A gleaming, empty serving tray floated up to the young man, dipped its front in a sort of bow and said, “Hi. Hub again. What you have there, Mr Olsule, is a piece of jet in the shape of a ceerevell, explosively inlaid with platinum and summitium. From the studio of Ms Xossin Nabbard, of Sintrier, after the Quarafyd school. A finely wrought work of substantial artistry. But unfortunately not a terminal.”

“Damn. Where is my terminal then?”

“You left all your terminal devices at home.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You asked me not to.”

“When?”

“One hundred and—”

“Oh, never mind. Well, replace that, umm… change that instruction. Next time I leave home without a terminal… get them to make a fuss or something.”

“Very well. It will be done.”

Mr Olsule scratched his head. “Maybe I should get a lace. One of those implant things.”

“Undeniably, forgetting your head would pose considerable difficulties. In the meantime, I’ll second one of the barge’s remotes to accompany you for the rest of the evening, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, okay.” The young man put the brooch back on and turned to the laden buffet table. “So, anyway; can I eat this… ? Oh. It’s gone.”

“Itchy motile envelope,” said the tray quietly, floating off.

“Eh?”

“Ah, Kabe, my dear friend. Here you are. Thank you so much for coming.”

Kabe swivelled to find the drone E. H. Tersono floating at his side at a level a little above head height for a human and a little below that of an Homomdan. The machine was a little less than a metre in height, and half that in width and depth. Its rounded-off rectangular casing was made of delicate pink porcelain held in a lattice of gently glowing blue lumenstone. Beyond the porcelain’s translucent surface, the drone’s internal components could just be made out; shadows beneath its thin ceramic skin. Its aura field, confined to a small volume directly underneath its flat base, was a soft blush of magenta, which, if Kabe recalled correctly, meant it was busy. Busy talking to him?