“How’s that old thing?” she asked.

“Too bloody noisy to use during the day. I have to wait till the others have gone, but then the press is hardly silent itself, so that makes no difference. And it ain’t half a relief not to have to spin that damn wheel over and over and over all fucking night, once a fortnight. I just chuck a bit of coal in his innards, point him at it, and have a snooze.”

“How’s the new issue?”

Benjamin nodded slowly and pointed at a bound pile beside his chair.

“Not too bad. Going to print off a few more. We’re running a little thing about your Remade in the freakshow.”

Derkhan waved her hand.

“It’s not a big story.”

“No, but it’s . . . y’know . . . toothy . . . We’re leading on the election. ‘Fuck the Lottery,’ in slightly less strident terms.” He grinned. “I know it’s pretty much the same as last issue, but that’s the time of year.”

“You weren’t a lucky winner in the lotto this year, were you?” asked Derkhan. “Your number come up?”

“Nah. Only once in me life, years ago. Ran out to the ballot clasping me prize voucher proudly and voted Finally We Can See. Youthful enthusiasm.” Ben sniggered. “You don’t qualify automatically, do you?”

“Devil’s Tail, Benjamin, I don’t have that kind of money! I’d give a damn sight more to RR if I did. No, and I didn’t win this year, either.”

Benjamin split the string on the pile of papers. He shoved a handful at Derkhan. She picked up the top copy and glanced at the front. Each copy was a single large sheet of paper folded in half and half again. The font on the front page was about the same size as that used in the Beacon or the Quarrel or any other of New Crobuzon’s legal press. However, inside the folds of Runagate Rampant stories and slogans and exhortations jostled with each other in a thicket of tiny print. It was ugly but efficient.

Derkhan pulled out three shekels and pushed them across to Benjamin. He took them with a murmur of thanks and put them in a tin at the front of his desk.

“When are the others coming?” asked Derkhan.

“I’m meeting a couple in the pub in an hour or so, then the rest this evening and tomorrow.” In the oscillating, violent, disingenuous and repressive political atmosphere of New Crobuzon, it was a necessary defence that except in a few cases, the writers for Runagate Rampant did not meet. That way the chance of infiltration by the militia was minimized. Benjamin was the editor, the only person on the constantly shifting staff whom everyone knew, and who knew everyone.

Derkhan noticed a pile of roughly printed sheets on the floor by her seat. Runagate Rampant’s fellow seditionist papers. Halfway between comrades and rivals.