The winsomniacs all smiled faintly and nodded their heads in a languid manner. Lloyd had said I could have four tins of Ambrosia Creamed Rice for each winsomniac I got into the Siddons. For every one that arrived, Birgitta was four hours closer to Springrise, and four hours farther from cannibalism. Ambrosia Creamed Rice, good at the best of times, had never seemed more attractive.

Fired & filing

‘ . . . The Winter Consul Service was barely four centuries old, and had changed little in that time. The origins of both porters and Consuls was the nightwatchman, a word often used to describe either trade. Life expectancy as a Consul was not high, but promotion prospects and extra cash always ensured there were more than enough recruits. There needed to be  . . . ’

– from Seventeen Winters, by Consul Lance Jones

The sky had lowered while I’d been in the Wincarnis, and a stiff breeze was now stirring the snow into a cloud of flakes that swirled randomly in the air without settling. The visibility was still at least fair, although I don’t think anyone expected it to stay that way for long: Jonesy had attached a fixed line from her Sno-Trac to the large brass ring fixed to the outside of the Consulate, so she could find either if things got bad.

As I entered, there seemed to be a sense of unhurried languor inside, as though everyone were getting ready for a damp Sunday indoors. Treacle was typing out a form on a large typewriter in an unhurried manner, and Jonesy was reading a report while leaning on the desk. Fodder was standing next to the coffee machine, lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the middle distance. Probably thinking about babies. Or maybe some military defeat he’d been involved in. Or a love lost. Or steak pie with peas and chips. Actually, I had no idea. The way he looked, impossible to tell.

I heard Toccata swearing at someone down the telephone from the comfort of her office, but now that I’d become accustomed to the idiosyncratic ways of Sector Twelve, the whole Aurora/Toccata issue hardly seemed unusual at all, and I could see why none of the crew saw any of it as particularly weird.

‘The Chief said she wants to see you,’ said Jonesy, looking up.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now. She saw you come in, so it’s too late to sneak away. Good luck.’

I walked slowly up to Toccata’s office door, straightened my jacket and knocked politely. She bade me enter and I pushed open the door.

She was standing behind her desk, leaning on the chair-back.

‘Close the door,’ she said, and I did so.

‘Sit down.’

I did that, too.

‘You acquitted yourself well yesterday,’ she said. ‘Killing Ned Farnesworth was a foolish and impetuous move, but luckily, owing to Fodder’s considerable negotiating skills, the truce is holding.’

‘I didn’t kill him.’