Now she was smeared around Earth, immersing it in her awareness, as if it were a speck that floated in her eyeball.

The great Farms glittered over the planet: from pole to pole, around the equator, even on the floor and surface of the oceans, and in the clouds. It was as if the planet were encrusted with jewels of light and life and order. There were no barren red deserts, no frozen ice caps here.

But already, as the Red Moon began its subtle gravitational work, the first changes were visible. Huge ocean storms were unravelling the delicate ocean floor and water-borne Farms. A vast line of earthquakes and ugly volcanism was unstitching an eastern continent. And, from an ocean which was sloshing like water in a disturbed bath, a train of immense tsunamis marched towards the land.

Soon the Poka Farm was covered — extinguished, scoured clear, even the bedrock shattered, the bone dust of her ancestors scattered and lost, beyond memory.

The jewel-like lights were failing, all over the world. There was nothing for her here.

She gazed at her destination, the new, wandering Moon.

Reid Malenfant:

Malenfant’s world was stratified into layers of varying incomprehensibility.

At the base of it all was the stockade, the familiar sturdy fence and the huts of mud and wood: the physical infrastructure of the world, solid, imperturbable.

And then there were the people.

Hugh McCann was standing alone at the centre of the colony’s little street, hands dangling at his sides, gazing up at a corner of the sky. His mouth was open, and his cheeks glistening, as if he was weeping. Nemoto was shielding her eyes, so that she couldn’t so much as glimpse the sky above.

He saw Julia and Thomas, close together near the gate. The Hams didn’t seem disturbed by the fiery sky. They were stripping off their neat, sewn-together garments, revealing bodies that were ungainly slabs of corded muscle. They pulled on much cruder skin wraps, of the kind Malenfant had seen Thomas wear out in the bush, tying them up with thongs. More Hams were coming in through the open gate (the gate is open, Malenfant!), and they picked up the discarded English-type clothing and started to pull it on.

A shift change, he thought, wondering. As if the settlement was a factory maintained by a pool of labour beyond the stockade walls.

And in the sky…

You can’t put off thinking about it any longer, Malenfant.

Start with the basics. There is the white sun, the yellow Earth (yellow?). There are the clouds, stringy cirrus today, littered over the sky’s dome. And beyond the clouds, in the spaces between sun and Earth -

What, Malenfant?

He saw bars, circles, lines, patterns that seemed to congeal and then disappear. If he stared fixedly at one point of the sky he would make out a fragment of texture, as if something was sliding by, something huge, beyond the roof of the world. But it never stayed stable in his vision — like an optical illusion, a form that oscillated between two interpretations, a bubble that flipped into a crater. And no matter how he tried he would find his eyes sliding away to the familiar, to the huts, the red dust of the ground.

“Why can’t I see it?”

Nemoto kept her head down. “It’s too far beyond your experience, Malenfant. Or above it. You think of your eyes as little cameras, your ears as microphones, giving you some objective impression of the true world. They are not. Everything you think you see is a kind of virtual-reality projection, based on sensory input, framed by prejudice about what the brain imagines ought to be out there. Remember, we evolved as plain-dwelling hunter-gatherers, and our sensoriums are conditioned to the hundred-mile scale of Earth landscapes. Malenfant, you just aren’t programmed to see—”

“The scaffolding in the sky.”

“Whatever it is.”

“Like the Hams. When we went to the wreck of the Redoubtable. It was as if they couldn’t see it at all.”

“Do you find the thought disturbing, Malenfant? To find you have the same limitations as Neandertals?”

“What’s happening, Nemoto? What is coming down on us?”

“I could not begin even to guess.”

McCann was standing alone, still weeping.

As Malenfant approached, McCann used his sleeve to wipe away the dampness on his cheeks, the dribble of mucus that had dangled from his nose. “Malenfant. You bear yourself well. The first Change I witnessed threw me into a cold grue of terror. But you have a stiff back; I could see that about you from the start.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can’t you see?” And he stabbed a finger at the sky, at the Earth.

The new Earth.

The planet was a ball of yellow-white cloud, very bright. It was banded by water-colour streaks of varying colours. There were dark knots in the bands, perhaps giant storms. It reminded Malenfant of nothing so much as spaceprobe images of Jupiter or Saturn. It was a Banded Earth.

Deep unease settled into his gut. “What happened to the Earth?”

“Nothing, Malenfant,” Nemoto said, her voice expressionless. “It’s gone. Or rather, we have. The Red Moon has moved on a fresh universe, another of the vast ensemble of possibilities—”

“And it has taken us with it,” McCann said bitterly. “We have suffered another knight’s move between possibilities. Now do you see why I weep? It is unmanly, perhaps — but now that the Red Moon has moved on from your world, any chance of rescue by your people is gone with it.” He laughed, an ugly sound. “I have seen a whole succession of worlds skip through that dismal sky, Malenfant, each of them as bleak as the last — save only for yours, where I could see the glint of cities on the night side. And then your squat glider came floating down from the sky, and I allowed myself to hope, you see — a fool’s mistake. But now hope is gone, and you are as stranded as I am — both of you — all of us in this Purgatory…”

Malenfant saw it in that instant; it was as if the world swivelled around him, taking on new, and unwelcome, configurations. The Red Moon had moved on. He was indeed stranded, beyond the reach of any help from those who knew him — stranded in another universe, to which he had somehow been transported.

In a corner of his mind he wondered if poor impoverished Luna had been restored to the skies of Earth.

As the light show faded the Hams — the “new shift” — were moving slowly around the stockade, picking up brooms and tools, heading for the huts. Beginning their work.

Malenfant said, “Why do they come here?”

McCann held up his hands, plucked at his threadbare jacket. “Look at me. I am old and fat and tired — and at that I am perhaps the best functioning of those who survived the crash of the Redoubtable. And now look at the bar-bars.” He faced Malenfant. “You think I am some slave-keeper. How could I keep these people, if they did not wish to stay? Or — if I keep slaves, where are the children? Where are the old, the lame?” He pointed beyond the gate. “There is a troupe of them out there. We keep up a certain trade, I suppose you’d call it. They sustain this little township with their labour, as you have seen. And in return, there are things we have which they covet: certain foodstuffs — and beer, Malenfant, your bar-bar gentleman likes his beer!”

Nemoto said levelly to Julia, “Why do you keep these English alive?”

Julia grinned, showing a row of tombstone teeth. “Tired ol” men,” she said.

McCann eyed Malenfant ruefully. “Pity, you see; the pity of animals. They saw we had no women or children, that we were slowly dying. They regard us as pets, these Hams. That is what we are reduced to.”

“And all your talk of educating them in a Christian, umm, Johannen life—”

“A man does not welcome too much reality…”

That gate was still open. You’re wasting time, Malenfant.