It wasn’t the course the Culture had fully embarked upon, at least not yet, but as a society it was well aware of both the difficulties presented by remaining in base reality and the attractions of the Sublime. In the meantime, it compromised, busying itself in the macrocosmic clumsiness and petty, messy profanity of the real galaxy while at the same time exploring the transcendental possibilities of the sacred Irreal.

It is absolutely the--

A single signal flicked the great ship’s attention entirely back to base reality:

xRock End In Tears
oGSV Sleeper Service.
Done.

The ship contemplated the one-word message for what was, for it, a very long time, and wondered at the mixture of emotions it felt. It set its newly manufactured drone-fleet to work in the external environments and re-checked the evacuation schedule.

Then it located Amorphia - the avatar was wandering bemused through kilometres of tableaux exhibition space that had once been accommodation sections - and instructed it to re-visit the woman Dajeil Gelian.

IV

IV

Genar-Hofoen was distinctly unimpressed with his quarters aboard the Battle-Cruiser Kiss The Blade. For one thing, they smelled.

~ What is that? he asked, his nose wrinkling. ~ Methane?

~ Methane is odourless, Genar-Hofoen, the suit said. ~ I believe the smell you find objectionable may be a mixture of methanal and methylamine.

~ Fucking horrible smell, whatever it is.

~ I’m sure your mucous membrane receptors will cease to react to it before long.

~ I certainly hope so.

He was standing in what was supposed to be his bedroom. It was cold. It was very big; a ten-metre square - plenty of headroom - but it was cold; he could see his breath. He still wore most of the gelfield suit but he’d detached all but the nape-part of the neck and let the head of the suit flop down over his back so that he could get a fresher impression of his quarters, which consisted of a vestibule, a lounge, a frighteningly industrial-looking kitchen-diner, an equally intimidatingly mechanical bathroom and this so-called bedroom. He was starting to wish he hadn’t bothered. The walls, floor and ceiling of the room were some sort of white plastic; the floor bulged up to create a sort of platform on which a huge white thing lay spread, like a cloud made solid.

~ What, he asked, pointing at the bed, ~ is that?

~ I think it is your bed.

~ I’d guessed. But what is that . . . thing lying on it?

~ Quilt? Duvet? Bed-covering.

~ What do you want to cover it for? he asked, genuinely confused.

~ Well, it’s more to cover you, I think, when you’re asleep, the suit said, sounding uncertain.