"What time is it, anyway?" he asked.

"What? You're mumbling."

"Time. What time is it?"

"It's day time."

"Ha." The large man nodded wisely. "Just as I thought." Cullis watched the young man go back to the window and the guns, then heaved himself away from the great table; he arrived, eventually, at the table holding the large water-pitcher which was decorated with a painting of an old sailing ship.

He lifted the pitcher up, swaying slightly, turned it upside down over his head, blinked his eyes, wiped his face with his hands and flapped the collar of his jacket.

"Ah," he said, "that's better'.

"You're drunk," said the young man, without turning away from the guns.

The older man considered this.

"You almost manage to make that sound like a criticism," he replied, with dignity, and the tapped his false eye and blinked over it a few times. He turned as deliberately as possible and faced the far wall, staring at a mural of a sea battle. He fixed on one particularly large warship portrayed there and seemed to clench his jaw slightly.

His head jerked back, there was a tiny cough and a whine that terminated in a miniature explosion; three metres away from the warship in the mural, a large floor-standing vase disintegrated in a cloud of dust.

The large grey-haired man shook his head sadly and tapped his false eye again. "Fair enough," he said, "Im drunk."

The young man stood up, holding the guns he had selected, and turned to look at the older man. "If you had two eyes you'd be seeing double. Here; catch."

So saying, he threw a gun towards the older man, who stretched out one hand to catch it at just the same time as the gun hit the wall behind him and clattered to the floor.

Cullis blinked. "I think," he said, "I would like to go back under the table."

The young man came over, picked up the gun, checked it again, and handed it to the older man, wrapping his large arms around it for him. Then he manoeuvred Cullis over to the pile of weapons and clothes.