"What do two jabs mean?"

"I don't know! A malfunction, probably; now will you put them on?"

"They really don't suit me."

"Would a shroud?"

"They feel funny."

"Never mind, if they work."

"How about a magic amulet to ward off bullets?"

"Are you serious? I mean, if you are there is a passive-sensor impact-shield jewellery set on board, but they'd probably use CREWs—"

Gurgeh waved one (ringed) hand. "Oh, never mind." He sat down again, turning on a military-execution channel.

The drone found it difficult to talk to the man; he wouldn't listen. It attempted to explain that despite all the horrors he had seen in the city and on the screen there was still nothing the Culture could do that wouldn't do more harm than good. It tried to tell him that the Contact section, the whole Culture in fact, was like him, dressed in his cloak and standing unable to help the man lying injured in the street, that they had to stick to their disguise and wait until the moment was right… but either its arguments weren't getting through to him, or that wasn't what the man was thinking about, because he made no response, and wouldn't enter into a discussion about it.

Flere-Imsaho didn't go out much during the days between the end of the game with Bermoiya and the journey to Hamin's estate. Instead it stayed in, with the man, worrying.

"Mr Gurgeh; I am pleased to meet you." The old apex put out his hand. Gurgeh grasped it. "I hope you had a pleasant flight here, yes?"

"We did, thank you," Gurgeh said. They stood on the roof of a low building set in luxuriant green vegetation and looking out over the calm waters of the inland sea. The house was almost submerged in the burgeoning greenery; only the roof was fully clear of the swaying treetops. Near by were paddocks full of riding animals, and from the various levels of the house long sweeping gantries, elegant and slim, soared out through the crowding trunks above the shady forest floor, giving access to the golden beaches and the pavilions and summer-houses of the estate. In the sky, huge sunlit clouds piled sparkling over the distant mainland.

"You say "we"," Hamin said, as they walked across the roof and liveried males took Gurgeh's baggage from the aircraft.

"The drone Flere-Imsaho and I," Gurgeh said, nodding to the bulky, buzzing machine at his shoulder.

"Ah yes," the old apex laughed, bald head reflecting the binary light. "The machine some people thought let you play so well." They descended to a long balcony set with many tables, where Hamin introduced Gurgeh — and the drone — to various people, mostly apices plus a few elegant females. There was only one person Gurgeh already knew; the smiling Lo Shav Olos put down a drink and rose from his table, taking Gurgeh's hand.

"Mr Gurgeh; how good to see you again. Your luck held out and your skill increased. A formidable achievement. Congratulations, once again." The apex's gaze flicked momentarily to Gurgeh's ringed fingers.

"Thank you. It was at a price I'd have willingly forgone."

"Indeed. You never cease to surprise us, Mr Gurgeh."

"I'm sure I shall, eventually."

"You are too modest." Olos smiled and sat down.

Gurgeh declined the offer to visit his rooms and freshen up; he felt perfectly fresh already. He sat at a table with Hamin, some other directors of Candsev College, and a few court officials. Chilled wines and spiced snacks were served. Flere-Imsaho settled, relatively quietly, on the floor by Gurgeh's feet. Gurgeh's new rings appeared to be happy there was nothing more damaging than alcohol in the fare being served.

The conversation mostly avoided Gurgeh's last game. Everyone pronounced his name correctly. The college directors asked him about his unique game-style; Gurgeh answered as best he could. The court officials inquired politely about his home world, and he told them some nonsense about living on a planet. They asked him about Flere-Imsaho, and Gurgeh expected the machine to answer, but it didn't, so he told them the truth; the machine was a person by the Culture's definition. It could do as it liked and it did not belong to him.

One tall and strikingly beautiful female, a companion of Lo Shav Olos who'd come over to join their table, asked the drone if its master played logically or not.

Flere-Imsaho replied — with a trace of weariness Gurgeh suspected only he could detect — that Gurgeh was not its master, and that it supposed he thought more logically than it did when he was playing games, but that anyway it knew very little about Azad.

They all found this most amusing.

Hamin stood then and suggested that his stomach, with over two and a half centuries of experience behind it, could tell it was approaching time for dinner better than any servant's clock. People laughed, and gradually began to depart the long balcony. Hamin escorted Gurgeh to his room personally and told him a servant would let him know when the meal was to be served.

"I wish I knew why they invited you here," Flere-Imsaho said, quickly unpacking Gurgeh's few cases while the man looked out of the window at the still trees and the calm sea.

"Perhaps they want to recruit me for the Empire. What do you think, drone? Would I make a good general?"

"Don't be facetious, Jernau Gurgeh." The drone switched to Marain. "And not to forget, random domran, here bugged are we, nonsense wonsense."

Gurgeh looked concerned and said in Eächic, "Heavens, drone; are you developing a speech impediment?"

"Gurgeh …" the drone hissed, setting out some clothes the Empire deemed suitable to be worn when eating.

Gurgeh turned away, smiling. "Maybe they just want to kill me."

"I wonder if they want any help."

Gurgeh laughed and came over to the bed where the drone had laid out the formal clothing. "It'll be all right."

"So you say. But we haven't even got the protection of the module here, let alone anything else. But … let's not worry about it."

Gurgeh picked up a couple of the robe-pieces and tried them against his body, holding them under his chin and looking down. "I'm not worried anyway," he said.

The drone shouted at him in exasperation. "Oh Jernau Gurgeh! How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot wear red and green together like that!"

"You like music, Mr Gurgeh?" Hamin asked, leaning over to the man.

Gurgeh nodded. "Well, a little does no harm."

Hamin sat back, apparently satisfied with this answer. They had climbed to the broad roof-garden after dinner, which had been a long, complicated and very filling affair during which naked females had danced in the centre of the room and — if Gurgeh's rings were to be believed — nobody had tried to interfere with his food. It was dusk now, and the party was outside in the warm evening air, listening to the wailing music produced by a group of apex musicians. Slender gantries led from the garden into the tall, graceful trees.

Gurgeh sat at a small table with Hamin and Olos. Flere-Imsaho sat near his feet. Lamps shone in the trees around them; the roof-garden was its own island of light in the night, surrounded by the cries of birds and animals, calling out as though in answer to the music.

"I wonder, Mr Gurgeh," Hamin said, sipping his drink and lighting a long, small-bowled pipe. "Did you find any of our dancing girls attractive?" He pulled on the long-stemmed pipe, then, with the smoke wreathing around his bald head, went on, "I only ask because one of them — she with the silver streak in her hair, remember? — did express rather an interest in you. I'm sorry… I hope I'm not shocking you, Mr Gurgeh, am I?"

"Not in the least."

"Well, I just wanted to say you're amongst friends here, yes? You've more than proved yourself in the game, and this is a very private place, outside the gaze of the press and the common people, who of course have to depend on certain hard and fast rules… whereas we do not, not here. You catch my drift? You may relax in confidence."