“We understand that,” Zefla said. “Nevertheless, Pharpech appears to be a fascinating and even romantic place, from what one reads about it, and we do feel that it would be worth some time and effort-by an experienced and highly talented team of individuals widely respected in their respective fields-to produce a true, factual and faithful account of life in what represents one of the last vestiges of a time gone by, miraculously still surviving into the present day.”

Travapeth seemed to strain again. Then he grunted; he put the dumbbells back on their stand and reached with a shaking hand for a stained towel lying crumpled on top of a bookcase.

“Quite so,” he said, shaking the towel until it uncrumpled. “But try explaining that to His Majesty!”

“Let me be candid,” Zefla said as Travapeth wiped under his armpits, and then his face. (Sharrow looked away.) “Our intention is to go there initially without any equipment-without even still cameras, if that’s what it takes-and perhaps, with your good offices, if that proves agreeable to you, establish some sort of understanding with whatever authorities control the sort of very limited access rights we’d require for the extremely respectful and tasteful prestige documentary production we have in mind.”

Travapeth nodded, blew his nose noisily into the towel and put it back on top of the bookcase. Sharrow coughed and studied the upper balcony. Zefla glided smoothly on. “We do of course recognise the difficulties involved, and we hope that-as a highly respected scholar and the foremost expert on Pharpech in the entire system-you would agree to act as our historical and anthropological consultant.”

Travapeth’sbrows knitted together as he flexed his shoulders and went to a sit-up bench, lying on it and jamming his feet under the bars.

“Yes, I see,” he said, clasping his hands behind his neck.

“Should you agree to this,” Zefla continued, “we would of course credit you on screen.”

“Mm-hmm,” Travapeth said, grunting as he did a sit-up.

“And, naturally,” Zefla said, “there would be a substantial fee involved, reflecting both the added academic weight your involvement in this prestigious project would contribute and the worth of your valuable time.”

Travapeth sat back on the narrow padding of the sit-up bench with a sigh. He stared up at the courtyard’s membrane ceiling.

“Of course,” he said, “financial matters are hardly my first concern.”

“Of course,” Zefla agreed. “I can well imagine.”

“But-just to give me a rough idea…?” He performed another sit-up then twisted, touching both elbows off his knees in turn.

“Might we suggest ten thousand, inclusive?” Zefla said.

The scholar paused, touching elbow to knee.

“Four immediately,” Zefla said, “should you be prepared to help us, then three on first day of principal photography and three on transmission.”

“Repeat fees?” Travapeth grunted, still swinging from side to side.

“Industry Prestige Documentary Production standard.”

“Single screen credit?”

“Same size, half the duration of the director’s.”

“Call it fifteen.”

Zefla sucked her breath in and sounded apologetic. “I’m not really authorised to exceed twelve thousand for any single individual.”

Travapeth sat back panting heavily. “Butler!” he shouted into the air, his voice resounding round the atrium. His sweatstreaked face looked upside-down at Zefla. “My dear girl,” he breathed, “you won’t need any other individual. I am all that you require; all that you could possibly ask for,” he leered.

From the corner of her eye Zefla caught Sharrow turning away with a hand stuffed in her mouth, just as the little man appeared from the shadows again, struggling to carry a huge hide bucket full of water.

“Fifteen,” Travapeth repeated, closing his eyes. “Six, five four.”

Zefla looked down, shaking her head and rubbing her chin.

“Well, then,” Travapeth sighed. “In three equal tranches; I can’t say fairer than that.”

The little man grabbed the chair with the gown draped over it and dragged it with him as he staggered up to where Travapeth lay panting on the sit-up bench; he climbed up onto the chair, heaved the bucket up level with his chest, then dumped the water over Travapeth’s deep-breathing, nine-tenths naked frame. Zefla stepped back quickly from the splash.

The scholar shuddered mightily as the water poured off him onto the mat beneath. He spluttered and blinked his eyes as his butler climbed down from the seat and walked away.

Travapeth smiled wetly at Zefla. “Do we have a deal, dear girl?”

Zefla glanced at Sharrow, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Ugh! Fate! Did you see his loincloth going clingy and see-through after the little guy poured the water over him? Yech!”

“Thankfully, my eyes were averted at that point.”

“And that stuff about ‘the generous globes of your mothers’ breasts’!” Zefla said in a booming voice, then squealed, hand over her mouth as they walked laughing down Imagery Lane through units and packs of students moving between lectures.

“I thought I was going to throw up,” Sharrow said.

“Well you shouldn’t have tried to put your whole hand into your mouth,” Zefla told her.

“It was that or howl.”

“Still, at least he seems to know what he’s talking about.”

“Hmm,” Sharrow said. “So far so plausible; we’ll see if Cenuij is impressed.” She nodded down the street to their right. “Let’s go down here. There’s a place I remember.”

“Okay,” Zefla said. They turned down Structuralist Street.

“Down here somewhere,” Sharrow said, looking around. The street was busy and edged with cafes and estaminets.

“Actually,” Zefla said, putting her arm through Sharrow’s again and looking up at the high membrane waving slowly two kilometres above. “Now I think about it, maybe I do kind of admire his brazenness.”

Sharrow glared at Zefla. “You really can’t hate anybody for more than about three seconds, can you?”

Zefla smiled guiltily. “Ah, he wasn’t that bad.” She shrugged. “He’s a character.”

“Let’s hope he stays a minor one,” Sharrow muttered.

Zefla laughed. “What’s the aim of this sentimental journey, anyway?” She looked along the crowded street. “Where are we heading for now?”

“The Bistro Onomatopoeia,” Sharrow told her.

“Oh, I remember that place,” Zefla said. She peered into the distance, a pretend frown on her face. “How do you spell it again?” she asked.

“Oh,” they chanted together, “just the way it sounds.”

She kept her cap down over her eyes and her boots on the rickety seat opposite. Her uniform jacket hung over the back of her own chair.

“Schlotch.” She said, and took another drink of the trax spirit.

“Schlotch?” Miz asked.

“Schlotch,” she confirmed.

“Mud scraped off a boot,” Dloan said, tapping her boot with the toe of his own.

She shook her head slowly, looking down at her hands where they were clasped between her uniformed thighs. She belched. “Nup,” she said.

Next round the table was Cenuij.

“A turd dropping into a toilet bowl,” he suggested, his gaze shining out from two black eyes he’d collected a couple of nights earlier. “From ten thousand metres.”

“Close,” she said, then giggled, waving one hand as the others started to heckle. “Na; na, not close at all. I lied. I lied. Ha ha ha.”

“The noise a-hic! shit-sock full of pickled jelly-bird brains makes when swung vigorously against an Excise Clipper escape hatch by a dwarf wearing a jump-girdle on his head.”

Sharrow glanced up at Zefla and shook her head quickly. “Too prosaic.”

Zefla shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Cara cleared his throat carefully. “The noise a speckle bug makes-” he began patiently.

They all pulled off their caps and started throwing them at him and shouting, “No!” “Choose another track!” “No, no, no!” “Fuck this goddamn speckle bug!” “Think of something else!”