Everyone he saw looked young. They were all perfect, with their smooth skin and liquid eyes. The shades of pigment on display were bewildering – ochre, amber, salmon pink, lime green, framed with silver hair or gold-plated headdresses. Very few of them noticed him. If they did, their eyes only alighted briefly on his travelworn clothes, his paunch, his lined and stubbled face. They didn’t scorn that, just stared through it entirely. For them, for these people, the world outside their bubble didn’t so much appal them as fail to exist – they walked past it, over it, through it, never once feeling obliged to engage with it.

Zidarov went up to a reception desk stacked with real plants sitting in glittering urns containing real water. The crew manning it were all as beautiful as those they served, though the effect was slightly less perfect – a scar from surgery here, a slight puckering from imperfect rejuve there. For all he knew, these people were older than he was, and yet they looked younger than Naxi.

‘I’ve an appointment with Probator Senioris Glovach,’ he told one of them, after struggling to catch an eye for a little while. ‘He’s expecting me.’

The mention of the name was enough. Calls were made, ushers were summoned, a servo-skull swept down from its roost and took picts of him for the security record. He was shown along a gold-edged corridor and gently guided into a glass-fronted elevator. This whispered up the floors until they reached an identical corridor on a higher level, this time with sweeping panoramic views of the city from floor-to-ceiling windows set at the far end. Zidarov smelled caffeine and sweetmeats, plus the same overpowering melange of body fragrances. The chambers ahead were full of low chatter, of clusters of well-dressed people speaking in confidential voices.

He was shown to where Glovach had installed himself – a real-leather armchair overlooking the view north, which was mostly of messy snarls of cloud. The probator was dressed as finely as everyone else, and wore a thick cream suit with grey piping. He had a half-finished cup of caffeine in front of him, and looked supremely relaxed.

Zidarov sat opposite him, was asked if he wanted anything to drink. When he declined, the usher glided away, slipping through the soft patter of voices like an eel in a fast current.

Glovach had done well from his position. Getting into the slate-crime division was a nice number, particularly if you had little intention of investigating and more interest in profiting. He looked sleek, well fed, well groomed, with neat salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a resculpted jawline.

‘You look tired, Agusto,’ he said, reaching for his caffeine.

‘Thanks. You look immaculate.’

‘Got to keep up appearances. How’s Milija?’

Glovach was so much more accomplished than the run-of-the-mill probators. He was polite, solicitous, good with names. He probably even remembered birthdays.

‘She’s fine,’ said Zidarov. ‘Thanks for asking.’