"Yes," Beychae agreed. He smiled up at her. "You'll find that old men still retain the ability to surprise, on occasion."

"It'll be cold," the woman said, drawing away. "I'll fetch your warm clothes."

Beychae watched her go. "Wonderful girl," he said. "Don't know what I'd do without her."

"Indeed," he replied. You may have to learn, he thought.

The journey back up to the surface took an hour to arrange. Beychae seemed excited. Ubrel Shiol made him put on warm clothes, changed out of her smock into a one-piece, and put her hair up. They took the same car; Mollen drove. He, Beychae and Ms Shiol sat on the broad rear bench; the woman in the black robe sat across from them.

They left the tunnel for the bright light of day; snow covered a broad yard with tall wire gates before them. Security men watched the car go past as the gates opened. The car set off down a side road for the nearest turnpike, then stopped at the junction.

"Is there a fair on anywhere?" Beychae asked. "I always enjoyed the noise and bustle of fairs."

He recalled there was some sort of travelling circus camped in a meadow down near the river Lotol. He suggested they went there. Mollen turned the car onto the broad, almost empty boulevard.

"Flowers," he said, suddenly.

They all looked at him.

He'd put his arm back on the seat, behind Beychae and Urbrel Shiol, and brushed Shiol's hair, dislodging a clasp Shiol had secured her hair with. He laughed, and retrieved the clasp from the shelf under the car's rear window. The manoeuvre had given him the chance to look back.

There was a large half-track vehicle following them. "Flowers, Mr Staberinde?" the woman in the black robe said. "I'd like to buy some flowers," he said, smiling first at her, then at Shiol. He clapped his hands. "Why not? To the Flower Market, Mollen!" He sat back, smiling beatifically. Then he sat forward, all apologetic. "If that's all right," he said to the woman.

She smiled. "Of course. Mollen; you heard." The car turned down another road.

In the Flower Market, amongst the packed and flurried stalls, he bought flowers and presented them to the woman and to Ubrel Shiol. "There's the fair!" he said, pointing over the river, where the tents and holograms of the fair sparkled and rotated.

As he'd hoped, they took the Flower Market Ferry. It was a tiny, one-vehicle platform. He looked back at the half-track waiting on the other side.

The far bank. They drove towards the fair; Beychae chattered, remembering fairs from his youth for Ubrel Shiol.

"Thank you for my flowers, Mr Staberinde," the woman sitting across from him said, putting them to her face and breathing in their scent.

"My pleasure," he said, then leant across Shiol to tap Beychae on the arm, to attract his attention to a piece of fairground equipment wheeling into the sky over some nearby roofs. The car drew to a stop at a light-controlled junction.

He reached across Shiol again, pulled down a zip before she realised what was happening, and extracted the gun he'd already felt there. He looked at it and started to laugh, as though the whole thing was a silly mistake, then turned it and fired at the glass screen behind Mollen's head.

The glass shattered. He was already kicking through it, launching himself from the seat and lancing forward with one leg. His foot crashed through the disintegrating glass and connected with Mollen's head.

The car leapt forward, then stalled. Mollen slumped. The instant of stunned silence lasted just long enough for him to shout, "Capsule; here!"

The woman across from him moved; her hand dropped the flowers and went to her waist and a fold in the robe. He punched her in the jaw, sending her head cracking back against the still intact part of the glass screen behind her. He swivelled, crouched near the door, as the woman slid unconscious to the floor beside him and the flowers spilled across the footwell. He looked back at Beychae and Shiol. Both their mouths were open. "Change of plan," he said, taking off the dark glasses and throwing them onto the floor.

He dragged them both out. Shiol was screaming. He threw her against the rear of the car.

Beychae found his voice; "Zakalwe, what the hell do you…"

"She had this, Tsoldrin!" he yelled back, flourishing the gun.

Ubrel Shiol used the second or so that the gun wasn't pointing at her to stab a kick at his head. He dodged it, let the woman spin, then cracked her, open handed, across the neck. She crumpled. The flowers he had given her rolled under the car.

"Ubrel!" Beychae shrieked, falling to the woman's side. "Zakalwe! What have you done to…"

"Tsoldrin…" he began. The driver's door burst open and Mollen launched himself at him. They tumbled across the road into the gutter; the gun went spinning.

He found himself wedged against the kerb, Mollen above him, bunching his lapels in one hand, the other arm swinging up, the voice machine swinging out on a lanyard as the huge, scarred fist plunged downwards.

He feinted, then flung himself in the other direction. He jumped up as Mollen's fist hit the kerb stones.

"Hello," said Mollen's voice box as it clattered into the road surface.

He tried to steady, aiming a kick at Mollen's head, but he was off-balance. Mollen caught his foot with his good hand. He wriggled out of the grip, but only by turning away.

"Pleased to meet you," the box said, swinging again as Mollen rose, shaking his head.

He aimed another kick at Mollen's head. "What do you require?" The machine said, as Mollen dodged the kick and threw himself forwards. He dived, skidded across the concrete road surface, rolled and stood.

Mollen faced him; his neck was bloody. He staggered, then seemed to remember something, and dug inside his tunic.

"I am here to help you," said the voice box.

He flung himself forward, smashing a fist into Mollen's head as the big man turned, loosing a small gun from his tunic. He was too far away to grab it, so he pivoted and swung one foot, connecting with the gun in the man's fist and forcing his hand up. The grey-haired man staggered back, looking pained and rubbing his wrist.

"My name is Mollen. I cannot speak."

He'd hoped the kick might have dislodged the gun from Mollen's grip but it didn't. Then he realised that directly behind him were Beychae and the unconscious Shiol; he stood for a second while Mollen aimed the gun at him, waggling his body one way then the other, so that Mollen, shaking his head again, let his hand waver on the gun.

"Pleased to meet you."

He dived at Mollen's legs. Collided satisfactorily.

"No, thank you." They crashed into the kerb-side. "Excuse me…"

He brought his fist up, tried to whack the man across the head again.

"Could you tell me where this is?"

But Mollen rolled. His punch sailed through air. Mollen shifted and almost head-butted him. He had to duck, hitting his head against the kerb-stones.

"Yes, please."

He splayed his fingers as his head rang with light, flung them out where he thought Mollen's eyes ought to be, and felt something connect liquidly. Mollen screamed.

"I cannot reply to that."

He bounced up using hands and feet, kicking out at Mollen as he did so.

"Thank you." His foot slammed into Mollen's head. "Would you repeat that, please?"

Mollen rolled slowly into the gutter and lay still. "What time is it?" What time is it? What time is it?"

He stood up shakily on the sidewalk.

"My name is Mollen. Can I help you? You are not allowed in here. This is private property. Where do you think you are going? Stop or I shoot. Money is no object. We have powerful friends. Could you direct me to the nearest telephone? I'll fuck you harder all right, bitch; feel this."