ground was dark, still in the shadow of the turning Earth, even though the sky was already bright; and the dew made it a little slippery underfoot. The path was heavily eroded—too many visitors—but the climb was one Mike had been completing since he was a kid, and it didn’t take long to reach the broad, flat summit.
    He stood on the red-brown, lumpy rock here. The rock was agglomerate, the exposed neck of the old volcano. There were two summit monuments up here, sparse concrete