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grabbing his beer and stalking about the room, gazing out of the windows. 'Neither of us owes the Culture anything. You know that ... Owing and being obliged and having duties and responsibilities and everything like that ... that's what these people have to worry about.' He turned round to look at me. 'But not me, not us. You do what you want to do, the ship does what it wants to do. I do what I want to do. All's well. Let's just leave each other alone, yes?' He looked back at the small courtyard, finishing his beer.
    'You want to be like them, but you don't want to have their responsibilities.'
    'I didn't say I wanted to be like them. To ... to whatever extent I do, I want to have the same sort of responsibilities, and that doesn't include worrying about what a Culture starship thinks. That isn't something any of them normally tend to worry about.'
    'What if Contact surprises us both, and does come in?'
    'I doubt that.'
    'Me too, very much; that's why I think it might happen.'
    'I don't think so. Though it is we who need them, not the other way round.' Linter turned and stared at me, but I wasn't going to start arguing on a second front now. 'But,' he said after a pause, 'the Culture can do without me.' He inspected his drained glass. 'It's going to have to.'
    I was silent for a while, watching the television flip through channels. 'What about you though?' I asked eventually. 'Can you do without it?'
    'Easily,' Linter laughed. 'Listen, d'you think I haven't -'
    'No; you listen. How long do you think this place is going to stay the way it is now? Ten years? Twenty? Can't you see how much this place has to alter ... in just the next century? We're so used to things staying much the same, to society and technology - at least immediately available technology - hardly changing over our lifetimes that ... I don't know any of us could cope for long down here. I think it'll affect you a lot more than the locals. They're used to change, used to it all happening fast. All right, you like the way it is now, but what happens later? What if 2077 is as different from now as this is from 1877? This might be the end of a Golden Age, world war or not. What chance do you think the West has of keeping the status quo with the Third World? I'm telling you; end of the century and you'll feel lonely and afraid and wonder why they've deserted you and you'll be the worst nostalgic they've got because you'll remember it better than they ever will and you won't remember anything else from before now.'
    He just stood looking at me. The TV showed part of a ballet in black and white, then an interview; two white men who looked American somehow (and the fuzzy picture looked US standard), then a quiz show, then a puppet show, again in monochrome. You could see the strings. Linter put his glass down on the granite table and went over to the Hifi, turning on the tape deck. I wondered what little bit of planetary accomplishment I was going to be treated to.
    The picture on the screen settled to one programme for a while. It looked vaguely familiar; I was sure I'd seen it. A play; last century ... American writer, but ... (Linter went back to his seat, while the music began; the Four Seasons.)
    Henry James, The Ambassadors. It was a TV production I'd seen on the BBC while I was in London ... or maybe the ship had repeated it. I couldn't recall. What I did recall was the plot and the setting, both of which seemed so apposite to my little scene with Linter that I started to wonder whether the beast upstairs was watching all this. Probably was, come to think of it. And not much point in looking for anything; the ship could produce bugs so small the main problem with camera stability was Brownian motion. Was The Ambassadors a sign from it then? Whatever; the play was replaced by a commercial for Odor-Eaters.
    'I've told you,' Linter brought me back from my musings, speaking quietly, 'I'm prepared to take my chances. Do you think I haven't thought it all through