I had spoken at two or three academic conferences in the past and so would not feel out of my depth, but I had said I would not stay the whole course. The general subject was within my sphere: I had published more than a dozen novels, as well as essays and criticism. I was known in the world of crime writers, had even won a few prizes, but I was no academic. The prospect of prolonged and detailed academic discourse from theoreticians who knew little of the art and craft of writing filled me with dread.

The months slipped by. Suddenly it was a year and a half later and here I was, inching my way south across the island of Dearth, feeling hungry, wondering where the stewards were, staring gloomily at the bleak view outside. There was free wifi on the train, so as soon as the train left the railway station at Tristcontenta Hub I had sent an email to my partner Jo, just to let her know that I was on my way. I knew she was busy, preparing for a business trip of her own, one that sounded much more interesting and lucrative than my descent into the south polar regions.

Jo Delson and I had lived together for many years on an island called Salay Raba, which translated from the island patois as ‘fourth island in the Salay Group’. Unlike chilly Dearth, Salay was in the subtropics and consisted of five main islands: Salay Ewwel, Sekonda, Tielet, Raba and Hames: first, second, third, fourth and fifth. They were all of more or less equal size, and because of the latitude, the trade winds and the oceanic currents, they had similarly warm climates. All five islands had developed in different directions. Salay Sekonda, for instance, was a popular holiday resort, attracting visitors not only from the rest of Salay but from all over the world. Salay Raba, where we lived, had emerged as a centre of financial services, and most of the largest banks, insurance companies and pension funds had their HQs in Raba City. Jo and I lived in a tithable house on the edge of the sea, close by the unspoiled forest that covered much of that part of the island. We were by no means well off but on the money I earned from my books, plus Jo’s freelance income as a theatrical designer, we were able to get by.

Dearth could hardly be more different from Salay. Setting aside the climate, what I had glimpsed from the train so far was a grim industrial landscape, with huge factories and furnaces, cooling towers, pipelines, broad access roads, advertising signs everywhere, much open-cast mining in the hills, towns built of small houses crammed together. The air was clouded with fog, or smoke – even inside the air-conditioned train I developed a tight feeling in my chest, and could smell oil or coal smoke, or industrial fumes of an uncertain and probably dubious source.