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said anxiously, “It’s not really true I can get shot of this cancer by just thinking, is it?”
    “A lot of cancers do respond to that,” I said.
    “I’m not so good at thinking positively,” he said wretchedly.
    Before I left I did what I could for Derek Mallory. It was no good hitting the cancer when he was embracing it so fervently, so I hit a few centres in his brain instead, trying to turn him into a more cheerful way of thinking. I suspect he felt every hit. His face puckered like a baby’s. I thought he was going to cry, but it turned out that he was trying to smile.
    “That helped!” he said. “That really helped! I’m all for the mind stuff, deep down really. I’ve often argued with Maree about it. She can do it, but she won’t. Makes scathing remarks instead. She lacks belief, that’s her problem.”
    So I went back to Bristol again. But not until a week had passed. First I had to earn my living. I had a lot of deadlines to meet that week, and I would have met them too, with time to spare, except that as I was sorting the last and most intractable problems, my fax machine began making the little fanfare of sound I had set it to make when it was bringing me Magid business. I went and picked up the sheet. It said:
     
    Iforion 10.2.3413. 1100 hrs. URGENT
    Emperor assassinated. Come back to Iforion
    Imperial Palace soonest for immediate conference.
    This message by order of the Acting Regent,
    General Commander Dakros
     
    “Oh good!” I said. “Hurrah!” That was my first reaction. That man Timos IX really had it coming, and not only because of Timotheo, either. I hoped the assassin had hurt him first. Rather a lot. Then I thought again and said, “Oh shit. No heir.” Then I thought again and added, “And what am I supposed to do about that? I’m their Magid, not their nursemaid.”
    “Tell them to go whistle,” Stan suggested. He was evidently reading the fax over my shoulder.
    I faxed back that I would come tomorrow.
    They faxed back:
     
    Iforion 10.2.13. 1104 hrs URGENT
    Imperative you come now. Dakros
     
    I faxed again:
     
    Why? I’m busy here with Magid business.
     
    Dakros (whoever he was) faxed in return:
     
    We got the assassin’s accomplices. We’re dealing rebellion/other chaos. We need you to find the next Emperor. Real problems there. Only a Magid can solve it. Please, sir. Dakros
     
    It was the ‘Please, sir’ that got to me. The man was a General and Acting Regent and he was saying that, like a small boy pleading. I faxed that I was on my way and, since it sounded like the kind of problem you have to spend time on, I started to pack an overnight bag. Doubtless I could borrow stuff, but in the Empire they slept in a thing like a hospital gown, tied up with tapes, which I dislike, and I hate their razors. I could feel Stan hanging over me as I packed, wanting to say something.
    “What is it?” I said.
    “Don’t get too involved in that Empire, will you?” he said.
    “No fear. I hate the place. Why?”
    “Because there’s a sort of directive out to Magids about it – not as strong as an Intention, more of a suggestion – to leave the place to go to hell in its own sweet way.”
    “It can, for me,” I said. “What directive is this? A deep secret you forgot to tell me, or what?”
    “No, it’s something I picked up after I – while I was – was over there – negotiating with the Lords of Karma and so on,” he confessed. “I had to go even higher up in the end. It came from a long way up. Them Up There want the Empire left alone.”
    “Happy to oblige,” I said, hurling my washing things into my bag. I zipped it up and set off downstairs. “Are you coming to Iforion with me?”
    There was an unhappy pause. It lasted while I hurried from the stairs and into the living room. Then Stan’s voice husked, “I don’t think I can, lad. I think I’m fixed on Earth. I may even be stuck to this house of yours.”
    “That’s boring for you,” I