“Spiker, if there’s one thing this gadding about has taught us, it’s that walls don’t make a prison, right? Come on.” She gave a half-apologetic wave to Kay then backed out of the room, Julian sloping after her.

She found Rove’s man literally packing, gathering up the little they weren’t actually wearing. This included what looked like fresh clothes and sealed rations—presumably fabricated to order and without curiosity by Cam. The big man, Lucas, at least had the grace to look up guiltily when discovered, but Rove had only a polite smile.

“Ah, Ms. Matchell, Mr. Sabreur, what can we help you with?”

He’s not going to gloat about his diabolical plan, Alison noted. Although she was still watching the shunting slabs of maths move back and forth in the Ice Mind’s conceptual spaces. The more she saw, the more she was convinced that diabolical was the perfect word for Rove’s actions.

“Mr. Rove, I’m going to give you one chance to step back from what you’re doing,” she said, as firmly as possible. “Or I’ll get everyone in here and we’ll have Cam open the Ice Mind to see what you’ve been up to.” She had no idea if it was possible, but likely Rove didn’t either.

Rove adopted a creditable frown of puzzlement. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes slid off her to appeal to Julian. “Mr. Sabreur—” he began, as though the man was her keeper and should have kept her on a shorter lease.

A stab of anger ran through her. “Then why the bags, Mr. Rove? Or did you have a golfing holiday you couldn’t postpone, not even for the end of the universe.”

He was good, she had to give him that. There was nothing whatsoever in his expression that admitted culpability, and in the face of that utter shamelessness she felt her case falling apart. Even Julian, who would back her through most things and didn’t like Rove whatsoever, was wavering. He only saw the deceptive outer shell; he couldn’t perceive the logical battle going on just a dimension away.

“Rove, where’s Charen Volkovska?” she snapped out.

“Who?” But she’d scored a hit. There had been a moment’s pause before the bland response, and the profession of ignorance itself was exposing. She knew Rove had bought up the corpse of Schoen Fayre, including its revolutionary computer. And—via her employment contract—he’d bought Charen, its votary. Julian knew this too.

“I’m guessing she’s still in our world, somewhere very secure indeed,” she said. “You’ve worked with the rats for years—you’ve known what was going to happen. And you’ve had your own plans for what to do when the universe breaks down—I’ll bet you’re not trying to prop it back up again, either.”