Surt found me a little later and I thought I knew exactly what was occupying her. I gave her my best keep-away scowl, thinking the last thing I wanted was to have to explain how the name of that ship had slipped out of my gob.

But Surt had something else on her mind. She curled her lip and asked: ‘How many books have you read?’

There was something challenging and defiant in that question, but also something else, and it took me a moment to pick it out. Interest was what it was. Guarded, and a little scornful, and hardly daring to admit to a weakness in herself, but interest all the same.

‘A few,’ I said. Then swallowed, correcting myself. ‘A few hundred. Maybe more. Probably less than a thousand.’

Surt shook her head. I might as well have said that the Old Sun was square, or that swallowers were made of cheese. ‘There ain’t hours in a life for all that many books.’

‘There are,’ I answered calmly. ‘More than enough. If you read a little every day . . .’ Then I saw something cloud her face. I thought of gentle ways of putting it, like asking her how long she took to read a book, or how many she thought she had read, but in the end I took the straight course to what needed to be asked. ‘Can you read, Surt?’

She took less offence than I was expecting. ‘Being an Integrator ain’t about what you dig out of books.’

‘I know, and I understand. I’m just asking: can you read?’

Some of that cocksure defiance was melting off her. ‘I can read what needs reading. Like a map, or the pressure gauge on a bottle of a lungstuff, or a sign that says “danger” or “keep out” or “mind your own damned business”. ’

‘I don’t doubt that you’re a good Integrator,’ I said. ‘That’s plain, Surt, or this ship wouldn’t work the way it does. And I understand what you mean about books. I knew someone once, a woman called Trysil. She was an Assessor, and a good one. She wasn’t much for books either, but she could look at a piece of the past and know exactly where it fitted. That’s hard-won knowledge and I won’t see it belittled.’

Surt gave me a sidelong look. ‘Belittled. Is that a book word?’

‘Perhaps.’ I smiled.

‘I’ve seen that junky thing you brought with you – that robot’s head. You keep it close but there ain’t too many secrets on a ship.’

‘I know.’ And I gave her a nod. ‘The robot was called Paladin. He got damaged and all that’s left is the head. But I don’t know how much of him’s still inside.’