"That's how you burned into the Colonel Maitland's 'ware," Fabian said. He sounded impressed.

"Yes. And I'd be obliged if you two treated the knowledge of the NN cores' existence, and anything we discuss here today, as completely confidential, please."

"Yes, of course," Charlotte said. She nudged Fabian.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Good. Now then, I understand Nia Korovilla was asking you about the flower, Charlotte?"

"Yes, she wanted to know who gave it to me."

"A lot of people do," Greg said softly. "Will you tell us?"

This was where she had planned on doing her bargaining; a trade, money, and guaranteed safety for what she knew. But she didn't know what sort of price to ask for, and some hard little core of anger inside wanted something to be done about Baronski, wanted justice. She strongly suspected that the kind of people who killed the old man weren't the kind who ever sat in courts to be tried. And Fabian would need protecting as well.

Julia Evans was the only person who could sort out those kind of loose ends for her. It would be for the best if she wasn't antagonized.

"Yes," Charlotte said. "He never told me his name, just that he was a priest."

"Describe him, please," Greg said.

"I suppose he was at least fifty-five, probably sixty; medium height, four or five centimetres shorter than me, very pale face, flabby neck, greying hair in a pony tail. He had a great smile, I mean, you just looked at him and knew you could trust him," she trailed off limply. It sounded silly said out loud, but his smile had been the reason she agreed to deliver the flower.

"Not Royan," Julia said.

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" Greg asked.

"Yes, absolutely," she said. "He was wearing a dove-grey jumpsuit, an old one, but it was clean. All the Celestials were clean."

Victor looked up from his terminal. "You mean this happened in New London?"

"Sorry, didn't I say? Yes. It was during my holiday."

Julia and Greg were both grinning at each other. "You went up to New London after New Zealand?" Greg asked.

"How did you—?"

"Tell you, Charlotte, you're a very important person. Victor here has a big profile on you."

"Yes." She swallowed. "I took a flight from Mangonui spaceport."

"With your patron?"

"No. I said it was a holiday. I went by myself."

"How did you pay for it?"

"I didn't. It was a farewell gift from my last patron, all expenses paid. Baronski let me keep it. I normally have to hand the gifts over, but he could hardly sell it, so he let me go ahead."

Victor let out a groan. "No wonder we couldn't trace you through Amex. What was this patron's name?"

"Ali Murdad."

"Did he send you up there to collect the flower?" Greg asked. "Or any other kind of favour?"

"No. It was a genuine holiday for me."

"I have confirmed the ticket," one of Julia's images said. "A regal-class package with Thomas Cook, booked by Aflaj Industrial Cybernetics—Ali Murdad listed as a director. A fortnight at the High Savoy, with a universal club and resort access card."

"That's right," she said.

"Tell us about this priest," Greg said. "Are you certain he was a Celestial Apostle?"

"Yes. There was a group of them working round the tourists at the fall surf beach. A couple of them spoke to me, they were about my age, they explained what the Celestials were. They were very devout, I don't mean silly like the Hare Krishnas or deadly dull like the Jehovah's Witnesses, they had a sense of humour, but they really believed our destiny lies out among the stars. They asked me if I wanted to stay up in New London permanently; they said it wouldn't be a hard life, not like the cults that exploit children down here, but it was fairly basic. That didn't seem to bother them, they believe it's only temporary, when this divine event of theirs finally occurs everything will change. I think they expect to receive a higher blessing than everyone else, or be the first people admitted into heaven, or something along those lines. Being a Celestial Apostle was certainly supposed to be a step up the ladder towards God."

"But you turned them down?"

"Hell, yes—I can go up to New London any time I want. I'm not spending the rest of my life boring the pants off tourists with nutty creeds. Besides, they seemed a bit simple, you know? Dreamy types."

"And was this priest one of the pair which spoke to you?"

"No, he came over when they left. He knew my name, though, that was the funny thing. I got the impression he was waiting for the other two to finish. He said he was sorry they had failed to show me the light, then he asked me if I'd do a friend of his a favour."

"What was the friend's name?" Victor asked.

"He said he couldn't tell me for obvious reasons."

Julia smiled as if she already knew. "Go on."

"He asked me to deliver something to you. He said it was a gift from your lover, but that no one must know. I thought—well, you already have a husband, you see, so there was this other secret man in your life. It was romantic and exciting, me being asked to be a go-between for you. I couldn't say no. You're… well, you're Julia Evans, aren't you? I would have been involved in something delicious, I might even have been asked to do it again. So I cut short my holiday and flew back. Dmitri Baronski got me the ticket for the Newfields ball." She stared determinedly at her finger nails, mortified. Whatever would Fabian think of her, acting like a schoolgirl.

"He knew your name," Greg said in the silence that followed, "he knew you had the contacts necessary to get into Monaco's social event of the year at a day's notice, and he knew you had the savoir-faire to deliver the flower. Some Celestial Apostle."

"You think that's him, boy?" Philip Evans asked. "The alien?"

"Alien?" Charlotte gasped. Fabian lurched upright in his chair, staring at Philip Evans's image.

Nobody said anything, they were all looking at Greg, waiting for him to speak, like he was some sort of guru or something, she thought. He blinked slowly, and focused on her. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling Fabian's hand in her own, the damp smooth skin tightening its grip silently. Greg didn't just look at you, she decided, he judged you. A psychic. The realization didn't make her any more comfortable. There were stories — "You said you broke off your holiday to deliver the flower?" Greg asked.

"Yes." Her throat was contracting.

"How much of it did you miss?"

"Four days, Ali's package was for a fortnight. But I changed my ticket for an earlier flight. The agent said there was no problem. I landed at Capetown then caught a connecting flight."

"Ah." A smile spread across his face. "I think we'd better fill you in on a few points."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Suzi sat dumb while everyone had their say. First Charlotte telling how some Celestial Apostle handed her the alien flower. And just what the flick was a Celestial Apostle anyway? Then Greg on his Russian general mate, and how the Dolgoprudnensky were probably plugged in somewhere down the line. At least she knew about the Dolgoprudnensky, tough bastards. Julia started rapping about her starship supertechnology, and the heat she was getting from kombinates and microbes, and Royan being his usual monomaniac self. Royan always had to take apart anything new; split it open, figure it out, and put it back together so that it worked smoother. If Julia didn't know that about him then they weren't as close as she thought.

All heavy duty shit…

Charlotte and Fabian were sitting up straight like a couple of kids at school who'd been lumbered with the toughest master for a lesson, hanging on to every word. Charlotte's gorgeous face was crinkling from the effort of following details. Suzi glanced casually at the girl's profile. Not bad at all. Which reminded Suzi of Andria, who she hadn't phoned since the airship.