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brought him plates and took them away again, but it said nothing. They were generally reckoned to be about two thirds as intelligent as the average humanoid (whatever that was), which made them about two or three times dimmer than a normal Idiran. Still, they were good if unimaginative soldiers, and there were plenty of them; something like ten or twelve for each Idiran. Forty thousand years of breeding had made them loyal right down to the chromosome level.
    Horza didn’t try to sleep, though he was tired. He told the medjel to take him to Balveda. The medjel thought about it, asked permission via the cabin intercom, and flinched visibly under a verbal slap from a distant Xoralundra who was on the bridge with the cruiser captain. ‘Follow me, sir,’ the medjel said, opening the cabin door.
    In the companionways of the warship the Idiran atmosphere became more obvious than it had been in Xoralundra’s cabin. The smell of Idiran was stronger and the view ahead hazed over - even seen through Horza’s eyes - after a few tens of metres. It was hot and humid, and the floor was soft. Horza walked quickly along the corridor, watching the stump of the medjel’s docked tail as it waggled in front of him.
    He passed two Idirans on the way, neither of whom paid him any attention. Perhaps they knew all about him and what he was, but perhaps not. Horza knew that Idirans hated to appear either over-inquisitive or under-informed.
    He nearly collided with a pair of wounded medjel on AG stretchers being hurried along a cross-corridor by two of their fellow troopers. Horza watched as the wounded passed, and frowned. The spiralled spatter-marks on their battle armour were unmistakably those produced by a plasma bolt, and the Gerontocracy didn’t have any plasma weapons. He shrugged and walked on.
    They came to a section of the cruiser where the companionway was blocked by sliding doors. The medjel spoke to each of the barriers in turn, and they opened. An Idiran guard holding a laser carbine stood outside a door; he saw the medjel and Horza approaching and had the door open for the man by the time he got there. Horza nodded to the guard as he stepped through. The door hissed shut behind him and another one, immediately in front, opened.
    Balveda turned quickly to him when he entered the cell. It looked as though she had been pacing up and down. She threw back her head a little when she saw Horza and made a noise in her throat which might have been a laugh.
    ‘Well, well,’ she said, her soft voice drawling. ‘You survived. Congratulations. I did keep my promise, by the way. What a turn-around, eh?’
    ‘Hello,’ Horza replied, folding his arms across the chest of his suit and looking the woman up and down. She wore the same grey gown and appeared to be unharmed. ‘What happened to that thing around your neck?’ Horza asked.
    She looked down, at where the pendant had lain over her breast. ‘Well, believe it or not, it turned out to be a memoryform.’ She smiled at him and sat down cross-legged on the soft floor; apart from a raised bed-alcove, this was the only place to sit. Horza sat too, his legs hurting only a little. He recalled the spatter-marks on the medjel’s armour.
    ‘A memoryform. Wouldn’t have turned into a plasma gun, by any chance, would it?’
    ‘Amongst other things.’ The Culture agent nodded.
    ‘Thought so. Heard your knife missile took the expansive way out.’
    Balveda shrugged.
    Horza looked her in the eye and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d be here if you had anything important you could tell them, would you?’
    ‘Here, perhaps,’ Balveda conceded. ‘Alive, no.’ She stretched her arms out behind her and sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to sit out the war in an internment camp, unless they can find somebody to swap. I just hope this thing doesn’t go on too long.’
    ‘Oh, you think the Culture might give in soon?’ Horza grinned.
    ‘No, I think the Culture might win soon.’
    ‘You must