She looked up at Miz, who was nodding slowly. “So,” she said, “where do the dials point?”

Miz pursed his lips and nodded out across the ocean.

“Over the sea and far away,” he said.

“Caltasp?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he said. He glanced at her. “The Areas,” he added.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Come and see.”

They walked back to the car. She stood at the opened door, one hand resting on the car’s slatted wooden roof.

The flex-screen lying on the floor displayed a flat map of Golter’s southern hemisphere, distorted to show true direction. They both watched as Dloan traced a line from a compass-rosed point in southern Jonolrey across the Phirar to the region between Caltasp and Lantskaar.

“Depends how accurate these gauges are,” Dloan said, tapping numbers into the calculator display at the side of the map. “And on whether the direction display is working on the GPS or magnetic. But if the speedo shows true direction and the rev counter is kilometres times one hundred, then it’s the Embargoed Areas.”

“Oh, shit,” Sharrow breathed.

They had driven eighty kilometres out of Vembyr along the pitted surface of the deserted coastal highway, heading south and west. They had passed the entombed ruins of the ancient reactor a couple of kilometres back, just before the cut-off for the point. They were about fifty kilometres further west than they had been in the city, and the needle on the bike’s fake tachometer had moved one half of a division on its scale, indicating fifty-nine and a half revolutions per second rather than the sixty it had shown in the warehouse.

“We can get a more accurate fix with a better map,” Dloan said, laying the static-stiffened screen over the dials, then turning it briefly transparent. “And maybe triangulate if we can get a reading from a good way north of the city.”

“I’ll get the copter back,” Miz told Sharrow, nodding.

“That should narrow it down pretty well,” Dloan said, tapping out more figures and studying the result. “But just going on this, if it isn’t under the ocean it’s somewhere in the fjords, in the Areas.”

Sharrow looked up the road at Zefla and Feril. The two were standing now; Zefla was pointing out to sea, her long, blonde hair blown cloud-ragged by the wind. Red light reflected from the polished surfaces of the android’s head and body.

A gust rocked Sharrow on her feet. Her skirt whipped at her boots and she stuck her hands in her jacket pockets, feeling the cold weight of the gun against her left hand.

She saw Zefla glance towards the car, and waved at her. The woman and the android began walking back to the car.

That night she did not dream of Cenuij, but instead dreamt that her arm died; her left arm became paralysed and numb, then began to wither and shrink but somehow remained the same size it had always been, but was still dead, and so she had to find somebody who would bury it for her, and wandered round a city that seemed to be crowded but where she could only find people who looked just like her but weren’t, and nobody would bury the arm for her.

Eventually she tried to make a box, a coffin, for the arm, to carry it around in, but it was difficult to make with just one arm.

She woke in the middle of the night, in the wide, white bed in the shadows of the tall, white room in the apartment block Feril was renovating. She was lying on her left arm, which had gone to sleep. She got up and sat in a seat by the side of the bed for a while, drinking a glass of water and massaging her tingling arm as blood and feeling returned to it.

She thought she would be awake for the rest of the night, but then fell asleep there, to wake up stiff and sore in the morning, her right hand still clutching the other arm as though comforting it.

The monthly auction started the next day. Aircraft arrived from all over Golter, filling the City Hotel with mercenary chiefs, arms dealers, militaria collectors, weapon-fund managers, contract army reps and a scattering of specialist media people. The auction hall itself was an old conference centre three blocks from the warehouse where the Tzant trove was stored.

Sharrow had refused to hide away while the auction was held, and she and Zefla, both wearing veiled hats and dull, loose-fitting suits, sat in a small drinks lounge attached to the conference facility, watching the people come and go.

Miz and Dloan had left the city to travel up the coast in one of Miz’s company helicopters, getting another fix on the position the bike dials were indicating. If the triangulation confirmed the dials were pointing where they seemed to be, Dloan would attend the auction’s second and final day so he could buy the sort of gear they’d need if they were to mount an expedition to the Areas.

“You’re mad,” Zefla said quietly, lifting her veil to drink from her glass as she leaned closer to Sharrow. “You should be hiding.” She sipped her drink, finishing it. “I’m mad, too, for letting you talk me into this. I should have told Dloan, or Miz, or just locked you up. You talk me into the most insane things.”

“Oh, stop whining and go and get us another drink,” Sharrow whispered. Zefla sat back sharply, then made a grunting noise and started to get up.

“Good grief,” Sharrow said, taking Zefla’s arm. “Look who’s here.”

Elson Roa stood at the bar. He was dressed in a sober business robe and carried a sensible hat. A similarly garbed young woman they didn’t recognise stood at Roa’s side, toting a briefcase.

“Wonder what he’s come for,” Zefla said.

“Yes,” Sharrow said, slipping her glass under her veil to sip at her drink. “I wonder.”

They watched the auction through the afternoon, strolling from the lounge to the main hall and back again, keeping track of the events on the centre’s closed-circuit screens.

The multifarious items came up for sale and were knocked down; all the items easily made their reserve price, which meant-according to a media person they overheard filing a report-that the pessimistic large-scale conflict forecasts various analysts had been making recently were being confirmed by the traders. Weapons futures rose another point that afternoon.

Elson Roa didn’t appear to buy anything, but he and his assistant seemed to be watching everybody just as carefully as were Sharrow and Zefla.

The first day’s selling ended late in the evening. Sharrow and Zefla strolled past the docks and then sat on a pair of bollards as though soaking up the late evening sun, watching the people who had come for the auction as they departed in their various craft for yachts offshore, or hotels in nearby regions where the radiation level was what Golter considered normal.

They watched Elson Roa and his assistant approach a chartered VTOL jet, then Sharrow shook her head.

“What is he doing?” she said, then turned to Zefla. “Cover,” she said. She stood up, ignoring Zefla’s protests and walked over to intercept the Solipsist leader.

“Politeness,” she said, putting her veil back.

Elson Roa looked at her strangely as though not recognising her at first, then bowed slightly and said, “Yes, hello.”

“Congratulations on your bail,” she said, searching his expression. He looked mildly surprised. “I believe you’ve set a new record. You must have rich friends.”

Roa shook his head emphatically. “A strong will,” he said, raising his voice to counter the noise of a jet taking off. “I think I am beginning to alter reality.”

“I think you must be,” she agreed. “Does your alteration to reality have a name?”

“I do not believe it needs one,” the tall Solipsist said coolly.

“Perhaps not,” she said. She smiled. “So, what brings you to the auction?”

Roa looked puzzled and pointed to the VTOL. “That,” he said.

Sharrow looked levelly at him. She had the depressing feeling that Roa didn’t realise it was a joke most people got out of their system in junior high.