Hasson had eventually broken the conditioning, and — with his father long dead — had thought himself free of it for ever, but the impact of nervous illness appeared to have shattered his adult character like a glass figurine. It was as if his father had begun to achieve a posthumous victory, recreating himself in his only son. He found it intensely difficult to sustain any kind of a conversation, and the thought of having to enter a house of strangers filled him with a cool dread. Hasson stared sombrely at the unfolding alien snowscapes and yearned desperately to be back in his two-roomed flat in Warwick, with the door locked and the undemanding companionship of a television set for solace.

Al Werry, as though sensing his need, remained silent in the following hour except for the passing on of scraps of information about local geography. In between times, the police radio made occasional popping and growling noises, but no calls came through on it. Hasson took the opportunity to recharge his spiritual batteries and was feeling slightly more competent when a tangle of pale-glowing aerial sculptures appeared above the horizon, letting him know they were drawing close to Tripletree. He was taking in the broad outlines of the traffic control system when his eye was caught by the silhouette of a peculiar structure close to the city, stark against the background of luminous pastels. From the distance it resembled a monstrous, single-stemmed flower, grown to a height of perhaps four hundred metres. He speculated briefly about its purpose, then turned to Werry.

“What’s that thing?” he said. “It can’t be a water tower, or can it?”