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He chuckled. ‘That’ll be the day.’

She returned with two glasses a third full of straight whisky. ‘Alcohol. The only thing God got right.’ As she handed over his drink she feigned shock. ‘Oh-my-gosh. A dirty glass. What will you
think
of me?’

‘I prefer your dirt to Vanqua’s hygiene.’

‘Remember Lenin’s comment about sex? I consider him Vanqua’s soulmate. The allusion escapes you?’

‘You mean about not drinking from a dirty glass?’

‘Bravo.’ She scratched her rump. ‘Without dirt, no immune response. As for this glass,’ she did a dainty shuffle with her hippo body and assumed a little girl’s voice, ‘I can wipe it with my filthy hanky if you like and smear the yuk further round the rim?’

‘Too kind. It’s fine.’

She sat again and raised her drink. ‘To all sobriety-deprived persons.’

He drank with her and felt the relief it gave his body. ‘Hits the spot.’ On the wall behind her, he noticed an infrasound panel. Any unauthorised snooper here would activate a low-frequency pulse that liquefied his bowels into a quivering diarrhoeic mess. When EXIT security went critical it took more than body bags. It took mops.

She was gazing at him fondly. ‘You’re a
very
fine fellow, sir.’ She’d become the Fairy Queen in
Iolanthe
.

He remembered the reply. ‘I am generally admired.’

‘And you
are
, you rotten chick-magnet. I should retro-fit you with a bimbo barrier.’

He fought his tiredness, yawned. ‘I still want to know how Vanqua justified this tub?’

‘It’s what he calls a branch office, may it wither on the vine. Oh, his reasoning’s plausible enough.’ She sat bolt upright, parodied Vanqua’s clipped accent and expression. ‘”Who can find it in a ship that big far out to sea? And a carrier is a fort.”’ She was a hilarious mimic. ‘”It’s guarded by a battle group and layered air defences — a shifting location no civilian or insurgent can approach.”’

‘So what?’

‘My argument precisely. Unheeded. The bugger doesn’t like me.’ She trilled, ‘And I can’t — tell — why.’ She reverted to speech. ‘Where are my rotten fags?’

He still didn’t understand. ‘How could they sanction something that contravenes our charter? We’ve managed perfectly well for decades with bases in non-participating countries.’

‘A comedy for those who think.’

‘You’re making smoke.’

‘Wish I was.’ She brushed papers off her desk, looking for cigarettes.

He stared at her keenly. ‘They’ve got to you, haven’t they?’

‘A bit, silly sausage that I am. Please, dear, don’t . . . resuscitate my drowning sorrows.’ She gulped scotch. ‘Remember when we were cadets? That law of Manu? How did it go?’

He dredged his fuzzy mind for the passage. ‘A kingdom peopled mostly by Sudras . . . filled with . . . godless men and deprived of twice-born inhabitants . . .’

She joined in: ‘. . . will soon wholly perish, stricken by hunger and disease. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten.’ She drained her glass. ‘And a place devoid of balance and humour loses perspective. When people get over serious, stock up on tinned food, candles and pray. Take a man with a severed jocular vein, mix him with despots, senators, pooh-bahs, simmer for some months, and . . .’

‘Why didn’t you cream the bugger?’

‘Can one, by impatience, force tight buds to open?’ A wicked glance.

‘Do I detect a fiendish plan?’

‘I’m a serviceable fiend. But quick moves won’t work. Despite my
grande aptitude à la patience
it’s been like watching paint dry.’

‘As long as you haven’t conceded.’

‘Thought you knew me.’

‘I do. So you’re pretending to roll over. And then you’ll attack from the flank.’

‘Perceptive. Now let’s talk about you. This is currently a conference venue and you’re press-ganged as a keynote speaker. Fifty cadets are dying to meet you. I want you to lecture them, Ray.’

‘My God.’ He was almost out of it. ‘Want a fill-in on the Chartres debacle?’

‘You’re tired now. Can do that later. I just need you to know that . . .’ She lit her fag, locked eyes with him, her playful side gone.

‘What is it?’

