The Ambassador by Edwina Currie

on the Maglev to Malta and Cyprus for 59.99 euros, with an optional stopover in Corsica. The spectacular view from the Mediterranean bridges was rumoured to be worth the trip alone. Egypt was a day trip for 99 euros, with duty-free vouchers and a Mummy Death Experience thrown in. A week at the North or South Pole, with or without penguins, could be had for 259 euros, not far short of the price of safaris to Disney’s Atlantic Trench Undersea World or Attenborough Enterprises’ Jurassic Park, out in Korea. But Matt had a glint in his eye as he presented his swipe card. A camera bobbed above their heads. The door opened.
    ‘What are you after?’ Strether hissed.
    ‘The trip of the century. Or so it’s been billed. New Year’s Day 2100.’
    The assistant was elderly and grizzled; probably came cheap, Strether suspected, if he were already a pensioner from a previous job. Or two, or three.
    ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
    Matt sat at the desk and pointed at a hologram on the wall. Strether began to chuckle and clapped his staffer on the shoulder. ‘I might have known.’
    ‘That one. It was advertised on CNN last night. I tried vidphoning but you were jammed. Are there still seats available?’
    ‘Let me see.’ The assistant pushed buttons on his console. ‘Well, they’re running an extra flight due to the extraordinary demand. You’re in luck. How many places?’
    ‘Just one. At a thousand euros a kilo, it’s all I can afford.’
    ‘Right. How many kilos, then?’
    ‘Well, I weigh about eighty. Have to allow for my clothes and a bag, I suppose. Is eighty-five cutting it too fine?’
    The assistant appraised him carefully. ‘You could lose a couple beforehand to make sure,’ he remarked helpfully. ‘I’ll put you down for eighty-five. Excess baggage will be left on the tarmac. A deposit is payable now and you can pay the rest in instalments, with everything due six weeks before the event. Would you like insurance?’ Matt handed over his swipe card and offered his palm for DNA sweat analysis to confirm his identity. ‘Whathappens if I can’t go? Is the money refundable?’
    The assistant laughed indulgently. ‘My dear young man, by the time we get close to the date your ticket will be worth ten times what you’ve paid for it. We don’t run trips to the moon every day, you know. They drive us travel agents mad, what with passengers who can’t make their weight limit or who insist on bringing children or pets or who we can’t find suits to fit. The tantrums in the departure lounge! You’ll need a full printout from your doctor before I can confirm this, Mr Brewer, and I will have to check any criminal and mental illness records.’
    As he spoke he was tapping into the computer. ‘Load of nonsense, these safety rules. There aren’t any bugs out there for you to bring back: the place is sterile, for heaven’s sake. You won’t exactly be bouncing around on the surface stark naked. The moon’s just a chilly theme park staffed by robots. In my view – and I’ve only been in this agency twenty years since I retired – the Transport Commissioners should pay more attention to what goes on in the skies below the stratosphere, never mind above it. Right, here’s your provisional booking.’
    Matt took the laminated card and looked at it, though he knew it was unreadable by human eyes. He sighed happily. I’m going to the moon. Golly.’ He turned to Strether. ‘You ever been, sir?’
    ‘No,’ his boss growled in mock ferocity. ‘Don’t fancy it either. That’s a young man’s caper. We oldies prefer to gaze at the heavenly bodies from terra firma . Heck, Matt, I had a twinge or two on my sea voyage to get here. If there’s anything swaying under me, I’d rather it was a horse, not half a dozen Lockheed X-33 aerospike engines.’
    ‘I went in 2090, coronation year,’ the old man reminisced. ‘We get concessionary fares, of course. Quite an experience, though I wouldn’t want to repeat it.