“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked Lazlo, blowing on my hands.

“What?”

“Come on. You need moral support like Jad and Ki need a dick. What’s going on?”

A grin surfaced on his face. “Well, you know I always wonder about those two. Sort of thing that keeps a man awake at night.”

“Las.”

“Okay, okay.” He leaned on his good elbow in the chair, dumped his feet on the low table. “You were there with her when she woke up, right.”

“Right.”

“What did she say to you? Really.”

I shifted round to look at him. “Like I told you all last night. Nothing you could quote. Asking for help. Calling for people who weren’t there. Gibberish. She was delirious for most of it.”

“Yeah.” He opened his hand and examined the palm as if it might be a map of something. “See, Micky, I’m a wincefish. A lead wincefish. I stay alive by noticing peripheral stuff. And what I notice peripherally is that you don’t look at Sylvie like you used to.”

“Really?” I kept my tone mild.

“Yeah, really. Until last night when you looked at her, it was like you were hungry and you thought she might taste good. Now, well.” He turned to meet my eyes. “You’ve lost your appetite.”

“She isn’t well, Las. I’m not attracted to sickness.”

He shook his head. “Won’t scan. She was ill all the way back from the listening-post gig, but you still had that hunger. Softer maybe, but it was still there. Now, you look at her like you’re waiting for something to happen. Like she’s some kind of bomb.”

“I’m worried about her. Just like everybody else.”

And beneath the words, the thought ran like a thermocline. So noticing this stuff keeps you alive, does it, Las? Well, just so you know, talking about it like this is likely to get you killed. Under different circumstances with me, it already would have.

We sat side by side in brief silence. He nodded to himself.

“Not going to tell me, huh?”

“There’s nothing to tell, Las.”

More quiet. On the screen, breaking news unreeled. Accidental death (stack-retrievable) of some minor Harlan heirling in the Millsport wharf district, hurricane building in the Gulf of Kossuth, Mecsek to slash public health spending by end of year. I watched it without interest.

“Look, Micky.” Lazlo hesitated. “I’m not saying I trust you, because I don’t really. But I’m not like Orr. I’m not jealous about Sylvie. For me you know, she’s the skipper and that’s it. And I do trust you to look after her.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “And to what do I owe this honour?”

“Ah, she told me a little about how the two of you met. The Beards and everything. Enough to figure that—”