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“Digital was a diversion, a distraction from the real work at hand.”
    A thought occurred to him, and his hand fluttered for James to come closer.
    “How to communicate an experience directly, you see, from mind to mind – that is my life’s work.”
    “Is it possible?”
    “We’ve always known it’s possible, bailiff. The Institute has had many successes in that area. The problem was how. The brain is not a transmitter. Simple as. And yet nonetheless the phenomenon exists. Observe. Alex, serve the bailiff some tea.”
    From a blue teapot, Alex poured him a cup of white tea, the prized first picking of the leaf, she explained, too subtle for his palette until the aftertaste of jasmine, and then, after another sip, he discerned the initial stages of the flavour, experienced it retrospectively.
    Omega John worked his thin lips as if he too were savouring the tea, eyes closed, those long fingers playing the sound of the flavour upon the air.
    “Yes, jasmine. I can tune into your implant so that your sensations are communicated directly from you to me.”
    James was sceptical. “Can you read my mind?”
    “No. Vivid sensations, strong emotions, a powerful image. The implant puts you and I in harmony. Try something more personal.”
    He remembered Ruth, sobbing, the kitchen knife in her hand. She had reopened the library to chair a meeting about the potential for change offered by the crisis. Invited community leaders, turned her face to mankind and spoke with optimism against the turmoil. The meeting was broken up by the new police. A gangster policeman swaggered up onto the stage and took the microphone from her, feedback flooding the sound system. James fought his way through the crowd toward his wife. She was arguing with the gangster policeman; he did not bother to respond. From the stage he pointed out the cameras monitoring the crowd, reminded them of sanctions against illegal behaviour and ordered them to disperse. Later, in an argument over the worth of resistance, her shirt off, in her bra and skirt, Ruth picked up the knife to demonstrate the seriousness of her commitment, and the gesture was so futile, he realized that her anger was so heavy, it would crush her.
    Omega John gazed at James, and then awoke from his reverie to the dryness of his mouth, the stiff numbness in his fingers.
    “A powerful image of the humbling of a woman,” he whispered. “Your wife, Ruth. Ripe with emotional content. Alex also has an implant. If you wished, you and Alex could share the same dream through me. Would you like that?”
    Alex was gazing sideways at him, interested in his reaction.
    “My implant is there solely so that I can perform my role as bailiff.”
    Omega John laughed. “Of course! Letting you dream would be letting a hammer design a house!”
    At his request, they moved their tea party out to his garden, the orderlies carrying the table, chairs and tea set. The grounds of the old house were expansive; junctions were marked with sculptures, curved evocations of natural shapes in iron and wood, and there was a maze and a secret grove strung with lanterns. The lawn turned downhill toward a tidal estuary, the waters flowing back toward the house like a cat coming in at night, bringing a brackish air of mud and life’s fresh rot. Omega John’s garden consisted of terraces of vegetable beds, a winding path of Moroccan multicoloured tiles, and a Victorian hothouse containing an outsized biomass of rubber and banana trees, steam curling around their little party, water dripping from above. Omega John stopped at the fruit trees; with a short sharp knife, he cropped starfruit and mango, the former tart and sour, the latter sweet, for the party to pass among them. He did not eat himself, pleading “a quite impossible digestive system”, but insisted that James and Alex sample the fruit so that he could taste it by proxy.
    They left the hothouse through a covered passage and came into the high netting of an