The red land flowed under the rock of the AGC until at length Cartis, like a spreading fungus, came into view. Like any tourist, Cormac booked into the metrotel. In his room he slumped on his bed and accessed Dragon / human dialogue. Human politics were irrelevant in this case which, for Cormac, was a novelty.

* * *

‘You continue to evade our questions concerning yourself,’ asked a man only just holding on to his temper.

‘Yes, this is true,’ came the indifferent reply.

‘Yet for years you have had access to our information systems. You know our history, the level of our technology . . . You perhaps know more about the human race than any single member of it. Why will you not tell us about yourself? Surely, this is little to ask?’

‘You are correct: I know more about you people than any single member of your kind.’

‘You have not answered my question.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘A very human trait.’

‘Please explain.’

‘The runcible has been developed to the stage where it is near perfect in function. Humankind can now step from star system to star system with ease. On Earth, contra-terrene power is about to be introduced. In the system of Cassius the first Dyson sphere is under construction. The matter for this project came from a planet of Jovian size, demolished by a contra-terrene missile.’

‘Do you fear us?’

‘Should I?’

‘Many assume that this is the reason for your reticence.’

‘How old are you, Darson?’

‘One hundred and seventy, solstan.’

‘It is likely that you will live to be over eight hundred years old and then only to die of ennui.’

‘Perhaps. How old are you?’

‘Do you represent your race, Darson?’

‘In the sense—’

‘No, you do not represent your race. I cannot sit in judgment on you. Send me an ambassador.’

* * *

After the dialogue had ceased, Cormac opened his eyes and scratched at his head. He was tired; he had, after all, travelled a long way. He got off the bed and shed the clothes he had been wearing only a few hours earlier, personal time, in New York, and wondered, as always with cold humour, what the morning might bring. Of course he did not know whether it was day or night here, but such things he had for quite some time dismissed as irrelevant. He lived by personal time. It was the only way to stay sane.

The morning brought Maria with an analysis from Darson, the Dragon expert. Cormac read it over a breakfast of spiced eggs, honey fish and two pots of tea. Darson’s conclusion was that Dragon, in human terms, was insane. After reading it, Cormac dressed in his shabby survival suit and placed in his rucksack the single device he might need. On his way out he consigned the report to the waste disposal. Shortly he was sliding above redland, red under a bloody sky.

‘What is your opinion of Darson?’