I sat with my head in my hands, unable to make sense of the dread I felt. Things weren’t that desperate. I was still in the dark about far too much – but less so than four days ago.

I was making progress, wasn’t I?

I was staying afloat.

Barely.

The space around me seemed to expand. The lobby, the sunlit floor, retreated – an infinitesimal shift, but it was impossible to ignore. I glanced down at my notepad clock, light-headed with fear; Mosala’s lecture was due to end in three minutes – but the time seemed to stretch out ahead of me, an uncrossable void. I had to make contact with someone, or something.

Before I could change my mind, I had Hermes call Caliban , a front end for a hacking consortium. An androgynous grinning face appeared – mutating and flowing, changing its features second-by-second as it spoke; only the whites of its eyes stayed constant, as if peering out from behind an infinitely malleable mask.

“Bad weather coming down, petitioner. There’s ice on the signal wires.” Snow began to swirl around the faces; their skin tones favored grays and blues. “Nothing’s clear, nothing’s easy.”

“Spare me the hype.” I transmitted Sarah Knight’s communications number. “What can you tell me about that, for … one hundred dollars?”

Caliban leered. “The Styx is frozen solid.” Frost formed on its various lips and eyelashes.

“A hundred and fifty.” Caliban seemed unimpressed – but Hermes flashed up a window showing a credit transfer request; I okayed it, reluctantly.

A screenful of green text, mockingly out-of-focus, appeared to illuminate the software faces. “The number belongs to Sarah Alison Knight, Australian citizen, primary residence 17E Parade Avenue, Lindfield, Sydney. En-fem, date-of-birth 4th April, 2028.”

“I know all that, you useless shit. Where is she now – precisely? And when did she last accept a call, in person?”

The green text faded, and Caliban shivered. “Wolves are howling on the steppes. Underground rivers are turning to glaciers.”

I restrained myself from wasting more invective. “I’ll give you fifty.”

“Veins of solid ice beneath the rock. Nothing moves, nothing changes.”

I gritted my teeth. “A hundred.” My research budget was vanishing fast – and this had nothing to do with Violet Mosala . But I had to know.

Orange symbols danced across gray flesh. Caliban announced, “Our Sarah last accepted a call – in person, on this number – in the central metropolitan footprint for Kyoto, Japan, at 10:23:14 Universal Time, on 26th March, 2055.”

“And where is she now?”

“No device has connected to the net under this ID since the stated call.” Meaning: she hadn’t used her notepad to contact anyone, or to access any service. She hadn’t so much as viewed a news bulletin, or downloaded a three-minute music video. Unless—

“Fifty bucks – take it or leave it – for her new communications number.”

Caliban took it, and smiled. “Bad guess. She has no new number, no new account.”

I said numbly, “That’s all. Thank you.”