He took dinner on the terrace, the terminal screen open and showing the pages of an ancient barbarian treatise on games. The book — a millennium old when the civilisation had been Contacted, two thousand years earlier — was limited in its appreciation, of course, but Gurgeh never ceased to be fascinated by the way a society's games revealed so much about its ethos, its philosophy, its very soul. Besides, barbarian societies had always intrigued him, even before their games had.

The book was interesting. He rested his eyes watching the sun going down, then went back to it as the darkness deepened. The house drones brought him drinks, a heavier jacket, a light snack, as he requested them. He told the house to refuse all incoming calls.

The terrace lights gradually brightened. Chiark's farside shone whitely overhead, coating everything in silver; stars twinkled in a cloudless sky. Gurgeh read on.

The terminal beeped. He looked severely at the camera eye set in one corner of the screen. "House," he said, "are you going deaf?"

"Please forgive the over-ride," a rather officious and unapologetic voice Gurgeh did not recognise said from the screen. "Am I talking to Chiark-Gevantsa Jernau Morat Gurgeh dam Hassease?"

Gurgeh stared dubiously at the screen eye. He hadn't heard his full name pronounced for years. "Yes."

"My name is Loash Armasco-Iap Wu-Handrahen Xato Koum."

Gurgeh raised one eyebrow. "Well, that should be easy enough to remember."

"Might I interrupt you, sir?"

"You already have. What do you want?"

"To talk with you. Despite my over-ride, this does not constitute an emergency, but I can only talk to you directly this evening. I am here representing the Contact Section, at the request of Dastaveb Chamlis Amalk-ney Ep-Handra Thedreiskre Ostlehoorp. May I approach you?"