Stanton sipped his coffee rather than disagree. Pelter was a committed Separatist and was blind to the realities. The Polity was something that could be described as a benevolent dictatorship in which all enjoyed their portion of plenty. Separatists were always in the minority, like all terrorists, and were hugely resentful of what they considered the blind complacency of their fellow citizens. So far as he understood it, only two worlds had seceded, both for a period of less than ten solstan years. In both cases the Polity was called in to clear up the mess. In the case of one of those worlds, that mess being large radioactive wastelands. Despair . . . ninety per cent of the population were having a party prior to subsumption.

‘Huma can get a bit rough, you know,’ he said, labouring to keep a conversation going.

‘I do not think I will have a problem with rough,’ Pelter replied, giving Mr. Crane a meaningful glance.

‘Yes . . . but you do realize that there will be weapons there that could destroy even Mr. Crane. No Polity weapons proscription on Huma, and some pretty nasty characters.’

‘That is why we are going,’ said Pelter and sipped his coffee.

Stanton was groping around for something else to say when the intercom crackled.

‘Time, I think, to sort out the payment,’ said Jarvellis.

Pelter stared into the air for a long time, before he put his coffee to one side and stood. Mr. Crane began putting away his toys, until Pelter turned to look at him. The android then retrieved the ones he had put away, and continued sorting them as if playing some strange game of patience. Pelter stepped over to him, squatted by the briefcase, and opened it. From inside he tore a black strip with ten of the etched sapphires embedded in it. Stanton deliberately looked away as Pelter closed the case and stood up again. The Separatist leader was paranoid enough as it was; he didn’t need to be made aware of Stanton’s interest in etched sapphires.

Pelter took the strip round the racked cargo to the second bulkhead door. In the bottom of the door a circular hatch half a metre across irised open.

‘Just toss them in,’ said Jarvellis.

Pelter rolled the strip up and tossed it through. The hatch closed with a crack.

‘Good to do business with you, Arian Pelter.’

Another crackle signified the exchange was over.

Stanton looked at Pelter and saw the deadness there. He knew this signified a craving to kill. The side-to-side movement of Pelter’s head, as he scanned the hold for visible cameras, speakers or microphones, signified that he had not yet found something on which to focus that craving.

* * *