Calvin stirred uneasily in the chair. “So basically you’re putting the squeeze on your old dad. Charming.”

“No,” Sylveste said, through clenched teeth. “What I’m saying is that you could fall into the wrong hands unless you give me guidance. In mob terms you’re just another member of our illustrious clan.”

“Although you wouldn’t necessarily agree, would you? By your reckoning I’m just a program, just evocation. When are you going to let me take over your body again?”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

Calvin raised an admonishing finger. “Don’t get stroppy, son. It was you who invoked me, not the other way around. Put me back in the lantern if you want. I’m happy enough.”

“I will. After you’ve advised me.”

Calvin leaned forward in the seat. “Tell me what you did with my alpha-level simulation and I might consider it.” He grinned, impishly. “Hell, I might even tell you a few things about the Eighty you don’t know.”

“What happened,” Sylveste said, “is seventy-nine innocent people died. There’s no mystery to it. But I don’t hold you responsible. It would be like accusing a tyrant’s photograph of war crimes.”

“I gave you sight, you ungrateful little sod.” The seat swivelled so that its high solid back was facing Sylveste. “I admit your eyes are hardly state of the art, but what could you expect?” The seat spun round. Calvin was dressed like Sylveste now, his hair similarly styled and his face possessing the same smooth cast. “Tell me about the Shrouders,” he said. “Tell me about your guilty secrets, son. Tell me what really happened around Lascaille’s Shroud, and not the pack of lies you’ve been spinning since you got back.”

Sylveste moved to the escritoire, ready to flip out the cartridge. “Wait,” Calvin said, holding up his hands suddenly. “You want my advice?”