‘I need to arise early to study.’

‘You’re a schoolteacher?’

‘No, a student at the ETH. A physics student.’

‘At the Poly? You must be very bright.’ Inge pointed at the others. ‘Elke paints, Petra reads everything, and I’m a haberdasher.’

‘You must come with us,’ said Petra. ‘Please.’

‘Now, look.’ Inge held up one hand. ‘Here’s why we need you. Petra believes that a rocket could fly to the moon, because she’s been reading fantasies by Jules Verne.’

‘Honestly, Inge—’

‘But my encyclopaedia directly states that a rocket cannot fly in space because there is no air for it to push against. So how can you argue against that?’

Gavriela looked from one face to the next.

‘Maybe one glass of Glühwein,’ she said.

Not so far away, where the small town of Berchtesgaden crouched amid Bavarian forest, a small feverish man was alone in his room, surrounded by dark, insanely energetic paintings, the product of his own hand and strange imaginings. The more recent were like design sketches: gleaming cities, fluttering banners, romantic uniforms of black and scarlet.

But words held the true power, the magic he had tapped into while the faceless bourgeoisie had tried to silence him, to lock him away in prison. And not just written words: as he stood before the mirror, eyes glaring, he rehearsed his mesmeric language, his visions of a warrior future, deeply aware of the magnetic hold he could have upon the mob. For they would act as if they had a single mind - he had studied the works of Gustav Lebon on mass psychology, and understood the weapon those books had given him - and if a mind could be unified, it could be controlled.

I am become the darkness.

Sweat poured from his skin as he gesticulated, imagining the visions that floated above a multitude, the spellbinding directives of his voice. Scattered around him like flowers on the floor were sheets of newspaper and printed notices, all related to him, the one who would master destiny, while in the background a compelling nine-note sequence played, product of a non-existent military band.

One of his most dangerous rivals had turned to become a disciple, his adulation apparent in the new article lying here, in the Völkischer Beobachter.

This was what young Göbbels had written, exhorting his comrades to bow to their rightful leader, ‘with the manly, unbroken pride of the ancient Norsemen who stand upright before their Germanic feudal lord.’

And why would they not? For Göbbels was only acknowledging what had to happen, that: ‘He is the instrument of the Divine Will that shapes history with fresh, creative passion.’

Artist, visionary and orator.

I am become myself.

Time passed in a manner beyond ordinary experience, until someone tapped at the door.

‘Supper is ready, Herr Hitler.’

He expelled a breath.

‘You may come in.’

FIVE

FULGOR, 2603 AD

Watching Dr Helsen ascend from the plaza and draw near to the saucer-shaped balcony, Roger felt his skin tremble, like a membrane stretched across a drum. Helsen was a hard-faced woman, and she was staring at him. His fellow students still had not noticed her.

They jumped as her voice issued from the circular tabletop.

‘I’m Dr Helsen, and you can address me thus or simply as Doctor.’

A female student trailed her: pale and slender, coppery hair and turquoise eyes, taller than Roger

‘This is Alisha Spalding,’ continued Helsen, speaking normally instead of through the system, as she indicated the pale young woman. ‘She’s in your group. And you’re the Blackstone boy, is that right?’

‘Uh, yes, ma’am. Doctor.’

‘You weren’t startled by my voice’ - the location switched again - ‘as it came from here, inside the table.’

‘I saw you approaching.’

‘Psychosocial skills are based on sensory acuity, but they’re only a small part of what we work on here.’

Stef’s mouth twisted to one side.

‘On the other hand,’ Helsen went on,’ we need to be careful as we interpret expressions, because derisory amusement might not be what you intend to convey, Stephanie Thrawle. Particularly since I have full access to your cognitive skills logs. Surely condescension can emanate only from perceived superiority. ’

‘Sorry, Dr Helsen.’

‘I’m sure you can be. Now let’s have a look at the Cyclone Lab. Quadruple blink, everyone.’

Roger did as she commanded, and the visual environment shifted, an indoor scene replacing the outdoor reality, with the six students’ relative positions unaltered. The illusion was visual and auditory - no sense of touch - with the image lased in to his smartlenses and the sound focused from the real surroundings, including presumably the quickglass table.

Helsen herself was no longer visible. Roger wondered what she might be up to.

‘Nice,’ said Rick, turning inside the illusion.

They were in a steel-and-amber artificial cavern, where the air billowed in glowing greens and blues, revealing the currents as they flowed and twisted around morph-capable obstacles. It was a realtime image of an actual laboratory, designed to investigate the flow of fluids - gases and plasmas included - and of devices designed to funnel currents or to navigate inside them. Right now, a flock of quickglass songbirds was trying to find stability, wings continually altering as they tried to hang in place against the flow.

Beside them, a sheaf of holo equations denoted the design parameters of the birds, along with status values of the tremendous airflow.

‘They look accurate enough.’ Alisha pointed at the equations, then nodded toward the hovering birds. ‘Don’t you think, Roger?’

So she knew his name. But he was thinking more about the unseen Helsen in reality, and what she might be up to while none of them could see her.

Then he gave a snort, trying to dismiss his fear with humour. Alisha turned away, her face growing stony.

Shit. I messed that up.

Stef had read through the equations slowly. Now she looked up at the quickglass birds and shrugged.

‘Look at that growing turbulence. Their performance is unpredictable.’

‘Maybe that’s the point,’ said Rick. ‘Well done, Stef.’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

‘I’m serious, really. Maybe that’s why we’re looking at all this, so we can work out that the equations are insufficient for the whatyoumaycallit, the context. Is that right, Dr Helsen?’

The last question he called out while turning around on the spot, not knowing where she might be located in reality.

‘Four of the birds are about to lose control,’ said Alisha.

‘You can’t know that.’ Rick stared up at them. ‘All thirteen are practically identical.’

‘And the lead bird will break up in five seconds from . . . now.’

‘Come off it. There’s no way you can—’

At the front of the flock, the leading bird began to shiver in the turbulence, caught by some kind of resonance, and then it was liquefying as it shook apart and spattered in the bucking wind, destroyed. Four others, wings flapping in vain, lost their ability to keep their beaks pointed into the growing gale, and the air picked them up and flung them against pillars and walls, shattering their vitrified forms. The remaining eight birds reconfigured, fighting to keep position in the flow.

‘Nicely done, Alisha,’ said Helsen. ‘Everybody, quadruple blink again.’

They did so, falling out of illusion, back into reality, standing on the saucer-shaped balcony. Around them were the other balconies on stalks, and below was the blue plaza, nearly deserted. Helsen was standing where she had been, her attention on Alisha.