Pelter just stared at him for a moment, then turned away. Of course he would be all right. If Sylac had wanted them dead, they would never have got this far, and if he had wanted to kill them here, there was nothing John could do to prevent it. He watched for a moment as the robot shoved the nerve-blocker up against Pelter’s neck. Then he turned away and got out of there, wishing he could close his ears to the sounds that then proceeded.

* * *

Once free of Cheyne III, the shuttle’s antigravity was displaced by the thrust of ionic boosters. Through the portals, star-strewn space faded in to replace the last orange-and-blue phosphorescence of atmosphere. Cormac felt himself slowly sag into his seat as gravity of one G was eased on for the benefit of the passengers.

‘Come on, get that belt off. Time for a drink.’

Cormac released his belt and woodenly followed Blegg to the shuttle bar. As he watched the old man elbow other passengers from his path, he just stood back and waited. He was finding it difficult to keep himself under control, for he had suddenly acquired the almost overpowering urge to ask Blegg why he had such a ridiculous name.

‘I’ll have a large Scotch,’ said Blegg, then, turning to Cormac, asked, ‘You?’

‘Albion water, please.’

‘Barman! Two large Scotches!’

Cormac shook his head and studied the interior of the shuttle. The bar stood at the rear of this particular wing. Ten metres to his left was the bulkhead, behind which engines purred and the shuttle’s AI that controlled the craft with but a fraction of its ability. Beyond that bulkhead was the other thick-sectioned wing containing another thousand passengers. Too many lives here to entrust to a mere human pilot. Cormac returned his attention to the bar and watched as webbed hands poured out their drinks. A machine could have done that so much more efficiently. He took the drink Blegg handed him, and followed him back to their seats. As they sat down, Blegg gestured to the barman, a seadapt.

‘You know, a machine could do that job much more efficiently, but why should the shuttle company pay for the expensive hardware when people like him are prepared to do the job for the fun of it, for the free passage?’

Cormac stared at Blegg with deep suspicion. ‘I was told you are to brief me.’

‘Your arse is so tight I’m surprised you bother eating.’

Cormac sipped some of his Scotch to stifle his desire to reply.

‘Briefing,’ said Blegg.

Cormac looked at him and suddenly found himself gazing into eyes resembling nailheads. Suddenly the sounds all around him receded, and something cold touched his spine. A new voice then spoke in his mind.

<There has been a buffer failure at the Samarkand runcible facility.>

Cormac drank more of his Scotch.

Is that you?