She flicked her hands. ‘Sabotage.’

His amazed look. ‘Internal?’

A nod.

He could imagine nothing more dangerous. ‘Christ.’

‘And it takes a peculiar form. No projects damaged. Only people. As if they’re feeling their way.’

‘Doesn’t make sense. If they’re inside they can bring down everything. So why haven’t they exposed us?’

‘Exactly.’

‘The Chartres thing. Would it . . . ?’

‘Not sure. Leave that out for now.’ Suddenly she was diamond-hard. ‘But in the gross and scope of my opinion, this bodes some strange eruption to our state.’

Did she intend him to make the connection? Something rotten in . . . ‘The Great Dane?’

‘I’m being carefully unspecific. It may not be him, but it’s
one
of us. So I may need you to fabricate a ghost.’

‘In
here
?’

She nodded. ‘Full alert. Be ready to take someone out.’

T
he cramped cabin they gave him had a fold-down desk, wardrobe and bunk. On the bunk was a towel. He needed a shower, then sleep.

The washroom, four cabins down, vibrated with the ship. When he entered, a naked black woman was facing the mirrored wall, foot on a bench, paring her nails. The mirror reflected her small, high breasts. She looked around and smiled.

It had been a while since he’d been in an EXIT bathroom. In the interests of emancipation, they had been unisex since Wolf’s time. Wolf himself had appeared naked among his lowliest cadets and his successor, Rhonda, followed his example — risking comments about her weight and inclinations with majestic unconcern. Vanqua, the closet narcissist, welcomed self-display. His ripped muscles were the talk of the base. But for cadets schooled in traditional cultures, the policy was disconcerting.

Cain smiled back. After spending years in a country where even a bared ankle on a billboard was considered outrageous, he found female flesh refreshing.

He said, ‘Hi.’

‘Wish I was.’

He slid the towel from his waist, stepped into a booth, ran the shower. The next shower was occupied. Below the half-partition he saw a scrawny female foot.

Its owner must have seen his foot as well, and known about the missing toes. Then she was in beside him — lank bleached hair, gaunt body, drooping shoulders, sagging breasts, and the slim hips he knew well. Her hips and butt were her glory. ‘Ray,’ she shrieked. ‘When did you blow in?’

‘An hour ago.’

‘About time.’

He kissed her lined face, cradled her wet bottom. ‘You don’t look a day older.’

‘Bulsh.’

If a man’s as old as the woman he feels, Cain thought, I’m now fifty. But the pressure of her job had made Pat Newsome look years older. He said, ‘What are you doing here? I thought they never let you out of Tassie.’

‘We’re delegates. I’ve got to do my number.’ She clamped a hand on his penis. ‘I suppose a root’d be out of the question?’

He cradled her breasts. ‘Still got a soft spot for me?’

The cadet passed them, said dryly, ‘Acquainted?’

They went back to his cabin. He was too tired to be much good but it was bliss to be with her again — in a familiar tense body that bucked, jerked, demanded its due. He relished the scrawny feel of her, the swinging breasts, lank thighs. He found her as pleasurable as the gorgeous Rehana. It proved to him that each woman was the dearest, the only person you wished to be with.

At last they lay content, jammed together on the bunk, lulled by the movement of the ship. She said in her Aussie accent, ‘Lucky I got in first. You’ll be beating them off with sticks.’

‘I’m too old for sex-crazed cadets.’ He was fading with tiredness. ‘How’s John? Still down with you at Beta?’

‘Yup. In the pink. Always asking about you.’

EXIT had replaced everyone from resistance leaders to presidents but John Paul I was the first pope.

He yawned. ‘What’s he up to?’

‘He writes. Walks a lot. Has a bliss-session at dawn with some of the staff.’

‘You talk to him much?’

‘No. He’s sweet but I find him scary. Makes me feel like an ankle-biter. So — change of subject — getting pensioned-off worry you?’

‘Should it?’

‘Some take it hard.’ A level look from kindly eyes with dark crescents of skin beneath. ‘Steponoski’s still there — working in the storeroom.’

Steponoski had done the job on Tito. ‘Why? She must be worth millions.’

