The man with the rag shakes his head. “You’re fine.”

He has denim dungarees on, with a white t-shirt underneath. His arms are ropy with muscle and hairy, but not in the usual way. All the hairs stick out straight, like a cartoon of someone receiving a shock. To Fin, the hairs seem too long, like six-inch strands. They also seem to be moving with a wavelike motion, like they are beating from side to side. He looks back to the face of the man but can’t get a fix. The face is there, to be sure, but Fin cannot hold it in his brain. He would not be able to describe the face if asked.

“Where do you want to start?” asks the man.

“Are you Salvo? Or some caretaker programme that Salvo left to assist me?”

“I’m Ragtime,” says the man. “I’m the ship.”

“Oh, you’re Ragtime. You’re the one who’s been trying to kill us?” says Fin.

“I can’t talk about that, unfortunately.”

Fin feels the frustrations of the last few days build up in him and come to a point. He punches the man, right feint and a wide left hook. It’s fast and has power behind it. Ragtime disintegrates at the moment of impact and reforms from luminous fluff just as the fist misses and the momentum of the blow carries Fin over the counter, behind the bar. Upside down, he feels no pain. He sees a shotgun on a mount at arm’s reach for Ragtime.

“I know why you did that, but you’re wasting time that you don’t have. Control yourself,” says Ragtime. “You can’t hurt me. Neither of us is really here, although I could hurt you, hurt your body, wherever you are.”

Fin stands.

“Get back to your side of the bar, Rasheed Fin.”

Fin climbs over.

“Thank you, Rasheed.”

“Fuck you, Ragtime.”

He tries to isolate a small fraction of the face, to try to remember that. It doesn’t fly.

“Outside this bar there is a whole world – several of them, in fact,” says Ragtime. “Each would take you several lifetimes to explore. Each passenger goes their own way, whatever they wish to amuse themselves with during spaceflight. I do not, as a rule, interfere or direct them, although I remove impurities of code, bugs, exceptions, whatever I find. The Dreamstate is not a perfect construct, but it is nearly so.”

“Thirty-one passengers are dead,” says Fin.

“I know.”

“I need to find out who killed them.”

“I know.”

“Then help me.”

“I’m being prevented.”

“By the killer?”

“Ask another question.”

“Is Captain Michelle Campion the killer?”

“No.”

“Who is the killer?”

“Ask another question.”

“Do you know who the killer is?”

“Yes.”

“How do I get access to that information?”

“Ask another question.”