Eleanor followed her into the tiny hall, as always slightly uncomfortable at Royan's combination nurse and guardian angel. The door to the lounge slid open, and Qoi ushered her through, doll-like face smiling politely.

The air was hot, saturated with a smell of vegetation that was almost fungal, a dozen braids of flower perfume clotted together. Long plant troughs were laid out on the floor, hosting a fabulous collection of flowers, vivid primary colours shining under the glare of the ceiling's Solaris spots. Little wheeled robots roamed among them; they looked as if they had been cobbled together out of a dozen different cybertoy kits by someone working from a very distant memory of a cartoon-channel mechanoid. Forks, copper watering roses, and secateurs protruded with no sense of rationale.

One wall was completely obscured by the glass bricks of ancient television screens, removed from their cases and bolted into a grid of metal struts. They were all switched on, showing a multitude of channel 'casts and data sheets. A broad workbench was piled high with gear modules, parts of gear modules, individual components, circuit boards, pieces of mechanical junk; two big waldo arms stood silent sentry duty at each end.

A camera on an aluminum tripod followed her cautious steps round the troughs. It acted as Royan's eyes, fibre-optic cable plugged into the black modem balls in his eye sockets.

He was sitting on a metallic green nineteen-fifties dentist's chair in the centre of the room. Sitting wasn't quite the right word: propped up, wedged in by cushions. Royan had no legs or arms; plastic cups covered the end of each stump, axon splices, trailing more fibre-optic cables to banks of 'ware cabinets next to the bench. His torso was covered by a white T-shirt spotted with food stains down the front.

Greg had told her Royan was a victim of the People's Constables, a street riot years ago. He'd been there the night it happened, although he never went into details. Despite his youth and agility Royan just hadn't been fast enough to escape the bullwhips of the Constables as they charged the protesters. He had been badly burnt, too, in the cascade of molotovs which followed.

Every time she came, she thought she'd be immune to the sight of him, exposure building up a protective crust around her emotions. Every time he affected her just as badly as the first. Coldness flickered through her, dendritic frost fingers twisting up her stomach.

The images and datasheets on the old television tubes vanished, replaced by metre-high green letters which moved right to left across the wall, delineation frequently interrupted by the individual screen rims.

HI, ELEANOR, YOU LOOK LOVELY LOVELY LOVELY TODAY

"Hello, flatterer. What have you been up to then?" She spoke fairly loud, trying not to make it obvious; slow clear words always made her think of the way people addressed the retarded. Royan was anything but. His audio nerves were about the only genuine sensory input he retained, everything else was electronic, enhanced by the modules he had gradually cocooned himself in. Gear had become his interest, his obsession, his speciality. His comprehension of 'ware systems was probably equivalent to a degree, Greg reckoned, maybe even better. His hands-on experience was total, he had to learn simply to survive, and he had nothing else to do but learn, sit passively and absorb the bytes flowing through the country's datanets, day after day after day. And once he had mastered his art, he returned to the fray with a vengeance, fuelled by a cold malevolent hatred whose compulsive power only Greg could fully perceive. He became Son to the other Trinities, their digital oracle, a passive presence backing up each campaign with the smartest intelligence data, tracing Blackshirt positions and strength through every memory core in the city and beyond, exposing them wherever they were hiding.

BEEN OUT DANCING, SURFBOARDING, CYCLING. THE USUAL.

"I brought you these," she said, and pulled the envelope of seeds out of her jeans pocket. "They're orchids, Ludisia discolor, they've got red leaves and a white flower. I think you'll like them."

His lips parted to reveal a few bucked yellow teeth.

THANKS THANKS THANKS.

Qoi stepped forwards and took the envelope, bowing slightly.

Greg always brought bits and pieces of gear for him, but she preferred cuttings or seeds. He went to a lot of trouble nurturing his little garden, there wasn't an unhealthy plant anywhere.

After Qoi disappeared into the kitchen Eleanor ducked round a hanging basket of pink begonias, and sat herself in a plain oak admiral's chair.

COFFEE???

"Please." It was part of the visit ritual.

One of the robots trundled over, a pot of coffee resting on its flat top. She poured herself a cup. It tasted perfect.

YOU LOOK TIRED.

"I've been working." More disapproval slipped into her tone than she intended.

ON THE FARM?

"No. Mandel Investigations got hauled out on a case."

JULIA JULIA JULIA. HAS TO BE. GREG WOULDNT DO IT FOR ANYONE ELSE

"You've been peeping."

NO. I KNOW YOU ALL TOO WELL. MY FRIENDS. I WATCHED JULIA ON THE CHANNELS THIS MORNING. A BILLIONAIRESS POURING CONCRETE, FUNNY FUNNY FUNNY. I WATCH HER EVERY DAY, YOU KNOW. SHE'S NEVER OFF

"I know. She could make another fortune if she charged the newscast programmes an appearance fee."

SHE'S PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY, JUST LIKE YOU. LUCKY LUCKY LUCKY ME. TWO PRETTIEST GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY ARE MY FRIENDS.

She took another sip, surprised to find herself relaxing.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" she asked slyly.

I KNOW WHY. HE WANTS SOMETHING, SO HE SENT YOU. HE KNOWS I'M A SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER FOR A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I AM TOO.

"We had to split up, actually. There's a lot of ground to cover today."

WHAT'S THE CASE?

"The Kitchener murder." She started giving him a review of the data they'd amassed. As far as she could tell he was listening attentively, certainly the vaguely eerie lettering faded from the screens, a sure sign of contemplation. The session wasn't turning out as emotionally arduous as she had been expecting.

The trick was to block out the rest of his life, the daily horror of eating, crapping, peeing, the pain spasms which convulsed him every few hours. Pretend everything stopped when she wasn't there, that all he did was meet visitors who brought him gossip and problems he could gain a measure of satisfaction from solving. It was weak of her to think like that, craven, but it was the only way she could get through. The suffering he went through was a tragedy on an epic scale.

IF IT WASN'T THE STUDENTS, AND IT WASN'T A TEKMERC SNUFF DEAL, THEN WHO WHO WHO DUNNNNNIT?

"Good question. I didn't say a tekmerc definitely wasn't involved; but they certainly didn't drive in, and they didn't fly in either. Of course, we're not ruling out the possibility that someone yomped in, but Greg says he doesn't think it's likely."

IF HE SAYS IT DIDN'T HAPPEN, IT DIDN'T DIDN'T DIDN'T.

"He says he's not sure."

Royan's rucked smile appeared again. WHAT DO YOU THINK???

"I think it would have been absolutely impossible for anyone to walk in and out of the Chater valley that evening. It was bad enough driving our EMC Ranger in yesterday. Launde Abbey is very isolated."

I BELIEVE YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

She put down the empty coffee-cup and held up her cybofax. "I've brought the schematics for the Abbey's security system. I need to know if it is possible for someone to burn through, enter the Abbey, and then get out again afterwards without raising the alarm. The police forensic team say it was completely undisturbed."

One of the 'ware modules on the top of the bench let out a small bleep. When she turned, blue and green LEDs were winking on the front of the scuffed grey plastic casing.