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they found their focus.
    â€˜I’ve arrived?’
    â€˜You’re aboard the ship. Just like you planned.’
    His relief was palpable. ‘I thought it was never going to end. Four hours in that thing ... it felt like a million years.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind betting that’s the first physical discomfort you’ve ever known in your life.’ The man in the black spacesuit was standing now, his legs slightly apart, braced in the half-gravity produced by the ship’s acceleration.
    Anthony Theobald narrowed his eyes at the figure. ‘Do I know you?’
    â€˜You do now.’
    â€˜I was expecting to be met by Raichle.’
    â€˜Raichle couldn’t make it. I came instead. You’re okay with that, I assume?’
    â€˜Of course I’m ...’ But Anthony Theobald’s usual self-control was betraying him. The man in the suit felt waves of fear rippling off him. Waves of fear and suspicion and an arrogant unwillingness to grasp that his escape plans hadn’t been as foolproof as they’d looked when he climbed into the nonvelope. ‘Did it really happen? Is Ruskin-Sartorious gone?’
    â€˜It’s gone. The Ultras did a good job. You got out just in time.’
    â€˜And the others? The rest of us?’
    â€˜I’d be surprised if there’s a single intact strand of human DNA left anywhere in the Bubble.’
    â€˜Delphine ...’ There was a heartbreaking crack in his voice. ‘My poor daughter?’
    â€˜You knew the deal, Anthony Theobald. You were the only one with a get-out clause.’
    â€˜I demand to know who you are. If Raichle didn’t send you, how did you know where to find the nonvelope?’
    â€˜Because he told me, that’s why. During interrogation.’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜That isn’t the issue, Anthony Theobald. The issue at hand is what you were doing sheltering that evil thing in your nice little family-run habitat.’
    â€˜I wasn’t sheltering anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    The man in the suit reached behind the small of his back and unclipped a small, handle-shaped object. He hefted it in his palm as if it might be a cosh or truncheon.
    â€˜I think it’s about time you met a close, personal friend of mine.’
    â€˜You’ve got it wrong. The thing underground was just—’
    The man made an odd flicking motion with the handle and something whipped out, extending all the way to the floor. It was almost invisibly fine, catching the light only intermittently. It appeared to swish against the flooring of its own volition, as if searching for something.
    The man let go of the handle. The handle remained where it was, its coiled filament stiffening to support it. The handle tracked around until the black cylinder of its head was aimed directly at Anthony Theobald. He raised a hand against the laser as it scratched a bright, oscillating line across his eyes.
    It had a mark on him now, confirmed by a minute nod from the man in black.
    â€˜Keep that thing away from me.’
    â€˜This is a Model C whiphound,’ the man in the suit said. ‘It’s got a few additional features compared to the last version. One of them’s called “interrogation mode.” Shall we give it a spin?’
    The whiphound began to slink closer to Anthony Theobald.
    Dreyfus was alone in his quarters. He had prepared some tea, losing himself in the task. When he was finished, he knelt at a low, black table and allowed the hot ginger-coloured brew to cool before drinking it. The room filled itself with the tinkling sound of distant wind chimes, a ghost-thin melody implicit in the apparent randomness. Normally it suited his mood, but today Dreyfus waved the music quieter, until he had near-silence. He sipped at the tea but it was still too hot.
    He faced a blank rice-paper wall. He raised a hand and shaped a basic conjuring gesture, one