He wondered what had happened to the driver.

The concrete lip he was looking at formed a dark bump against the skyline. The bump hung for a few seconds, then came down on the thin coating of water that floated down the slope, staining it red. What was left of the driver skidded past him and bumped into the river, edging past the chassis of the shattered car and setting off downstream, swirling pinkly in the water, revolving.

He shook his head. He brought his hand up to his nose, waggled the tip experimentally, and gasped with pain. This made the fifteenth time he'd broken his nose.

He grimaced into the mirror, snorting back a mixture of blood and warm water. The black porcelain basin swirled with gently steaming suds, pink-flecked. He touched his nose with great delicacy and frowned into the mirror.

"I miss breakfast, lose a perfectly proficient driver and my best car, I break my nose yet again and get an old raincoat of immense sentimental value dirtier than it's ever been in its life before, and all you can say is "That's funny"?"

"Sorry, Cheradenine. I just mean, that's weird. I don't know why they'd do something like that. You are certain it was deliberate? Oof."

"What was that?"

"Nothing. You are certain it wasn't just an accident?"

"Positive. I called for a spare car, and the police, then went back to where it happened. No diversion; all gone. But there were traces of industrial solvent where they'd removed the false red road markings from the top of the storm drain."

"Ah. Ah; yeah…" Sma's voice sounded odd.

He took the transceiver bead off his ear lobe and looked hard at it. "Sma…"

"Whoo. Yeah, well, as I said; if it was those two Governance bods, the police won't do anything. But I can't understand them behaving like that."

He let the wash-bowl drain and dabbed tenderly at his nose with a fluffy hotel towel. He put the terminal earring back on his ear. "Maybe they just object to the fact I'm using Vanguard money. Maybe they think I'm Mr Vanguard or something." He waited for a reply. "Sma? I said maybe they…"

"Ow. Yes. Sorry. Yes; I heard you. You might be right."

"Anyway, there's more."

"God. What?"

He picked up an ornately decorated plastic screen-card, which — against a background of what looked like a fairly wild party — slowly flashed a message on and off. "An invitation. To me. I'll read it out: "Mr Staberinde; congratulations on your narrow escape. Do please come to a fancy-dress party this evening; a car will pick you up at rim-set. Costume provided." No address." He put the card back behind the wash-bowl taps. "According to the concierge that arrived at about the same time I called the police after my car went tobogganing."

"Fancy dress party, eh?" Sma giggled. "Better watch your ass, Zakalwe." There was more giggling, not all of it Sma's.

"Sma," he said frostily. "If I've called at an awkward time…"

Sma cleared her throat, sounded suddenly business-like. "Not at all. Sounds like it was the same lot. You going?"

"I think so, but not in their costume, whatever that turns out to be."

"All right. We'll track you. Are you absolutely positive you don't want a knife missile or…"

"I don't want to get into that argument again, Diziet," he said, dabbing his face dry and sniffing hard again, inspecting himself in the mirror. "What I was thinking about was this; if these people did react like this just because of Vanguard, maybe we can persuade them there's an opportunity for them here."

"What sort of opportunity?"

He went through to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed, staring up at the painted ceiling. "Beychae was connected with Vanguard at first, yes?"

"Honorary President-Director. Gave it credibility while we were starting up. He was only involved for a year or two."

"But there is that link." He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, staring out of the window at the snow-bright city. "And one of the theories we believe these guys have is that Vanguard is run by some sort of namby-pamby machine that's developed consciousness and conscience…"

"Or just by some old recluse with philanthropic intentions," Sma agreed.

"So; say this mythical machine or person had existed, but then somebody else got hold of the reins; disabled the machine, killed the philanthropist. And then started spending their ill-gotten gains."

"Hmm," Sma said. "Mmm. Mmm." She coughed again. "Yes… ah. Well, they'd be acting a lot like you've been, I suppose."

"So do I," he said, going to the window; he picked up a pair of dark glasses from a small table, put them on.

Something beeped near the bed. "Hold on." He turned, crossed to the bedside and picked up the same small device he'd scanned the two top floors with when he'd first arrived. He looked at the display, smiled, and left the room. Walking down the corridor, still holding the machine, he said, "Sorry; somebody bouncing a laser off the window in the room I was in, trying to eavesdrop."

He entered a suite facing uphill and sat on the bed. "Anyway; could you make it look like there'd been some sort of… event in the Vanguard Foundation, a few days before I arrived here? Some sort of cataclysmic change but the signs are only appearing now? I don't know what, especially as it all has to be back-dated, but something that the markets, say, only just get hold of now; something buried in the trading figures… would that be possible?"

"I…" Sma said, hesitantly. "I don't know. Ship?"

"Hello?" the Xenophobe said.

"Can we do what Zakalwe just asked?"

"I'll listen to what it was," the ship said. Then, "Yes; best get one of the GCUs to handle it, but it can be done."

"Great," he said, lying back on the bed. "Also, as of now — and again, back-dating where we can interfere with computer records — Vanguard becomes an unethical corporation. Sell the R&D department investigating ultra-strong materials for space habitats and that sort of stuff; have it pick up stock in companies promoting terraforming. Close a few factories; start a few lock-outs; halt all charitable works; skim the pension fund."

"Zakalwe! We're supposed to be the good guys!"

"I know, but if I can get our Governance pals to think I've taken over Vanguard, and I think the way they do…" He paused. "Sma; do I have to spell it out?"

"Ah… ouch. What? Oh… no; you think they might try and get you to convince Beychae that Vanguard's still doing what we want it to do, and so get him to declare for it?"

"Exactly." He clasped his hands under his neck, adjusting his pony-tail. This bed had mirrors on the ceiling above, not a painting. He studied the distant reflection of his nose.

"Long… um, shot, Zakalwe," Sma said.

"I think we have to try it."

"It means wrecking a commercial reputation it's taken decades to establish."

"That more important than stopping the war, Diziet?"

"Of course not, but… ah… of course not, but we can't be certain it'll work."

"Well, I say we do it now. It has a better chance than offering the university those goddamn tablets."

"You've never liked that plan, have you, Zakalwe?" Sma sounded annoyed.

"This one's better, Sma. I can feel it. Get it done now, so they've heard about it by the time I get to the party tonight."

"Okay, but that thing with the tablets…"

"Sma; I've re-arranged the meeting with the Dean for the day after tomorrow, okay? I can mention the goddamn tablets then. But make sure all this Vanguard stuff goes through now, all right?"

"I… oh… ah… yeah, right. I suppose so… so… oh, wow. Look, Zakalwe, something's just come up; was there anything else?"

"No," he said loudly.

"Aww… great. Umm… right, Zakalwe; bye."

The transceiver beeped. He tore it off his ear and threw it across the room.