Frejah took more of her cryptic calls on the radio headset, leaving me the space to think about my plans for the days ahead. After three nights away I was beginning to miss home comforts, the routines of my ordinary life. And I had work to do: the proofs the publisher had sent me needed to be checked soon, not a difficult or unpleasant chore but still a chore. I had had to set aside writing the first draft of my next novel to make this trip. I wanted to get back to that as soon as possible because a first draft, if left unattended, starts looking unsatisfactory. And I wanted to have some time with Jo, who would be going away in the next few days.

We passed out of the industrial zone – the road climbed for a while, bringing us to a high, wide plateau. Ice was thick on the road surface once more. The few trees that clung to the soil were wind-carved, their branches reaching out like desperate arms, south to north. After about forty kilometres the road descended again. The distances of Dearth felt interminable, the terrain a constant horror.

I kept looking at the recessed digital clock display on the dash, wondering what time we would arrive at the airport. The Historical Society had sent me a ticket for the Salay flight taking off in the early evening. That was the plane scheduled for passengers arriving at the airport on the train. I might or might not still be in time for that, but the ticket was an open one so if necessary I could catch an earlier or later flight. I had no idea how many more flights there were.

I thought of looking at the online airline schedule on my cell, but I was nervous of using it in this place. The coverage would undoubtedly be on the wrong protocol. I did not want to reset to Dearth defaults.

We stopped for lunch. I was impatient to carry on to Tristcontenta Hub, but Frejah said she wanted a proper meal.

While we were at the table we worked out how much further there was to drive, and what time we would arrive at the Hub. Frejah was convincingly optimistic. Even if we stayed in the restaurant for another hour, she said, it would still be possible for me to catch the plane on which I was booked. She checked on the internet and said there was another plane two hours later. The one after that took off early the next morning.

She dawdled over her cup of coffee and began asking me more questions about the books I write. I was thinking ahead about getting to the airport, flying home, and anyway I felt I had said enough about that. She asked me if I wrote any other kind of fiction, or if it was just crime fiction.

I said nothing to that, trying not to glower, even mentally. Just crime fiction?