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‘But these,’ he pointed out, ‘could easily be produced by refraction effects of the atmosphere. Recall the shadow covering the city. How can you be certain that it does not distort the images received by your telescopes?’
    ‘We are certain because Selene’s memoirs describe similar changes.’
    Dwllis nodded. The nearest exit was clearing. He said, ‘Thank you for your time, but I must depart now.’
    ‘Wait,’ the pyuton said, grasping the cuff of his jacket. ‘Don’t you work in the Rusty Quarter, at the Archive?’
    Dwllis coughed, embarrassed, but also annoyed that he would now have to divulge his identity out of politeness. ‘Madam, I am none other than the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, Senior Historical Adviser to the Reeve.’ He bowed and left the Archive.
    Thoughts bothered him as he walked north along Feverfew Street. Had the pyuton really not known who he was? That pricked his esteem. It must be that she was toying with him, making him state his own identity. Well, the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower would not be going there again.
    Back home with Etwe, having heard that no more gnosticians had appeared bringing antique memories, he decided to go to bed early. By the light of a glow-bean he read a pamphlet distributed by the Archive of Gaya, advocating rights for lessers. But sleep did not come easy. At midnight he rose from his bed at the top of the Cowhorn Tower and descended to the lower bowl, wandering the galleries there for ten minutes before, irritated and wishing for tranquillisers, he hurried down to the base of the tower, and the outer door. There, wearing thin earmuffs, he took in the sights and sounds of the city.
    Night impenetrable covered the southern quarters, but he was able to glimpse pyrotechnics along Sphagnum Street, the cosy pink lamps of his local courtyard, the Copper, and, at the edge of vision, that macabre, glutinous light that emanated from parts of the Archive of Gaya.
    Then he looked east.
    At first it seemed some freak of the seething atmosphere, but it was too spherical. It came closer, and it seemed to Dwllis that he watched a glass lens of awesome dimensions rolling through Swamps fog; and yet he could see through it, to some other place that was bright, yet softly illuminated. The thing came near. Huffing and puffing he stepped backwards. Through it images started to form, then were lost.
    Suddenly a man’s leering face appeared. ‘Noct save me!’ Dwllis yelled, before he slammed the door shut, locked it, and, gasping for breath, clambered to the top of the tower. Fear had taken control of his limbs. Etwe had heard his cries and was standing dressed in a gown at her workshop door. He hugged her.
    ‘What is it?’ she asked.
    ‘I saw a thing over the Swamps,’ he muttered. When he recalled the scene, he trembled. ‘Damn it! I saw a thing rolling in off the black slime, against the wind.’
    ‘Let’s check,’ Etwe said in comforting tones. She ran to fetch a shallow tray, poured in a few drops of liquid, then attached pyuter wires. The tray became a glowing screen, which she activated using the fishtail code-key strung around her neck. Speaking the names of pyuter routines, she turned the door camera eastward.
    ‘Nothing,’ Dwllis said, peering at the screen. He looked up at the wall of the chamber. ‘What a relief this tower has no windows.’
    ‘You must have imagined it,’ said Etwe. She took him by the shoulder, in a light grasp. ‘Shall we go to our room?’
    Dwllis hesitated.
    Coyness took Etwe. ‘Have you been chewing...?’
    ‘No,’ he said sharply. He glanced at her, then looked away.
    ‘I believe you.’
    ‘It is the truth. Etwe, you retire to bed. I am just going to check the front door of the tower.’
    Dwllis descended to the ground, taking his time, trying to think of a useful weapon, for he intended peeking out into the night to see if the apparition was still abroad. He knew he had not imagined it. But as he shivered by the front door