It was the noise that got to him first. Conversations were shouted, air-conditioning was a steady buzz, cybofax alarm bleepers were going off continuously, the PA kept up a steady stream of directions. Then there was the air—warm, damp and stale. He began to appreciate Angie Kirkpatrick's point of view.

The dormitory commander, Lewis Pelham, and Event Horizon's Zanthus security captain, Don Howarth, were waiting for him. Lewis Pelham didn't attempt to shake hands, holding on firmly to one of the hoops as the rest of the security team boiled out of the airlock. "My orders are to afford you full cooperation," he said.

He had that same flat professionalism as Victor Tyo and Sean Francis, Greg noted. Did Philip Evans have a clone vat churning them out? "Somewhere private," he suggested, raising his voice above the din.

Pelham smiled, big lips peeling back, a round face. "Sure."

"It's shift change," Howarth said. "Not like this all the time, don't worry." His face was fluid-filled, too, a ruddy complexion.

They slapped the hoops, moving off up the tunnel, skimming along effortlessly. Greg climbed after them doggedly, one hoop at a time. A few cheers and jeers pursuing his progress.

"Five days," Howarth said, "and you'll be outflying a hummingbird." He was waiting by an open hatch. "Through here."

It was a toroidal compartment, wrapped round the central tunnel. A space station as Greg understood it, consoles with flatscreens and cubes flashing graphics and data columns, bulky machinery bolted on to the walls, lockers with transparent doors. Five beds were staggered round what Greg thought of as the floor, assuming the entrance hatch was in the ceiling. Lewis Pelham had orientated himself the same way as Greg, holding the edge of a bed to maintain his position. The security team followed suit as they came in.

"This is the sick bay," Pelham said. "Nobody in today. Will it do?"

"Do you have a brig?" Greg asked.

Pelham and Howarth exchanged a glance. "We can clear the suit-storage cabin if it's really urgent," said the security captain.

"Good enough." His gland began its secretions. "Close the hatch, Bruce," he said.

Bruce Parwez elevated himself, and spun the lock handle.

Lewis Pelham regarded Greg without humour.

Greg closed his eyes as the compartment became insubstantial. Minds crept out of the shadow veils bordering his perception, a swarm of pale translucent pearls, compositional emotions woven tautly into penumbra nuclei. He focused on the two strangers before him. "Now, to start with, do either of you know anything about the excessive memox-crystal contamination?"

CHAPTER NINE