There’s a timid knock on the outside door—the security airlock and Faraday wallpaper aren’t finished yet—then it opens to admit a cleaning cart and a person of no account. “Meals on wheels,” Mhari murmurs, laying her hand on Oscar’s shoulder: his muscles tense under her fingers.

“Ex-excuse?” The cleaner is middle-aged, a recent immigrant with poor English. She’s a regular—they’ve had her before—but she’s still surprised, as if it’s her first time.

“Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to worry about.” Oscar stands and moves aside, gesturing at his just-vacated chair. “You’re feeling tired. Why don’t you sit down?”

“Excuse?” She shakily shuffles towards him, bovine puzzlement lending her an air of geriatric confusion.

“Sit. Down.” Oscar points. Mhari steps out from behind the chair, keeping her expression calm and unthreatening. “You are very tired. You can relax here. You are among friends; you can sleep if you like.” Oscar keeps his hands in motion, like small birds, fluttering delicately: he studied stagecraft when he was younger, NLP and other approaches to mind manipulation when he was older. It’s magic, of a kind, although Mhari is aware of much more powerful varieties, types of magic that constitute a science rather than an art. She keeps a careful grip on her handbag. It’s a neat black leather number that matches her suit. She keeps the medical supplies inside it.

“It’s all right to close your eyes,” Mhari assures the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Sara.”

“Sara, we know you’ve had a hard day. But you can close your eyes now. It’s nearly over. You can go home soon. Why not take a nap?”

There are two of them, and one middle-aged woman of Somali origin, whose palsied hands twitch as they force their combined willpower down on her like warm, stifling pillows. They’ve used her before; there is no seduction here, just a brisk sixty-second interlude, at the end of which Sara slumps, snoring very quietly in the expensive office chair. Oscar bends over her and begins to roll up one of her sleeves. “Hang on, better use the right arm this time,” Mhari suggests. “Otherwise we’re going to leave tracks.” And it really wouldn’t do to attract the wrong kind of attention. The Laundry kind . . .

“Right.” Oscar carefully rearranges her clothing and switches arms. “She doesn’t seem well,” he adds, mildly concerned. “Did you notice that?”

“The shaking? Yes.” Mhari assembles the cannula, sample tubes, and tourniquet in silent concentration. “I don’t see how it matters.”

“That’s the second one I’ve seen,” Oscar says, almost absent-mindedly.

“Second what?”

“The second subject. With the shakes.”

“There’s probably a bug doing the rounds,” Mhari reassures him as she slides the needle in, searching for a vein.