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scarred the grassy slopes; a reservoir, a fallen slab of the cloudy sky, stretched to the horizon, sinking as the bus laboured upward. Thursday week might change his life. No longer just the Moonwell postman and a treat for the customers at the pub, he'd be the man who was hiding inside him waiting to be noticed. He'd be worthy of Phoebe Wain-wright's notice.
    The bus let him off at the edge of the pine woods. He walked through the green calm, breaking into routines when he felt like it. 'Tea in the pot, Mr Gloom.' 'Best bloody place for it, Mr Despondency.' They summed up Northern dourness at its worst; their behaviour wasn't even that much of a parody, to judge by the way his audiences at the pub recognized them.
    A sharp wind met him as he emerged from the old forest. Above him the ridge overlooking the town looked charred against the lumpy, piebald sky. 'Don't miss Eustace Gift at the One-Armed Soldier,' he announced, blowing himself a fanfare as he gained the ridge, 'but don't tell anyone, will you?' He swallowed his last word, for he'd been overheard. A man was resting on the ferny bank beside the road.
    The man placed his long hands on his knees and stood up as Eustace faltered. He wore a denim suit, shoes with thick soles, a rucksack. His face was angular, cheekbones thrusting forward; his hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes were unnervingly blue. Shyness made Eustace speak before he was ready. 'Heading for Moon-well?'
    'Sure am.'
    Californian, Eustace thought, having been educated by television. Eustace made to hurry past, but the man fell into step with him. 'I hope you weren't thinking I was crazy,' Eustace said eventually, awkwardly, 'because I was talking to myself.'
    'Not at all. I knew who you were talking to up here.'
    Eustace didn't like to ask who. 'What brings you to Moonwell?'
    'Good news.'
    'Oh, good. That's good news,' Eustace babbled, unwilling to risk anything else.
    'And the greatest challenge of my life.'
    'Really? That must be -' Eustace blundered, and gave up. Thank heaven they were entering Moonwell. Noticing how dusty the man's shoes and trousers were, he wondered how far he could have walked. He made to stride ahead, but the man took hold of his arm. 'How do I get above the town?'
    'Along here," Eustace said reluctantly, and led him off the High Street. At the end of the unpaved side road, a stepped path led up to the moors. 'You'd be doing me a favour if you'd help me to the top,' the man said.
    Eustace took pity on him, since he seemed exhausted. Yet as soon as they reached the moor, wind hissing down the grassy slopes to set the heather scratching, the man revived. 'I know my way now,' he said, and when Eustace made to retreat, 'Come with me. It isn't far. You won't want to miss this.' He waited until Eustace stumbled after him along the path, wondering what he'd been talked into. The man's face pressed forward into the wind until the skin turned pale with stretching, and Eustace began to feel he'd rather hear at secondhand about whatever was coming. But he hadn't thought of an excuse for turning back when the crowd of people appeared above them on the slopes, cried out, and started singing.

    SIX
     
    Nick drove away from the missile base and wondered how best to contradict himself. There were fewer protesters at the base today than there had been last week. Most of them came from Sheffield or farther away, very few from the Peak District, and none at all from Moon-well. It looked as if the Defence Minister had been proved right after all.
    The site of the base had been moved away from Sheffield into a dale at the edge of the Peaks. There had been protests that it was too close to the reservoirs, and a few that it was too close to Moonwell. When the couple who ran a bookshop in Moonwell had written to the Defence Minister, they'd received a letter that all but said Moonwell was small enough to be expendable. That had brought protesters out of the Peaks, but not for long. Today's