‘A revolution in Hibernetics,’ I said slowly, ‘wealth, power, influence and the current geopolitical landscape, based on the unexpected results of a control group?’

He grinned.

‘Quite something, eh? Trouble is, they can never seem to manufacture enough of it to go around. If I was a cynical man, I’d think there was a degree of social control regarding its limited distribution.’

Maisie Rogers had said the same thing. The lines were fairly clear – along wealth and class, mostly. The global hibernating village, equal in sleep, equal in dignity, was a myth.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘any news of an improved Morphenox with full distribution benefits should be met with caution. HiberTech cares more for dosh than dozing.’

‘We’re not having this conversation,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Project Dreamspace. What do you mean: “wanting to make us dream not less, but better”?’

But I might have been talking to myself. Shamanic Bob, exhausted by the efforts of conversation, had fallen fast asleep on the table and was snoring loudly.

The Consulate

‘ . . . “Lucky” Ned Farnesworth and his gang were the poster children of Villains everywhere. So reviled, in fact, that the thump-target dummies at the Academy were shaped like Ned himself. Farnesworth had been a stockbroker, mammoth farmer, stamp dealer and professional gambler. Highly intelligent but utterly ruthless, he commanded huge loyalty among his followers – and fear from the Consul Service  . . . ’

– ‘Winter Villains’ Top Trump card circa 1994

The three nightwalkers tethered to the back of the command vehicle were rocking gently back and forth as a precursor to Torpor, but Aurora herself was nowhere to be seen. I released Birgitta and fed her two flapjacks.

‘I love you, Charlie,’ she said.

‘Don’t,’ I replied in a quiet voice, ‘it really doesn’t help.’

‘Kiki needs the cylinder,’ she added.

‘And neither does that. Which Kiki? RealSleep’s Kiki or another one?’

She didn’t answer, and we walked back to the Siddons in relative silence, my mind coming to terms with the fact that my dream had been moulded retrospectively. I tried to see if there were elements in the Birgitta dream that might refute this hypothesis, but there was nothing. Everything that had occurred in the dream was my narcosis- befuddled mind filling in my memory cracks like so much builder’s plaster. I trudged quietly through the snow-packed streets holding Birgitta’s hand, something that, while purely one-sided, did feel oddly comforting.

Jonesy was already waiting for me outside the Siddons, next to a red-and-white Consulate Sno-Trac, the engine almost completely silenced, the only sound the faint rattle of the rain-trap on top of the exhaust stack. It was parked next to a telephone box that was half buried in a snowdrift, and Jonesy was reading an ancient copy of Wonder Woman & the Wintervolk Kid, and chuckling occasionally. Next to her was a tartan travel rug folded neatly atop a picnic set. She was taking the ‘long-partnered’ game seriously.