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the ship, as though it were infested with gnomes.
    A tall stick of a man paced behind the technicians like a teacher on a field trip. He wore a jacket with patches at the elbows and smoked a thin cigarette; his long face was lined and weary, as if bought second-hand. Only his thick hair and pencil moustache looked healthy, but there was a surprisingly vibrancy in his eyes, at once kindly and tough.
    He coughed as he approached and stuck out a hand. ‘Smith.’
    ‘W.’
    They shook and the master spy looked over Suruk and Carveth. ‘I heard about your father, Mr Slayer. My condolences.’
    Suruk nodded. ‘I thank you. It is a comfort to know that my father died smiting the Yull.’
    ‘Good. And well done everyone on your work against the lemmings. Now,’ he added, ‘Wainscott mentioned some sort of lab in his report, staffed by Ghasts. Is that right?’
    ‘Yes,’ Smith said. ‘There was something down there. It didn’t look like Yull stuff – it didn’t smell of sawdust, either. I took this file off a dead Ghastist: it mentions the Vorl. Whatever was going on there, it was dirty alien business, that’s for damned sure.’
    He passed the file to W. The spy opened it and ran a bony finger down the page. ‘Let’s see. . . hetuphikup –that’s a Yull word meaning the risk of error caused by excessive enthusiasm. Smith, you’re right – this does seem to be about the Ghast Vorl research programme.’
    ‘Vorl?’ Carveth said. ‘Aren’t they those ghost things that Rhianna’s mum copped – that Rhianna’s descended from?’
    ‘We thought the Ghasts had given up trying to contact the Vorl. I need to think about this,’ W said, ‘over tea.’ He looked troubled, more than usual. ‘Take the evening off, and come and see me tomorrow. I’ll be ready to discuss this then. Oh – and Smith?’ he added.
    ‘Yes?’
    W fished an envelope out of his jacket. ‘This may be of interest. I leave it to you what you do with it.’ He turned, coughed again and strode off, the smoke from his cigarette curling out behind him. ‘Carry on, everyone.’
    ‘A night off, eh?’ Smith mused, studying the towers and domes of the skyline. He slipped the envelope into his pocket. ‘And the whole city to explore. So, men: who’d like pie and mash?’
    *
    ‘Right then,’ Carveth said, spooning jellied eels into her mouth, ‘Who wants to take in a show?’
    They sat in a branch of Halbury’s Galactic Pie Emporium, the remnants of their dinner around them like the debris of an explosion. It was half-nine and the shop was deserted apart from a young couple in fleet uniform and a wallahbot that rolled around and tried to sell them flowers.
    ‘Hmm?’ Smith had been thinking about Rhianna. How he wished she were here with him now. Well, he thought, looking at Carveth’s gravy stained face whilst Suruk inflated his throat and let out another belch, not right now.
    ‘A show, boss.’
    Full of meat pie, Smith picked up the local newssheet and turned it over.
    ‘ Private Parts on Parade ,’ he read. ‘ A Revue on matters   topical, historical and comical, to be given by Young Actresses of Prominent Talent in celebration of our recent Victory on Varanor. Followed by the renowned Major- General Choudhury speaking of his Manly Exploits up the Purdang Basin and Music from Miss Lily Tuppence, the Nightingale of Mars . That sounds promising.’
    ‘Indeed so,’ Suruk said, poking around in a polystyrene cup. ‘I have several of Miss Tuppence’s records. If possible, I should like to get a souvenir from her.’
    ‘Oh?’ Smith said, remembering the sort of souvenirs that grinned from Suruk’s mantelpiece.
    The M’Lak offered his cup around. ‘Is it true that whelks are made from French people?’
    ‘No. The whelk is actually a small, slimy invertebrate that lives underwater, whereas your Frenchman lives on land. You see–’ He leaned across the table, gesturing with his little wooden fork, and W’s envelope fell out