Like a bubble spiralling up inside a brook, Gavriela returned to wakefulness. She blinked several times at Doktor Freud.

‘I don’t know what you did, Herr Doktor, but I feel marvellous. ’

‘You remember nothing?’

‘Not a thing. Should I?’

‘Um . . . No, that is fine. So thank you for coming, Fräulein.’

‘Are we done?’

‘If you feel good, then we are.’

‘Oh. Thank you so much, again.’

She almost floated out of the house, seen out by the maid. Once out on the street, she walked in a way that felt like dancing, unable to stop smiling.

It would be several hours before she regained a more normal emotional state.

Freud stared for a long time at his rough session notes. Then he carried the loose pages to the burning coal grate, dropped them atop the coals, and used the poker to rake the fire. Smoke rose from crinkling paper as it curled into black charcoal, an echo of the phenomenon his patient had described - twisting blackness - an hallucination not unknown to him.

He pulled out a handkerchief that was monogrammed SF - a present from a buxom client who reminded him of his mother - then dabbed his forehead.

Finally, he sat down at the table, opened a notebook, unscrewed his fountain-pen, and began to write.

Returning to my previous experimentation with the techniques of Monsieur Mesmer, I successfully induced in Fräulein S a state of deep trance. In this state she was able to recount her dreams, in a detailed and entirely unconscious manner, remembering nothing on waking.

As to the nature of her

He paused, used blotting paper to dry what he had written so far, and read over the words.

‘No.’

After tearing the page from his notebook, he dropped it onto the fire, sending it to charcoal oblivion.

Back at the table, he began again.

April 1st 1926.

Today, as a result of a session with Fräulein S, I have made the decision to abandon the techniques of Mesmerism, which I feel are inappropriate in the process of exploring and comprehending delusional neuroses.

He stopped. After a dab with blotting paper, he closed the notebook up and resealed his pen. From his waistcoat he took a small pill-box, opened it, and regarded the white powder within. Then he shook his head, and put the pill-box away.

Getting up quickly, he left the drawing-room, ignored the maid looking at him in the hallway, and went upstairs to the bedroom where he was staying.

His host, Herr Scholl, had given him a present earlier. Now, he had to look at it again.

Unwrapped, the painting was on his bed. The artist was young, unknown to Freud, but the man’s psyche was dark: that much, anyone could tell from the swirl of shadows and deep reds. As he stared, he thought he heard a distant echo of discordant notes: da, da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da.

‘I will not share my client’s delusion.’

The painting was surely not flickering. That was impossible.

‘I refuse to.’

Biting his lip, he hefted the painting, and carried it downstairs. In the hallway he stopped to address the maid.

‘Under no circumstances,’ he said, ‘tell Herr Scholl what you see here.’

The maid stared at the painting, then quickly made the sign of the cross.

‘You have my word, sir.’

They stared at each other; then Freud nodded.

‘Very well.’

He carried it into the drawing-room, tore it from the frame, and dropped it into the fireplace. For a short time, he thought he could hear a scream; but then it was curling up and burning.

The last part to ignite was the lower corner that bore the artist’s signature - A. Hitler - then it, too, was gone.

Freud wiped his face, then took his pill-box from his waistcoat pocket.

Out in the hallway, the maid was saying the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.

FIFTEEN

FULGOR, 2603 AD

Throughout the tutorial, Roger tried not to think of this morning’s message from his parents.

‘We’ve arranged everything with the department administrators,’ Dad had said. ‘You’re cleared to take a five-day break from studies.’

The semester had only just started, so Admin could not have been happy - but so what? Besides, it wasn’t just the thought of a holiday that thrummed inside him.

‘Your offworld trip is already logged,’ Dad had added.

Offworld! That could mean anything, but perhaps what he really intended was—

‘So, Roger Blackstone.’ Dr Helsen was focusing on him, dragging his attention back to the tutorial, here and now. ‘I’d like to say something about your model of entropy flow in the Calabi-Yau dimensions.’

‘Er, yes, Dr Helsen?’

‘Nice work. Very well done.’

He blinked several times, while Rick raised an eyebrow. Praise from Helsen, for anyone other than Alisha - this was a new phenomenon.

‘So.’ Helsen turned to Alisha and smiled. ‘I’m wondering whether you could assist me in something.’

‘Uh, sure, Doctor.’

‘We like to bring in extracurricular guests to give lectures, and Mr Blackstone’s work has given me an idea. There’s someone I’d like you to invite, all right? It’s not her speciality, but I believe she would do a fine job.’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. In that case’ - Helsen looked around the group - ‘very well done, and I’ll see you all tomorrow. And Alisha, here are the details.’

She gestured; Alisha nodded to confirm receiving the data.

‘Have a good day, all.’

Dr Helsen left first, smiling. Everyone else looked at each other before getting up. They remained in place as the quickglass chairs melted back into the floor.

‘Holy crap,’ said Rick. ‘Is old Hatchet Face actually in a good mood for once?’

‘Looks that way.’ Trudi raised her hands. ‘Do we mind? I don’t.’

‘Serotonin. A relaxed brain.’ Stef looked serious, then: ‘Maybe she’s had sex.’

Everyone laughed or snorted, apart from Alisha. As the group broke up and began to drift out of the room, Roger drew closer, and touched her arm.

‘Are you all right?’

‘She wants me to deal with a Luculenta.’

‘Oh.’

They waited until everyone else had left.

‘The thing is,’ said Alisha, ‘she pretends she wants to help me, but there’s something . . . I don’t know. She has her own agenda.’

Roger nearly said: Doesn’t everybody? But glibness was uncalled for.

‘And so soon before my—Before I go to the Institute,’ added Alisha.

‘The—? Oh, the Via Lucis Institute.’

‘For upraise, yes. At the end of semester.’

‘So . . . Will you be coming back?’

There couldn’t be much for a Luculenta here.

‘I don’t know. After upraise, everything is self-guided, with the help of whatever friends and allies you make. That’s why making contacts like this Stargonier woman is so important.’

‘Stargonier?’

‘The Luculenta that Helsen wants me to cajole into being a guest speaker. So look . . . If I can meet her in person, will you come with me?’

He felt as if the floor were tipping.

‘You want my company?’

‘Aren’t you the expert on realspace hyperdimensions?’

‘Is that why you want me along?’

Her smile was a mystery.

‘What other reason can you think of, Roger?’

She was still smiling as she walked away.

Bloody hell.

Roger was in awe.

A huge orange column rose into the sky - all the way up. It was formed of twisted quickglass braids, hence its name: Barleysugar Spiral. From the ground, as you tilted your head to stare upward, the column narrowed to a geometric point; but that was an illusion, for it continued past the atmosphere. Down at the base of the great shaft were separate areas for departures and arrivals. Lozenge-shaped flowdrones followed travellers as they walked to or from the lounges.