‘Does everyone have to have a single purpose?’

So much for remaining quiet.

‘No, Roger. Some people stumble through their days not knowing what they want, hopeless and dissatisfied. Do you want to turn out that way?’

‘No.’ He looked at Dad, who was statue-still. ‘Is Max - Commodore Gould - trying to recruit me?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Max. ‘Are you interested?’

Was Roger the only one to see faint glimmers of golden sparks, deep inside Dad’s eyes? Did Max understand how much danger he was in?

But of course he did. He was almost certainly Dad’s commanding officer, or whatever they called it.

‘No, he’s not,’ said Dad. ‘And you don’t want me to resign.’

Stone-faced, they stared at each other.

‘Very well,’ Max responded at last. ‘On his next trip here, you’ll take Roger to see us officially, and we’ll give him the proper tour. Give him enough information to make up his mind. Good enough?’

Dad continued the hard stare; and then he nodded.

‘All right.’

‘And you’ll keep everything to yourself’ - Max turned to Roger - ‘because that’s a basic requirement, and it’s for everyone’s safety.’

There was a double meaning there: he also wanted Roger to keep quiet about the prisoner, and the storming darkness that dominated the prisoner’s cell. How telling that story could damage Dad, well, that was unclear.

‘So, both of you, Carl and Roger. It’s been wonderful. Have a relaxing stay. Really.’

Max clapped his hands, and reality spun.

Roger and Dad were standing on a platinum-inlaid balcony, amid floating dining-tables, surrounded by chatter and soft chamber music. Mum and Laura looked up from their meal.

‘Hello, you two. You found each other.’

‘Er, yes,’ said Dad.

‘And what have you been up to?’

‘Sightseeing,’ said Roger.

Mum stared at them for an extra second, then turned to Laura, who was frowning.

‘The men in my life are back,’ said Mum. ‘I guess we’ve a holiday to begin.’

Their farewells were cooler than their greeting, and Roger wondered what had gone wrong. Then he saw momentary disdain on Laura’s features - looking at Dad - and believed he understood.

‘Interesting city,’ Roger said, ‘but disappointing people. Some aren’t nearly as bright as our friends on Fulgor. Actually, some are pretty dumb.’

Mum and Dad were smiling as they all three turned their backs on Laura. In front of them, beyond the balcony, stretched the infinite length of Borges Boulevard, gleaming with its promise to carry them past wonders; while off to one side was the complex elegance of the Logos Library, housing its endlessly branching stacks and corridors, where polished shelves were filled with infocrystals that glowed, hinting at limitless knowledge strong enough to disperse the shadows of ignorance.

EIGHTEEN

EARTH, 1927 AD

There are no ghosts. Graveyards contain crumbling bones, some mouldering meat, and well-fed beetles. Hallucinations are a brain malfunction caused by false triggering of the circuits that recognize faces, bodies, human and animal movement.

It was only the cold that made her shiver, crouched inside the cemetery at night.

That, and the memory of Erik propped up in bed, his one good eye trained on her, the other side of his face a suppurating purple mess. Perhaps getting out of the family house was more to do with escaping her brother’s condition than seeking out the enemy.

From beyond the low stone wall came the sounds of men gathering, their voices a murmur, rising then falling as they went indoors, to a school hall that in the brightness of morning would be filled with children, singing their prayers and taking in the headmaster’s instructions, afterwards to create not so much essays and equations as their own coalescing minds. A school should be a place of hope.

It was her third evening back in Berlin; and already things seemed changed. Before she went to Zürich, no one had held political meetings of this type, and certainly not in her old school. But now, when she peeped from behind a headstone, she saw men in military-style shirts that looked grey under moonlight.

Where they ushered the ordinary men in suits inside, illumination fell on them, highlighting the scarlet armbands, like fresh blood against tan soil.

Knowing her way round, she left the cemetery via the far corner, and came to the school buildings from the rear, crossing the playground - it seemed so much smaller now - to reach the canteen. She used slow pressure on the doorknob, checking it was locked. No way in.

The windows were latticed with handles, unlike the casement windows in houses. Inside were catches, used to hold the window in place when open, and as locks when shut. But despite moonlight shining solidly on the glass, she could see that one of the catches inside was raised.

And when she tried it, the window opened far more quietly than expected.

Wishing she had paid more attention to athletic endeavours, she dragged herself up over the sill, catching her knee and possibly cutting it, biting back the pain in silence. From out in the corridor, she heard men’s voices passing.

‘Is he here?’

‘In the building, yes. Can’t you tell?’

‘Well I can feel the—’

Then they were gone, distance muffling the words.

Moving in a half crouch, she reached the inner door, turned the knob with constant tension, and slipped out into the corridor. Her shoes were quiet on the parquet flooring as she moved to the old staircase, paused to get her balance, and then went up, keeping to the outer edge of the tread where it was unlikely to creak.

Up and up she went, until she reached the old music room. Here she had expected potential trouble; but again the door was unlocked. Inside, music stands were like skeletons at attention, and she moved slowly to avoid clashing against them.

The sounds of murmuring seemed to come through the floor now.

At the end of the room, the other door was standing open, leading to darkness, to the old loft used for props and costumes. Inside would be clutter she could not see; but if she tripped over, then in the hall below several hundred pairs of eyes would turn to the ceiling, wondering at the noise.

She remembered The Barber of Seville, everyone speaking their lines in hard-accented French; and Goethe’s Faust, the school’s shining triumph, at least in the period of her last few years in this place. And she remembered how privileged she had been to arrange the stage lighting, playing with filters and rheostats during rehearsals until she had the timing and the atmosphere just right.

But tonight, even through the floorboards, she could tell the ambience was very different.

There were several tiny gaps between the boards, one of the reasons that the loft remained in darkness during performances. Now, on hands and knees, she edged toward a sliver of light.

Near another such gap, she imagined a momentary reflection, a glittering eye - but then it was gone; and even if there was a rat, it could not be as big as her. Then there was only shadow once more.

As she lowered her face to the hole, she could see a portion of the stage, and a small figure from above: combed-over hair, brush moustache, and an aura she could feel from here.

Words were once magic, Herr Doktor Freud had written, giving them power.

Since her encounter with the man she had sought out his books. They formed a strange counterpoint to her studies of electromagnetism, optics and mechanics: so definite in their tone, so lacking in mathematical structure or empirical proof; and yet insightful, at least in parts.

It took a few moments to tune in to the speech rising from below, and to understand why her unconscious mind had delivered up those words from Freud.