She watched his arm as he lowered it, then returned her attention to his face. She gestured with her thumb, then turned and walked through the door. Cormac followed her into an open office laid out with desks for three occupants. She headed for the one nearest the window, but rather than seek sanctuary behind it, as he had expected, she sat on it and faced him with her arms crossed.

‘Well, what can we do for you, Agent Cormac?’ she asked.

Cormac pulled round a swivel chair from one of the other desks and sat astride it. ‘It is more a case of what I can do for you. I have come here to register my testimony with the Cheyne III police and make available to you certain . . . closed ECS files.’

‘Concerning?’

‘The Separatist cell on Cheyne III that has been responsible for just about every . . . incident here for the last five years, and, as I recollect, such incidents would include the flame-bombing of the Eriston police station two years ago. It is of course the case that Separatists consider anyone other than themselves to be collaborators. As for police who enforce Polity law . . .’

‘No need to labour the point,’ said Melassan. She pushed herself up from her desk and went round to sit behind it. As Cormac pulled his chair over, she activated a console to her left. In front of him a section of the desk turned over to show a plate with the impression of a human hand in it. From beside this an arm rose out of the desk with something like a pair of binoculars at its end. Cormac placed one hand in the impression, and with his other hand pulled the binoculars up to his eyes.

‘Confirmed retinal scan, palm print, and DNA profile. Testimony of Ian Cormac, Agent 1X1G of Earth Central Security, Cereb runcible AI is online, First Constable Melassan witnessing.’

After that single statement Melassan nodded to Cormac, and he began, ‘This is the sworn testimony of Ian Cormac, Agent 1X1G of Earth Central Security. Prior to this testimony, and taken in conjunction with it, I release ECS evidence files Cheyne III Sep. twelve to fifty-four, and all my files pertaining to Angelina Pelter. Now, I think that for this testimony it would be best for me to begin with Angelina’s brother, one Arian Pelter . . .’

* * *

Pelter wore the grey businesswear of one of the millions of faceless executives who travel from system to system with bland indifference. He carried his bank-supplied briefcase like many of said executives. But he had his blond hair tied back in a ponytail so that his augmentation and optic link were exposed for all to see. His appearance was not any more unusual than that of many people around him, some of whom looked positively weird. Yet people avoided him, stepping from his path and looking back once they were past him. Something about getting anywhere near this individual made them uncomfortable.