‘We’re her family, that’s why. Poor old bat’ll do anything to stay.’

‘Perhaps she wants to be near John.’

‘Hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Anyway, I won’t hang around.’

She stroked his face. ‘What’ll you do?’

‘Might shoot the odd commercial.’

‘Pull the other one. Whatever for? Directing’s your cover job. Why fart-arse around selling tampons?’

‘It’s what I do. You make duplicates of world leaders. I grind out Lollywood mush. Would you rather I teach Punjabi?’ He closed his eyes, his body begging for sleep. ‘Making movies for illiterate Pakis is hardly creative. Coy sex, violence, daffy heroics, asinine love scenes, mindless songs. I could use a reasonable budget and script.’ He was drifting off, pulled his mind back. ‘Ron says someone’s knocking us off.’

‘Yeah. Just dentists. Lovely, tell your ma. Surgeons, strangely enough, don’t have probs — still getting smeared in the course of duty, but . . .’

He ran his hand along her flank. The skin had seen too much sun. She was head of Duplications and Rhonda’s 2IC, so had to know the plot. ‘How long is it since you corrupted me?’

‘Nineteen years, give or take a century.’

‘I’m not much of a security risk. And if you want help with this, you’d better fill me in. Don’t need details. Just high concept. The elevator pitch.’

‘Can’t, love. Classified.’ She put a finger on his nose, smiled sadly. ‘It’s over, Ray. You’re yesterday’s hero now. Take the loot and give us the flick.’

‘I will,’ he yawned, out of it.

‘Won’t miss not being around?’

‘Am I getting a whiff of subtext here?’

‘It’s just that . . . if Ron found you another job . . .’

‘What’ve you two cooked up? Did she send you into the shower on assignment?’

‘Just a small short-term job. Grab you?’

‘Women!’ But he nodded.

‘Good-oh.’ She patted his bottom. ‘I’ll slip Ronnie the word. Next question: what’s your opinion on psychic phenomena?’

His mind was drifting out of phase. He was in Antarctica again. The dazzling sunlight. The profound silence, peace. His first snore jerked him back.

‘Ray? Are you receiving me? Psychic phenomena? True or false?’

‘What? It’s . . . bullshit.’

She held out her hand. ‘How much?’

‘A thousand bucks if you can prove it.’

She shook the hand. ‘Done. And you
have
been.’ She kissed him and left.

T
he conference room was cramped but equipped with everything from a rear projector to sound and lighting consoles. He’d been told that the audience, young people of all races, were mostly Department D.

As he walked down the aisle, a murmur started and heads turned. He found a front-row chair beside Pat who winked. As he bent to sit, the breast-cannon harness dug into him. He hadn’t worn it on a base before.

The department heads sat on the podium like politicians granted equal time. Vanqua, elegant in expensive casual clothes. Rhonda, enduring a dress uncharacteristically clean. Was she on her best behaviour? He doubted it.

Vanqua moved to the lectern first. ‘Welcome to Theta. First, I’ll introduce our visitors. Commander Spencer many of you know . . .’ He motioned the man to stand — which he did, smiling around the room. ‘He’s attached to the Strategy and Tactics Group of the Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, and is our liaison with the CVN. Remember we are guests on this vessel. Unwanted guests.’

Cain noted the ‘N’ which meant the carrier was nuclear-powered. He suspected the ‘Theta of the Absurd’ had been positioned as additional reactor shielding.

‘Also observing this session are the heads of five intelligence services. And for them, we’ll briefly outline what we do.’

He pressed a remote. The lights dimmed and a slide of the EXIT hierarchy appeared. Gone were the prior EXIT directors: Tigon and Wolf. Now it merely showed participating nations: UK — FRANCE — USA — GERMANY — JAPAN.

‘EXIT,’ Vanqua continued, ‘stands for EXTRACTION INTERNATIONAL TASKFORCE. We’re funded by a consortium of nations. But funding is all we get. No nation can help us directly or even admit to our existence because it’s too politically dangerous.’ A bleak stare at the audience. ‘So we are not just orphans but outcasts.