“Righto! Your decision, obviously. Only . . .” The man looked around him before he went on, as if he was about to share a secret. Reassured that no one would hear him who should not, he went on, confidentially. “Thing is, squire, I may not be able to do the appointment tomorrow as originally planned . . .” The face he offered was cod-apology of the most exaggerated kind. “I can happily do my thing over in the corner, won’t make a sound. Take me about an hour if I can do it here, otherwise it’s a job for the repair shop. I’ll know which in five minutes. Otherwise I shan’t be able to do it for a week, I think.”

“Oh, arse. Right . . . Look, I’m in a meeting upstairs, and it’s absolutely vital that you don’t interrupt us. Seriously. Is that going to be all right?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m just going to take the screwdriver to the old cleaner and then give you a little yell when I know what the score is, all right?”

“Right. So I can just leave you to it?”

“Perfecto.” The man was already heading towards the cleaning construct, carrying a toolcase. Lublamai had turned the cleaner on that morning, and punched in instructions for it to wash his study area, but it had been a forlorn hope. The construct had puttered in circles for twenty minutes, then stopped, leaning against the wall. It was still there, three hours later, emitting unhappy little clicks, its three attachment-limbs spasming.

The repairman strode over to the thing, muttering and clucking like a concerned parent. He felt the construct’s limbs, flipped a fob-watch out of his pocket and timed the twitching. He scribbled something in a little notebook. He swivelled the cleaning construct to face him, and gazed into one of its glass irises. He moved his pencil slowly from one side to another, watching the tracking of the sensory engine.

Isaac was half watching the repairman, but his attention kept flickering back upstairs to where Yagharek waited. This business with the Torque, Isaac thought nervously. It can’t wait.

“So you all right there?” Isaac shouted nervously at the repairman.

The man was opening his case and taking out a large screwdriver. He looked up at Isaac.

“No problem, guv,” he said, and waved his screwdriver cheerfully. He looked back at the construct and shut it off at the switch behind the neck. Its anguished creaks died in a grateful whisper. He began to unscrew the panel behind the thing’s “head,” a roughcast chunk of grey metal at the top of its cylindrical body.

“Right then,” said Isaac, and jogged back up the stairs.

Yagharek was standing by Isaac’s desk, well out of sight of the floor below. He looked up as Isaac returned.

“It’s nothing,” said Isaac quietly. “Someone to fix our construct, which has gone belly-up. I’m just wondering if we’re going to be heard . . .”