The others keep busy by drawing staff portraits on copy paper, drinking coffee, performing dubious acrobatics, racing with wheeled office chairs, making origami, sipping sneaky alcoholic beverages in coffee mugs, pencil balancing, flirting, everything except what they are paid to do.

Since Peole has a supervisory role, nobody else worries about getting caught. Peole has a streak of fourteen baskets. A miss is imminent, but nobody seems brave enough to risk a wager.

Bayo Coker stands at the periphery of the basket action, waiting. Peole notices him but throws first, then collects his winnings – chore tokens – before attending to the timid and quiet Coker.

“Yes? What may I help you with? You seem to have something on your mind. You have something on your mind, don’t you?” asks Peole.

“I… why aren’t we… doing anything?” asks Coker.

“We are. I am. Behold what I am doing.” Peole points to the basket.

Coker is silent.

“You don’t think this is good use of my time? I have degrees, you know. More than one. I can determine how best to use my time. I have expertise, dammit.”

“We have a fleet of shuttles. We power them up, we run them through their tests, then we power them down again. Then we play crosswords. Meanwhile, there are passengers up there.”

“I know this. But we don’t do anything until we get the order.”

“I’m worried about that.”

“They have plenty of air, nourishment and fuel, Coker. They aren’t going to die because of an investigation.”

Coker inclines his head.

“What? Speak! Seven Curses, you are so reticent.”

“The Ragtime has gone dark, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“All signals ceased. Not even a beacon.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Sure, it’s impossible, but—”

“Show me,” says Peole. “If you’ve lost my starship…”

The data, or lack thereof, is correct. The Ragtime isn’t there.

“Well, Shit and Heresies,” says Peole. “I think I need to talk to someone in authority.”

Unwin, the lead investigator, and Malaika, the chair of Bloodroot Mission Control, dismiss Peole.

“Do you still think Rasheed Fin was a good choice for this?” asks Malaika.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s the one on the spot. The Artificial should have been able to keep him in-protocol, so this might not have anything to do with our recovering repatriator,” says Unwin. “No, the Ragtime might have faulty radios or have crashed into the Greater Arboreal Sea or drifted off into space.”

“I’m worried. He wanted to arrest Campion. We should have let him.”

“He had no evidence, no reason except his bruised pride. It would not have held up.”

“Yes, but maybe she’s killed them all.” Malaika opens a communications channel. “Go to Fin’s house. Search the house, interrogate his mother, see if anything has changed since he went to space. On Unwin’s authority.”

Unwin nods. “Authorised. What do we do now? You’re the space guy.”