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newspaper article he had read about an attempt to reproduce this very type of yoghurt in a laboratory in America, an attempt which, he informed Associate, had proved unsuccessful, to the bewilderment of the scientists involved.
    The conversation continued in this vein for 41 [forty-one] minutes, during which time repeated popping, pouring and clinking sounds indicated to me that more
slivovice
was consumed. Topics discussed included the breakdown and distribution, by nationality, of street prostitutes in Prague One; the possibility of Skoda being taken over by a Western automobile manufacturer in the near future; the changes in car licence plates to be expected after the splitting up of Czechoslovakia next month; the large number of Yugoslavians who have sought refuge in Prague following the outbreak of war in their country; the maximum height, in storeys, from which one could reasonably expect to survive a fall; and other subjects I was not able to follow due to deficiencies in my Bulgarian – although the whole dialogue was, needless to say, recorded and has been submitted to the relevant bodies for further scrutiny.
    Eventually their deliberations were interrupted by a buzzing which I took to be that of Subject’s doorbell. Subject greeted this sound with approval. He instructed Associate to help him unload a car; they left the room, and no further audio surveillance was possible that night. Despite Associate’s scepticism, it seems to me that Subject’s claimabout the yoghurt is credible. The earth’s conductivity and electromagnetic field vary substantially from one place to another, as every radio operator knows. I left my listening post soon after 2 [two] a.m. and, returning to CCP Headquarters …
    * * * * *
    Nicholas Boardaman is dreaming of ships. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them are in transit: old ones, iron and wood, moving and at the same time packed together so tightly that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. Decks form a jumble of walkways you could scramble and zigzag over endlessly; gaffs and mizzen booms point in all directions; masts jostle and list; bowsprits trespass across alien foredecks; main booms parry yards so multiple and various they don’t even have names, at least not names he knows. The rigging, a cacophony of intersecting lines, buzzes and hums, a switchboard. Perched in a crow’s nest made of some transparent material that curves round his head, Nick looks down on the scene as though watching a performance – some tragedy, or farce, whose outcome he already knows – play itself out.
We’ve been here
, he thinks:
we’ve seen all of this before …
    A man is shuffling and tapping his way across one of the decks below him, preparing to speak: an old man, looking up at him. His mouth moves and important words come out, but these don’t reach Nick’s eyrie. Struggling to catch them, he pushes and twists his way free of the nest and plunges down onto the deck of what turns out to be a luxury cruise liner. Think
Love Boat
,
Monkey Business
. Chandeliers hover over marble staircases; shuffleboard courts are marked out on deck; liveried waiters glide by balancing trays of cocktails over their shoulders; sequins pop from ladies’ ball gowns and roll across polished floorboards, making a raspy sound.
    Nick finds himself in a tuxedo, playing cards against a suave middle-aged man named Zachary. The stakes have risen dangerously high, and gone far beyond mere money: as other players fold, Nick finds himself betting head to head with this Zachary, wagering
all his fluid
against the other’s hand – every last drop in his body, or perhaps even the world. What’s worse, Zachary is cheating: holding Nick’s eyes with his own, his fingers deftly slip from his white glove a card whose surface Nick can’t quite discern. There’s some kind of figure on it, dots around him, then instructions … Nick can’t quite make it all out – but he knows, and so does everyone