· So Valseir knew you were or might be looking for him,

and had put in place arrangements to… Hmm. That is inter-esting. Any contact so far?

· Not yet. But now you know why we’re here.

· You will keep me informed?

· Yes. Though you will understand if I have to go off by myself at some point, I hope. Your presence might make Valseir, or whoever, nervous.

The Blimper picked up more speed, still heading towards the storm-inward side of the starting grid. The slipstream started to blow away balloons and trays not secured.

· Nervous? You think this is all that… serious?

· What do you think?

· I think Oazil is probably one or several of the things you thought he might be. However, we are here now and if he was telling the truth no doubt you will be contacted. Of course, the other possibility is that we might have been getting close to something of interest back at Valseir’s house and this was simply a method of getting us out of the way. What exactly did Oazil say to you?

Fassin had kept a record of the conversation he’d had with the wandering Dweller, deep beneath the house. He signalled it across to Hatherence.

The fleet of spectator craft passed by the starting grid like an unruly flock of fat birds. Another great cheer sounded. The GasClippers stayed on the starting plane, awaiting their own signal.

· Still, little enough to go on, major, Hatherence told him. — You should have shared this with me earlier and let me decide on the correct course of action. I may have been overly indul-gent with you. Your loss is still something I appreciate, of course. However, I fear I might have been guilty of dereliction.

· I won’t report you if you don’t, Fassin sent, without humour.

The GasClippers — the larger, plural-crewed versions of the single-Dweller StormJammers — were sharp, angular-looking things, all jag-sails, keel-lode and high-gallants. Fifty metres long — fifty metres in most directions — bristling with glittering sails like enormous blades, they looked like the result of some monstrous permanent magnet being thrown into a hopper full of exotic edged weapons. Pennant sails carried identifying marks, little flowers of colour within the silvery blades, all bright beneath the glittering point of light that was Ulubis.

It was not possible to sail in a single medium. True sailing required a keel (or something like one) in one medium, and sails (or something like them) in another. In a single great stream of gas, you could not sail: you flew. On the edges of two streams, the boundary between a zone moving in one direction and a belt moving in the other, you could, in theory, sail, if you could build a ship big enough. The Dwellers had tried to build ships on that scale that would stay together. They had failed.

Instead, StormJammers and GasClippers exploited the titanic magnetic fields that most gas-giant planets possessed. Flux lines were their water, the place where their steadying keels lay. With a colossal magnetic field trying to move them along one course and the planet-girdling atmospheric bands of a Dweller-inhabited gas-giant expecting them to move along with everything else in a quite different direction, the possibility of sailing arose. And by sailing with sails dipped into the inside edges of giant storm systems, the sport could be made satisfactorily dangerous.

· We must hope that this was not a ruse to get us away from the house, the colonel told Fassin. — And we must hope that Valseir will indeed contact you. If he is alive. We were given no hint that such might be the case. She looked at him. — Were we?

· None.

Almost the entire fleet of spectator craft had passed the starting grid. The GasClippers shook as one, then — bewilderingly quickly, when one knew they had no proper engines -they swung away towards the massive wall of dark, tearing cloud that was the inner limit of the great storm, peeling and jostling, weaving and carving through the gas as they fought for position, using the light breezes and simple gaseous inertia of the medium to allow them to steer while they rode their lines of force towards the storm wall.

— They never did find a body, though. This is right? Hatherence asked.

· That’s right, Fassin told her. — Lost in a squall that could tear apart a StormJammer he wouldn’t have had much of a chance, but he might have lived.

· Yet there is no… water or the like? They cannot drown, and it is not too cold or hot. How do they die, just in a strong wind?

· Ripped apart, spun until they lose consciousness and then just whirled round too fast to hold together. Or left in a coma that means they do drop into the Depths. And they do need to breathe. If the pressure is too low, they can’t.

· Hmm.

The GasClippers swung at the storm’s inner surface, half disappearing as their extending blade-sails cut into the stream of gas. They accelerated hard. Even with their head start and their bellowing engines labouring, even taking a shorter, inner-curve route, the spectator craft began to lose ground to the small fleet of speeding GasClippers.

· It is possible that Valseir somehow arranged the accident? the Colonel asked.

· Possible. He might have arranged to have some friend, some accomplice nearby, to rescue him. It would make surviving likely rather than not.

· Do Dwellers often fake their own deaths?

· Almost never.

· So I thought.

The group of GasClippers was level with the centre of the greater fleet of spectator ships and the shouting and hollering in the spectator craft rose still further in pitch and volume as the whole mass of GasClippers and their accompanying squadrons of Blimpers and ancillary vessels seemed to move briefly as one, the dark storm wall a vertical sea, troubled and tattered, tearing past in front of them. A vast slanting band of shade rose up to meet them all as they moved into the shadow of the storm, the hazy point of Ulubis eclipsed by a roaring circlet of dementedly gyrating gas a hundred klicks high and ten thousand kilometres across.

“Fassin. Made any bets yet?” Y’sul said, settling into his dent-seat alongside. A pet-child in a waiter’s uniform floated with a tray at his side, held back until the older Dweller settled into his seat, then left the tray with its drug paraphernalia clipped to the seat and retreated.

“No. I’d be relying on your kudos, wouldn’t I?”

“Oh! I suppose you would,” Y’sul agreed, apparently only now thinking this through. “Obviously I must trust you subconsciously. Most odd.” He flipped to one side and started rummaging through the various drug works he’d brought back.

“How was your friend?” Hatherence asked him.

“Oh, in very good spirits,” Y’sul said, not looking at her. “Father died yesterday in action. Stands to inherit kudos points for bravery or something.” He kept on rummaging. “Sworn I got some FeverBrain…”

“Good to know he’s taking it so well,” Fassin said.

“Ah! Here we are,” Y’sul said, holding up a large bright orange capsule to take a good look at it. “Oh yes, Fassin: bumped into some youngster who claimed to know you. Gave me this.” Y’sul dug into a pocket in his forebritch and came out with a tiny image-leaf, passing it to Fassin.

The human held it in one of the gascraft’s fine-scale manipulators and looked at the photograph. It was of white clouds in a blue sky.

“Yes, colour’s all wrong, obviously,” Y’sul commented. “Couldn’t help noticing.”

Fassin was aware of the colonel looking at the image too. She sat back, silent.

“Did this person who claimed to know me actually say anything?” Fassin asked.

“Eh?” Y’sul said, still studying the finger-sized orange lozenge. “Oh, yes. Said to take good care of that thing, and that they’ll be in the stern viewing-gallery restaurant if you wanted to see them. Alone, they said. Bit rude, I thought. Very young, though. Almost expect that.”