"Ah! The camp leader and the camp follower. You haven't quite got it right thought, sir, you're supposed to tie her in the bed…"

He jumped; spun round, hand going to the holster at his waist.

Kirive Socroft Rogtam-Bar kicked the door shut and stood shaking rain from a large shiny cape in the doorway, smiling ironically and looking annoyingly fresh and handsome considering he'd had no sleep for days.

"Bar!" He almost ran to him, they clapped their arms about each other and laughed.

"The very same. General Zakalwe; hello there. I wondered if you would like to join me in a stolen vehicle. I have an Amph outside…"

"What!" He threw open the door again and looked out onto the waters. There was a large and battered amphibious truck fifty metres away, near one of the towering machines.

"That's one of their trucks," he laughed.

Rogtam-Bar nodded unhappily. "Yes, I'm afraid so. They seem to want it back, too."

"They do?" He laughed again.

"Yes. By the way, I'm afraid the government has fallen. Forced out of office."

"What? Because of this?"

"That's the impression I got, I must say. I think they were so busy blaming you for losing their idiotic war that they didn't realise people connected them with it as well. Wide asleep as usual." Rogtam-Bar smiled. "Oh; and that manic idea of yours; the commando squad placing the sink-charges on the Maclin reservoir? It worked. Sent all that water into the dam and made the thing overflow; didn't actually break, according to the intelligence reports, but it… over-topped, is that the expression? Anyway; an awful lot of water went down the valley and swept away most of the Fifth Army's High Command… not to mention quite a bit of the Fifth itself, judging from the bods and tents seen floating past our lines over the last few hours… And there we all were, thinking you were crazy for dragging that hydrologist around with the general staff for the past week." Rogtam-Bar clapped his gloved hands. "Whatever. Things must be serious; there's talk of peace, I'm afraid." He looked the General up and down. "But you'll have to present a prettier picture than that, I suspect, if you're to start talking terms with our pals on the other side. You been mud wrestling, General?"

"Only with my conscience."

"Really? Who won?"

"Well, it was one of those rare occasions when violence really doesn't solve anything."

"I know the scenario well; usually crops up when one is trying to decide whether to open the next bottle, or not." Bar nodded at the door. "After you." He produced a large umbrella from within his cloak, opened it and held it out. "General; allow me!" Then he looked into the centre of the room. "And what about your friend?"

"Oh." He looked back at the woman, who had turned herself around and was staring, horrified, at them. "Yes, my captive audience." He shrugged. "I've seen stranger mascots; let's take her, too."

"Never question the high command," Bar said. He handed over the umbrella. "You take this. I'll take her." He looked reassuringly at the woman, tipped his cap. "Only literally, ma'am."

The woman let out a piercing shriek.

Rogtam-Bar winced. "Does she do that a lot?" he asked.

"Yes; and watch her head when you pick her up; near busted my nose."

"When it's such an attractive shape already. See you in the Amph, sir."

"Right you are," he said, manoeuvering the umbrella through the doorway, and walking down the concrete slope, whistling.

"Bastard infidel!" the woman in the chair screamed, as Rogtam-Bar approached her and the chair from behind, cautiously.

"You're in luck," he told her. "I don't normally stop for hitchers."

He picked up the chair with the woman in it and took them both down to the vehicle, where he dumped them in the back.

She screamed the whole way.

"Was she this noisy all the time?" Rogtam-Bar asked, as he reversed the machine back out into the flood. "Mostly."

"I'm surprised you could hear yourself think." He looked out into the pouring rain, smiling ruefully.

In the ensuing peace, he was demoted, and stripped of several medals. He left later that year, and the Culture didn't seem in the least displeased with how he'd done.

Seven

The city was built inside a canyon two kilometres deep and ten across; the canyon wound through the desert for eight hundred kilometres, a jagged gash in the crust of the planet. The city took up only thirty of those kilometres.

He stood on the rimrock, looking inwards, and was confronted by a staggered confusion of buildings and houses and streets and steps and storm drains and railway lines, all grey and misty in filmy layers under a foggy-red setting sun.

Like slow waters from a broken dam, nebulous rollers of cloud swung down the canyon; they foundered persistently among the juts and cracks of the architecture, and seeped away like tired thoughts.

In a very few places, the topmost buildings had over-reached the rimrock and spilled onto the desert, but the rest of the city gave the impression that it lacked the energy or the momentum to proceed that far, and so had kept within the canyon, sheltered from the winds and kept temperate by the canyon's own natural microclimate.

The city, speckled with dim lights, seemed strangely silent and motionless. He listened hard, and finally caught what sounded like the high howl of some animal, from deep inside some misty suburb. Searching the skies, he could see the far specks of circling birds, wheeling in the still and coldly heavy air. Gliding in the deep distance over the cluttered terraces, stepped streets and zig-zagging roads, they were the source of a far, hoarse crying.

Further down, he saw some silent trains, thin lines of light, slowly crossing between tunnels. Water showed as black lines, in aqueducts and canals. Roads ran everywhere, and vehicles crawled along them, lights like sparks as they scuttled like the tiny prey of the wheeling birds.

It was a cold autumn evening, and the air was bitter. He'd taken off the combat suit and left it in the capsule, which had buried itself in a sandy hollow. Now he wore the baggy clothes that were popular here again; they had been in fashion when he'd worked here last time, and he felt oddly pleased that he'd been away long enough for the style to cycle round again. He was not superstitious, but the coincidence amused him.

He squatted down and touched the rimrock. He lifted a handful of pebbles and topweeds, then let them sift through his fingers. He sighed and got to his feet, pulling on gloves, putting on a hat.

The city was called Solotol, and Tsoldrin Beychae was here.

He dusted a little sand from his coat — an old raincoat from far away, and of purely sentimental value — placed a pair of very dark glasses on his nose, picked up a modest case, and went down into the city.

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?"

"I'd like your two top floors, please."

The clerk looked confused, then leaned forward. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"The two top floors of the hotel; I'd like them." He smiled. "I haven't made a reservation; sorry."

"Aah…" the clerk said. He appeared a little worried as he looked at his reflection in the dark glasses. "The two…?"

"Not a room, not a suite, not a floor, but two floors, and not any two floors; the two top floors. If you have any guests presently occupying any of the rooms in the top two floors, I suggest you ask them politely to accept a room on another floor; I'll pay their bills up till now."

"I see…" the hotel clerk said. He seemed unsure whether to take all this seriously or not. "And… how long was sir thinking of staying?"

"Indefinitely. I'll pay for a month, in advance. My lawyers will cable the funds by lunchtime tomorrow." He opened the case and took out a wad of paper money, placing it on the desk. I'll pay for one night in cash, if you like."